Shadow of the Storm

by Connilyn Cossette

  © 2016 by Connilyn Cossette

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938454

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3049-2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Author is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.

  To my beautiful and faithful mother—

  Her wisdom teaches me

  Her prayers surround me

  Her love embraces me

  Her heart hears me

  Her friendship encourages me

  Her strength inspires me.

  Although I may not have been born of her body, I am grateful to be a child of her heart.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  A Note from the Author

  Questions for Conversation

  About the Author

  Books by Connilyn Cossette

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  When the people saw that Moses delayed to come down from the mountain, the people gathered themselves together to Aaron and said to him, “Up, make us gods who shall go before us. As for this Moses, the man who brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him.” . . . So all the people took off the rings of gold that were in their ears and brought them to Aaron. And he received the gold from their hand and fashioned it with a graving tool and made a golden calf. And they said, “These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!”

  Exodus 32:1, 3–4 ESV

  1

  Shira

  17 TAMMUZ

  4TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  Wild drumbeats rumbled through the ground like distant thunder, pulsing in defiant rhythms and vibrating the hollows of my chest. My fingertips echoed the beat against my knee until a glare from my mother across the tent stilled their dance.

  “Shira, finish your work.” Her bone needle resumed its skillful motion as she bent her head to peer at her embroidery. The dim oil lamp highlighted the silvery strands that seemed to thread her dark hair more each day—a trend that had begun a few years ago, when my father died against an Egyptian whipping post.

  I plucked at the black goat’s wool in my lap, picking out thorny burrs, specks, and shards of leaves. The fibers snagged against my thirsty palms. Unable to latch my attention on the tedious chore, I had been cleaning the same batch for most of the afternoon while my mind wandered up the rugged mountain path that Mosheh, our leader, had climbed forty days ago.

  I imagined myself standing in his place, leaning on his staff and gazing out over the vast army of tents that flooded the valley floor, surveying the multitude he had led out of Egypt. Countless Hebrews camped here alongside a large number of gerim—Egyptians and other foreigners—all reveling in these last three months of freedom since the sea had swallowed Pharaoh’s army.

  As soon as Mosheh had vanished into the swirling storm that hovered over the summit, rumors began to multiply like flies on a rotting melon. Would he still lead us to Canaan, the land promised to our forefathers? Or had he slipped over the back side of the mountain range to flee south toward Midian? Was the old man even alive? Doubts buzzed around in my own mind, but I swatted them away with a shake of my head. Mosheh would return. He must.

  Yet the golden idol standing on a group of boulders near the center of camp argued against my assertion. Aharon, Mosheh’s own brother, had been swayed by those who insisted Mosheh was dead and allowed the bull-calf to be lifted up—a blatant disregard for the new laws spoken by Yahweh himself from the center of the fiery Cloud atop the mountain.

  From her cross-legged position across the tent, Kiya gestured for my attention with a surreptitious tilt of her head and a darting glance at my mother. My Egyptian friend dared not cross the unspoken order for silence from the woman whose son she would soon marry, but her honey-gold eyes begged me to disobey in her place. The man she loved, my brother Eben, and her own brother, Jumo—both heavily armed—had been gone for hours at the command of the Levite elders.

  Compelled by her wordless plea and my own curiosity, I chanced a question. “What is happening out there, Ima?”

  Although the cadence of her needle faltered, my mother shook her head without looking up. “Nothing good.”

  “Must we stay inside all day?” I waved a useless hand in front of my overheated face. “Perhaps we could roll up a wall? Let in some air?”

  Shoshana and Zayna, my two little sisters, lent their pleas to mine, begging our mother to let them play outside.

  “No,” said my mother, her tone brooking no argument. “You both will stay inside. The elders said to remain out of sight until this foolishness is over.” She gestured for the girls to continue cleaning the mound of wool that sat between them on the rug. My mother’s talent for weaving ensured that our temporary home was carpeted with vibrant designs of every hue, a luxury in this dusty wilderness.

  Her adamancy piqued my curiosity again. “What will Mosheh do when he discovers Aharon made that idol?”

  She scowled at me, her eyes dark as obsidian. “Aharon will regret such a reckless decision.”

  “Surely he won’t let it get out of hand. He said the festival would be for Yahweh—”

  “It already is more than out of hand. That abomination should never have been made.” She punctuated her words with a resolute jab of her needle into the fabric and a pointed drop of her chin. There would be no more questions.

  I flicked an apologetic glance at Kiya, but she had plunged into the distraction of her weaving. Her deft fingers danced across the handloom, lacing together a striking pattern of blue and white, a belt that would be presented to my brother Eben on their wedding day in three weeks’ time.

  Kiya resembled her mother more every day: the golden eyes, the sheen of her straight black hair, the easy laughter an
d graceful move of her body. Nailah’s legacy to her daughter had been a rare beauty that made her the envy of every woman—including me.

  I was plain. Pale for a Hebrew, plagued by freckles, and with a body more like a child’s than a woman’s. I smoothed my woolen shift over my narrow hips, reminded again of their utter lack of promise. Arching against the dull ache in my lower back, I pressed a disobedient curl into my waist-length braid and my barren future into the back of my mind.

  As lurking shadows deepened in the corners and the pile of clean wool grew in the basket at my knee, the revelry took on a different attitude, a more feverish tone. The pitch and sway of the music became more rhythmic and less melodious. By nightfall, shrieks, provocative laughter, and chanting rode on the breezes, sounds eerily reminiscent of the depraved temple worship back in Egypt, sounds that proved my mother had been right—Aharon had lost even the veneer of control.

  As Kiya lit another oil lamp, I tugged at the neckline of my sleeveless gray shift. Although our small indoor cookfire had died out, its sharp smell lingered. The walls seemed to press closer with every smoke-laden breath. I longed to toss aside the wool in my lap, burst free of the suffocating tent, and reward my lungs with fresh evening air.

  The drums stopped.

  Deafening silence whooshed into the empty space, and my scalp prickled. I shivered in spite of the stifling heat. My mother’s needle halted. My sisters had long since traded the sweltering boredom of our woolen prison for sleep; their slow breathing was the only intrusion into the menacing stillness.

  “What happened?” I whispered to avoid waking the girls.

  My mother shrugged, tight-lipped, as if reluctant to breathe.

  Still and silent, the three of us focused on the far wall, as if the jutting black peak of the mountain were visible through the tight weave. The ear-splitting bray of a shofar sounded close by, echoed by others that returned the pattern. Although a familiar ring of communication, these calls were urgent, pained. Every hair on the back of my neck rose in response.

  A call to arms? Or had I misheard the summons of the ram’s horn?

  The girls startled awake, their cries of confusion melding with an uproar that began to swell near the foot of the mountain. Something had put a swift end to the celebration.

  Had Mosheh returned? What would he do? I struggled against the instinct to dash outside and see for myself. My mother gestured for my sisters to lay their heads on her lap. Her fingers stroked their dark curls, a steady outlet of nervous energy, as her eyes darted to the glint of the common fire through the slit of the door flap again and again.

  The woolen wall billowed as someone ran by, the distended silhouette of a drawn sword in his hand. The hasty scuffle of his sandals against the pebbled ground dissipated into the night. I could hear little else over the stuttering pulse in my head as a thousand imagined outcomes flickered through my mind, stretching suffocating minutes into hours.

  Would Mosheh leave us after such blatant disobedience against the edict not to bow to a graven image? Would Yahweh? Aharon may have declared the golden bull-calf an intermediary to the God who had rescued us from Egypt, but it resembled the sun-crowned god of fertility and strength that my Egyptian mistress had forced me to polish every day for four years. Apis.

  Suddenly, just as on our last night in Egypt—the night all the firstborn sons were sacrificed for our freedom—keening cries lifted over the camp. My mother, Kiya, and I gaped at one another, mute with terror.

  The cry of death.

  Dreadful wails rang through the enclosed valley, echoing against the granite cliffs, overlapping one another like endless waves on the shore. Dizzy and disoriented, I clamped my hands over my ears, bent forward like a broken reed. Would we all die tonight? Would the fearsome Cloud of Fire that had led us out from Egypt consume us all?

  2

  A torch outside soaked our tent wall with light. “Zerah!” The woman’s voice was laced with alarm. “Zerah!”

  Pale and stricken, my mother rushed to meet the source of such a plaintive call. Shoshana and Zayna huddled together on their sleeping mat, arms tight around each other and eyes wide. Kiya’s frozen hand slithered into mine.

  “Here I am, Reva.” My mother’s silhouette wavered on the other side of the thin wall.

  “I need you!”

  “Is it my son?” My mother’s voice faltered with concern for her firstborn.

  Kiya and I gasped in tandem. Would she lose Eben before they even had the chance to begin their life together? Would I lose my brother? What of Jumo, who had only just been freed from a lifetime of captivity within a crippled body? Surely Yahweh would not heal him only to let him be killed!

  “No. No. Not Eben. Babies are coming,” said Reva.

  I stifled the cry of relief that sprang to my lips and squeezed Kiya’s hand to reassure both of us.

  “There are not enough midwives. The atrocities have thrown many women into labor. A few are in distress. I need every experienced hand. You helped me a time or two back in Egypt.” The exhaustion in Reva’s voice tugged at my empathy.

  “Reva, tell me, what is happening? What is all the screaming?”

  “Oh, Zerah. So many have died.” The weight of Reva’s sigh smothered my hope. “Mosheh is furious. When he saw the disgusting things those rebels were doing, he threw two stone tablets from the cliff. Smashed them to pieces.”

  “What was on the tablets?”

  “No one knows. He confronted Aharon in front of everyone and challenged any who would fight on the side of Yahweh to come forward.”

  “The Levites?”

  “Yes. Hundreds of them, perhaps all, obeyed Mosheh.”

  My heart swelled with pride in my brother and his loyalty to our leader.

  “Many have died this night under Levite swords,” said Reva. “Some with the meat of idol sacrifices still in their mouths.”

  Deflated and unable to rein in the bloody image her blunt statement conjured, I swallowed against the bile that stung my throat.

  My mother groaned. “No wonder so many have gone into labor.”

  “I am attending three by myself. We must go, now.”

  “I cannot leave the girls.” Her voice lowered. “What if things get worse?”

  “They are safe. Look there. See? There are men stationed all around here, ready to defend the women. Come, I need you.” Reva’s assurances must have convinced my mother; the torchlight outlining their shadows faded to black as they sped off into the night.

  I fidgeted with the end of my braid, wavering in the decision that had formed tentative roots. I had to do something—anything—to get my mind off my brother’s fate. The draw of assisting at a birth pulled at me with both hands until I could no longer resist.

  “Stay with the girls,” I said to Kiya as I sprang to my feet.

  Little Zayna protested with a gap-toothed lisp. “Don’t go, Shira!”

  “All will be well.” I kissed her forehead and then ten-year-old Shoshana’s dark curls. “You are safe here. I need to go . . . I must help.”

  Kiya moved next to my sisters, wrapped her long arms around them, and gave them reassuring smiles. “The three of us will do just fine. You go.” She winked with false enthusiasm. “Kiss a baby for me.”

  Could I find my mother and Reva? Had I hesitated too long? Momentarily engulfed in blackness, I shivered as my eyes adjusted. The glow of the ever-present column of light above the mountain cast deep purple shadows all around the campsite, but clouds veiled the stars. The shouts and cries from earlier had yielded to an eerie silence that spurred my imagination to ghastly conclusions.

  I scrubbed at the chilled flesh on my arms and pressed into the dark maze of tents. Moving in the direction I had seen the torch disappear, I hoped someone along the way might guide me. But I was met with an empty path. Everyone around us must have taken seriously the directive to stay hidden inside. Only a few donkeys and goats huddled close to the tents, as if they too were obeying the command. Dimming
cookfires glowed in the shadows, their remnants leaving a smoky sting in my nostrils.

  Stumbling over an abandoned basket, I fell to one knee. A large hand grabbed my arm and pulled me upright. With startling clarity, my mind lurched back to Egypt. I cried out, seeing only the memory of an overseer’s sneer and the ruthless gleam in his kohl-shadowed eyes as he stole everything from me. A hand pressed against my mouth. I struggled hard against its suffocating grip.

  My captor rasped my name in my ear, and for a few savage heartbeats it was the overseer’s voice and hot breath against my face—until I registered that it was Kiya’s brother, Jumo, with an arm wrapped about my waist from behind and his gentle voice urging me to calm down, be still. My chest pounded furiously, but my body wavered with release.

  “Shira,” he whispered again. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, but cords of latent fear held my voice prisoner.

  “Forgive me for startling you.” He released me, and I slumped, my knees nearly buckling. He reached out to steady me, but I pulled away, not yet ready to be touched, even by a man I considered a brother.

  Assembling my equilibrium, I pulled in one shaky breath after another, until my pulse slowed its breakneck speed.

  Partially shrouded in shadow, Jumo stood silent. Only his dark eyes, bright with concern, were illuminated by the blue light from the mountain.

  Someone from a neighboring tent called out, “What is going on out there?”

  “I am fine.” Forcing a laugh, I lifted my voice. “My friend caught me off guard. My apologies.”

  Jumo bent to pick up his sword. He must have dropped it in his haste to catch me. “I should have announced my presence. But you fell so quickly . . .” He slid the curved bronze kopesh into a leather scabbard—one of the many swords scavenged from the bodies of Pharaoh’s soldiers at the edge of the sea that had engulfed them.

  I waved a dismissive hand, amazed that it had already ceased trembling. “I was so focused on where I was going, I did not hear you approach.”

  “Where are you going in such a rush?” Jumo tugged at the black beard that swathed his face. Unlike many of the Egyptians that traveled among us, he allowed his facial hair and his thick curls to grow freely, embracing his new identity as an Israelite. Yet the change since he had been healed a few weeks ago was even more striking—his unruly limbs were now straight and strong, his garbled speech clear and unfettered.