“Yes, Joseph, like me.”
Joseph’s shoulders sagged. He buried his face in his hands. When he raised his head, Shiphrah saw the strain around his eyes. “Then, Shiphrah, you take her.”
“What? You want me to what?” Shiphrah stared at Joseph, her mouth hanging open.
Joseph cracked the knuckles on both hands before starting over. “Elene trusted you, not that I don’t, I do, but Deborah can’t—or won’t—keep Ella if it’s true she can’t walk. I thought maybe since you are, too, uh, lame, you’d take her—Ella, not Deborah.”
Shiphrah blinked. “You want me to have Ella because we’re both lame?”
“I’d make sure you both have enough to eat.”
“You’re giving away Ella, your own daughter? How can you do that?”
“No, no, I’m not really giving her away. It’s just I can’t take care of her, and once Deborah realizes … You know Deborah. She won’t bother with Ella, and I thought you might like to have…” Joseph rubbed the back of his neck.
“She’s your daughter, not a sheep.”
“I know she’s my daughter. I would never deny her, but she’s crippled.”
Crippled. The word slapped her face and curled nearby, ready to strike again. Shiphrah stared at this man she thought she knew. His eyes avoided hers as if he was refusing the need to explain or show any remorse. Accustomed to being “the half-breed,” she realized it had been years since she’d been “the cripple.”
Joseph sighed and tried a different approach. “Shiphrah, I thought you loved Ella. I…”
She knew Joseph was talking to her, could see his mouth move, but the only sounds she heard were the taunts of childhood, the scorn, the hatred.
“Shiphrah must have fallen again.” The voice was unfamiliar.
“She ‘falls’ often when her father is here.” The rough dialect of a slave grated her ears.
“How sad for Nege to see her hurting like this. Poor man, having the burden of a crippled daughter and a wife, well, you know what is said about her.”
They had bathed her cuts with salted water that stung the deep, raw places before setting her shoulder. When she regained consciousness, only Ati sat near. Rocking back and forth, old Ati spoke without opening her eyes. Shiphrah breathed in through her nose, refusing to allow tears to form.
“You fool to fight your papa. You pull one way. He pulls another. Your arm comes out. You think you escape grown man, huh?” Ati jiggled her little finger near her ear. “You didn’t hear me last time, huh? Maybe you hear me now?” Shiphrah turned her head, feeling queasy from watching Ati’s constant rocking.
“What it going to take, child? Drink this, it cut pain.” Ati held a cup to Shiphrah’s swollen lips. “Maybe you want be dead, huh?”
“Ati, I’m sorry I made Papa so mad.”
The old woman paused and tsked twice before she resumed rocking. “Your papa not mad at you, child. He angry with self. You remember that, huh?”
Shiphrah scrunched her legs up to her chest and rubbed her hip. It still hurt from two years ago when she hadn’t ducked soon enough and Papa had knocked her down the steps. She’d just turned three and hadn’t known not to ask if she had a mama. Now she knew. She might forget to do her chores, but she always remembered to avoid the word mother. She remembered with every limping step.
“Ati, did Papa like me before I was cripple?”
“No.” His word punctured the air, making both Ati and Shiphrah jump.
Too late, Shiphrah had realized the house was again eerily quiet. Papa glared at her, and from across the room she saw the broken red streaks in his eyes, the tightness circling his mouth, and the telltale twitch of his left shoulder. In his right hand he gripped a small jug.
“Who would ever want you for a daughter?” He swiped his hand across his chin. “Ati, you take her, I don’t want her. She’s nothing but trouble. I have no time to bother with a worthless Hebrew, half-breed cripple.” Weaving slightly, he stumbled out the door. “Should have drowned you at birth. You’re too much trouble.”
Joseph’s voice faded in, echoing the words that still haunted her dreams, “She’ll be too much trouble for Deborah. She’s agreed to take in my other three, and with two infants, hers and Elene’s, she doesn’t have—”
“—time to be bothered with a cripple.” Shiphrah finished the sentence for him. “Yes, I understand.”
“Then you’ll care for her?”
“What I don’t understand is how a father can give away his child just because she will limp.”
Joseph stared at the ground, not meeting her eyes.
“You are ashamed of her, Joseph.” Shiphrah wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. She wasn’t sure if she spoke to Joseph or the father who had abandoned her. She only knew she needed an answer.
“No! I … It’s…” Joseph exhaled as his shoulders slumped. “Shiphrah, Ella doesn’t look much like Elene, but she has that same sweetness about her, and Deborah will crush it out of her. You know Deborah.” He gestured helplessly. “Ashamed? Yes. I cannot care for my own family or protect my own son, and Ella’s foot will remind me of that every day. I’ll look at her and think I don’t know how to help myself, much less a little girl who can’t walk.”
“Joseph…”
“Forget it, Shiphrah.” He waved her away. “I should not have asked you to take on my burden. I’ll think of something. I’m sorry I mentioned it.” Joseph turned to leave.
“Joseph.” Hearing the sharpness in her voice, he looked back at her.
She reached out to touch him in a gesture of peace. “Joseph, I’ll talk to Puah. She knows I’ve always wanted my own family, my own daughter. If she will help me with Ella, I would be honored to care for your child. I promise she will grow up knowing her mother loved her.”
“Shiphrah? Are you sure?”
“Joseph…” Shiphrah faltered. Taking a deep breath, she peered into Joseph’s eyes. “Will you come see her sometimes, let her know you care about her … even though she’s lame?”
“Yes, Shiphrah, I will.”
Chapter 23
Ramses rested on the royal barge, ankles crossed, one finger covering his lips, and considered the growing Hebrew threat to Egypt. His experiment with Nege’s daughter, Shiphrah, and her aunt had failed. They had proven to be either incompetent or disobedient. Alternate action was required—action that did not depend upon squeamish women. He must determine how to keep his beloved land safeguarded. If ma’at was disturbed, his Egypt would be rendered weak. Ma’at, the divine order and truth established at creation, was not to be tampered with.
A sphinx guarded him, the god-king, at the prow, and in the boat’s stern two bronze bulls looking in opposite directions stood with lowered heads ready to battle any threat. On each side of the barge, nine men dipped their oars in rehearsed rhythm, the wooden vessel gliding smoothly through the water.
It was quiet here—away from the noise of the palace, away from the smells of a crowd—and cooler, the river breezes catching and lifting his thin linen kilt. He wished Nefertari had been able to join him.
Pink clouds faded to gray before they dissolved in the darkening sky. Once again the scarab-beetle god, Khepera, had completed his daily toil of rolling the sun from the east to the west.
Ramses motioned for a return to the dock. He did not want to stay out too late and risk being caught by the night demons or body snatchers. As mighty a warrior as he knew himself to be, he was no match for their powers. The barge turned sluggishly as the oarsmen fought against the current to return to shore.
Ramses watched a lone egret swoop near the river’s surface in search of a late meal. Strange that the fowl would venture out this late. Did the gods send a message? He straightened in sudden revelation.
The egret was like the Hebrews, expecting Egypt to be an easy conquest or simply vanish. They would appear when least expected, stealing the treasures and decimating or dividing his country, destroying ma’at.
&
nbsp; The last of the day’s light stretched across the west. This, the land of eternal life, holding the tombs and temples of the gods who ruled before him, was a sacred place. He refused to stand by and see it destroyed. He dared not permit the kings to cease to exist, their names lost forever. Ma’at must be observed, or chaos would reign.
His own tomb and temple were being built in the west at Deir el-Medina. Ramses tightened his jaw. He lived forever only if his name remained known, carved for all time on his tomb and the temple walls. He would not allow a pack of sheep lovers to jeopardize his right to immortality in the afterlife.
The egret circled again, and Ramses traced its flight through half-closed eyes. He could almost feel the shepherds creeping around, tightening their hold around his Egypt. As he watched the fowl swoop near the dark water, a flash of brown emerged from the surface, snatching the bird from the air. The egret was no more. The predator had itself become prey, an evening morsel for the ever-watchful crocodile.
Ramses rubbed the bridge of his long, thin nose and dipped his head in silent acknowledgment. Once again the gods showed their pleasure with him, guiding him to understand their message. They would save this glorious land. The river itself would curb the Hebrew threat to Egypt, and Sobek, the crocodile god, would be well pleased, well fed. So appropriate—was it not?—that the Lord of the Waters who created the Nile from his sweat should be the savior of Egypt.
The oarsmen brought the royal barge skillfully against the dock where two slaves holding a wooden walkway waited to slide it between the deck and shore. Ramses disembarked without waiting for assistance and mounted the double flight of steps, eager to inform the priests of the river god’s message. He would order another gold bracelet placed on the arm of his favorite pet crocodile.
Wind swirled across the fountain, lifting water and irreverently spraying the Commander of the Two Lands, Pharaoh, Horus. Hardened to the elements since childhood, he took no notice, his mind focused on the divisional commander who bowed before him.
“No Hebrew male is to live past three months of age. Now go, reduce the rabble,” Pharaoh said.
“My lord, it will be as you command.”
“The future of Egypt may lie within your hands,” Pharaoh said. “Spare not one, just as I have directed.” Pharaoh’s gaze bored into the man’s expressionless eyes.
“This … safeguarding of Egypt will occur every three months until I determine it is no longer necessary. The horde will be stopped. Egypt must not be harmed by these sly invaders.”
Ramses stared at the rippling water. He had set into motion the saving of Egypt. He could not change it any more than he could stop the river’s flow with his voice.
He must not change it. Uncertainty equaled weakness. Rejecting doubt, he strode away. He was a god as his fathers before him. All he did was good for his country. All he did was right. As news of this action surged beyond Egypt’s borders, all would know he, Ramses the Great, was a ruler of stone, crushing any who threatened Egypt.
If Egypt ceased to exist, if his name disappeared from the land, he and his fathers would cease to exist. Talons of fear clawed his chest. Sensing another’s presence, he spun, on guard, as laughter sprinkled the air.
“My lord.”
Always her beauty calmed him. Did others know she was his only weakness? He denied her nothing, ever.
“Nefertari, you challenge the sun with your loveliness.”
“Will you eat with us, my Ramses? The temple musicians wait on your pleasure.”
He turned and faced the commander. “I have spoken. Go.”
The commander bowed. “I hear and obey.”
The pharaoh snorted at such nonsense. Of course he would obey—immediately and absolutely—or the man’s family would finish their days in the dust of the mines.
Chapter 24
Jochebed spied another snake hole in the wall of the house and went outside to look for the other entrance. She’d need to stuff onion seeds—known to keep snakes away—in both openings if she could find where the snake had burrowed through. When a quick search revealed the second hole, she returned to the house for a basket to collect onion stalks and started down the path leading to the riverbank.
From her vantage point, she could see women clustered around Deborah. She must be showing off her son again for the others to admire. Jochebed wandered closer, hoping to join their moments of joy. Funny, the women huddled so closely you’d think they’d never seen a baby before.
“She pulled out the knife she’d hidden and…”
Jochebed’s stomach turned. Deborah was telling them her version of the night her son was born. She groaned aloud. Lili must have told her about Shiphrah.
Annoyed, Jochebed dropped the basket onto the dirt. Lili couldn’t think past her nose. How could she betray Shiphrah by telling Deborah?
She stopped short, chagrined. Why had she told Lili?
Cautiously she approached the group. “Doesn’t Deborah have a beautiful son?” she said.
A few women nodded, but several edged away, not meeting her eyes.
“No thanks to your Egyptian friend.” Deborah spat on the ground. “Haven’t you and your family brought enough death to us?”
Shocked by the anger in Deborah’s voice, Jochebed stepped back.
“You know that half-breed killed Elene, and if it hadn’t been for Lili—”
“Lili wasn’t even there.”
“—we wouldn’t know the danger you’ve put us in.”
“There isn’t any danger.” Dismayed, Jochebed tried to reason with her. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand she plotted to kill my baby, and now because of her my baby sister is dead.”
“No, she—”
“I’m amazed she didn’t kill Lili’s son at birth!”
“She’s never—”
“You won’t admit the truth. You’re just trying to protect Egyptians like your mother and Puah did. You are just like your father.”
“Deborah…” Jochebed stopped and surrendered the fight. She turned on her heel to leave. Pleading would be useless.
“Keep your baby-killer friend away from our village.”
Shaken, Jochebed snatched her basket and ran in the opposite direction. Deborah made her so mad, always searching for the worst in others, never willing to hear the entire story, just ready to pounce. Deborah was so different from Elene.
“I feel sorry for Deborah’s husband, being stuck with her. That’s probably the reason he stays in the fields longer than the other men.” Jochebed kicked the sand. “Why did Simon’s father choose her as his son’s wife?”
She knew why. Deborah was determined to marry Simon—probably because she thought she could control him—and even Simon’s father knew Deborah was a dangerous person to thwart. Jochebed knew firsthand how vicious Deborah could be.
“Someday, somebody ought to put a stop to that woman’s slander. Somebody like…”
Kicking a rock, Jochebed scraped her toe against its side. She slammed the basket down, hopped the few steps to the river, and fell to the riverbank. The water cooled her foot and soothed her temper.
She eyed the basket, wanting nothing more than to drop it over her head and hide. If it weren’t for the need to watch for crocodiles, she’d do it, too.
“You just missed the perfect opportunity to stand up for Shiphrah and explain what really happened,” she berated herself. “But no, you turned and left. Coward. Always running away, that’s me.” Jochebed shredded the leaves of the plant by her foot. Why did she always run?
She used to think she ran because she wasn’t pretty enough like Lili, or didn’t have the ability to close down like Shiphrah, and she could never do things as perfectly as Mama or as sweetly as Elene. But these seemed excuses for a child, not a grown woman.
Scooping handfuls of sand and pebbles, she scrubbed her arms and legs, the sharp pleasure of water cutting through her frustrations.
Jochebed rested her chin on her knees a
nd closed her eyes, searching for a memory. When did fear begin? Did it start when Papa drowned? She still dreamed of standing at the door crying as he walked away, even though he’d promised they’d play the butterfly game later in the evening. He would be the wind, picking her up, swirling her around, letting her fly through the air while Mama laughed and pretended to scold them both. But he’d never returned, and Mama didn’t laugh much after that.
Maybe her fear came when one of the older boys pushed her aside in his haste to evade a crocodile. She had fallen and then tripped again before escaping its teeth. Jochebed pulled up her skirt to examine her knee. She still carried the scar from that fall.
No, there was something else, before all that. She twisted her hair atop her head, letting the north breeze cool her neck.
She had gone somewhere late one night with Mother, holding something important. Jochebed closed her eyes. A doll—she’d carried a straw doll wrapped in a ragged piece of blue cloth, and they walked past the tallest mud walls she’d ever seen. They must have been in a town, although she didn’t remember seeing stone gates. Maybe it had been too dark.
It was a noisy place, with people crowded together and shouting. She’d let go of Mama’s skirt to cover her ears and then dropped her doll. When she picked up the pieces of doll, Mama was gone.
Jochebed opened her eyes to block the recurring fear, the taste of terror, but the memory continued to surface, so vivid that she struggled to breathe.
She remembered her throat had ached, tight and raw, and the people towering above had stopped, staring at her, reaching for her, touching her head and shoulders, poking at her as if she were a freshly caught fish. She did not recognize their faces or understand their words.
Backing away from their hands, she had bumped against a pyramid of melons that fell and rolled in a dozen directions; the vendor screamed at her until his face turned red. She had not known what to do or which direction to turn, only that she was alone without her mama.
Determined to quell the flash of remembered panic, Jochebed stood, the tension in her arms and legs a welcome distraction. She shook out her clothes and, lifting the basket, retraced her steps.
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 19