Mama had eventually found her, held her close until she calmed, and mended the doll, making everything right—except for the terror even Mother couldn’t see—the terror sowed and rooting deeply within, the horror of being without her mama, the fear of not knowing how to make things right.
She gripped the basket hard. “Mama,” she whispered, “I still need you.”
Jochebed eyed the sky as the sun slunk away, pulling in its warmth and leaving behind a dark foreboding. The women, drawn by their worry, gathered in small groups throughout the village. Where were the men?
Pharaoh’s overseers never kept them this late, not because of any concern for the Hebrews’ welfare, but because they feared the dark and wanted to be safely inside before night stalkers came. Something was wrong.
This morning when Amram touched her shoulder before leaving, Jochebed had silently thanked the Lord for her husband’s tenderness with her. She’d laughed at herself, remembering how afraid she was on their wedding day. She should have trusted her mother’s wisdom and the Lord’s plan. She was blessed with such a good and godly man to care for her.
A child cried and was quickly hushed. Fear snaked silently through the clustered women, its coiling tension broken only by bleating sheep and the honking of geese overhead.
Where were the men?
From the far end of the village, a voice called out, the message relayed. Someone was coming.
Jochebed’s heart thudded, skipped, and thudded again.
Samuel staggered into sight, alone. Mud caked his beard; whip lines of blood laced his back. The women clustered around him, murmuring their pity while their eyes looked past him. Where were the other men?
Jochebed watched Samuel avoid eye contact. He spoke looking at the ground, his shoulders drooping as he answered the unspoken questions, confirmed the silent fears.
“They are prisoners.” Samuel measured his words as if releasing too many would peel away his veneer of control. “Some will be released tomorrow. Some will leave.” His face twisted. “It will be at first light. South to Nubia—a place called Abu Simbel—to build Ramses’s temple.”
“No!”
“My husband? My sons? All? I lose them all?”
“For how long?”
Samuel did not flinch at the spate of questions. “I don’t know.”
“And you? Did you run and hide in the river? Why were you spared, Samuel?”
Jochebed recognized Deborah’s venom.
Lifting his head slowly, Samuel looked upward with tears streaming down his face. “I don’t know.” The trickle of words turned to a flood. “Were to all the gods of Egypt I could be with them.” He clenched his fist and tried to raise it before dropping his hand to his side, as if his arms lacked strength. “The overseer sent me on an errand to the other side of town. When I returned, my brothers were”—Samuel choked on a sob—“chained to each other on a barge, midstream.”
Samuel grasped the neck of his tunic in each hand and ripped the fabric. “I tried to reach them, to join them or to save them, to be with them no matter their fate, but I—could—not—save—even—one.”
In silence, scraped raw by Samuel’s coarse sobs, Lili, holding her son in one arm, pushed to the front. Wordlessly, she slipped her other arm around her brother’s waist.
Eyes lowered; the women gathered their children and stumbled to their homes. Jochebed was the last to leave. She squeezed Lili’s hand, unable to force a word past the knots in her throat.
Would the day ever end? Jochebed kept her hands busy. She swept the dirt floor until Miriam pulled the short-handled broom away from her. She scrubbed holes into laundry, fed the goat tied in front of her house, and sent Aaron out with Miriam.
She measured out two handfuls of grain, sprinkled them on the flat rock, and pushed the quern until the grain was fine enough for bread. She mixed in the yeast and kneaded the bread for so long it almost floated away before she covered it and left it to rise.
At last, having no household chores left to occupy her mind, she turned to what always brought comfort. Settled on a mat with reeds scattered around her feet, Jochebed knew which pattern she would weave. It was her mother’s favorite. Maybe it would help her feel as if Mother were near, telling her what to do.
Jochebed selected the warp, a sturdy foundational reed, and imagined her mother’s voice whispering in her ear. “Your foundation must be the Lord’s promises.” Mother had truly believed in those promises, believed that He mysteriously wove everything together. That must have been why Mother loved weaving.
Methodically, Jochebed plaited the strands with her questions. Was her life still intertwined with Amram’s life? She may have lost him this day, the weave of their lives raveled, unfinished, irreparable. Was that part of the plan?
Her life was interwoven with Lili and Shiphrah. Were three women too insignificant to be in this plan? Probably.
The children—Miriam, Aaron, and the little one—would their lives be woven together, a cord of three strands? Did the Lord even know they were alive?
Throat tight, her foot jiggling, she tried to keep the muscles in her back from knotting, tried to remember the promises. Mother always said, “While it is yet dark, God is at work.” It could not be any darker.
Jochebed wove, tormented by the uncertainties in her life, comforted by the familiar repetition of her work. Stopping only to feed Aaron, Jochebed wrapped herself in the solace of her craft.
Time plodded through the midday heat. Jochebed forgot the bread and burned it, something she had not done in years. Aaron, as if sensing the tension, fussed, not wanting to be held, not wanting to nap. Miriam yelled at him, leaving Aaron in tears, and flounced out of the house when Jochebed sent her to the river to pull rushes from the riverbed.
Jochebed boiled papyrus roots with onions for their meal. She choked down a few bites, only to nourish the child within.
At last the day was over; the hours stretched into misshapen fears.
The sun melted on the horizon, leaving pink promises of the morrow. The women had left their homes to gather in the center of the village, waiting, praying, wondering who would be released to return tonight. Which men would never be seen again?
No one spoke. Jochebed did not look at the others, her own pain so heavy she could not bear the thought of carrying another’s burden. She would splinter. It was best to turn away.
The widower, Joseph, was the first to come home. Zack, Samuel’s twin, did not return. Lili’s Joshua, and Deborah’s husband, Simon, arrived safely. Amram and ten other men from their village had been shipped to Abu Simbel.
The shroud of a moonless night, stained with bitterness, singed with despair, encircled the grief-racked village, fear snuffing the last ember of hope. The Unseen One had turned His back on them, deserted them, forgotten His promise. It could be no worse.
Jochebed dragged herself into the house, sinking heavily onto the mat she had shared with Amram. Without her Amram, she was a broken pattern, the warp without the weft, a night without day. Never again to feel his featherlight touch on her body or to see his dark eyes crinkle in laughter—unfathomable. She could not bear to go on living. But she dared not die and abandon their children.
Turning to face the wall, she stared into the dark. Unshed tears scorched her eyes and throat, but she set her jaw, gritted her teeth, and forced breath through her nostrils to still the quivering of her chin. Covering her swelling belly with one hand, she cradled anger with her fist.
If she stepped into the churning waters of grief, into the current of despair, she would drown, and her babies would be lost. These three children, two in her arms and one in her womb, were all that remained of her Amram. Whatever it took, they must live.
Sleep did not rescue her throughout the interminable night, but near morning she closed her eyes and then jerked upright. Surely that anguished scream had not burst from her? No, she heard it again.
Jochebed stumbled into the sunlight, blinking as the sudden glare bli
nded her. What was all the commotion about? Had the foremen arrived to remove the other men, too?
Sickened by the sight before her, she dropped to her knees.
Egyptian soldiers swarmed through the town, kicking in doors, knocking over baskets, smashing pottery, and threatening those who blocked their way. Swords raised, they shoved aside anyone who didn’t move fast enough to please them, including children and elderly women.
“Miriam!” Jochebed screamed. “Hold on to Aaron, and come here—hurry!” She clung to her children and buried their faces against her body, shielding them from seeing the destruction.
Baffled, she watched a soldier jerk an infant from its mother’s arms, rip away the swaddling clothes, and then thrust the baby back at her. The mother clasped her child and bolted into the fields. Had the world gone mad?
Across the way, Lili ran from her house toward Jochebed, clutching her son in the folds of her clothes. Two of the warriors stopped her with the point of their swords as a third wrenched the infant away. Shrieking, Lili fought them, bloodying her hands on their swords, kicking, biting, straining to reach her screaming child.
Jochebed stared horrified as one soldier raised his sword, striking the flat side of it against Lili’s head. Lili crumpled to the ground, and the soldiers moved away with the howling child. It was over before Jochebed could move.
The Egyptians threw the captured babies into a rough wooden cart, hauled it to the river, and flung the infants by their ankles into its crocodile-infested depths. Jochebed doubled over and vomited. She saw the guards kick her own door open, heard the crash of tumbling pottery and a ripping sound before they moved to the next house.
When nothing could be heard except the keening of the bereft, Jochebed sent Miriam into the house with Aaron and staggered to where Lili lay unconscious. Jochebed knelt in the dirt and lifted Lili’s head to wipe away the blood with the hem of her tunic. The cuts were not deep. Lili would survive the wound on her head. The loss of her child could destroy her. Jochebed bowed her head in anguish.
Chapter 25
Shiphrah yawned. Why did babies so often come at night? She concentrated on setting one foot in front of the other. Between the long walk to a village downriver where she was not judged so harshly and the two days of midwifing, she was eager to be home. She would tell Puah both the mother and twin girls survived. Then she would sleep.
She hardly saw Puah anymore. They alternated caring for Ella and stayed busy attending births and assisting mothers with their infants. The new mothers asked so many questions, and the mothers of three or four children needed help with the younger ones. Shiphrah loved every minute of it. If she couldn’t have her own child, this was the next best thing.
The most wonderful moment in her life had been placing Lili’s infant boy in his mother’s arms and seeing the glorious joy on Lili’s face. The birth of her own adopted daughter, Ella, had been incredible, but Lili’s firstborn child was long awaited and so very wanted.
Remembering the delight on Lili’s face whenever she picked up her infant son, Shiphrah smiled. How wonderful to hear Lili laugh, to see her included with the other women. She was no longer regarded as a dry river, a barren desert. She had given a son to her husband, her tribe, her people.
A goose, feathers askew and trailed by her four fuzzy goslings, ambled across the road on her way to the river. How did she teach them to walk in such a straight line and with the exact same amount of space between each one? Did the goose know how to do that because she was a goose or because she was a mama?
Shiphrah never expected to be a mother. She was “Aunt Shiphrah” to Bedde’s children and Ella and probably would be “Aunt Shiphrah” to Lili’s son.
She never expected to marry, although sometimes she secretly pretended she was the wife of … Shiphrah sniffed. Marriage—what a foolish dream. With her uneven gait, an Egyptian would not have her, and the Hebrew men treated her with suspicion. Only Lili’s brothers knew her as “Shiphrah” and not “that half-breed girl.”
Yawning, she wished the Lord would give Aunt Puah a husband and children of her own. She knew who would be perfect for Puah.
Shiphrah saw her village ahead. It wouldn’t be long before she could lie down and rest. Maybe tomorrow, if her leg felt better, she could carry Ella to Lili’s house, check on the baby, and determine if Bedde was resting enough.
Lili and Bedde. Shiphrah treasured their friendship. When loneliness sneaked up on her and the mud of drudgery mired her thoughts, she would take out the memories, turn them over in her mind, and marvel at their gift of kindness to a broken little stranger.
She realized Lili still wondered about the mysteriousness of her past and believed Shiphrah was secretly a princess or a slave escaping the royal court. Lili liked to tease that they helped save Shiphrah from marrying a shriveled old man or serving a cruel mistress.
As she entered their tiny courtyard, Shiphrah’s heart fluttered. Lili’s brother Samuel was talking to Aunt Puah. In her most secret of all dreams, she wished…
Puah saw her first and ran forward, her face pale and drawn.
Alarmed, Shiphrah gasped. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Ella?”
“Ella’s fine. She’s with a neighbor. Thank the Lord you are home, Shiphrah. Lili and Bedde need you. Samuel has come to take you there safely.”
Shiphrah blinked. Safely? Strange, no one ever seemed concerned about her traveling alone before. As midwives, she and Puah moved freely among the villages without considering danger. They were welcome everywhere—or at least Puah was still welcome.
Samuel stared at her with deadened eyes. “Shiphrah, there was trouble today, from the Egyptians. Bedde worries someone might blame you or try to harm you.”
“Blame me? Whatever for? What happened? Was anyone hurt?” Uneasy with Samuel’s manner, Shiphrah questioned him sharply.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Samuel’s lips tightened. “Lili was struck down. The infant boys—thrown to…” His jaw clenched. “They were all killed.”
“Killed?” She leaned forward, certain she misunderstood. “Babies killed? Dead?” She felt the blood drain from her face. “Not Lili’s boy!”
“All except Deborah’s son and Joseph’s newborn. Deborah had taken them to the fields with her. They were away from the village.”
Shiphrah covered her mouth with both hands, the spasms in her leg dulled by the shock and pain of Samuel’s words. She could not look away from the anguish on his face.
“There’s more, Shiphrah. Almost a dozen of our men, Amram, Zack…”—he stopped speaking and closed his eyes before forcing out the next words—“were chained and sent away. When the soldiers came for the slaughter, the village was defenseless—nursing mothers and children. Those of us who could have fought were in Pi-Ramses.” Tears slid down Samuel’s face. “While we slaved for them, while we built their city, they butchered our babies in front of our women.” Samuel choked out the words. “The blood of our children sours the air and stains the shore.” A shudder rippled through his body, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet. Defeated. “Our homes are destroyed. They loosed the flocks, trampled the fields, killed what we most value—our children.”
Samuel raised a fist and then let his arm drop, his despair more frightening than anger. “There is nothing else they can take from us. Is there no deliverance for us?”
Numb with horror, Shiphrah shook her head. Mama Elisheba would have said something about the Lord’s plan. “I don’t know, Samuel. I don’t know.”
Chapter 26
Jochebed’s arms ached as she paced with her writhing son. Aaron pulled at his ear, bellowing with pain and perhaps with rage that he could not stop the ache. Attempting to distract him, she wiggled a wooden toy within his reach. He slapped it away.
Aaron struggled against her as she rubbed his back, and pushed away the bread she offered. He writhed on her lap, arched his back, and shook his head from side to side. She lifted him to
stand, but he bent his knees and fell, banging his head against her mouth.
In spite of her swelling lip, she crooned a familiar tune. “Aaron, loved one, hush now, hush.” He screamed louder.
“Aaron, loved one, precious child; Aaron, loved one, smile now, smile.”
The screams drifted into the fretful fussing of a child refusing sleep. Jochebed knelt on the floor and laid him across her lap. Aaron slid to the ground and cried until she stood him up. When he collapsed against her, she held him close and swayed back and forth to break the cycle of weary wails.
Aaron stiffened his legs, bucking against her, alternately clinging and fighting.
Unable to provide relief from his pain, Jochebed longed to cry with him. She kissed his tummy and breathed warm air into his reddened ear.
The sun rose as Aaron settled into a fitful sleep, sucking his thumb and holding his ear. Her day stretched ahead as dry and tired as desert untouched by floodwaters.
This was the day she was required to turn in her week’s quota of mats to the overseer; then she must take the extras to the market and barter for their needs.
Miriam, who had planned to go with her, would be disappointed when she awoke and discovered her mother had left without her. She had been looking forward to the trip. Maybe if she played her new sistrum, Aaron would stay quiet.
Jochebed tore off a corner of yesterday’s bread, washed her face, and worked her hair into one braid, cool and easy to cover. The door squeaked as she opened it.
She paused halfway through the door’s opening. If the noise woke Aaron … When he did not stir, she slipped through the narrow opening, fed the goat, checked the water level in his trough. Enough. Good, she would not need to make a trip to the river. It was time to leave for the market. The sooner she left, the cooler the walk would be.
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 20