He sat back. “What shall you do with this child?” Ramses knew he would acquiesce to her wishes, but for appearances he delayed his answer. After all, he was king.
“I shall give him to our daughter, who has employed a woman to care for him until he is weaned or about three years of age. My dear, I think it will settle Merit-Amun, having a child to think of instead of only herself.”
“And the woman is…?”
“Here in the palace. She is Hebrew, my lord.”
Ramses touched the beard of kingship, thinking again how it itched and wishing he could scratch beneath it.
“Nefertari, I give you the life of the child on one condition. This woman must care for him in her own village until he is weaned. I will not abide a Hebrew under my roof.”
“I hear and obey, my dear one. It shall be as you wish.” Nefertari bowed her head.
A commotion at the entrance to the throne room caused Ramses to look up. Merit-Amun approached him slowly, kneeling and kissing the ground. When she stood, she kept her head lowered respectfully, waiting for permission to speak.
“Yes?” Ramses’s tone did not invite argument.
“Father, if you will grant the life of this child, I pledge to you that I will oversee his training. I will take care that he never brings shame on your name but will equal you in prowess and education so he may serve you all his days.”
“So be it. I have given only one condition. Your mother will explain. Now go.”
The women bowed, backing away, and did not see the glint of satisfaction in Ramses’s eyes. Foolish women. By agreeing the child would be raised in the Hebrew woman’s village, they had virtually assured it would die. Infant mortality was remarkably high. And if by chance the child possessed the strength to live, perhaps he was Egyptian after all and maybe a gift from the gods.
He—Ramses congratulated himself—was the shrewdest of tacticians. Time would unravel the truth of this child, if it, unfortunately, survived.
Chapter 38
Shiphrah felt the river breezes unfurl her hair. She stood with her back to the other women, watching the waves lap over each other. Almost a dance, the pattern of ripples wove in and over, around and under, always moving on, always moving forward.
Unlike her, she thought bitterly and pulled first one foot and then the other foot free of the river mud. She was stuck.
Shiphrah hauled the wet clothes out of the river and, working alone, spread them on rocks to dry. Ella was at home with Ati, and as much as she loved the two of them, she welcomed time by herself to think.
Surrounded by the villagers and their laughing children, she was still alone. Few of them spoke to her. She was simply the midwife—tolerated when needed, forgotten when the danger of childbirth was past. She lived and worked alongside them, neither shunned nor included. Deborah had seen to that, never letting anyone forget or forgive what Shiphrah had almost done.
Mama Elisheba had once told her a story of Noah and second chances. Maybe she didn’t deserve another chance. Was it because she was half Egyptian or because she had contemplated such an evil action? If only Mama Elisheba were alive…
Jochebed might have been an ally, a bridge builder between her and the village. She’d always believed the best about people—well, almost always, Shiphrah conceded.
Now Jochebed was lost to her, too. She had retreated within herself, spending every minute with the child she’d given up for lost, the child of the river—Moses, as the princess had named him.
She turned her head to watch Jochebed cuddle the baby boy. A veil of oblivion seemed to separate mother and child from the others. They sat apart, almost as alone as herself. Shiphrah wondered if Bedde realized how isolated she had become. Did Jochebed not see the pain she awakened in those whose children had been destroyed?
She took a deep breath for courage. When she stood in front of Jochebed, she stopped, waited until their eyes met.
“Shalom.”
“Shiphrah, I didn’t know you were here.” Jochebed looked down at Moses. “See how he has grown? He sits up, and soon he will be crawling and then walking and running. If Amram ever returns, he’ll be so pleased. I was just telling Moses the story of Abraham and the promise of a son.”
“Yes, I see he is growing.”
“He’s already outgrown two sleeping baskets and almost another one.”
“Jochebed…”
“Listen to him talk. He’s saying—”
“Bedde, have you talked to Lili?”
Moses slapped his hands together as his mother rested her chin on his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
Jochebed shrugged and turned Moses to face her. “Did I tell you that in Egyptian ‘Moses’ means ‘drawn from the river’?”
“I know.”
Moses bounced in his mother’s lap, and Jochebed laughed.
“Do you know how it hurts Lili to see your child alive when hers is dead?”
Jochebed’s mouth thinned to a tight line.
“Do you care that it hurts her?” Shiphrah probed.
“You and Lili would rather have my son be dead. That is what you mean? You, Shiphrah, have worked against me from the beginning. Why? What is the life of one Hebrew boy to you? Are you so like your father?”
“Don’t be absurd, Jochebed. Lili and I do not want Moses to be dead.”
“Don’t speak for me,” said Lili. “I do not need your help, Egyptian.”
Startled, Shiphrah turned and faced an ashen Lili. When had she become so terribly thin?
“I was only saying we did not wish her son dead—that we’re happy for her.”
“Happy?” Lili spat on the ground. “Happy to see her flaunt her son while mine lies at the bottom of the river? Oh yes, I am so happy for her.”
Jochebed sat up straight. “I—I do n–not flaunt him.”
“Every day you bring him to the river to remind us your son lives.”
“That is not true!”
“Every day you hold him while our arms remain empty.”
“You resent my son lives.”
“Every day we relive our loss while you bask in contentment. Do you think we are happy when every day you laugh in our faces?”
“No, never—”
“Enough! Please, Jochebed, Lili, enough!”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Shiphrah!” snapped Lili. “You are as bad as she is. You have Ella. Jochebed has three children—three! Do you know how many I have? One. Dead. Son. Just leave me alone with my grief.”
Lili spun on her heel and stalked away.
“Go away, Shiphrah.” Jochebed spoke softly.
Shiphrah turned to leave and realized the village women had witnessed the scene. Shame darkened her face. Unshed tears pulsed behind her eyes. She had only been trying to help.
Or had she? Maybe she spoke out of her own frustration, her own loneliness. Since Puah had married and moved to another home, she felt so isolated.
Shiphrah clenched her fists, trying to steady herself. She would not cry in front of these gossipers.
She lifted her chin. LiliBeddeShiphrah had disappeared. They were no longer a tightly braided strand. They had unraveled into three separate people who seemed to have no use for each other, who no longer cared about each other. What had happened to their girlish plans, their dreams of being forever friends, their vow to never stay angry with each other?
Shiphrah left the clothes on the rocks. She walked past the women, aware of their disapproval, the dislike, the disdain. Even Sarah did not look her way and Deborah did not speak to her. Shiphrah grimaced. At least that was a good thing.
She took the long way home, avoiding Mama Elisheba’s house, now Jochebed’s house. She missed Mama Elisheba. If only she could talk to her, see the gentleness in her eyes, hear the wisdom of her heart. She would have said…
Shiphrah’s shoulders slumped. Mama Elisheba would say, “While it is yet dark, God is at work.” But it had been dark so long. So very dark. Was God really
at work?
Could He free them from their prisons of isolation—Jochebed’s self-absorption, Lili’s grief, and her own discontent?
Not ready to return to Ati and Ella, she stopped in the field of sprouting flax and knelt to weed. She could save some child’s knees a few minutes of torture. In another few years, Ella would be old enough to help with this hated chore.
As she pulled thistles, Shiphrah let her mind wander through the past. Lili’s laughter bubbled in her ears. She could see the tilt of Bedde’s head and the half smile that followed. They had braided each other’s hair, woven purple crowns from flowering flax, whispered secrets throughout the night, and wiped each other’s tears with their sleeves.
The pile of weeds grew taller as Shiphrah fingered each plant. She left the hairless stalks with narrow leaves and yanked out all others. Maybe she would do the same with her memories—keep the ones she cherished and snatch out all others. As the memories continued to invade, she plucked some out and locked them away.
She would refuse to think of Jochebed or Lili. She would avoid Deborah and Old Snoopy as if they were lepers. That should be easy—they treated her as if she were one of the untouchables … but so did her “best” friends.
No tears left her eyes. They remained lodged in her throat.
Shiphrah rubbed fish oil on Ati’s bony hand, its stubby fingers looking even shorter with such swollen knuckles. The warmth of the oil eased the stiffness, bringing a respite to Ati’s constant pain.
“Is that better, Ati?”
She grunted. Shiphrah knew that was all the woman would say. Ati no longer spoke and ate only thin gruel or mashed foods. Shiphrah suspected Ati’s remaining teeth had already fallen out or soon would.
“I’ll be home all day, Ati. With most of the men gone, there are not too many pregnant women for me to tend.”
She glanced at her old nursemaid. “Are you wondering where Ella is?”
The old woman nodded.
“I can see her from the door. She’s playing with the doll you made her. Do you want to be where you can watch her?”
Shiphrah grasped the edges of Ati’s mat and heaved it forward until Ella was in view.
“Ella likes for you to watch her play, you know.”
Ati grunted, and Shiphrah suppressed the urge to grunt back. She loved Ati, truly loved her and cared for her gladly, but she longed to talk with someone, talk and laugh and tease and question.
Maybe not question. There were plenty of questions from Ella, and they did talk and laugh, but Ella was so young and Ati so old. She talked with Aunt Puah, but not often. She wished she had friends, friends like…
Shiphrah stopped the thought. Those days were over. Those relationships ended.
She set her jaw, determined to move forward. She did not need the others. Perhaps if she said it often enough, she’d believe it. She would depend on herself. She and Ella were a family. Puah was family. Ati—Shiphrah did not lie to herself—would not live much longer.
She would spend her days teaching Ella all she knew. Someday they would have a sistrum for music and senet for a game—she could make the pieces and draw the board on the dirt floor.
Ella’s balance was improving, and she could learn midwifery and weaving. They did not need other people. She did not need Bedde, nor did she need Lili.
And it seemed they did not need her.
Epilogue
Three years later
Shiphrah waited until Joshua left for work with the men. He would soon be out of earshot and unable to rescue his wife. Most of the women had gathered at the river to wash clothes and visit. With the children’s voices mingling with the river sounds, they likely would not hear if Lili called for help. It was time she paid Lili a long overdue visit—now, while Lili was alone.
She did not knock. She pushed open the door to Lili’s house, stepped inside, closed the door, and braced herself against it. There would be no opportunity for Lili to leave.
In the far corner, Lili sat, head on her knees, rocking back and forth. A ripple of compassion for the woman’s grief caused Shiphrah to hesitate. What she felt compelled to say could destroy any remnant of their friendship—could destroy even the woman herself.
Lili lifted her head. Dully she looked at the intruder. Shiphrah cringed at the depth of despair she saw etched on Lili’s face. Dare she add more pain?
She hardened her resolve before it crumbled into dust. She had chosen this time carefully, her words with prayer. With a deep breath, she began.
“Lili, since the beginning I have loved you and Bedde as sisters. As a child, I wanted to be just like you—so lively, so fun to be with, always knowing what to say. Sometimes I was even a little scared—no, not scared … intimidated by you. I’ve grown up, and I’m not intimidated by you anymore, but I am scared.” Shiphrah paused to search Lili’s eyes. Was she listening? “Not scared of you, but scared for you.”
Lili’s expression did not change.
“Lili, every day I regret what I almost did to Deborah’s baby. It was so wrong, so evil, so selfish. All I thought about was myself, and I almost betrayed the people I love and the God I’ve come to believe is real. I lied to myself about having no choice, and then I believed my own lies.”
Lili’s eyes flickered.
“You didn’t trust me, and I understand why you thought I was part of your baby’s death. As God is my witness, I knew nothing of Pharaoh’s plan. I’m sorry for almost betraying the Lord’s people, Lili. I will spend every day for the rest of my life trying to make this right.”
“Shiphrah.”
“Wait, Lili, I’m not through.” Shiphrah held up her hand. “Let me say this, and then I will leave you in peace. If you never speak to me again, so be it, but I must say this.” Shiphrah tugged at her sleeves. “I was wrong, so wrong, but Lili, I admit it and I’m different now.”
Shiphrah’s hands trembled, but her voice remained strong. “Lili, no one can ever fathom the grief you live in without your child. I cannot imagine such agony. In no way do I belittle your sorrow, but you have allowed it to turn you into a selfish woman who cannot acknowledge anyone else’s pain. You are consumed with yourself and the injustices of your life.”
Shiphrah took a deep breath and gripped the sides of her clothes.
“For years you have refused to see the truth and persisted in believing that foolishness about Bedde stealing Amram from you. These grudges you carry are lies. You’re hiding behind a lot of lies.”
Shiphrah leaned forward. “If you want to lie to yourself and blame me for persuading you to wear that wretched amulet, do so, but I will not have you continue to twist Mama Elisheba’s words and let Bedde think her mother had anything to do with idols.”
“Shiphrah.”
“Two more things, and then I’ll hush.” Shiphrah lowered her voice and took a breath to calm herself. “You have lost a child. I have lost a family and a strong leg. Bedde does not know if she’ll ever see her husband again, her mother is dead, and even now she surrenders Moses at the palace. For once, can you see beyond yourself?” Shiphrah felt her energy draining away.
“And Lili, you were partly right. Samuel and I did talk, and the Lord answered yes to my heart’s desire, my secret prayer when Samuel looked beyond Puah’s scars and asked if he could have Puah as his wife. I never told anyone, but she had loved him for years.”
Her shoulders slumped. She had said far more than she intended, yet it needed to be said. “I’m through, Lili. I’ll stay or I’ll go away, whichever you wish.”
“Go.”
Resigned to the inevitable, Shiphrah nodded, accepting Lili’s decision. She was not surprised at Lili’s reaction. She expected it. Leaving her place against the door, she turned to open it.
“Go, and take me with you, Shiphrah. Bedde needs us. I lied about Mama Elisheba and the idol. I need to tell Bedde. I want her to forgive me.”
Jochebed slipped into the darkness. She hesitated and then, refusing to look back, turned
away. There was no time for tears or wistful thinking. It was finished. She could never return. Determined to leave with dignity, she straightened her back and forced herself to move forward. Each step demanded she relinquish all rights. Each step required obedience to her master. Each step ripped out another piece of her heart.
The palace guards did not question Jochebed when she passed under the date trees and acacias surrounding the royal gardens with their scent of myrrh. A cat, wearing the jeweled collar of royalty, brushed against her, but she did not stop. If she lingered, all could be lost.
Breezes stirred away the night as Jochebed willed herself to walk methodically, eyes straight ahead, head held high. The dark was lifting, and soon she would be visible in the morning gray, exposed and vulnerable, with no place to hide.
If only she could reach the sanctuary of the trees. She could not see them from the winding streets, but she knew that beyond the towering gates a scattering of palms framed the desert. She was almost there, almost safe. Again, the guards did not challenge Jochebed as she passed them and left the royal city.
She moved without seeing, without thinking—only feeling. She had compelled her feet to walk away but could not numb her heart to the awful knowledge she would never again see her son, not for one single moment.
Not for one minute would she feel his hands patting her face. Not for one minute would he fall asleep in her arms, his breath warm against her cheek. Not for one minute would she hear his infectious laughter.
Another woman would wipe away his tears, hear his childhood confidences, touch her child as if she’d birthed him. Moment by moment, his memory of her would fade and he would call another by that most precious name, Mother.
There was not much time. Jochebed stumbled from shadow to shadow, hiding among the shelter of the trees, desperate to be as far away from the palace as possible.
At last she could force herself no farther and crumpled under the weight of sorrow. Legs shaking, Jochebed fell on her knees and retched, gasping for breath, her heart aching so badly she covered it with both hands to ease its pain.
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 28