Midwifery was the only thing I’d learned how to do at the brothel—other than things Mosheh had forbidden on pain of death. Leaving Matti with the two Egyptian fools Hassam called wives was not ideal, but I must find some way of providing for him. As it was, I was surprised Hassam hadn’t already washed his hands of me. He’d said we were welcome to stay with his family, perhaps out of loyalty to his dead brother, but then he sold my tent and nearly all my belongings the next day, ensuring my complete dependence on him.
How Hassam had survived the slaughter when the Levites tore through camp, I’d never know. He was wily. Much more shrewd than Tareq, who’d always gotten carried away when beer flowed freely. In the daylight, when the Levites came to carry him away for burial, I’d gathered up the shards of my own body to rise and peek outside. Not only had Tareq’s mouth been colored red, his light beard and gray tunic bore extensive stains as well. I wondered how he’d even found his way back to our tent that night while so inebriated.
Following the directions given to me by a neighbor, I walked through camp and searched out the Levite banners that flapped arrogantly near the center of the valley. Out of all the tribal encampments, I had to choose a Levite midwife to learn from? Were the gods mocking me?
I asked the first Levite woman who crossed my path to point the way to a midwife’s tent. She glared at me, perhaps confused by my distinctive Egyptian features, but I was skilled at playing up the Hebrew side of my heritage.
“My sister is in labor.” The lie slipped off my tongue with ease, in the language of my mother’s ancestors. “The Ephraimite midwives are all occupied, so I came to ask one of yours to help us.” Swallowing the acrid taste of false camaraderie, I arranged my expression into a watery plea. “Yahweh help us if I don’t find someone soon. My sister has lost three babies already.”
With the glint of a tear in her eye, the Levite woman pointed the way, indicating I was only a few tents away from my destination.
Most Hebrews lived with their extended families, adding room after room as they expanded. This midwife’s tent was a very small one, nondescript except for a broad, multicolored canopy that spread across the front of the tent. Perhaps this midwife was a widow too. Strange to call myself such a thing.
I listened at the door without announcing my presence. There were voices inside, so I waited, ears stretched toward their conversation.
“No. I told you last time, Tarra. I will not give you anything.” The voice rang with authority; it must be the midwife.
“Please, Reva, it’s still very early. And I have so many.” Exasperation stretched Tarra’s voice thin.
“Yahweh is the giver of life. You have no right to take his place.” Reva’s rebuke softened. “Go back home, my friend. Enjoy all your children. Be glad Pharaoh is no longer crouched between your knees like a crocodile, waiting to devour them.”
Ice trickled through my limbs, drop by frozen drop. In the dark well of my mind, it wasn’t Pharaoh’s eager jaws, but Mosheh’s, that gaped before me.
Reva dismissed Tarra with an admonition to get some rest. Before the desperate woman could slip past me, I snagged her wrist, pulled her ear close to my mouth, and whispered the ingredients she would need to rid herself of her problem. Her white face turned toward me, and her lips quivered as she thanked me with a silent nod. The empty space in my gut grew larger. One less Levite brat, it echoed, pleased with itself.
The woman’s face was forgotten by the time I dropped the tent flap behind me and faced Reva, the old midwife. Her frazzled gray braids hung over her shoulders, bringing attention to her long, skinny neck. Somehow, with such a long nose and dark eyes that scrutinized my face with too much intensity, she reminded me of an ostrich.
“Are you pregnant?” she asked.
The void in my abdomen hissed the answer first. No!
“No,” I echoed. “I want to be a midwife.”
“And what are your reasons?” Reva cocked her head to the side, her lips pursed, completing my picture of her as an overstretched, beady-eyed bird. “Midwifery is not easy. It is demanding, bloody, and exhausting.”
The truth was as good as anything for my purposes. “My husband died, and I must take care of my son. I need a trade so we can survive in the new land.”
Reva searched my face far too long for comfort. I resisted the urge to shift my stance and kept my expression benign. Her long gaze traveled from my kohl-rimmed eyes, to the gold ring in my nose, to my coarse widow’s tunic, and down to the silver-belled anklet Tareq had given me when we’d married. I didn’t care what Mosheh commanded. I was not taking it off.
“You look Egyptian,” she said.
“My father was. My mother was a Levite.” The lie tasted worse than the gold-powdered water Mosheh had made us drink for days. I’d never been proud of my heritage as the daughter of a Danite whore, but I could nearly hear my mother’s curses howling from the grave.
“And your husband?”
Somehow revealing Tareq as a Hittite, traveling among the Hebrews only to relieve them of their abundant gold, seemed unwise. “Egyptian as well. We live . . . I live in the foreign camp.”
“What do you know of midwifery?”
“My mother was a midwife. She taught me many things as a girl.” How to get what I want. How to survive. How to tread the dark path she walked. “Had she not died, I would have followed in her footsteps. I want to honor her and feed my son at the same time.” I followed my half-truths with a pathetic drop of my shoulders.
“Where is he?”
“My son? A neighbor is willing to watch him while I work.”
“He is weaned?”
“Nearly.”
She began to test my knowledge, asking how many births I had witnessed, what techniques were best, the signs of an expectant mother. Although I was thrilled that she was considering taking me on, the questions prodded my memory with a sharp stick.
I let her imagine the births I’d seen were those of nice Hebrew women, slaving away at their looms or weaving baskets, grateful for every life that defied Pharaoh’s bloody edicts; not hardened prostitutes who more often than not left the squalling infants out in the elements until their cries were swallowed up by the harsh cold. Except a few of the girls—females were worth something in a brothel.
If only I’d been born male.
“I’ll teach you,” said Reva, her keen eyes pinning me. “There are only six other midwives among the Levites, and we are in desperate need of help. I don’t have the luxury of months to train you, but without the threat of Pharaoh, we will multiply quickly. I barely sleep as it is.” Her bloodshot eyes testified to the truth of the statement.
“However, you will stay with me until I feel you are ready to have a partner, one whose strengths will balance your weaknesses, and the same for her. A partner of my choice.” She raised her wispy brows, challenging me to refuse.
I concentrated on keeping my expression pleasant. “Of course. Thank you.” I raised my palms, painting on gratitude with a thick brush and even feeling a bit of the excess near my heart. Matti would be safe. There was nothing more important than Matti. He was the only thing the blackness hadn’t yet touched. And I meant to keep it that way.
9
Shira
10 AV
5TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT
My brother had come for his bride under cover of night. They would enter his tent together, ending the betrothal and confirming their ketuvah, the covenant that bound them in marriage. The commotion, and the promise of a wedding feast, had attracted many unfamiliar guests.
Was Ayal here? I had not seen him since Ziba’s lamb was born two weeks ago, but the music of his laughter lingered in my mind. As I scanned the crowd for his tall form, voices from the far edge of our campsite snatched my attention.
“How can they allow it? An Egyptian marrying a Hebrew?” said a woman.
“Mosheh should never have let any of them come with us. They could turn on us anytime,” sneered another.
<
br /> A man’s voice joined the attack. “A seductress, like every other Egyptian woman.”
“Perhaps even a spy—I have heard there are still many among us.” The first woman spoke louder this time, unrepentant in her disruption of our celebration.
On my right, my mother hissed in a breath and drew Shoshana and Zayna closer to her sides but, with a glance and a quick shake of her head, warned me to keep my eyes forward. If she could ignore the interlopers, so could I.
Kiya was dressed in one of her mother’s pure-white linen gowns, a bittersweet reminder that Nailah was not here to witness this day, and—with her golden skin and sleek black hair hidden beneath a veil—perhaps an unfortunate indication that Kiya was thoroughly Egyptian. The instinct to place my body between my friend and the poisonous words nearly propelled me forward. Could they not leave her alone just for one day? Kiya could go nowhere in camp without a few jabs aimed her way. From both Hebrews and gerim.
On my other side, Jumo stood rigid, jaw working and nostrils betraying heavy breaths. He no longer looked as distinctly Egyptian as his sister did, the thick beard and woolen clothing masking his heritage. But it was obvious he felt the barbed attacks against his people and his younger sister as deeply as ever. From the corner of my eye, I saw his hand twitch at the hilt of his ever-present kopesh.
Eben, as well, always carried the ivory-handled knife our father had given him a lifetime ago, however useless it was to him with an injured hand. But with his eyes on his bride, he was oblivious to everything but the subject of his affections and the well-wishes from family and friends gathered around the couple.
It was enough for him that Kiya and Jumo had taken part in the sacred Covenant with Yahweh at the foot of the mountain two months ago. He had not hesitated to petition the elders for permission to marry Kiya, and even to shorten the betrothal period. The elders had given their blessing, after some debate, ultimately agreeing that my friend and her brother had indeed thrown off their Egyptian lifestyle, and gods, to follow after Yahweh. But that did not mean they were accepted by everyone.
Tensions were still stretched taut from the incident with the idol. Such pointed words could shear the fragile cords that bound all of us, Hebrew and foreigner, as easily as sharp-tipped arrows slicing through fine linen threads.
Just as Eben turned to lead his bride into their marriage tent, the intruders took aim and fired.
“Go back to Egypt, zonah!” cried one man.
“And take your traitorous lover with you!” joined another.
With an uncharacteristic growl, Jumo swung his body around, pushing me aside in his haste—but Ayal was faster.
He had appeared from behind me and now stood with a firm hand against Jumo’s chest, his eyes darkened in warning. “No. This is what they want. Do not give them an excuse to stir up a conflict. There cannot be any more bloodshed here among us.”
“Let me go, Ayal.” Jumo ground the words through his teeth. “I’ve had enough.”
A shadow passed over Ayal’s face, but he did not flinch. He gripped Jumo’s tunic, knuckles white, as Kiya’s brother surged forward. The two men stood locked in a battle of wills for what seemed an eternity as the uninvited guests continued their haranguing calls.
With a shake of his head, Jumo took a step backward, hands raised in reluctant defeat. Ayal gripped his shoulder and leaned forward to whisper something, then slipped away through the crowd.
Eben’s protective arm around his bride’s shoulders tightened. He spoke quietly into her ear and then kissed her veiled cheek. My heart fluttered at the tender gesture between my brother and my dearest friend. Although the shouts from the rabble grew louder, Eben escorted his new bride inside the covering of their marriage tent, a signal to everyone that Kiya was now flesh of his flesh, no matter her heritage.
Although the smell of freshly roasted venison tempted me, my stomach was uneasy during the wedding feast, and I offered my portion to Jumo. Ayal had returned with a small contingent of Levites, and the rest of the uninvited guests had slithered into the sea of tents around us, taking their venom with them—but their insults lingered in my mind.
Ayal’s presence across the fire from me squelched my appetite even more. When we had been in the field, helping Ziba, I had purposely avoided staring at him. But now, whenever he turned to speak to the men seated near him, I drank my fill of his face, the strong line of his jaw, and the humor in his amber eyes.
After the confrontation with the hecklers, I was able to add strength and courage to his attributes, along with the gentleness he displayed with the ewe. I had thought, a number of times, to ask my brother more about Ayal, but it would make obvious my interest. I must form my own conclusions.
Something in his manner reminded me of my father—the calm authority in his voice and the concern that had flared in his expression when I reacted to being left alone with him. My father had exuded the same quiet strength. A sudden yearning to lean against my father’s broad chest spasmed in my throat.
Eben, although the best of brothers, was no replacement for my father’s deep wisdom and paternal guidance. Something told me Ayal would be the same type of father, his long arms wrapping his family in kindness and fierce loyalty.
Although he joked and laughed throughout the meal, he scratched at his beard often, a gesture I had already learned meant he was on edge. The desire to draw closer, to sit beside him and uncover his concerns, was almost overwhelming. A lyre strummed and I startled, hoping no one had noticed the direction of my curiosity. I glanced around, thankful everyone seemed occupied in conversation.
Eben’s musician friends had brought their instruments, and Jumo led them, pounding out a complicated rhythm on his drum with skilled hands. As the joyful melody spun faster and faster, dancers filled the empty space around the fire—anklets jingling in rhythm, headscarves swirling, and loud trills spinning upward with the flames. I clapped along, unable to resist the lift of my spirits and my own laughter.
Zayna tugged my hand, begging me to join the dance. Although I hesitated, for the first time feeling self-conscious about taking part, her sweet pleas and excitement convinced me. Hands clasped, we whirled into the dance together until the beat of the drums, Zayna’s delighted laughter, and a rush of dizzy pleasure conquered every other concern.
When the music slowed and softened and dancers rested tender feet, Jumo began to sing a song dedicated to Yahweh. Although his voice was not as rich as my brother’s, Jumo’s words were steeped in awe for the God who had healed him from a lifetime of crippling pain and entrapment within his own body.
Inspired by his emotion, I lent my own voice in harmony and quickly lost myself in the thrill of weaving into the melody. My eyes slid closed, and I concentrated on savoring each note, each word of praise to the Creator who had freed us from Pharaoh’s strangling grip. By the time the last strain ended, a hush had fallen over the gathering. Everyone seemed just as lost in bittersweet memories as I had been. I blinked to clear the haze that had enveloped me and, without meaning to, connected gazes with Ayal across the fire. There was such stark devastation on his face that I flinched and looked away. He must also be contemplating the suffering our people had endured. What had life been like for his family? Had they been spared the worst of the overseers’ lashes out among the sheep, where Egyptians refused to go? The thought raised the vision of an overseer’s face in my mind, along with the too-familiar echo of his words—worthless Hebrew.
Dancers migrated back to the center of the gathering as the drums began again. Suddenly feeling depleted, I told Zayna I was thirsty and would return shortly. Slipping out of the circle, I edged toward the shadows and found an empty wooden handcart to perch on. After re-braiding the wayward curls that had escaped during the dance, I leaned back on my palms and gazed into the sky, peering at the stars spilling out above me like myriad diamonds against a black cloth.
There were so many tiny lights up there, blinking rhythms against the night sky. The Creator who had fo
rmed my body had spoken them into existence as well. The same stars that danced through the endless spiral of time were the ones looked upon by HaAdam and Chavah in the Garden of Eden.
Flesh of my flesh. Would I ever know such a thing? Would I ever be the helpmate of one who loved me, as Kiya was now? Who would want a barren woman, other than some old widower desperate for a caretaker for his brood? But a young man, strong and handsome, someone like—
I shook my head. There was no use allowing the desire to take root. Closing my eyes, I focused on the swirl of music instead of the unwelcome dart of grief that seemed to find its mark all too often lately. A warm breeze swept from the wadi, lifting my headscarf and curling it around my neck. I hummed along with the tune Jumo was singing. The ancient words were a balm to my lacerated heart, and I sang in quiet tones until the ache began to dull.
“Too tired to dance anymore?”
The soft voice startled me and I sat up, the sudden movement unbalancing the handcart—and my pulse. Ayal stood in front of me as if conjured by my thoughts, amusement on his face as he gripped the wooden handle to prevent it from toppling forward.
“Thank you . . . No . . . I mean . . . Yes, I am a bit tired,” I stammered.
He lifted a brow. “Is something wrong? You disappeared.”
Frantically, I searched my mind for a way to deflect his curiosity. “Those . . . those women, do you think they will be back? To harass Kiya?”
He pressed his lips together, studying my face as if he suspected something else plagued my thoughts. “Perhaps. There are quite a few among us who think Egyptians have no place here.”
“But Kiya is part of the Covenant. And married now to a Hebrew.”
“To some that makes no difference.”
“And you? Does it bother you that my brother loves an Egyptian?”
Shadow of the Storm Page 5