Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope

by Texie Susan Gregory

  “Yourself. And rest—you need to rest.”

  Shiphrah struggled to stand. “Ati needs me.”

  “Let me care for her tonight—to repay a debt.”

  “No, I promised her I would care for—”

  “Shiphrah, you are in no condition to help. Do you not trust me to care for her?”

  Chagrined, Shiphrah nodded. “Of course, Puah, but I promised her—”

  “Hush before you wake Ella. See, this is what I’ll do.” Puah poured water from a pot set near the fire, speaking in low tones as she worked. “The water is already warmed, and I prepared bandages and poultices and draughts in case Jochebed’s work was not acceptable and she was beaten and needed care.”

  “I couldn’t leave Ati.”

  “Of course not.”

  Jochebed groaned in her sleep, and Puah’s voice was firm when she spoke to her niece.

  “Both of you are staying put tomorrow. I’ll ask Old Sarah to help Lili with Aaron, and Miriam can bring the infant here when he’s hungry.” Puah smiled her crooked smile. “I’m ready. Now, let’s have a look at Ati.”

  Bending over the huddled form and lifting one corner at a time, she studied the woman beneath the ragged cloth.

  “I don’t see injuries, Shiphrah, and it’s not leprosy, but she’s starving, filthy, and covered with sores.”

  She peeled away a tattered corner to uncover Ati’s face.

  “Eyes first.”

  Puah placed a warm, moist cloth across Ati’s eyes to soften the matted eyelashes. Taking another cloth, dripping with cool water, she squeezed drops into Ati’s parted mouth.

  Shiphrah spoke into the silence. “I thought she died.”

  Puah set more water to warm before asking, “How did you find her?”

  As Shiphrah shared the story, Puah cleaned the old woman’s head and patted honey onto the sores. She washed the vein-streaked hands and wiped mud from Ati’s arms.

  “Shiphrah, do you realize Ati will need as much care as Ella needs?”

  “What else could I do?”

  Puah smiled. “Nothing.”

  After wiping clumps of filth from the woman’s legs and feet, Puah threw out the dirtied water and poured fresh into the shallow pot. Starting with Ati’s face, she cleaned her again, removing another layer of grime.

  “That’s enough washing for tonight. I’m going to try to get her to drink something tonight, and tomorrow we’ll wash her again. What do you think?”

  When Shiphrah didn’t answer, Puah turned and saw her niece sleeping, one arm tucked beneath her head, a rare smile resting on her face.

  Puah tossed the dirty cloths into a bundle by the door and covered Ati with a blanket. She selected an herb and crumbled dried leaves into a cup of warm water. As the color deepened, she blew softly to cool the drink. She spooned a few drops of the liquid into Ati’s mouth and waited. At last, Ati swallowed.

  “Come on, Ati,” urged Puah, “our Shiphrah needs you to live.”

  Chapter 30

  Beneath the morning’s benevolent sun, Pharaoh studied the progress of the stable expansion he had ordered. Pleased, he walked the entire length of the courtyard to examine each of the six rows of buildings. It was perfect, naturally, as were all his designs.

  Ramses, god of Egypt, beloved of Amun, son of Seti, did not make mistakes. He may receive new information from other gods and revise certain orders, but he himself was never wrong. His encounter with Nege confirmed this. Ramses stretched. He congratulated himself on his handling of the revengeful priest and his insight into the man’s character.

  People were as easy to control as horses. They simply required different reins or a subtle bit, and then they were his to control.

  Nege, though pompous with his reinstatement at the Karnak temple complex, had worked effectively to oversee the completion of the massive columns of the hypostyle hall. Soon he would be of no use to Ramses, and he would pay for giving Ramses faulty advice about the midwives. His informers assured him Nege’s personal wealth steadily increased.

  Ramses curled his lip. He did not like the man and would be glad to have nothing else to do with him—ever again.

  Ramses tested the iron ring embedded within the tether stones. He nodded his satisfaction. Masterful design. Not even his most powerful stallion could loosen it. He ran his hand over a limestone basin, smiled, and moved to the next basin. Since this project was well under way, he must begin to implement his next design. Abu Simbel had begun, and as the hypostyle hall was nearing completion … A perverse smile shadowed Ramses’s face.

  Once the hypostyle hall was completed, Nege might find himself at a loss for something to occupy his time. Perhaps he’d attempt to continue enriching himself at Egypt’s expense. As his sovereign king, Ramses felt a certain obligation to help Nege … relocate. Nege had managed the available resources to become inexcusably wealthy and obnoxiously pregnant looking.

  Pharaoh leaned on a gate and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He must send Nege a suitable reward for excellent service before he parted Nege and his wealth. Perhaps a gold-handled knife engraved with words of appreciation. Yes, a pointed message of gratitude sent from Ramses, a thank-you driven straight through to Nege’s heart. Then the wealth could be rechanneled into Egypt’s—his—coffers.

  The sound of running feet broke through his thoughts. Always alert to the danger of assassination, Ramses drew his dagger and spun around, bracing himself to fight.

  “Paapaaaa.” Having wrenched free of his tutor, the young prince raced across the courtyard, throwing himself against his father’s muscled legs.

  Ramses noted his son required a new tutor. This one was evidently inept, unable to discipline or to restrain his royal pupil. The stable complex, home to more than four hundred horses, was not the place for a child—at least his child—to run unrestrained.

  Ramses hid his displeasure from the boy, swung him up in his arms, and set the child on one of the tether stones.

  “Shall we visit Victory-at-Thebes?” At the boy’s nod, he questioned his son’s knowledge. “Very well. Is he a warhorse, a hunting horse, or a horse for pleasure riding?”

  “Warhorse.”

  “Good.” The boy jumped down, and the two royals approached one of the buildings connected to the vast courtyard. “This is Victory-at-Thebes’s kingdom. Have you brought a worthy gift to offer him, a bribe to entreat his pleasure?”

  “No, but you will find one for me, won’t you?”

  Ramses laughed. “As you wish.” He reached into a nearby basin, scooped a bit of corn, and poured it into his son’s hand. Ramses ignored the tutor who trailed behind them. He kept one hand on his son’s shoulder as they walked past eleven stalls to the corner at the end of the building.

  The powerful stallion stamped his foot and shook his head, eyeing his visitors as if deciding whether or not he should acknowledge them. With a swish of his tail, he stepped to the gate and waited, the sensitive nostrils flaring, his ears perked forward.

  Ramses picked up his son and held the small hand flat. “Always keep your hand open so the horse can eat without nipping your fingers. Good.”

  “Can I ride, Papa?”

  “Not Victory-at-Thebes. Keep in mind he’s a warhorse. Remember the chariot I showed you? Yes? He pulls my chariot. He’s not for little boys, not even a prince.”

  To dispel the disappointment on the child’s face, Ramses lifted him to one shoulder. “Someday you will have your own chariot horse. Would you like that?”

  The boy’s face brightened.

  “I was a captain in my father’s army when I was ten. Soon you will be accompanying me on campaigns just as I did with your grandfather, Seti.”

  “Where did you fight, Papa?”

  “I fought with my father in Nubia and Libya.”

  “Who won?”

  “Why, we did, of course. Does your tutor not teach that Egypt is the greatest power on earth? Egypt is always victorious, no matter what it takes.” Ramses thr
ust out his jaw as he shoved away the memory of the prophecy. “No foreign god, no boastful army can stand against her.”

  The boy was quiet for a few moments and then asked, “Papa, you are a good archer, aren’t you?”

  “I am the strongest and most accurate archer there has ever been or will be.”

  “Will you teach me to be the best?”

  Ramses nodded. “Of course, my son.”

  “Is it hard? How did you learn?”

  “I shall tell you a secret, but you must not tell anyone. Do you agree to silence?”

  The boy gave a solemn nod.

  “When I was a boy like you, my mother, your grandmother Tiya, had a large fishpond in her living quarters. It was filled with fish of every color and size. Blue ones, striped ones, even one that swam upside down—no, truly! Its belly was dark and its back pale. Some of the fish were quite rare like that one. She’d been collecting them for a long time. One day while she was sleeping, I took my bow and a quiver full of arrows to the pond and shot each and every fish until I had killed them all. That is how I began to become the best.”

  “Was your mother angry?”

  “Oh, very angry, especially when she saw the arrows were mine.”

  “So you were in trouble?”

  His father laughed. “No, not at all. I told her my slave did it. I don’t think she believed me, but she had him killed.”

  Chapter 31

  Jochebed yanked the comb through the knots in her hair as Lili’s words snarled her thoughts. “Ask the Egyptian gods for a baby … the idea came from your mother.” It was possible her mother had said the Egyptians believed in the power of charms. Lili, however, had completely misunderstood Mama, just like she’d misunderstood Amram’s marriage intentions so many years ago.

  Yes, Mama often said one must face fear, but she never would have condoned anything about idol worship. Their Lord was a jealous god, unlike the Egyptian gods who were somehow related—she could never keep them straight—and except for the evil one, Seth, they seemed to get along.

  How had her hair become so tangled? Jochebed worked the comb through one small section and began on another, starting at the ends and working upward.

  Odd that Lili had worn a crocodile around her neck. Of all the available Egyptian gods, why choose that one?

  Everyone was afraid of the long-nosed crocodiles with their fierce teeth and sly ways, and nothing made people move faster than a glimpse of their scaly brown skin, but all of Lili’s many fears seemed centered on the creatures. Lili had always been terrified of losing one of her family to their savage cruelty. Her nightmare had come true.

  This idol, the one she had chosen to worship, had turned against her—the cruel brutes devouring her only child. Lili knew better than to dabble in idol worship. It was no wonder she acted strangely these days. She had forsaken the teachings of the Lord.

  Jochebed dipped her fingers in a bowl of kiki oil and rubbed them over a particularly thick snarl. If it didn’t loosen soon, she would cut the knot out. As bad as the oil smelled, she may have to cut it anyway to be rid of the odor.

  Lili never thought things through completely. She never considered anyone besides herself and her desires. Immediately, Jochebed felt guilty. Lili couldn’t help being so pretty or being told about it all her life. It wasn’t her fault she was the only girl with three brothers who adored her and would do anything to hear her laughter.

  And, Jochebed admitted to herself, she and Shiphrah seldom stood up to Lili. They usually did whatever she wanted to do. It was easier that way—a disgruntled Lili ruined everyone’s day.

  Was all this part of Lili’s doggedness to have her own way? If she believed the Lord refused to give her a child, she must have been so determined to have a baby she’d do anything. In her willfulness to find something that would make her pregnant, she had embraced her deepest fear.

  Jochebed turned her head in the opposite direction and started to unsnarl the hair on the other side. Sometimes she was glad to have such thick hair; sometimes it was such a bother.

  What would it take for Lili to step outside herself? Jochebed pulled hard on the knots, glad she didn’t have a sensitive scalp.

  Lili had lost her child. There was nothing worse. And although Mama used to say, “While it is yet dark, God is at work,” it would be nice to see a little bit of light. At least it couldn’t get much darker.

  Jochebed chopped at the dirt, the wooden-handled hoe rubbing new blisters on her hands, and tried not to think of her aching back and legs. Maybe, she thought, it would be easier to say what didn’t ache.

  When they’d kept more sheep, she’d lure one with a handful of fodder and the other sheep would obediently follow their leader, first loosening the dirt with their hooves and later pushing the seed into the ground. It had saved days of crouching in the dirt breaking down the dirt clods and then hours of standing in the hot sun as she threw seeds.

  She straightened her back, arms and legs so sore she bit her lips to keep from groaning. This was not woman’s work, but with the few remaining village men building Ramses’s warehouses from sunup to sundown, there was no one else to plow and plant. If she didn’t work the fields, her family would have a lean year.

  She worked quickly. As the Nile shrank into its banks, the ground dried rapidly, becoming harder to turn and plant. Tomorrow’s work would be more difficult than today’s work with an overwhelming stench of fish abandoned by the receding waters and decaying in the heat.

  Jochebed eyed the water skin she’d left under the sycamore. A short break might help her work faster. She drank slowly, savoring each swallow of water trickling down her parched throat.

  Before her muscles could tighten, she hoisted the two-handled basket of grain to her shoulder and hurried back to the field. She lowered the basket, tied a rope through the two handles, and slung the cord around her neck. This way she could use both hands to scatter the grain and be finished sooner.

  She hated this season of perit, the time of planting; hated the flies in her face and the sun draining her energy; hated the smell of rotting fish, the constant thirst and the stickiness of sweat dripping in her eyes.

  She’d detested this time since childhood, working the field with Mama. When Papa died, life changed so quickly. Was that why she hated it? They’d lost most of the sheep as well as the cow Papa used to pull the plow.

  She and Mama had become the plowers, the sowers, and the harvesters. She had not minded the work quite so much when Shiphrah helped them. They chattered like monkeys, raced to see who could hoe the fastest, and stopped for as many breaks as possible. She could pretend it was almost fun.

  When she married Amram, she’d worked beside him, glad for the time together. He had worked their fields until Ramses’s demands sent him away, deported with so many other workers to build Ramses’s temple in Abu Simbel.

  Now she worked alone. And alone, no matter how fast she worked, the anger came.

  Anger that she worked the fields alone, slept alone, raised their children alone; anger that Mama had worked so much harder than other women, who had big families to ease the workload; anger that Papa was gone and would never know Amram or his grandchildren; anger that her children couldn’t have the pretty things in the markets or the unguents to make their skin soft. It wasn’t fair.

  But what Jochebed hated most of all were her feelings of helplessness and the constant fear. No one had ever guessed the anger layered and lurking beyond her fear.

  Pain throbbed in her jaw, and Jochebed forced herself to unclamp her teeth. Returning to the sycamore for water and a piece of bread, she leaned against the trunk, stealing a moment of rest.

  She wiped the dampness from her forehead and paused to watch a donkey plodding beside a young boy. Across its back, palm branches stretched wider than the animal was long, as if the little donkey had great green wings.

  Behind her, the rush of birds rising from the fields alerted her to a presence, and with chills running up her spine
, she straightened, poised to flee. The first month of perit, when the waters began to recede, were the most dangerous. Crocodiles, which had followed the spreading river, preying on fish trapped in stagnating pools or young animals mired in the muddy swamps, were once again seeking the safety of the water’s depths.

  Although she searched for movement in the dirt and grass clumps near her feet, at first she was unaware of what had caused the birds’ flight. A growling caught her attention, and she spun to face the predator.

  A creature, covered in thick river mud, uncurled itself from behind the tree. It moved slowly toward her. Enormous eyes sank into the bones of its head.

  “Are you Jochebed?”

  She stumbled backward, trying to scream, trying to understand how her name could come from a demon’s mouth.

  “Woman, hush,” said the raspy voice. “The danger comes not from me.”

  Staring at the creature, she recognized two arms and legs—a person.

  The growling came again.

  “Food.”

  Jochebed held out the bread. It was snatched away and crammed into the mud-crusted mouth. Not even crumbs remained.

  “I bring word from Amram.”

  Uncertain her voice would ever return, she nodded, rooted to the ground.

  “He is well and will return when he can. He prays for your protection and that you will never give up hope in the Lord. He said for you to trust no one, absolutely no one, except God with the child.”

  “How…?”

  “I escaped, but there is no safety. Ask me nothing. If you have more food, I would be grateful.”

  “Where…?”

  “No.”

  Another flurry of wings warned of someone or something’s approach.

  “Beware an Egyptian,” came a raspy whisper.

  Almost afraid to look, Jochebed turned. Shiphrah walked toward her.

  “Shiphrah? I’ve known her for years,” she said. When she looked back, there was no trace of the mud man. “I have more food,” she called, trying to tempt him back. There was no answer.