by Angela Hunt
She did not know how he adored her—how could she imagine a love as deep as the ocean? She was a royal slave who dared not dream of release. Unless Menashe could reach her, she would live and die within the confines of Pharaoh’s palace. So it had always been, and so it always would be.
But she did not know how Menashe loved her. And how he understood her. He knew the despair of losing a mother; he knew how it felt to reach for a father and find only a substitute.
But his father had been a slave and was now second only to Pharaoh. So he understood the possibility of change. So I see you, little Jendayi, not as a slave, but as what you shall be: a great lady, my wife.
He took another loaf of bread and broke it into pieces. Would Akil never tell the others to be quiet so she could play alone? Menashe was tempted to demand a harp solo, but Jendayi might think him spoiled and foolish if he behaved so impetuously. His father’s important guests—the governors, priests and counselors—now slouched in the quiet contentment of satiated men. Their eyes would not remain open another quarter hour. If Jendayi was going to play, she must play soon.
“Most honored Akil.”
Menashe flinched as his father’s voice rose above the subdued murmurs.
“I wonder if you might allow us to be dismissed tonight with something special. We have passed a long and tiring day in the wilderness where all seemed gray and bleak to my eyes. Surely your harpist has hidden a few emerald grasses and the rush of the river in her instrument?”
Akil bowed his head in a deep gesture of respect, then turned and extended his arm toward his harpist.
One of the other women nudged Jendayi. Menashe leaned forward—did his eyes deceive him or were her fingers trembling? As Akil folded his hands, surrendering the attention of the audience, the girl ran her fingers over the strings. Golden streams of sound splashed into the silence and then, wonder of wonders, she opened her mouth and began to sing.
“How weary is the nobleman,” she sang, the sound as light as a flitting bird that wings the air. “Good fate has become true. Verily, bodies have perished since the days of the god. Others taken their place.”
Menashe felt the squeeze of disappointment. This funereal song was not what he had hoped for. But still she sang:
“Spend a happy day, son of the nobleman,
Follow your heart for as long as it is yours.
Spend a happy day, ignore all evil and remember happiness
Until the day arrives when you moor in the land that loves silence.
Spend a happy day. Do whatever you praise.
Let your heart be very, very happy.
Spend a happy day, son of the nobleman,
Follow your desire so long as you shall live.”
By the time Jendayi had finished, Menashe’s own heart sang with delight. How terribly clever of her to mingle her encouragement for him with a sympathetic reminder that life was fleeting! And since nearly every man in the gathering considered himself the son of a nobleman, the intended recipient and her message had been hidden in the most obvious of contexts.
The Egyptians applauded, demanding to hear the song again, but Akil stepped in and directed the oboist in another melody.
Glorying in the moment, Menashe leaned toward his father. “Wasn’t she wonderful?”
“What?” Yosef stirred; Menashe’s question was an obvious distraction.
“The song! Didn’t you hear it?”
“Very nice, as always.” Yosef smiled and turned to the crown prince, who sat nearest him. “Akil does a wonderful job with Pharaoh’s musicians. It was most gracious of your father the king to send them on our journey.”
He had not heard; he had no idea of the song’s significance. Menashe listened with dismay as Yosef continued a quiet conversation with the crown prince and one of the nomarchs. But his father’s opinions did not matter. Jendayi had sung for Menashe, sweetly urging him to follow his heart and its desires. And he desired only one thing, one woman.
Turning away from his father and the prince, Menashe settled on his cushion and stretched his long legs before him. When they returned to Thebes, he would don his finest clothes, silver armbands and cloak, and present himself to Pharaoh. Perhaps he could persuade his father to write a letter on his behalf. But through flattery, friendship or finagling, Menashe would convince Pharaoh to return Jendayi to the vizier’s house. Tonight he had learned she was willing to be his, and he would not rest until she was free to be his wife.
Menashe lifted his hand and caught Tarik’s attention. The captain strolled over, nodding at a few nobles as he walked. He wore a sly smile when he finally reached Menashe’s side. “So tell me, young master, has the evening’s entertainment been interesting?”
“Yes,” Menashe answered, his courage and determination like a rock inside him. “Most interesting, Tarik. The girl is willing! You heard her, now I must go to Pharaoh for her. I will not be happy until she is my wife, and I will tell her so this very night, as soon as my father’s guests have dispersed.”
The captain held up a warning finger. “You must curb your eagerness, young lion! She is not just any slave. She is Pharaoh’s property. And here—” he lowered his voice while glancing right and left “—we are among Egyptians who would not hesitate to tell the king that the vizier’s son has taken advantage of the royal favor. You must not speak of your intentions to anyone. You are setting out to climb an impossible mountain, and if you are to succeed, you must carefully plot your course.”
“Impossible?”
Tarik shrugged. “Your father would say nothing is impossible for your God Shaddai.”
Menashe transferred his gaze to Jendayi’s pensive face. She was waiting for his response; she would want to know what he would do. “Tarik, I must speak with her!”
“You must not! Stay away from the girl, do nothing unusual. If anyone later insinuates that you have done so much as touch her, the king will never grant your request. Pharaoh may even deem it necessary to punish you—or he might use her to set an example for other slaves. Tread cautiously, Menashe. Love has quickened your heart, but you must not foolishly pursue it.”
Menashe struggled to curb his impulses. Tarik was right; one did not trifle with Pharaoh’s slaves, Pharaoh’s children or Pharaoh’s counselors. He ought to be silent and sly; he would have to put a rein around his eager heart. With one careless word or unthinking action he could destroy both his life and Jendayi’s.
He looked up at the guard who had often proved to be a wise and willing counselor. “I will be careful. I will guard my lips so you alone will know of this. But I must let her know that I love her. Find the slave who brought Jendayi’s message to you. Tell her I understand. As soon as my grandfather is buried and we have returned to Thebes, I will approach Pharaoh on Jendayi’s behalf. Though my own life be forfeit as a penalty for my boldness, I will redeem her from Pharaoh’s house.”
With a slow, secret smile, Tarik nodded. “I will relay your message.”
“He listened?” Jendayi’s voice rose in surprise.
“Shah!” Kesi laughed and lifted the thin blanket that covered Jendayi, then snuggled close to her mistress. “I have just spoken to the captain of the vizier’s guard, who brought a message directly from the vizier’s son. The message is this: As soon as Yisrael is buried and we are returned to Thebes, he will approach Pharaoh and ask that you be returned to the vizier’s house. Though the attempt may cost him his life, he says he will not fail.”
Jendayi pressed her hands to her mouth, shock wedging words in her throat.
“There is more,” Kesi went on, her breath warm in Jendayi’s ear. “The guard says you must be discreet with this news. You must speak of this with no one but me, for you are Pharaoh’s slave and no man has any right to talk to you, much less desire you as his own. You must not seek out the young man so no one can suspect him of immodest behavior toward you. And you must guard your tongue, lest you slip and reveal this secret.”
“I can guard my tongue,
” Jendayi whispered, still lost in incredulity. The vizier’s son was an endless surprise; she had never dreamed he might be truly serious in his concern for her. And he was right; this would have to be a solemn and secret enterprise, for she was not only a slave, but a prized one, certainly worth her weight in silver or gold.
“Can you believe it?” A tremor of excitement filled Kesi’s voice as she pressed her hand to Jendayi’s arm. “In all my days, I never imagined such a thing could be possible. You long to be reunited with the vizier’s son, and he wishes to bring you back to his house! It is a wish only the gods have power enough to accomplish.”
Jendayi smiled, now certain that her heart would learn to live and love. “The gods will bring it to pass. I would stake my life on it.”
Chapter Eight
Anxious to avoid rogue bands of warlike Philistines, the company journeyed through the desert to the Salt Sea, then skirted that sea’s eastern shore and moved north toward the Jordan River. When they came to the threshing floor of Goren ha-Atad, north of the Salt Sea and east of the Jordan, the mixed company of Hebrews and Egyptians set up camp.
Because his duties had kept him in Thebes while his brothers mourned in Goshen, Yosef proclaimed that they would not move farther until he had observed seven days of mourning for Yisrael with his brothers. And they sorrowed there with a great and heavy lamentation.
At the close of the seventh day, the Hebrews and the Egyptians assembled in one circle, around one fire. Ani, who had grown as fluent in the Canaanite tongue as he was in Egyptian, stood in the center of the clearing to interpret for those who had not picked up the other nation’s language.
As they had in Goshen, the Hebrews stood and told the story of Yisrael’s life. One by one, each of Yaakov’s sons recited a tale: Yisrael’s birth, his lineage from Avraham, his struggles with his brother Esav, his experience at the gate of heaven, his marriages to Rahel and Lea, the begetting of his twelve sons. Then the Egyptians, beginning with the crown prince, continued the eulogy, praising Yaakov’s descent into Egypt, the glory of his son, Zaphenath-paneah, his decision to allow Efrayim and Menashe, sons of Egypt, to be counted among his heirs.
Yosef stood last. “By faith,” he said, his dark eyes raking over the silent priests of Amon-Re who watched with undisguised curiosity, “we understand that the word of the invisible god prepared the world. The things we see were not made by visible hands, but invisible.”
As Ani’s translation rang out over the gathering, the Egyptians and Hebrews alike nodded in assent. The Hebrews knew the invisible god as El Shaddai; the Egyptians knew him as Neter.
“Without faith in the invisible One it is impossible to please God Almighty,” Menashe heard his father continue, “for he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He answers those who seek Him.”
The Egyptian priests cast each other knowing smiles. Menashe was certain they had heard rumors about Zaphenath-paneah’s strange and invisible god, but thus far they had not heard anything they did not believe themselves.
“With assurance and reverence,” Yosef continued, “Noah, being warned by God Almighty about things yet to come, prepared a bark for the salvation of his household. By his obedience he and his family were saved from the great flood, and the world rose from the waters so that men again might fill the earth.”
The priests’ smiles trembled now. Menashe knew they believed life came from the primeval waters, but the story of Noah was as new to them as it was to him. Too busy with the affairs of Pharaoh’s kingdom to personally tutor his sons, like other Egyptian nobles Yosef had left the religious and social education of his sons to Ani and others of his household. But Ani was an Egyptian, and had never spoken of this man called Noah.
Yosef continued: “With trust in God Almighty, Avraham, when he heard God’s call, obeyed by going out to the place he was to receive for an inheritance. He went out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he lived as an alien in the land of promise, a foreign country, dwelling in tents in order to advance when the voice of God compelled him to rise and move on. By faith his wife, Sarah, received the ability to conceive even beyond the proper time of life, because she considered God Shaddai faithful and able to keep His promise.”
Yosef spoke slowly now, as if carefully measuring each word before pronouncing it. “And so from Avraham came Yitzhak, and from Yitzhak, Yaakov, and from Yaakov, twelve sons. And from the twelve, as God has promised, will come descendants to rival the stars of heaven in number, as innumerable as the sand of the seashore.”
Menashe frowned. His father had never uttered these truths before; was it wise to pronounce them before Egyptians who might feel threatened? Menashe glanced toward the crown prince and the priests around him. The boy who would one day be king wore a perplexed expression; lines of concentration had deepened even on the priests’ faces. They, too, were at a loss to explain their vizier’s comments.
Yet Yosef continue to speak. “By faith Avraham, when he was tested, offered up Yitzhak, a willing sacrifice. Though God had said, ‘In Yitzhak your descendants shall be called,’ Avraham believed that God is able to raise men, even from the dead.”
A ripple of wonder echoed through the Egyptians, punctuated by at least one snort of disbelief. Though they were staunch believers in the afterlife, never had one of their gods restored a man to mortal life.
“By faith Yitzhak blessed Yaakov and Esav, even regarding things to come.” Yosef’s voice rumbled through the quiet of the night shadows. “By faith my father, Yaakov, as he was dying, blessed each of his sons, and included mine among his own. Like my forefathers, he died in full confidence that God Shaddai would fulfill his promises.”
A servant threw a bundle of dry rushes onto the dying fire. The flames leaped up, throwing the darkness back, and Menashe saw his father’s form clearly in the tinted darkness. He stood as tall and straight as one of Lebanon’s towering cedars, and his eyes gleamed with the same certainty that had lit Yaakov’s dying gaze.
“As of this day,” Yosef went on, “the Hebrews have no land to call their own. We are a growing clan, but we are still small in number, generations away from rivaling the starry host. But my fathers saw the promises of God Shaddai and welcomed them from a distance, even as I do.”
An indefinable feeling of contentment filled Menashe’s heart. He slid his gaze to the place where Efrayim sat beside Jokim and tried to catch his brother’s eye. Could Efrayim not see how marvelously and uniquely God had blessed their people? God Shaddai, who was far more powerful and infinite than the gods of Egypt, had personally called the Hebrews out from Canaan and would yet return them to the land. This place, this vast, rimless wilderness of Canaan, belonged to them, as did the green valleys of the Jordan.
Efrayim’s smile was bland, his eyes vacant and fixed on the fire, his thoughts miles away. How could he sit through the testimonies of Yaakov and his forefathers and not feel the stirring of patriotic passion in his blood? The sons of Yisrael had been chosen, destined to bless the world, elected by the holiest Spirit, the creator of the universe…
Yet Efrayim studied his hands as if concerned only about his next manicure.
Yosef moved to the center of the circle and gestured toward the crown prince and his priests. “Depart to your tents tonight in peace, my brothers and friends,” he said, bowing deeply. “Take your rest in this place for a few days, for tomorrow the sons of Yisrael will go forth to bury their father. Honored priests, governors and my prince, I ask you to remain here and enjoy the beauty of this fertile riverbank. I will leave my steward with you so all your needs will be met. But I beg you to allow my brothers and I alone to take our father on his final journey.”
The Egyptians looked automatically to their prince, and Menashe knew the thoughts skittering through their minds. This was a most unusual request—why would the vizier lead them into the wilderness only to abandon them so close to the grave? The traditional Egyptian burial involved great ceremony at the site of the tomb, many prayers, i
ncantations, rituals, anointings, weeping, wailing…
But Zaphenath-paneah could persuade even a future pharaoh. The prince’s alert, handsome face creased into a smile. He nodded, granting Yosef’s request, then stood and allowed his guards to escort him to his royal tents. Whether or not they agreed with their prince’s decision, one by one the other Egyptians rose and slipped through the shadows.
Menashe stood and wound his way through the tangle of dispersing men. “Efrayim—” he clutched the hardness of his brother’s arm “—do you not feel it?” He lifted his gaze to the sky, black and icy with a wash of brilliant stars, then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Don’t you sense it?”
A thread of annoyance entered Efrayim’s voice. “I feel tired, if that’s what you mean. And sorry for the old men. This desert journey will not be easy if we leave the chariots behind.”
“I’m not talking about the burial.” Menashe struggled for words. “I’m talking about our destiny. Could you not sense a feeling as Father spoke? We are the generation intended to carry the blessing of God Shaddai. It is up to us!” He shifted and rubbed the stubble on his chin, not certain how to explain himself. He had seen everything so clearly while his father spoke; he had felt a mantle of responsibility fall onto his shoulders. He and Efrayim were the sons of Yosef, inheritors of the firstborn’s blessing. They should naturally rise to lead the next generation—
But Efrayim’s dark eyes expressed more challenge than curiosity. “It is not up to us, brother,” he said, his voice clipped. “If anything, it is up to me, for I will be greater than you, remember?”