Shadow of the Storm

by Connilyn Cossette

Ayal cocked his head. “No. Why should it?” He looked toward the shadowed mountains, his expression shuttered. “He is blessed to be able to choose a wife he loves.”

  He sighed and met my curious gaze. Silence flooded the empty space between us as the flicker of firelight danced in his eyes. I found myself holding my breath, relieved that the evening shadows would disguise the blaze of my cheeks. The muscles in his bare arms tensed and flexed, as if barely in control. But suddenly weariness, or something like it, seemed to wash over his face and he shifted his weight backward. A loud laugh somewhere behind us seemed to break the spell, and he began to turn away.

  Don’t go. Desperation seized me, causing words to tumble out of my mouth. “Thank you . . . again, for rescuing me and Zayna. And for earlier. Stopping Jumo, and bringing those men.”

  He shrugged. “I could not let the wedding feast be ruined.”

  “I appreciate it. I certainly could not have stopped Jumo.”

  “No.” Humor twitched his lips. “Although for such a small person, you are quite strong. You amazed me with Ziba.”

  “I told you I was sturdier than I look.”

  “Yes.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a smirk on his face. “And you have much courage for one so young. I’ll never forget your expression when you put your hand inside that ewe.”

  The comment stung. He thinks I am a child. I am nothing to him.

  Suddenly uncomfortable with him looking down at me, I stood and straightened my shoulders. “It is something I must get used to, as a midwife.” When, and if, I gather the nerve to petition my mother. Forcing a bright smile, I dipped my chin in farewell. “Excuse me, I must return to my family. Enjoy the festivities.”

  I walked away, shrugging off the disappointment that clung to me and reminded me with every step that I was worth little to a man like Ayal. To any man.

  10

  20 AV

  5TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  Black threads tangled into a coiled knot between my fingers. The wool snagged on my skin, dry from endless work with the fibers and the scorching desert air. I dropped the spindle into my lap with a moan. Dipping my finger in a pot of animal fat, I worked it into my parched palms. Although the canopy above Kiya and me filtered the brunt of the sun’s angry glare, sweltering heat enveloped us, pressing in on all sides. I lifted my sweat-soaked braid and kneaded my sore neck.

  As Kiya’s tapered fingers forced a small shuttle back and forth across the handloom, an intricate pattern of black and brown emerged. Since we had left Egypt, she had become a surprisingly advanced apprentice to my mother.

  I tipped my head to the side, envying her dexterous motions. “You truly enjoy weaving, don’t you?”

  She skimmed her hand across the half-finished project with a satisfied smile. “I do.”

  “Why?”

  She smirked at my abrupt question, then laid the hand-frame in her lap and twined her fingers together. “I have always been fascinated by the skill it takes to create beautiful fabrics.” She gave a rueful smile. “Salima, my handmaid, was always so patient with me in the market. My favorite stall sold fabrics imported from all over the world, and I would study the intricate designs for hours, trying to decipher how they were created.”

  She lifted her eyes in faraway thought. “In fact, the day I discovered my father sold me to Shefu and Tekurah, I had just purchased a beautiful scarf. I have never seen its equal; the embroidery was exquisite. I wish I could emulate its design somehow. I actually gave it to Salima before I was taken away . . .” She shook her head as if to clear her mind of the bittersweet memory. “But, to answer your question, I enjoy weaving because each piece is like a work of art. As if I am creating something as beautiful and precious as Jumo’s paintings.” Her hopeful expression pleaded for my understanding. Jumo was a master artist, every painted piece characterized by impossible detail that defied his self-taught skill and the affliction that had plagued his limbs since birth.

  I patted her hand. “The patterns you’ve been designing lately are every bit as extraordinary as any of Jumo’s paintings.”

  “But somehow”—she rubbed her brow with two fingers, a habit that reminded me of her father—“even when we are working on the tents, using just the rough black threads from goat’s wool, that task seems to be almost . . . worship.”

  I blinked at her, confused by such a strange statement. “How so?”

  “When I work the looms, making tents to protect my family and friends, blankets to keep them warm, and clothing to adorn their bodies, it feels like love. Love for my family, and love for Yahweh.” She glanced up through her long lashes. “Does that make any sense?”

  Weaving was love to Kiya? I enjoyed watching my mother work—the whir of her unheeded spindle in the air, the flick of her wrist as she twirled the distaff against her left shoulder, the rhythmic back and forth of the shuttle—it was an entrancing process to observe, but one that I struggled to master, or even tolerate.

  And now, after deciding that I would train as a midwife, it had become even more difficult to endure, nearly torturous. Yet ten days had passed since Kiya and Eben had been married, and still I could not summon the courage to speak my mind.

  “You are welcome to do my share.” I waved a hand at the overflowing basket next to me.

  Kiya laughed, again occupied with the dance of the wool strands across the warp threads. “Do you not enjoy weaving?”

  Shrugging, I twirled the end of my braid around my finger. “I wish I did.”

  Kiya’s brow furrowed. “I thought you were upset when you had to leave the weavers, after . . .” Her voice trailed off, ushering me into an unwelcome memory.

  Akharem’s dark eyes, kohl-rimmed and full of mischief, had called to me from across the weaving room that day, causing a warm blush to sneak its way up my neck. The chatter of women filled the stifling room to overflowing as shuttles flew back and forth in the never-ending dance of linen-making. Combing the flax threads through a long-toothed hatchel had been my job from the time I had been Shoshana’s age, but that very morning I had finally been allowed to work the standing loom. Akharem’s covert attention heightened the pride of leaving childhood behind. If only that had not been the only day I worked the loom . . . perhaps I would be more adept at it now.

  I squirmed, blinking my eyes until they were dry.

  “I’m sorry, Shira.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “I did not mean to upset you. I should not have—”

  “Oh now, I am fine. It’s all in the past. Let’s leave it there. Instead . . .” I forced a merry laugh to deflect her attention. “Instead, let’s talk about how you’ve survived being married to my exasperating brother. Regretting it yet?” I lifted a brow in tease. “Or too smitten to notice how annoying he can be?”

  She swallowed the bait. “Oh, no. Don’t you remember that he frustrated me from the start?” She giggled. “Only now I kiss the smugness from his face instead of wanting to slap it off.”

  This time my laugh flowed easily. “I am sure he does nothing to protest such punishment.”

  “I fear he has taken to doing it on purpose now, just to see how far I will go to change his moods.” She blushed at the suggestion of their intimacies, her eyes going wide and fingers pressed to her lips, cheeks dark with embarrassment.

  I held my hands to my chest, brows high. “Really, Kiya, how shocking! You wanton!”

  We laughed until tears rolled down our faces, hands pressed to mouths to avoid waking my napping aunt with our foolishness. Such easy camaraderie with Kiya reminded me of our first tentative days of friendship, meeting among the rushes along the Nile to evade our cruel mistress. What a long road we had traveled to become sisters.

  Kiya returned to her weaving, although humor still twitched at her lips. Considering the strength of our friendship, and desperate for encouragement, I decided to test my revelation about midwifery on her, to gauge her support before unleashing it on my mother.

  The urge to speak to my mother
, to tell her of my desires, was boring a hole in my stomach. The words begged to be said a thousand times a day. They sprouted on my tongue constantly, pleading to be set free, but anticipation of her disappointment made me swallow them instead. Yet every day since I had helped Ayal with the sheep, my mind would adhere to little else.

  Without preamble, I spoke out. “I want to become a midwife.” The release of saying the words aloud rushed like a cool stream through my veins, even as indecision swelled in my gut.

  Kiya dropped her hands into her lap, both weaving and amusement forgotten. “Truly?”

  “Since that night when I assisted Reva—and then after helping Ayal with that lamb—I have felt almost . . . as if I was made to be a midwife.” I searched Kiya’s face for affirmation.

  Instead, apprehension curved across her forehead. “What will your mother say?”

  I exhaled a sigh. “She will be upset, I am sure.” I pressed my fingers to my eyes, trying to rub away the guilt. “Perhaps I should say nothing.”

  “And why shouldn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “But if midwifery is what you feel you were created to do, then you must do it.” She reached over and gave my shoulder a little shake. “Why is it that you are so willing to stand up for everyone but yourself? You were fearless when it came to Tekurah back in Egypt. You took my place, twice, in the face of her wrath. Use some of that courage to speak with your mother.”

  I tugged at my fingers. “I would not know how to start. . . .” Explaining to Kiya that my mother made me feel even younger than Zayna at times seemed disloyal. I covered my face with a groan. “But I really do hate weaving. I hate everything about it. Always have.”

  “Then why did you not tell me sooner?” My mother’s voice came from behind us, hard as flint.

  I whipped my hands away from my face and looked over my shoulder, stomach dropping like an anchor stone. There was no turning back now. I must float on the tide I had pushed so hard against for these past weeks.

  “I want to be a midwife, Ima. Reva has offered to train me.” My eyes stung at the admission.

  A dark expression pinched my mother’s face. “I told her no.”

  I sprang to my feet, dropping the untwisted wool in the dirt. “You spoke with her?”

  “Yes. I made it clear you were not cut out for such a thing.”

  “Why would you . . . ? That is not true.” How long had she known and said nothing? How could she make such a decision without consulting me? I was old enough to be married, to have children of my own, yet she saw me as a child—just like Ayal did.

  “You and I both know that midwifery is not a . . . a healthy thing for you.”

  “Because I am unmarried?”

  Her lips twitched. “No, Shira, because you are barren.”

  I jolted backward at the verbal slap. She had never put it into such stark terms before. I barely registered Kiya’s pale face and dropped jaw. I had never told her of my affliction. But now was not the time to explain. I pulled the fragile threads of my resolve back together.

  “That means nothing, Ima. Just because I cannot have children of my own does not mean I cannot help others bring theirs into the world.”

  My mother’s mouth gaped. “You can’t . . .”

  “I will never have a family or children”—my chest squeezed at the reminder—“and I know that I brought shame to our family. I may not be worth anything to a man, or as a daughter, but I cannot do this anymore.”

  My hands and knees trembled violently, but I turned and walked toward Reva’s tent, all the while battling the overwhelming desire to run back, kneel at my mother’s feet, and beg her forgiveness.

  Without a question as to why I had defied my mother, Reva simply nodded at my acceptance of her offer and gestured for me to follow along. The image of my mother’s shocked expression continued to plague me. Would I have the strength to stand strong if she forbade me to continue? Would Eben, as the head of our family, back her prohibition?

  Reva led me to a campsite not far from where my own family lived. Women were gathered in groups on the ground, many industrious hands employed with various tasks: basket-weaving, grinding manna with mortar and pestle, flattening dough between their palms. A number of children threaded through their animated chatter, playing chase.

  A few of the women greeted the midwife, but they continued their circles of conversation, seemingly unconcerned about the laboring going on inside the tent. They seemed to know Reva well. How many of their children had been guided to birth by Reva’s capable hands?

  There were almost as many women inside the enormous, multi-roomed tent as out. It took some maneuvering to get to the mother. Splayed across cushions on the floor, and unabashedly naked, the laboring woman was chatting amiably with a woman in dark widow’s garments.

  Reva knelt, laying her leather pouch on the ground beside her. “Are the pains coming at regular intervals, Bithya?”

  Bithya’s face contorted in response. She drew in a long breath and then puffed it out in bursts until the pain released its grip and she was able to reply. “They have been, all afternoon.”

  Reva examined her belly, pushing and measuring with her fingertips and palms, eyes closed as she concentrated. “Yes, baby is in the correct position.” She looked over her shoulder at me. “Come, Shira, feel.”

  My pulse raced. I had not expected Reva would start teaching me here and now, in front of this large audience. What must they think of me? An unmarried girl, supposing I had the right to examine this woman?

  But I knelt down beside Reva and she took my hands, placing them at the top of Bithya’s belly. I refused to meet the mother’s eyes as Reva explained how to feel for the position of the baby.

  “Baby must be faced head down, backside up. Here”—she pressed my fingers deeper into Bithya’s flesh—“can you feel the outline of the body?”

  I winced at the unexpected force of pressure Reva used, but with utter indifference Bithya continued her conversation with a woman sitting on the floor next to her—until another contraction seized her body. I tried to slip my hand away, but Reva kept my fingers where they were. “There now, do you feel how the abdomen becomes hard? Her body is working to push the baby out.”

  Bithya’s belly was tight, and she groaned, gripping the hands of the two women who knelt on either side of her.

  “It is almost time to push.” Reva patted Bithya’s thigh. “Shira, open my satchel. There is a jar of oil there. Take it out to the fire and place it among the coals, it must warm for a few minutes. Not too hot, though.”

  Keeping my eyes on the ground, I wound my way through the crowd outside to tuck the alabaster jar among the embers of the campfire. A spicy-sweet fragrance curled around me as the oil warmed. What ingredients had Reva used? What use did the ointment have? How long before I could carry a midwife’s pack of my own? I could not wait to ask the bevy of questions scurrying through my head.

  “Is my baby brother or sister born yet?” a little voice asked behind me.

  I turned to find a girl, close to Zayna’s age, gripping the hand of a small boy with a dirt-smudged face.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Your ima is doing fine, though. It should not be long. What is your name?”

  “I am Lenaya, and this is Shemi.” Fear swam in the girl’s big brown eyes. “Is the baby all right?”

  “Why, yes, Lenaya, as far as I know everything is going smoothly.”

  “The last one died,” she said without a change in her voice.

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  She shuffled her grimy toes in the dirt. “There are already eight of us.”

  No wonder Bithya seemed so unconcerned; she had done this many times. Perhaps if this one lived or died mattered little to a mother with such a full brood.

  I knelt down to look Shemi in the eye, smiling to reassure him. “Are you excited? For a new baby?”

  He stuck out his bottom lip. “Babies cry.”


  “Yes.” I laughed. “They certainly do. But you will be a good big brother, won’t you? And help your ima?”

  Shemi nodded his head solemnly.

  “Good.” I ruffled his thick, black curls. “Now I must go help. I will come tell you when the baby is here.”

  I expected Bithya to cry out like Hadassah, but she gritted her teeth each time a pain struck her, breathing in concentrated rhythm. The women on either side helped her balance on two birthing bricks that must have been designed specifically for Bithya. Her feet fit perfectly into the molded footprint on top of each mud-brick. Thankfully, they lacked the vibrant designs of fertility goddesses I had seen on birthing bricks in Egypt.

  Bithya pushed for only a few minutes, with little more than a few loud grunts, and delivered a baby girl, thatched with thick, black hair that I guessed would turn to curls like Shemi’s. At the sound of the baby’s lusty cry, Bithya’s attitude changed. She commanded Reva to hand over the baby, and her eyes glistened as she cradled the squirming bundle, cooing and guiding her to the breast.

  Reva’s low voice came from behind me as I watched the scene of mother and babe wrapped in each other’s newness. “She was guarding herself. Bithya has given birth to three stillborns, so she has learned to keep her expectations low until the precious one is born breathing. It’s the only way to keep the agonizing fear at bay.”

  Bithya’s fingers traveled over the tiny girl’s body, counting fingers and toes, tracing the curves of her little face, still red and swollen from her difficult journey to her mother’s arms. Tears trickled down Bithya’s face and neck. Even this ninth child came into the world with tears of joy. How full of love her heart must be, stretched to greater capacity with such a blessing.

  An emotion slammed into me, shocking me with its force. Only Reva’s strong hands on my shoulders kept me from running from the tent to nurse the jealousy that reared its poisonous head. What was I thinking? What was Reva thinking? My mother had been right, I could not do this. My head shook of its own accord as I braced against the instinct to flee. Reva must have felt the tremors vibrating though me, for she pulled me around by the shoulders to look into my eyes.