Journey

by Angela Hunt

  Every nerve in Jendayi’s body jangled as she straightened. Who would ask for her? She knew no one outside the circle of this house and Pharaoh’s, and she doubted that anyone from Malkata would venture here to ask for her. Efrayim was away at some party, as always, so who would seek her out?

  “Is it—” her hand went to her throat “—a man or a woman outside the gate?”

  “I don’t know,” Kesi answered, moving away. “The gatekeeper just sent me to fetch you. But you’d better hurry, because he doesn’t like visitors after dark.”

  Jendayi rose and hurried forward as quickly as she dared, one hand extended to feel her way through the familiar passageways. Within a few moments she felt the courtyard sand under her feet, then she turned in the direction of voices and moved toward the gate.

  “I am Jendayi.” She spoke to the air.

  “You?” The deep voice echoed as if it came from the bottom of a well. Jendayi shivered when she realized she had heard it before—at Malkata, at the center of a duel.

  She folded her hands and tried to keep her voice steady. “Have you a message for me?”

  The man’s voice grew closer as it dropped in volume. “Menashe and Jokim have been wounded. Menashe bids me tell you that you must send a physician to his father’s house at Tura quarry. Without aid, a man may die.”

  A strange surge of alarm ripped through her heart, frightening her. Menashe might be a liar and Efrayim’s rival, but he had taken her into his arms when she needed a friend. “Is Menashe wounded?”

  “Menashe will mend, but Jokim is in great distress. Do you know a physician?”

  Jendayi pressed her fingers to her lips. The priests knew the healing arts, but Zaphenath-paneah employed no priests in his house. He called for his steward whenever one of the servants was ill—

  “Ani,” she gasped, a little surprised by her leap of logic. “He will know how to help.” She whirled toward the house, then turned as an afterthought struck her. “You will wait, won’t you?”

  “I’ll wait, little one,” the voice growled from a great height. “But hurry. A boat is waiting, but we must be away before daylight.”

  Ani asked no questions when Jendayi told him Menashe needed help, and if the old man was surprised at her news he did not remark on it. He told her to wait a moment, then returned to the doorway of his chamber with his feet properly shod in papyrus sandals that made a delicate shooshing sound across the floor. She heard the soft creak of reeds and smelled the bitter tang of herbs; he carried a basket of medicinal plants. “I am ready,” he said, nudging her with his elbow.

  She took his arm, for her heart was pounding like a drum and she feared she would move too quickly in her haste and trip over some unexpected object. Within a few moments they had reached the gate, and she heard approval in the giant’s words as he greeted the steward. “You are prepared. Good.”

  “If Menashe needs me, we should not delay,” Ani answered. The heavy gate creaked, a guard snapped to attention, then Efrayim’s oath echoed through the silence of the night.

  “By the life of Pharaoh!” Alarm rang in his tone. “What brings a Medjay to my father’s house after dark?”

  Ani hissed in response, but the warrior said nothing. Jendayi felt her cheeks burning. What must Efrayim think, coming on her like this, with these men? He would imagine her a troublemaker, a spy or worse.

  “Ani?” All traces of humor vanished from Efrayim’s voice. “Tell me why you are dressed for travel and carry your herb basket. And who is this giant?”

  “This matter does not concern you, Master Efrayim,” Ani said, his tone lightly respectful. “Now let the two of us pass. We have work to do.”

  “By all the gods, it’s Menashe, isn’t it?” Efrayim sounded distracted. “What happened? He is my brother, Ani, you must tell me!”

  “He might not welcome your company just now.”

  “Listen, Ani,” Efrayim said, his voice raw and harsh. “We may have our disagreements, but Menashe and I will be brothers until the day we die. Now if he needs help, you must tell me where he is.”

  The silence grew tight with tension, then Ani broke the quiet with a long sigh. “I suppose if you are with us you cannot run to Pharaoh.” His words were playful but his meaning was not. “Come. Your brother is with Jokim, and they are hurt.”

  “Where are they?”

  “That,” the giant said, “you will discover when we have reached the place. If you are coming, wipe that arrogant expression from your face and join us.”

  Still clutching Ani’s arm, Jendayi stepped forward as the steward moved through the gateway.

  “No, Jendayi.” Ani pulled her hand from his arm. “You must remain here.”

  Momentarily lost in her own reverie, she hesitated. A startling notion kept repeating in her mind like a haunting melody, and the harder she tried to ignore the it, the more it persisted.

  “He told me the truth, didn’t he?” Though she spoke to Ani, she turned her face toward Efrayim. “He told this warrior to ask for me…because he had faith in me.” She could not stop herself from pondering the significance of Menashe’s message. “If he had lied, if he had only used me to spite Efrayim, he would not have dared to ask for my help.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but Ani is right. This is not the journey for a little harpist.”

  Did he even know her name? “If Menashe is in trouble, I want to go.” She lifted her chin. “He won’t mind my coming.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t.” She heard sympathy in Ani’s voice. “But this is a dangerous journey.”

  “The old one is right,” the giant affirmed. “A barge escaped us, and the spies have undoubtedly reached Thebes by now. Menashe’s enemies are powerful, little one.”

  “Powerful people have nothing to do with me,” she insisted, reaching out. Ani had moved his arm away, but she caught the fabric of his cloak and clung to it. “You must let me go.”

  “No.”

  “We are wasting time.”

  Jendayi’s heart thrilled to hear Efrayim rise to her defense. Though he would never be what she had dreamed he could be, if he wanted her on the journey he believed she could help.

  “Efrayim is right, we haven’t time to argue,” the warrior broke in. “Already the stars have shifted. We must reach them soon.”

  “All right,” Ani muttered. Jendayi felt his shoulders contract in submission, then she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and let him lead her through the gateway.

  “Not a word of this to my father,” Efrayim told the guard and gatekeeper as they moved away. “He will know soon enough. You will only upset him by telling him of our departure. Say nothing.”

  By the profound silence which followed, Jendayi knew they would obey.

  While Abnu had gone to the vizier’s house to relay Menashe’s message, one of his companions had slunk along the river, looking for a boat which might be easily unloosed from its moorings. At length he found a narrow felucca with its sail still unfurled. He tied a bit of red scarf atop the high mast, then crouched in the shadows of the railing to wait for Abnu’s approach.

  Beneath a shining net of stars the quartet found the marked ship and slipped into the boat without a word. Abnu, his Nubian comrade and Efrayim paddled in earnest, while Jendayi sat behind Ani. The warm night breeze caressed her face as she turned to inhale the pungent scents and sounds of the river. The noises of the creaking ship, straining cordage and flapping sail-cloth sent a jet of happiness through her heart. She was on her way, not to entertain faceless nobles and kings, but to help a friend.

  She gripped Ani’s bony arm and sighed, her soul expanding with the first real sense of purpose she had known in eighteen years.

  As the ship pulled away from the darkened shore, Akil lowered the disguising edge of the tattered cloak and released an anxious cough to signal the warrior a few feet away. The Medjay spy turned and sped away toward the palace, and Akil paused on the bank and glanced toward the crow
ded city and a row of meager hovels where he might be lost for a week or two. Eventually the queen’s guards would find him, of course, but at least he would not have to participate in his beloved queen’s action against the vizier’s son.

  Any plan formed against the vizier would not prosper. Akil now understood that truth. The quaking warrior had just told Akil about the episode at Tura quarry.

  Fear of the unknown knotted in his stomach, fear of the unknown god who could send crocodiles after every man except two Hebrews who stood bloody and broken in the water.

  But Tiy’s men would hunt him down if he left his post. The Medjay captains had been reasonable under Zaphenath-paneah’s command; a runaway servant might have been sentenced to a year or two in prison. But now Tiy commanded the troops at Thebes, and the mistress of malice might order a runaway chopped up into little bits and fed to the crocodiles.

  Shuddering, Akil turned his back on the hovels and searched for a small boat he could use to follow the men Tiy sought. His soul rebelled against the order—he was a musician; what did he know of spying?

  An unexpected splash from the black river sent his heart into sudden shock. A dark premonition held him still for a long moment, then he turned and walked toward the brightly lit taverns of Thebes.

  Let Tiy look for him when he was reported missing. With any luck, when she found him he’d be too drunk to care.

  The wavelets that had flecked the surface of the river flattened out as the felucca slipped into the sunlit harbor built for hauling stone from Tura quarry. Efrayim leaped from the boat and splashed his way to shore. He should have known that Menashe would retreat here, for in their youth they had spent an endless parade of summers at the quarry house. The whitewashed villa offered privacy, comfort and a warning system, for the quarry overseer might be enlisted to sound the alarm should an enemy approach from the river.

  “There’s a narrow path leading back to the house,” Efrayim called, catching the rope Abnu tossed him. He helped drag the felucca near the muddy bank. “I want to run ahead, so I’ll meet you there.”

  Ani gathered his things; the two Nubians jumped from the boat into the water and stretched their cramped muscles. But before he departed, Efrayim caught a glimpse of Jendayi’s sleepy expression and thought the little harpist had never looked more beautiful.

  “Guard your heart, brother,” he murmured as he sprinted up the stony path. “I hope it is strong enough to withstand the shock of surprise.”

  “Menashe!” Efrayim’s voice echoed among the outcroppings of the rocks, but no one answered from inside the house. The villa had not been maintained in several months, and the wide doors at the front entrance hung at an angle as if sprained. But Menashe would not have hidden in the main reception hall. He’d tuck himself in some out-of-the-way corner, perhaps in the servants’ quarters or the stables.

  Efrayim darted around the house and jogged down a trail that led to the brick servants’ house. “Menashe!” he cried, a worried note of impatience in his voice. “If you’re here, speak up! Ani is with me, and Abnu. Even the little harpist has come. I know that will please you.”

  A hot wind blew past him with soft moans, punctuated by the pebbly noises of his companions’ approaching footsteps on the gravel path. But the servants’ quarters remained as silent as a tomb.

  “If this is a trick, I will wipe the ground with your face.”

  The voice came from behind him, and Efrayim whirled around to see Menashe standing behind an elaborately carved pillar, a useless bit of ornamentation that should have been installed in the garden. Menashe came forward, moving gingerly, while Efrayim gaped at his brother.

  Surely a man could not change so much in such a short time! Menashe looked ten years older, and his face bore evidence of a severe battering. One eyelid had swollen shut, and the area around it was green and purple with bruises. The mouth that had been so quick to smile in more carefree days hung unbalanced and puffed in an unnatural thickness above the dark beard, and a rumbling noise punctuated every breath Menashe drew. An angry red gash ran across his upper arm, and the skin of his wrists had been marred by burgundy marks.

  One corner of the swollen mouth lifted in a smile. “If you think I look bad—” Menashe moved closer “—you should see the ones who didn’t get away.”

  “I heard,” Efrayim said, his mind still reeling in shock. “Abnu told us everything on the boat.”

  Menashe nodded. “God preserved us, brother. I don’t know why, but He did. And now I can only hope you have come to help.”

  “Ani is with me.” Efrayim jerked his thumb back toward the trail. “And Jendayi. She could not be persuaded to remain behind.”

  A hopeful glint lit Menashe’s eyes, then the cries of the others distracted him. Ani hurried toward his wounded ward, tears welling in his eyes as he lifted his hands to exclaim over Menashe’s battered face. Abnu, Jendayi and the other Nubian stood at a respectful distance while Ani wept over the vizier’s wayward son.

  “Menashe, my boy! How I feared I would never see you again!” Ani cried, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.

  Menashe bore the embrace, then pulled away. “Jokim is inside, and at this moment he needs you more than I do,” he said, leading Ani toward a back entrance to the house. “But I know you will make him well.”

  “If the god who preserved you will strengthen me, I can try,” Ani answered, following Menashe into the house. “Tell me yourself about the miracle of the crocodiles. These old ears want to hear the truth from your lips.”

  “I believe you thought you heard the voice of God,” Efrayim said, explaining himself again to his brother. They were sitting together on the floor in the large bedchamber of the villa, a few feet away from the bed where Ani and Jendayi were tending Jokim. In a corner near the doorway, Abnu and his companion sat with their backs to the wall, their eyes closed in fitful sleep. The other loyal Medjays had dispersed into the desert to look for survivors of the Hebrew camp.

  “But I cannot believe you were following God’s will when you went into the desert with an army.” Efrayim searched his brother’s face for signs of surrender. “Look at the damage you’ve caused. How many dead, over two hundred? And what of the ones who ran away? Do you think they all found their way back home? No, many of your Hebrew kinsmen will be cast out for rebelling against their fathers. Others may have died in the desert. You do not know, Menashe, what destruction you have wrought.”

  Menashe clenched his fists. “Can you deny that Canaan is our land? God Shaddai promised it to us. Why, then, should we not go there at once?”

  “God willed that Avraham would father Yitzhak, too, and he and Sarah waited years for the promise to be fulfilled,” Efrayim answered. “Yet Avraham became impatient, and fathered Ishmael with the Egyptian handmaid. By rushing ahead and trying to implement God’s plan himself, Avraham brought dissension into his own family.”

  Efrayim grinned as an expression of surprise crossed Menashe’s face. “Yes, I’ve learned our history. Now that Father has nothing but time, I have enjoyed many dinners with him. And he has taught me many things.”

  Menashe’s expression grew hard and resentful. “For you he has time. But he has not tried to find me, his firstborn.”

  “You were not willing to be found,” Efrayim said, shrugging. He glanced over at Jokim. Their cousin’s face was as pale as papyrus parchment, but he had stopped moaning in that pitiful nonstop way. Efrayim wasn’t certain whether his cousin’s silence boded good or ill.

  He was about to remark that Menashe should have taken the time to find their father, but when he turned again he saw that Menashe’s gaze had shifted to Jendayi’s face. Though swollen and bruised, his eyes betrayed his silent ardor.

  Efrayim snapped his fingers to get his brother’s attention.

  Menashe jerked his head around. “What?”

  “Go to her,” Efrayim whispered, aware of the girl’s keen hearing. “She is here, you are here. Why are you waiting?”

&n
bsp; Menashe looked at the floor and ran his hand over the dusty tile. “She does not love me, brother. I’ve opened my heart, and she has been honest with me. She loves someone else.”

  “Whoever he is, he can’t be half the man you are.”

  Menashe stared at him, then burst out in a laugh so loud Ani screeched in alarm.

  The older man tossed a warning look over his shoulder as he hunched over Jokim. “You boys will wake the dead with your noise!”

  Efrayim grinned at his brother, a little mystified by his response but grateful for the gleam of humor in Menashe’s eyes. This moment felt like old times…before Yaakov’s blessing had torn them apart.

  “I think you’re right.” Menashe ran his hand over his swollen jaw. “I am twice the man. But she knows how I feel. If she changes her mind, she knows I will be waiting.”

  “Love.” Efrayim spat the word like a curse.

  “Sitamun?”

  “Yes.” Efrayim looked away. “I love her. And I never realized how much until the queen stopped allowing me to see her. But after Father’s dismissal, my invitations to the palace dried up like a wadi in drought.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t blame you, though I tried to.” He managed a choking laugh. “If you hadn’t ridden off into the desert, the queen would have found something else wrong with me—or Father, or Re’uven, or one of the other uncles.”

  “I know.”

  “But it is wrong to hurt Sitamun! I will admit that at first I sought her while thinking of the palace and power, but then I came to know her. She is so bright and beautiful! I would wed Sitamun even if we had to live in a fisherman’s hovel.”

  “You could keep Sitamun in a mud hut about as long as you could squat beneath a bull with a milk bucket!” Menashe’s swollen smile deepened into laughter. “And it would take a brave man to attempt either feat!”

  Efrayim couldn’t keep from chuckling. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  They sat in companionable quiet, but the brittle sounds of tramping footsteps shattered the silence. The Nubians woke and reached for their swords; Jendayi paled and seemed to fade into the whitewashed wall. Menashe pulled a stubby sword from his kilt and held it in his bruised fist as he stared at the doorway.