by Angela Hunt
“No.” Menashe’s well-formed mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “I love Jendayi, the harpist in Akil’s orchestra. I will marry her or no one.”
“A slave?” Surprise caught Yosef off guard, then laughter floated up from his throat. “You could no more marry one of Pharaoh’s slaves than I could move the sun backward. Why would you hunger for a slave when a princess is within your reach? When you are ready—”
“Father, for a man of understanding, you are confused.” Menashe’s resolute, confident face mocked him. “God has called me to lead our people back to Canaan. I will not marry an Egyptian princess, nor any of the noble Egyptian women. I love Jendayi. If God can lead us to Canaan, He can arrange for her to be my bride.”
Yosef had built his career on being patient and slow to speak, but now a raw and foreign fury rose in his throat and almost choked him. Never had anyone, king or commoner, slave or servant, guard or warrior, dared to speak to him with such determined resistance. And this was his son! The child he had brought into the world, provided for, prayed about, fretted over—
“You will not speak to me in that tone!”
Menashe’s eyes glowed with intelligence and independence of spirit; when had they begun to look so adult? He thrust his hands behind his back. “What tone should I use, Father? I have tried speaking to you in a more humble voice, but you would not listen.”
“I always listen to wisdom! But you speak foolishness!”
“I speak what God has told me.”
“God has told you nothing! He speaks to me!”
“Can God not speak to me, too?” The young man opened his hands and held them before his chest. “Or must He always speak through Pharaoh’s noble vizier?”
“Of course He can speak to others,” Yosef said, irritated by his son’s mocking tone. “But He would not contradict Himself. And He told me that the famine would come, and we would be preserved in Egypt—”
“Eighteen years ago.” Menashe’s eyes darkened with emotion. “God used you, Father, and now the Almighty has chosen to use me. He may choose to use others. Why can you not believe the truth?”
Yosef opened his mouth to speak, but the words died before they reached his tongue. He wanted to reply that he was the inheritor of Yaakov’s blessing of the firstborn, and he was far from dead. His brothers were yet strong and powerful, and Efrayim had received a greater blessing than Menashe. God Shaddai might have chosen any of a host of deserving, righteous men before calling Menashe…but hadn’t Yosef seen that God sometimes chose to work in inexplicable ways?
But God would not, He could not, call the Hebrews out of the Black Land without giving Yosef some sign. Menashe had to be mistaken. He was young, and the prospect of war had infected him like a fever.
“You are wrong,” Yosef finally said, regretting that Menashe had chosen such a poor opportunity to unveil his talent for leadership. “God placed me in a position of authority over the family. If He wanted us to return to Canaan, He would have shown me.”
A look of implacable determination remained on Menashe’s face. “God set you apart as ruler in a foreign land,” he countered, a hint of inexpressible sadness in his voice. “You are a Hebrew, but you are not of the Hebrews, Father. You have sacrificed yourself in order to save your people, and God Shaddai blessed you for your willingness to obey. But He calls the sons of Yisrael out now, and He has called them through me, the least of your sons, the least of the Hebrews. And I will obey, though it costs me my life.”
“It may.” Yosef paused, hoping his words would sink into the fog overpowering his son’s reason. “Think, Menashe! Heed the advice of your elders! No man is so old that he cannot live another year, nor so young that he cannot die today. You may think your uncles and I are used up while you are invincible, but men of all ages die in war.”
Menashe shrugged. “If I die, I die following the will of God.”
Yosef flung his hands into the air, so furious he could hardly speak. “It is Pharaoh’s wish that you stop this nonsense. His word is law. Will you obey it?”
“God’s word is more powerful than Pharaoh’s,” Menashe answered, his face full of strength. “I am not seeking to injure Pharaoh, but I must obey God before any earthly king.”
Yosef searched for another avenue of persuasion. “You say you love this slave girl—then obey Pharaoh for her sake. Remain here in Thebes and forget about Canaan, and I will see what I can to do persuade Pharaoh to allow the marriage. It will not be easy, but perhaps—”
An expression of pain crossed Menashe’s face, but his eyes still shone with a steadfast determination. “I love Jendayi with my life, but even for her I could not remain here when God has called me away. My men are depending on me.”
“Then hear me.” Yosef felt his flesh color as he rose from his ornamented chair. “Give this up, Menashe. Give this up because it is my wish, and I am the father who gave you life. If you won’t do it for Pharaoh or this girl you love, do it for me.”
Menashe’s mouth twisted, but his dark eyes flashed a warning as he locked his hands behind his back. “Do not ask this, Father.”
“But I am asking. I am demanding—no, I am begging you.” Yosef held out his hands in entreaty. “Remain here at home with your brother. The others will grow tired of the hardships of war, and in time they will return to Goshen. Their families miss them. They do not approve of this venture, either.”
“I can’t give up even for you, Father. God told me to lead our people back, and I will.”
The last vestige of Yosef’s patience vanished. “You are as stubborn as a child! God did not speak to you!” He glared at Menashe with a thunderous expression that had quelled weaker men, but Menashe did not cringe or waver beneath his gaze. He stood in the hall, his posture militant, the shadow of his beard bestowing an aura Yosef had never noticed before. By heaven above, when had the man emerged from the boy? Yosef had enjoyed a passing acquaintance with the child, but this man he did not know at all.
“We will hear no more of this,” Yosef finished, looking away. Best to leave this interview as if he had won, though he knew he had not. He stared at the colorful paintings on the walls of the chamber, occupying his eyes so they would not have to meet his son’s gaze. “You will leave me now and say nothing more of a return to Canaan. And we will find a suitable Egyptian family who has a daughter, a girl who would be proud to be part of the household of Zaphenath-paneah.”
“I am no longer proud to be part of the household of Zaphenath-paneah.” A sudden chill hung on the edge of Menashe’s words. “If I must leave it in order to obey God Shaddai, I will.”
Yosef felt weak and vulnerable in the face of his son’s anger. With stiff, brittle dignity he returned to his chair as Menashe moved confidently out of the reception hall.
The vizier of all Egypt turned and sank onto the woven rush seat. Clinging to the armrests of the gilded throne, he bit his tongue lest he call his son back and surrender.
Outside his father’s reception hall, Menashe stood in the courtyard and considered the western sky. The horizon blazed with violent shades of bronze and sapphire; the last gleaming slivers of sunlight clung to the skyline as if reluctant to leave the realms of the living for Anubis’s dark abode of night.
Just as he was reluctant to leave his father’s house.
He had not been surprised by the passion in his father’s plea. Yosef had always been an ardent defender of Amenhotep’s position and power. What had surprised him was his father’s unwillingness to consider that God might speak to a lesser man than the noble vizier. How could such a wise man be blind to the truth? Why couldn’t he open his mind to the possibility that God was preparing to do something new?
What could prevent a father from believing in his son?
Menashe thrust his hands into the fabric belt of his tunic and slumped against a wall, absorbing the familiar sounds and sights of his father’s villa. The complex had always hummed with activity at all hours of the day and night. As a boy h
e had played amidst the wonder of it all, never dreaming that all households did not entertain visiting kings, beautiful women and sons of Pharaoh. His life had been so full of important people and events and festivals that he nearly reached maturity without realizing that while he had comfort and excitement, other children had parents.
His mother had died while he and Efrayim were young, and his father had always been out of reach. Ani, Tarik, Halima and a host of other servants had hovered near to teach, train and apply ointments to the cuts and bruises gathered by a pair of rambunctious boys. Going back, picking up the strings of time, Menashe could remember occasions when he and Efrayim had breakfasted with their mother and father, but even then Yosef had been quick to kiss his little sons and send them out to play.
He was always sending them away. And now Menashe was ready to go.
The shades of night had fallen. Soon the giant Abnu would be outside the gates, ready to fulfill his promise. Menashe lifted his chin and strode toward his chamber to gather his things.
Abnu was a Medjay, and therefore a man of his word, so Menashe was not surprised when he stepped through the gate and found the giant loitering against a palm tree outside the villa. Over his shoulders the warrior wore a crimson cloak; a finely pleated kilt displayed his lean, athletic form and sinewy limbs to intimidating advantage. Red leather sandals with long, upward-curving toes shod his feet, a footwear unique to exalted Nubians. At Menashe’s approach, the warrior whirled and gave a smart salute, his dark reddish-brown skin gleaming in the faint light of the moon.
“Peace and prosperity to you, friend.” Menashe flashed the man a smile of thanks. “Are you ready to begin the journey?”
“A Medjay is always ready for adventure,” Abnu answered, his deep voice rumbling through the night. His long fingers gripped the iron-tipped spear in his hand. “Lead on, trickster, until I tire of you.”
Menashe extended a hand toward the river, and together they walked over the beaten paths. Bittersweet memories rose to haunt him; he and Efrayim had often played along these trails. Ani had taken them fishing on the river; Tarik had always served as an official escort when they were allowed to stand on shore and observe their father’s comings and goings on his magnificent barge.
Nostalgia made Menashe’s throat ache. He didn’t want to leave home under a cloud of disapproval, but what other choice did he have? To remain meant denying the voice of God Shaddai.
The small skiff Menashe had reserved was waiting at the docks. He had deliberately chosen a boat small enough to slip through the reeds that hid the entrance to the canal behind Malkata, and he sighed in relief when Abnu did not complain when it became obvious that he and Menashe would be the only oarsmen.
As he settled into the boat, Menashe begged Abnu’s indulgence and announced that he had to stop at Malkata before proceeding to join the others. “A lady waits, and I must say goodbye,” he explained as the boat lanced its way out of the still waters of the lagoon and into the river.
“Surely you are not taking me back to the palace!” Abnu grumbled, his bent knees nearly scraping his chin in the small craft. “I have just come from there. And if Pharaoh has heard that I am gone, he may order my brothers to implore me to stay.” He lifted his brows. “Do you hear what I am saying?”
“I hear you.” Menashe tossed a grin over his shoulder. “And apparently Pharaoh has already heard rumors. But I do not plan to enter the palace walls. If you will be quiet, all will be well.”
The moon, sailing on a sky of deepest sapphire, cast a narrow bar of silver across the river, leaving the banks in shadow. Menashe trusted his instincts, turning his boat into the harbor beside the gleaming palace, then allowed the craft to drift along the reeds until he spied the gleam of water beyond the curtain of reeds.
The royal docks stood silent; the king’s boats bobbed in the gentle wavewash. While Abnu quietly cursed the sharp stalks that razed his arms, Menashe maneuvered the skiff into the camouflaged canal, then sent the vessel winging around the curve of the meandering waterway. The only sounds were the soft lap of oars pulling against calm water and the buzz of insects.
A thin rectangle of light poured from the gate where Menashe had confronted the two guards, but the warriors themselves were not visible. “Insolent curs!” Abnu muttered. “Lazy beasts! If they were of my squadron I would cuff their ears, I would cut off the ends of their noses for deserting their posts.”
“Then it is good for them you are with me,” Menashe replied, urging the tiny vessel swiftly past the opening. He had to be quick, for the guards might reappear at any moment. But though he heard the musical murmur of male voices, the warriors did not show their faces. The skiff moved past the opening toward the mounded bank outside the secret garden. He did not know if Jendayi would be there, but he had every hope she might appear.
“What are we doing here, trickster?” Abnu grumbled, looking around. “It is bad enough I am sworn to serve you, but if you are up to mischief—”
There. The little door was barely visible inside the wall. “If you are as soft of heart as you are strong of limb,” Menashe interrupted, “this may be the most rewarding debt you have ever paid.” With a final solid pull on the oars he seated the bow of the skiff into the thick mud at the edge of the canal, then scrambled onto the bank. The dry soil of the upper bank cried out for the refreshing moisture of the inundation. In a few months the river would run full again…and so, Menashe hoped, would his heart.
“What are we doing here?” Abnu’s exasperated whisper drifted up the bank.
Menashe sank onto a rock. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
“A woman. You have said your farewells, I must say mine.”
“By the stinking wax in Seth’s ear,” Abnu grumbled, unfurling his long legs and arms. Stretched out on the skiff, the warrior was nearly longer than the boat. “I agree to fight, and find I must listen to the croonings of lovers.”
“I can only hope.” Menashe fastened his eyes to the tiny door in the wall. “Go to sleep. I will wake you later.”
He crouched on the bank, determined to wait until just before sunrise if necessary. As long as darkness covered the earth his father would assume Menashe slept in his chamber. The morning would be half-spent before the servants discovered him missing. At that point, news of Menashe’s departure would be published throughout the house. Tarik would hear of it, and so would Ani. Their hearts would be wounded, but their grief would be too late. Their mourning should have begun years before.
The land spoke to him from all around and the skiff rocked with gentle sloshing sounds as wavelets lapped against it. Moonlight sifted through the leaves of a tree overhanging the wall, forming strange silvery hieroglyphs on the ground at Menashe’s feet. What did the shadows say, he wondered, studying the moving patterns. Did they promise him victory or foretell his defeat?
A dull wooden clop disturbed the quiet. The tiny door in the wall, wavering through shifting shadows, creaked. Menashe caught his breath, afraid that any sudden sound might frighten Jendayi away. As silently as a cat, he crept over the bank toward the wall.
Little by little, the young harpist’s head and shoulders edged through the doorway, seeming to test the silence. Menashe froze in his place, his heart reveling in open admiration of her beauty and bravery.
“Trickster!” Abnu called from the boat. “Is the lady coming or not?”
Like a turtle zipping back into its shell, Jendayi’s head disappeared behind the door. Menashe sprang forward to stop her. “Jendayi!” he called in a rough whisper, hoping she had not run back through the garden in a frightened retreat. “It is your friend! Please, there is nothing to fear!”
The door creaked open once again. Her head, wreathed by a lovely circlet of flowers, appeared and lifted toward him. “Chenzira?” she asked the darkness, her arms and shoulders tensed for flight.
“Yes, do not fear.” He moved to her side. “You said you came here often, and I wanted to see you before I go.
”
“You are still going away?” She gave him her hands. He helped her out of the tunnel and she stood before him, her eyes dark and unfathomable.
Struggling with the sense of confusion her presence always elicited, Menashe had difficulty finding his tongue. “Yes,” he said, aware of the pressure of her hands on his. “I am leaving the vizier’s house, and I do not think I shall ever return. But I could not leave without telling you…everything. I want to be honest with you, Jendayi.”
“Did you speak to Efrayim?” Her hands struggled to rise like a pair of tethered birds, but he held tight, strengthening his heart against the sting of Efrayim’s name.
“I did not see much of Efrayim in these past two days,” he told her. “He has been spending most of his time at Pharaoh’s palace in Thebes. Princess Sitamun is there with her mother, and Efrayim has done his best to charm and entertain the princess.”
Jendayi’s face fell, but Menashe clung to her fingers. “Jendayi, do not let your heart be troubled.”
“You are sweet to be concerned for me.” She pulled away from him and took a few steps toward the black water, absently testing each footfall. “But you should not worry so much. What does it matter if Efrayim marries another? As long as he cares enough to ask for me, my future is assured.”
Menashe felt the chasm between them open like a wound. “Why is Efrayim so important to you?” he stammered, not caring what Abnu might hear from the canal beyond. “What gives him the right to your heart—a kiss? A kiss is nothing but an intimation of love, sometimes there is no truth in it. People kiss one another all the time.”
He moved toward her, fully expecting her to launch into an impassioned defense of the man she loved, but was surprised when tears spilled from her eyes. “Not me,” she whispered, her forlorn cry rending his heart. “No one kisses me. In my entire life, I cannot remember any other kiss. Only Efrayim’s.”