But he had made sacrifice upon sacrifice, consulted the priests, and even approached the gods himself. Still the dream came, filling his spirit with corruptness so dank, he awoke gasping for breath.
Ramses motioned away the attending slave and poured water into a goblet. He ignored the trembling of his hands as he drank. He must clear his thoughts. The dream had plagued him every night for ten nights, each dream worse than the previous one. Tonight’s vision had been unbearable. Tonight he had lost…
“Awaken Nefertari and bring her to me.”
The slave bowed and backed away.
Ramses crossed to the window and stared at the sky. The moon taunted him, snickering with its lopsided grin, whispering Ramses’s fear to the numberless stars.
“No!” The sound of his own voice startled him, and he straightened his spine. He, Ramses II, harbored no fear. He was power personified, a mighty warrior, an architect of excellence, a builder of cities and temples. His decisions could never destroy Egypt, nor would he ever allow anyone, anything, any god, to rob him of—
“Ramses, my dear lord, you called for me?”
Nefertari stood before him. As always she had come quickly. She wore neither makeup nor wig and had tossed a drape over her sleeping clothes. He turned, not speaking.
“Did the dreams return to haunt you, Ramses?”
He nodded. She stepped forward, and he wrapped his arms around her, seeking comfort. She was here. She was real. He could feel the coolness of her skin against his sweat-dampened body, could smell the sleepy scent of her breath and hear her murmuring in his ear.
The nightmare lied. Nefertari had not left him for the land of the dead. The crown prince Amunhirkepshef lived, as well as all of his other firstborn sons. His daughters were beautiful. His army—powerful. Egypt thrived.
Nefertari pulled away, and going to a low table, she offered him a plate of sweetmeats.
Appropriate, thought Ramses. She serves me from the plate of life—the ankh plate. Her life is willing service to me. He ran a finger along the length of her neck and recalled the advice he’d heard her give their daughter.
“Ask your husband for everything, and he will give you nothing. Ask him for nothing, and he will give you everything.”
He’d married a woman of wisdom.
“Ramses, what was it this time?”
He shook his head, refusing to voice the horror, unwilling to see again the destruction of Egypt and this dear woman. The loss of this loved one would be unbearable. He would not test the gods, not help them remember their foul pranks.
“Sit with me, Nefertari. Tell me of your day.”
He watched her as she talked. Watched how she tucked her delicate feet beneath her. How could she still be so limber after having borne him four children? Her teeth flashed straight and white when she laughed about something—he wasn’t listening to her words—and her hands curved and fluttered as she spoke.
He cupped her face, searched the soft gold of her eyes, and saw their shadows.
“Nefertari, what troubles your ma’at? Your spirit is uneasy, too.”
“You know me too well, Ramses. Nothing is hidden from you.”
Stroking her neck, he waited.
“Merit-Amun.” A single line marred her forehead. “Her maids tell me that each night she cries out in her sleep and then leaves her bed to walk the halls.” Nefertari twisted her hands together. “She stops at the same place each time, the painting of the crocodile leaving the river.” She paused. “Do you know the one?”
He nodded.
“The next morning she has no memory of her actions.” Nefertari pressed her fingertips against her eyes. “I’ve asked if anything troubles her, but she speaks only of a lost necklace and how she wishes to find it.”
Ramses picked at the puzzle. What did these dreams mean? Could the river be the tears of Isis—she who created the waters? Did that represent sadness or a new creation?
The crocodile in the dream—he might be dangerous, but Taweret, goddess of birth, had a crocodile head. Was there to be a dangerous creation or a sad birth? Ramses looked sharply at his wife.
“Could Merit-Amun be with child?”
“No, my lord. She is watched.”
Ramses pursed his lips. The dream was confusing—even for him, high priest of all the land … and himself a god.
“She has consulted a priest? Made offerings to the gods?”
“Yes, my lord, several times, and the priests cannot agree.”
“If this continues, I will attend to it myself.”
Nefertari smiled and pressed his hand against her face. “You are so good, my lord.”
“Our other children, Nefertari, they are healthy?”
A shadow crossed her face. “Yes, all is well with our children except for Merit-Amun’s dreams.”
“The firstborn sons of my other wives are well also?”
“Yes, beloved. All are happy and content. There is no need for you to worry, dear man.”
“Yet you worry about our daughter?”
“Not her health. Her spirit is troubled. There is still a restlessness roaming within her ka which concerns me.” Nefertari twisted her robe into a knot. “I have prayed to the gods on behalf of her spirit, but the dreams haunt her at night and steal her joy during the days.”
She looked at her husband, and he saw the uncertainty in her eyes. “I don’t understand it, Ramses. All seems peaceful and yet I sense a darkness coming.”
Ramses pulled her closer, thankful for the dim light in the room. She must not see in his eyes anything that would disturb her ka. He must keep her safe. If anything happened to this wife, his true treasure, all the gold of Egypt could not take her place.
Chapter 34
She cradled her son gently, his skin smooth as wet clay. He nuzzled her neck, trying to cuddle closer. What would become of him? The man in the fields, the one covered with mud, said to trust the child only to God.
A ray of sun edged its way across the room to rest near his bed, and Jochebed realized he had almost outgrown his sleeping basket. Had Aaron and Miriam grown this quickly, or did each child grow faster than the last? Babies grew so quickly, each new blink and wiggle marking the flight of time.
If only she could step back in time to the years when the birth of a son was celebrated instead of mourned, to a day when friends and family gathered near, to a moment when she knew just what was expected of her.
If only she knew what to do now. If only Amram could escape and return. If only she could talk to her mother.
Jochebed closed her eyes to recall the comfort of having someone to turn to when she didn’t know how to manage. If Mother had been here, she would have known what to do. Mother had walked the floor when baby Miriam had been born too soon and again when Aaron could not seem to breathe. She had baked the Lord’s wisdom into her warm bread, and Jochebed ached with the emptiness of missing her.
Fingering the sleeping basket, Jochebed noticed how securely her mother had woven it. She had been a master weaver, twisting two strands so tightly her smallest baskets could hold water. How the Egyptians had envied her skill. Their work needed a coating of Nile mud—pitch—to hold water in … or to keep the water out.
A thought hovered on the edge of awareness, teasing her before escaping her grasp, leaving a sense of hope. Almost.
She traced the patterns on the basket and marveled at its perfection, its beauty. Mama had loved making things pretty—braiding hair, arranging the bread just so in a basket, gathering a handful of flowers to brighten the room.
But as strong as her baskets had been, her faith in the Lord had been stronger. The memories of nineteen years echoed in her mind. “The Lord will send deliverance. He will not forsake us. As He led us into Egypt, so He will lead us out.”
And perhaps He would, someday. But would the deliverer come in time to save her child? Time was running out, and hope was nowhere in sight. Lord, help.
Clasping her son and praying no one had
heard him cry, Jochebed nestled his head against her heart and began the swaying rhythm known to all mothers—slave or Egyptian. He was so trusting, so innocent—as helpless as she felt. And she could not stop herself from kissing the top of his hair—its downy blackness softer than sun-warmed water.
For just a moment she forgot her recent beating, forgot slavery and sorrow and uncertainty. The constant drone of insects dimmed, and the stale odor of cooked cabbage gave way to the rustle of palm trees and the scent of wild jasmine. Jochebed could almost imagine the sky softening to sunrise as she knelt beside the Nile, babe in arms, seeing his delight as the morning came alive: egrets hovering above, calling to each other before swooping down to pluck their breakfast from the river; the sound of voices as women, balancing jars, arrived to draw the day’s water; and papyrus boats floating past, the wake behind them rocking the shore reeds.
An image rippled through her mind … blurry as if she tried to see her face in moving water, the form floating a fingertip out of reach, cresting with hope … joy skimming sorrow’s surface.
The clipped tones of an Egyptian voice shattered the dream. That voice was so close … too close. Had the tiny cries been heard? Since Aaron was with his sister, there would be no explanation for a child’s whimper. Let this day end.
Anxious to hide her son, Jochebed shook out the linens in his basket and checked for poisonous beetles before hiding the basket behind two stone jars. When Aaron and Miriam had been infants, their cradles had swung from the palm tree rafters, comforting them with its motion and protecting them from the deadly pests.
She listened to the sounds next door as she returned to work. She made no noise as she crossed the hard dirt floor. If guards entered, they would find her making baskets, alone.
The voices faded. For just a moment she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the mud wall. If only she could think without fear, perhaps she could see a way to save the infant.
But Jochebed was tired, worn from masking her feelings and worrying about betrayal. And even more than working long hours without sleep, more than keeping up with three-year-old Aaron while caring for an infant who could not be allowed to cry, she was weary from the battle within: torn between hesitating to touch this child so her fingers would never miss the feel of his skin and longing to hold him each sacred moment given; knowing each second of nearness would multiply her grief, yet still yearning to whisper a lifetime of love into his ear; trying to deny his baby scent while filling her eyes with every sleepy motion and toothless smile.
Feelings tossed like a leaf on the Nile—twisting, spinning—drenched in sun, lost from sight—her life, her thoughts whirling out of control.
At least weaving this basket took little thought. Twining the plait of hollow reeds around a basket’s ribbed framework was something she had done since childhood. Jochebed remembered sitting beside her mother in the dust, their knees touching as Mother worked with her first clumsy attempts at basketry. Mother had made it a game, naming each slender reed and then calling a name to teach the braiding pattern. “Mama, Bedde, Papa, Mama…” She could see Mama tightening a strand, tucking a loose end, calmly making everything better.
The emptiness of loss lingered. If only Mother were here now to make everything better. If she could just lean her head against her mother’s, Mama could tell her how to save this child and give Jochebed some answers.
Answers. Actually, she knew what her mother would say. “The Lord’s answer waits for your question.” Maybe. Her question was clear, but if He had an answer, either He wasn’t telling her or Jochebed couldn’t hear it through the churning fear.
Unexpectedly, tears slipped down her face and she wiped them away—surprised any remained. Since the birth of this child, there had been more tears than Jochebed thought possible, tears of grief and despair hardening into tears of anger and fear.
Fear not only for the child’s safety, but fear she would fail in keeping this trust, this gift of life, safe. Yet what could she, a Hebrew slave woman, do? Jochebed pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
All plans of secrecy and flight had been considered and discarded. She had neither influential friends nor wealthy family—they were just slaves: some, skilled artisans; some, laboring as beasts … all subject to calculating masters adept at creating misery.
And Jochebed was more than miserable. With Mother dead and her husband gone, she was alone … abandoned. My God, how can I go through this alone?
Reaching into the fear came … a memory. A realization. Mother’s thoughts? Mother’s words? No, another voice she hadn’t been listening for in a long time.
“The Lord our God will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Our God.
Not just Mother’s God, but hers … and the child’s.
An unexpected quiet wrapped around Jochebed. She didn’t want to move, afraid to lose its presence. Breathing deeply, she savored the stillness encircling her. She was not alone.
At last Jochebed picked up her work and began weaving the papyrus around each sturdy rib. The ribs were the foundation giving shape, strength, definition to each basket.
She had never thought of it before, but Mother’s belief in the Lord had defined her, giving her faith shape and strength. She had woven her life around His promises—even the ones that were long in coming, His unseen promises. Jochebed remembered her saying, “While it is yet dark, the Lord is working.”
As the basket took shape beneath her fingers, familiar pictures crisscrossed in Jochebed’s mind—thickets lining the river, a basket constructed so tightly it held water, a papyrus boat coated with tar and floating on the Nile, and Mother whispering, “The Lord’s answer waits for our question.”
Her hands stilled. Was it possible? Was this the Lord’s answer?
Jochebed already knew how to make the basket and coat it with tar. She could hide it among the reeds on the Nile. And then … What? Was this a delay of the inevitable? A crocodile could surface or the basket might flip over. A strong current might pull the basket midstream.
A time not so long ago floated into her memory. She and Lili and Shiphrah had walked along the Nile, searching for reeds far longer than planned, and stumbled upon the bathing place of the Egyptian princesses. It had been well hidden, surrounded with tall reeds and shaded by palm trees.
If she found it again, she could hide the basket there. Perhaps one of the Egyptian slaves would find it and take the baby home to raise as her own.
Jochebed twirled the leaf between her fingers, watching it go first in one direction and then in the other. If a leaf could think and feel, they’d have a lot in common.
Part of the time she trusted Shiphrah as much as she did herself, then something would happen and doubt would poke its suspicious nose through her trust.
It was like trying to balance on a river rock while being pulled and pushed from both sides. Eventually she’d fall one way or the other and hope she wasn’t hurt.
She knew, knew, Shiphrah never persuaded Lili to wear an Egyptian amulet in hopes of bearing a child. And the possibility of Shiphrah watching for runaway slaves was unlikely enough as to be ridiculous. Why did she treat her friend so poorly?
“Bedde?”
She startled at the sound of Shiphrah’s voice. Feeling guilty, she answered sharply. “What do you want?”
Shiphrah did not seem to notice the edge in Jochebed’s tone.
“I need to talk to you.” Shiphrah paused and stared, her eyes unfocused, her brow furrowed. “A few days ago I found out … Puah told me about her … And this morning I asked Ati … her face…”
“You’re not making any sense. You found out what, Shiphrah?”
“I told you—about her face.”
Exasperated, Jochebed sighed. “Whose face?”
“Puah’s. She told me about my father. It was because of me, Bedde.”
Dropping the leaf, Jochebed tugged at Shiphrah’s clothes until she sat down beside her. “What did Puah say? C
an you tell me?”
“Aunt Puah told me more about my mother and about how Ati lost her finger.” Shiphrah nodded. “Our mothers were friends, too, Bedde, just like us.”
Jochebed’s eyes widened. “I never realized.”
“After I was born, my mother and Aunt Puah and sometimes Mama Elisheba arranged meetings in the marketplace to talk and visit. Then my father found out what they were doing.” She gave a tiny smile. “You and I even met once when we were too young to remember. It’s strange how our lives keep crossing.”
The smile faded. “He, Nege, hurt my mother so badly that Puah thought she would die and she was afraid he would kill me, too. She was trying to keep me safe and…”
Shiphrah’s voice wobbled. Stunned, Jochebed scrutinized her face. Shiphrah didn’t cry.
“All these years, I never knew anyone cared what happened to me, and now I find out Puah risked her life to save me from being hurt. Just now, Ati told me that Nege came looking for me and when he saw Puah holding me, he grabbed a knife and…” Shiphrah shook her head.
“She’s carried those marks on her face because of me, Bedde. She’s stayed single because the men can’t see past the scars, and the children make faces at her—I’ve seen them do it—because of me.”
“Shiphrah!”
“It’s my fault.”
“Stop. You can’t blame yourself!”
“How can I not? You don’t even know all of it.”
“Shiphrah, if Puah thought you’d feel this way, she never would have told you the story.”
“She didn’t. Ati did. Puah doesn’t know I know that part.” Shiphrah picked up the leaf Jochebed had dropped and began tearing it into little pieces. “That’s why I needed to talk to you. I don’t know what to do.”
Jochebed closed her eyes. If only her mother were here. She would have known what to say. Mama would have said … She thought of Mama working steadily, patiently, at whatever needed doing.
“I think I know what Mama would tell you to do, Shiphrah.” She hesitated, trying to put the words straight in her mind. “Keep doing what you are already doing. Remember her saying, ‘The Lord’s answers wait for our questions’?”
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 25