Shiphrah nodded. “I miss Mama Elisheba.”
For a moment, Jochebed could not speak. “Me, too.” She fanned her eyes to dry the tears. “Ask God if there is something else you should be doing, but for now keep loving your aunt as you do.”
“Should I tell Aunt Puah?”
“I wouldn’t let her know Ati told you about the scar. If Puah wanted you to know, she’d have told you.” Jochebed looked into the distance. “And Shiphrah, protecting you was a gift of love Puah freely gave. Grieve her with your guilt and you’ll dull her joy of giving.”
“Jochebed, there is something else you don’t know. I need to tell you that I’m the one your father—”
The door squeaked, and Miriam beckoned to her mother.
“Peace, Aunt Shiphrah. Mama, he’s waking up.”
Jochebed dusted herself off before pulling Shiphrah to her feet.
Whispering a quick prayer, Jochebed made her decision. “Shiphrah, can you come in? I want to show you something.”
“No! Absolutely not! Bedde, have you lost your mind?”
“If I can only remember the place … There’s no other way, Shiphrah.”
“There has to be.” Shiphrah paced across the room. “I know you can make the basket strong enough and coat it with pitch to waterproof it, but it could so easily tip over, or the crocodiles could … How do you know someone will find it before he starves to death or even who will find it?”
“I know the risks.” Jochebed’s voice quivered.
“What of the water snakes or a hippopotamus?” Her voice rose. “Bedde, you send him to certain death.”
Jochebed said nothing.
Frantic, Shiphrah twisted her hands. “We’ll hide. We’ll leave Egypt. Go to Canaan. Others have left. We can make it.”
“Two women with four children? You would leave Puah and Ati, take Joseph’s child from him?”
Shiphrah faltered. Jochebed continued to work the dough on the wooden trough.
“Bedde, do you remember when I lived with you and Mama Elisheba and just the two of us were playing in the river? I think Lili was with her sheep and your mother had a headache. Remember what we saw floating on the river?”
Jochebed exhaled. “No.” Then she paused, searching her mind for something of import. Shiphrah did not ask foolish questions. “Wait, yes, I do remember. You said it was a little boat, right?”
Shiphrah nodded.
“Didn’t it sink?”
“Yes, but I didn’t say a little boat. I said a baby boat. When I was a little girl, Ati told me her husband put their girl child in a baby boat and left it on the water. She wondered every day what happened to her baby.”
Shiphrah paced across the room and wrung her hands. “I can’t let you suffer like that. I can’t let you spend the rest of your life not knowing if Amram’s son is living or dead, wondering if he was rescued by a kind person or a cruel person, or if he even survived around the river’s bend. What if Amram returns someday and wants to see his son? What are you going to tell him?”
“Shiphrah…”
“Jochebed, if you follow through with this, if you dare risk this vulnerable, precious boy in such a foolhardy, dangerous, stupid way … I will not ever … I do not want to … I cannot … stand to even look at you again.”
“And why should I not take this single chance? So you can betray us and take a reward?”
Across the anger, the two women stared at each other.
Chapter 35
Shiphrah didn’t cry. Earlier than she could remember she had learned it was a noisy waste of time and energy. True, she cried the night Deborah’s boy was born—she shuddered recalling how she’d placed her hand over his face to suffocate him—but except for that one horrible night, she couldn’t think of another time she’d wept or many times she wanted to weep. Ever.
Until now.
If she were alone, she’d wrinkle up her face and bawl like a baby, maybe even throw a pot against the wall and watch the clay shatter into pieces. No, then she’d have to clean it up. Anyway, she wasn’t alone. Ati sat in the corner picking briars from a bundle of wool, and Puah would soon return with Ella.
Shiphrah clamped her teeth against the inside of her mouth to keep from crying, or worse, screaming. Growling, she pounded the mound of dough in front of her.
“You kill that dough, huh?”
“Oh, Ati, you startled me.”
“Why you mad at bread?”
Shiphrah rocked back on her feet. “I’m not mad at the bread, and I won’t kill the dough. I’m just thinking.”
“Angry thinking, huh?” In the dim light, Ati held the wool close to her eyes.
“I’m not angry!” Shiphrah growled. “I’m furious.”
“Who has your anger?”
“Jochebed and her plan—no, the pharaoh with his horrible command—no, me. I can’t stop her. Can’t make her see reason.”
“You want her go your way?”
“Her way is absurd.”
“Ah.”
“How could Bedde even think, ever consider, possibly dumping her baby into a basket and leaving it on the river? She grew up by the river. She knows as well as I do it’s infested with snakes and crocodiles. Anything could happen. The basket could tip over or get caught in the reeds. He’ll drown or starve.”
Shiphrah ripped a hole in the dough.
“Bedde has lost her mind. I wish someone would talk sense into that hard head of hers.” Shiphrah squeezed the dough together until it oozed between her fingers.
“She’s as good as murdering that baby. He’ll be crocodile bait. I could just wring her neck. We could leave Egypt or hide, but no, she won’t listen to reason. What kind of mother is she? What mother would ever do that?”
She pummeled the dough with her fists, neither wanting nor expecting Ati to reply.
“Me.”
Caught up in the horror of her thoughts, Ati’s answer did not at first penetrate Shiphrah’s anger. When it did, she slowed her kneading to a steady rhythm. What did Ati mean? Had she heard correctly?
Shiphrah forced her voice to be steady. “I thought you said your husband left the baby on the river. Is that what you mean?”
“No. The others, he sold as slaves. Last baby, I send on river and give chance to live free.” Ati shrugged. “Maybe live, maybe die, but free, huh?”
“Did you know she could die?”
“I know.”
“But how could you risk your baby’s life?”
“What choice I have, huh?” Ati slapped her thigh. “You tell me choices.”
“Did my father know? Did you ask him if you could keep your baby?”
“Not your father. No master, I free woman.” Ati grimaced as she pulled a thorn from her finger. She stuck the finger in her mouth and then rubbed it on the front of her tunic. “Always free woman.”
“I didn’t know, Ati. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a house servant instead of a slave.”
She left the dough and knelt in front of Ati. Pulling the wool out of Ati’s reach, she clasped the nine stubby fingers.
Ella’s laughter sounded in the distance as she and Puah returned from their walk to the river. They would move so slowly that Shiphrah knew she still had a few minutes to talk with Ati.
“Free woman.”
“I understand.”
“I do my way, not slave.”
“So you stayed because you…”
“Wanted stay.” Ati’s watery eyes focused on Shiphrah. “I stay for you.”
“Oh, Ati. I never knew.”
“Lots you don’t know, huh?”
Shiphrah nodded in agreement. “Lots.” Ella’s laughter sounded closer, but there was something else Shiphrah wanted to know.
“After all those years, what changed? Did you tire of caring for me?”
“Huh?”
“Ati, you told me you were dying. I wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t told me to leave. Why did you send me away?”
; “Safer, huh? Old Ati couldn’t stand see you hurt more.”
“Ati…”
“You go, maybe live. You stay, die. One day your papa not stop hitting. Next time, maybe.”
“So you…”
“You hush now. Little sunshine coming in door to her Ati, huh?” Shiphrah looked toward the open door and laughed in complete understanding. Ella was her sunshine, too.
Puah released Ella’s hand as they crossed the threshold. Ella, grasping wilted flowers, hobbled to the two women sitting on the floor. She handed the limp stems to Ati and wrapped her arms around Shiphrah.
Shiphrah breathed in the tangy sweetness of sweaty child and reveled in the feel of little arms wrapped around her neck. She could never risk this precious life on the river of perils. She loved this child of Joseph’s more than life itself.
When Ella moved her affections to Ati, Shiphrah’s heart lurched. Did Ati ever love her this much?
She thought again of the fear that had hovered like storm clouds over her father’s house. Ati endured that for her. She remembered her father’s rages when he shoved anyone in his way—the broken dishes, torn scrolls, the hatred snarling from between clenched teeth.
Ati loved her.
Ella said something and Puah laughed, the scar twisting her smile into a grimace. Puah risked her life to rescue her from Nege. Puah and her scar of beauty loved her, too.
She could care for Ati. What could she do for Puah?
Pieces of conversations almost forgotten rose like a flock of geese, first one memory then another. It had begun on the banks of the river when she and Samuel, Lili’s brother, had watched over his distraught sister.
Samuel had started to ask her something and then Miriam had found them, frantic with worry. Jochebed was in labor. She’d never mentioned her conversation with Samuel to Puah. Maybe she should.
“Aunt Puah, will you help me outside?”
“Let me drink some water, and then I’ll come out. It is so hot, couldn’t it wait a bit?”
“It’s waited far too long, Aunt Puah.”
Shiphrah led her aunt to the shade of a drooping palm tree and, tugging on her aunt’s hands, pulled her to the ground. “Do you remember years ago finding me with Bedde and Lili when we were sitting beneath a tree?”
“Of course.”
“When you found me, I thought all my dreams had become real. I wanted so much to be with my own family, my own kin. Mama Elisheba was always good to me, but I wanted you, Aunt Puah.”
Puah looked puzzled. “I’m happy I found you, Shiphrah.”
“I want that for you, too.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, dear.”
“Some time ago, a man started to ask me if I would consent to you becoming his wife.”
Puah’s eyes widened until Shiphrah thought they might pop.
“He asked me because I am your next of kin and there was no one else to ask. Maybe he should have talked to the elders, but he didn’t; he talked to me. I mean, we started talking and then we were interrupted, so he never really asked, but I see him watching you and I know he still wants to make you his wife.” Shiphrah ran out of breath.
“Me? A wife? Wh–Wh–Who?”
“Samuel.”
“My Samuel? I mean…”
“Yes, Aunt Puah, your Samuel, Lili’s oldest brother.” Shiphrah chuckled softly at the look of wonder on her aunt’s face.
Shiphrah stood beside Puah under the wedding canopy. Though older than other brides, Puah glowed with a radiance that outshone younger women. Samuel stood straight and tall, gazing at Puah as if he would never tire of looking at her.
Puah’s linen tunic had been left in the sun to bleach for several days. Although not new, it was clean and white. Her veil had been lifted, the marriage cup shared and shattered. Tonight she would move her belongings into Samuel’s house and become his wife in deed as well as word.
Shiphrah glanced down at Ella and decided her own face probably reflected the same wonder as Ella’s. She was so glad to see Puah happy, to see her loved and treasured—honored as a wife.
Red tinted the evening sky, promising that tomorrow would be as hot and dry as today. Shiphrah knew her life would be as full and as lonely as the days before.
The ceremony was complete. The only disappointment of the day—the absence of Jochebed and Lili. She had hoped they would be willing to put aside their differences for Puah’s sake and be part of the celebration. She had dreamed it would be a new beginning for them as well as Puah and Samuel.
Shiphrah bowed her head in submission as the sky darkened its beauty. She would tell Jochebed to hide her son’s basket behind the Temple of Amun. They had stumbled upon it years earlier before Mama Elisheba died, but Shiphrah had not confided she knew it was a favorite retreat for the royal daughters. It would be her final gift in memory of Mama Elisheba, a thanksgiving for sheltering her. After this, she would never look back. She would share her future only with Ati and Ella.
Chapter 36
Ramses slid open a compartment beneath the ebony-and-ivory senet board and handed the four counting sticks to Nefertari. He placed the pieces on the board by alternating spools and cones on the first row of ten squares and nodded for her to throw first.
Several turns later, the sticks showed three plain sides and one decorated side. Ramses, having won his single point, began his play while Nefertari tried to score a one. Soon both were in the game. Nefertari jumped her marker over Ramses’s and then moved a space backward.
Three sticks landed decorated side up. Nefertari advanced her marker three spaces. Ramses tossed the sticks to score five points when all four plain sides showed.
He glanced at Nefertari and caught her smothering a yawn.
“It is late, and you are tired. Would you like to finish later?”
“Are you afraid I’ll win, Ramses?” She teased him with a smile.
“I’m afraid you’ll fall asleep on the board and scatter the pieces.”
Nefertari tilted her head and looked at him from the corner of her eyes. “Whoever clears the board wins.”
Chuckling, Ramses watched her leave and knew he would never tire of this wife, would never give her title of Great Wife to another. She was indeed whom he, the sun, did shine for.
No one else expressed concern over the shadows beneath his eyes or seemed to care that his clothes hung loosely. He knew without being told it was Nefertari who had ordered his favorite foods prepared, hoping to persuade him to eat.
Ramses pushed the wooden pieces around the board. It was late, but he dared not sleep, dreading the ordeal of struggling through visions seared in his mind throughout the night. Were he a lesser man, he would surround his bed with priests to ward off these demons, but as pharaoh, he must not be seen as weak and unable to battle evil alone.
Evil. Did these torments come from Seth, brother and enemy of Osiris? Possibly.
He had not yet sacrificed to Seth. Ramses stacked the game pieces into a pyramid. He would make a blood sacrifice since Seth was a god of violence. He would order the death of prisoners—fourteen prisoners. That number should satisfy Seth since after killing Osiris, Seth had cut his brother’s body into fourteen pieces.
Ramses scraped his hands across the stubble darkening his chin. Tonight he would not sleep, would not risk the darkness of grieving the loss of his family and his nation. Nothing was more terrifying. He would do whatever necessary to avoid it.
His own journey into the afterlife did not overly concern him. The mortuary temple where he would be worshipped was nearing completion, and his tomb was already well stocked for the next life. The Book of the Dead with its spells to allow his ba to take different forms and move in and out of the tomb had been carved on the wall. His soul would not be confined.
Ramses repositioned the senet pieces. He layered the cones on the spools, balanced spools on cones. In spite of his steady hand, they tumbled across the narrow table.
Was it an omen—a portent of the hor
rors coming true? Mentally, Ramses shook himself. He was becoming as superstitious as an old woman. As if he had intentionally scattered the pieces in his boredom, Ramses stood and strode into the hall. He walked without thinking, without a destination, until he came to a wall painting of the judgment of the dead.
In the picture, the god Anubis knelt beside golden scales to weigh the feather of truth against a heart. Watching the scales was the devourer Ammat, his crocodile head leaning close, ready to swallow the heart if it were judged false. Thoth, god of wisdom, waited to record the verdict. If the heart was judged true, its owner would enter into eternal afterlife.
Ramses suppressed a shudder. He, too, must someday face this judgment before a panel of gods. Would his heart be judged true? Was it as light as a single feather? The gods would bear witness against him or for him. If he lost Egypt, he, too, was lost.
Chapter 37
Jochebed prayed as she plaited the last reeds in and out of the strong ribs. This would be the most important basket she ever wove. After every round she stopped to press the rushes together as compactly as possible, at times threading in an additional grass to tighten or thicken the sides.
She kept the grasses pliable, soaking them until the last minute, sometimes wetting them with her tears. It would be her gift to him: a floating cradle as sturdy as she could make it, a hiding place as safe as she could make it, a chance to live, the only way she knew, in spite of what Shiphrah said.
Without him, her arms once again were empty. Every day she would think of him, wonder if he was loved, fed, well, safe. He would never know her or even truly know himself, never hear the promises their Lord made to His people or realize he belonged to the chosen ones.
Jochebed wavered. This could not be the Lord’s plan. And yet the strange peace swelled again, welling up inside until she calmed and could plait and pray, plait and pray, weaving prayers into every fiber of the basket.
It was almost complete. Tonight it would dry, hardening into shape. Tomorrow she would coat it with the dark pitch, and when the tar dried, it would be finished—the basket … and her mothering of Amram’s youngest son. She clenched her jaws against a pain so intense, it left her gasping.
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 26