The Eleventh Brother

by Rachel S. Wilcox

He rose and snapped his fingers. One of the other men approached.

  “Give the boy something to wear,” the trader said, “and some food.”

  His fellow traveler nodded, moving away. After a moment, the man reached back down, holding out a hand. Joseph looked up at him; then, hesitantly, he allowed the trader to help him gently to his feet. “If my brothers did to me,” the man murmured, keeping one hand on Joseph’s arm to steady him, “what they have done to you, I might take my chances in Kemet.”

  Joseph turned, looking back in the direction where his father’s camp should have been, but all he saw was the desert heat bending the trembling waves of light above the sand, hovering in the emptiness of the horizon.

  Chapter 16

  Judah

  Judah, son of Jacob, stood at the edge of his father’s camp. He watched the sun disappear over the horizon, and the sky sink through bruised shades of deepening violet into a night the color of dried blood. He had endured the weeping, the cursing, the torn clothes and the dust and his father’s raging—he had endured it silently, refusing the companionship of his brothers, afraid to speak to Dinah, unable to bear the sight of Benjamin.

  Please, Reuben had said, don’t hurt the boy. He is our brother. He is our father’s son—

  Simeon had not listened—none of them listened—and Judah had stood there, frozen, watching as the brothers gathered around, not knowing what to do, knowing suddenly and horribly what was about to happen and yet he did nothing, nothing, until someone knocked Joseph over and the others set on him and stripped him and struck him and he cried out, and they were beating him, shaming him, tearing his coat to pieces, tearing him to pieces, and it happened so quickly, and they were hurting him, they were hurting him—

  Sell him.

  It would buy time. Simple mercy had no sway, neither he nor Reuben nor anyone else was strong enough to control the mob, and so—

  Sell him.

  Joseph had heard him say it, he knew, because Joseph had looked up and stared at him, as if confused—not understanding, Judah knew, feeling the tightness in his throat, that he was trying to save his brother’s life.

  Sell him.

  When Reuben had made his way back alone to the pit with the rope that would draw his brother back to safety, he had fallen to his knees, gazing down over the side, calling out and looking around, wild-eyed, crying the boy’s name over and over again—

  But there was no answer.

  The pit was empty.

  Joseph was gone.

  We killed him, Judah thought. We took his coat. We tore him to pieces.

  The brothers were supposed to go to Shechem—the place that had witnessed another slaughter, another violation of one of Jacob’s children—but they had moved the flocks on toward Dothan, and still somehow Joseph had found them, still somehow he had come, as if the desert meant for them to find each other in the scorched and wind-swept emptiness.

  Judah had promised his father that he would protect Joseph. He had given Joseph the assurance of his friendship.

  Then he had watched while Simeon beat him.

  It didn’t matter that he had not known what to do. He had witnessed it. He was guilty. They were all guilty.

  A flash, and he saw Joseph’s face again—his wide, red eyes, his skin purpled and broken, not at all the way a sacrificial lamb ought to be treated. He saw Joseph staring up at him, wondering why Judah, Judah, of all of them, stood there and did nothing, only said—

  Sell him.

  Now it was done. The sacrifice was over. There was no ram in the thicket, and no angel. Joseph’s brothers simply returned from the desert, bound together by his blood.

  Two of the brothers had slaughtered a goat with the same knife that had been used against Joseph and his beloved robe. They dipped the fragments of the garment into the sticky, slippery gore. All of them stood together to present the robe to their father, leaving him to draw his own conclusions. Not one of them said another word about it. Not one of them knew what to say.

  Standing beneath the dark night sky, Judah still did not know what to say.

  Crossing his arms tightly, protectively, he raised his face toward the emerging stars. The horizon stretching beyond the camp was full of ghosts—whispers, shadows slipping in and out of the heat and the chill, lost travelers, and eternal sojourners—but as long as they were not his brother’s ghost, he could face them. He could face anything now.

  Anything, except what he would see if he turned back to the camp.

  Anything, except what they had done.

  He might have asked for forgiveness, but he knew there could be none. The birthright was destroyed, the covenant shattered, and the brothers themselves had done it. He had done it. There was no God of his fathers who would embrace them now in mercy. They were exiles, wanderers, cast out into the briars and thorns, doomed to wander the world as shadows.

  Judah lowered his head and took a slow, deep breath of soft desert night.

  If he was doomed to wander, then he would go to seek that horizon, the ever stretching-out boundary of the known world, and he would go beyond it to what was unknown and had no recollection of what had been done in the wilderness at Dothan. He would become a severed orphan like his betrayed brother, make no claim on his father or fathers or their all-seeing God. It was not penance, but freedom did not have to be complete to allow its seeker to at least dip his hands, splash his face, let the trickles run over his skin for momentary relief.

  There were places where the power of what had been did not extend. He would seek them out and blend away.

  He would escape beyond the edge of memory.

  Chapter 17

  Asar

  “Tjaty.”

  Zaphenath turned, standing alone in the passageway leading from the king’s chambers, holding in his hand a papyrus document related to their most recent meeting. He had stayed long after the other officials, verifying the last details of a legal case in the process of being settled, and now he was finally setting off to return home after an unusually tiring day. Now, seeing the man approaching, he felt wearier still. He lowered his head in required respect.

  Asar was striding steadily closer, a light smile on his face.

  “I suppose you were meeting with my father,” Asar said, pausing a few paces away and placing his fist on his hip, shifting his weight to one leg.

  “We’ve had a difficult case,” Zaphenath told him. “With luck, it will be finished soon.”

  “Mm,” Asar said, “no doubt you are a great help to him.”

  Zaphenath inclined his head. “I hope to be.”

  Asar waved a hand. “And I’m sure my father hopes I will be able to learn from you.”

  Zaphenath watched him. After a moment, he said, “It is my honor to have your opinions on our project, Prince.”

  Asar raised a slight eyebrow. “Oh,” he said, still smiling, “well, thank you. Tell me, how is Asenath?”

  “She is well.” Zaphenath shifted his fingers around the scroll in his hand.

  “Please,” Asar said, “do send her my regards. The court has lost a little of its sparkle since you took her away from us.”

  Zaphenath inclined his head. “I’ll tell her.”

  Asar was watching him too. “Good.”

  “Well,” Zaphenath said at last, “good night.” He walked past Asar, on down the corridor.

  “Actually,” he heard and turned back around, “I meant to ask you”—Asar took a casual step closer—“you reminded me, when you mentioned that court case. I heard some talk about some sort of disturbance at one of the granaries.”

  Zaphenath looked at him. “A disturbance,” he repeated.

  “Yes,” Asar murmured, “a disturbance involving some Canaanites.” He waited. “Have you heard anything about it?”

  Zaphenath shifted the scroll in his hand again. “Nothing worth speaking of.”

  “Oh,” Asar shrugged. “Well, never mind, then.” He waved his hand again. “I suppose it must not
have been much of a threat to the kingdom after all.”

  “I’m not sure I would classify any disturbance at a granary as a threat to the kingdom.” Zaphenath took a slow breath. “What part of this disturbance is of interest to you?”

  “It’s not much of an interest to me,” Asar said, “but I thought it might be of interest to you.”

  Zaphenath tilted his head back slightly. “To me.”

  “Because it involved Canaanites,” Asar told him, “accused, I think, of being spies.” He clasped his hands innocently behind his back. “Do you think there is a threat of Canaanite spies?”

  “No,” Zaphenath said shortly. “I do not. The matter was a misunderstanding and has been resolved.”

  “It’s amazing,” Asar mused, “isn’t it, how much distrust still exists towards the Canaanites, in spite of my father’s work.”

  Now Zaphenath looked straight at the prince. Asar returned his gaze evenly.

  “As I said,” Zaphenath said after a moment, “the situation was resolved.”

  “The People are still nervous,” Asar said quietly, “that our country could dissolve back into disorder and disunity. Take away their prosperity, and you uncover all their fear.”

  “Prince,” Zaphenath said, “please, be plain with me.”

  Asar took a step closer. “I hear that there are some—not me, of course”—he smiled—“who wonder whether our country is vulnerable, let us say, to foreign influences in our weakened state.”

  “The famine has stricken everyone,” Zaphenath told him, “and this country remains the strongest of any of her neighbors. There is no danger.”

  “But I rather fear that the People may not believe you.” That smile. “Perhaps”—he crossed his arms—“that is part of why my father thinks I should be involved. To give the People a symbol.” He looked at the vizier. “To feel assured about who is in control.”

  They stood, facing each other.

  “As I have said before,” Zaphenath said at last, his voice soft, “it will be my honor to receive your opinions, Prince.”

  With a bow, he turned and walked on.

  “I’ll take the scroll straight back,” Asenath promised, smiling, standing in the entryway of the villa. “Thank you for bringing it.”

  Amon, who had dropped off an additional papyrus document that Zaphenath had rather uncharacteristically forgotten to pick up after his meeting with the king, smiled too. “Thank you, my lady.” He raised the hand not encumbered with the records he was taking back to the official state offices. “Good night to you.”

  “Good night,” Asenath said, nodding, “and thank you for your help to him.” Amon smiled again and started across the garden, trotting on toward the gates of the estate, his body silhouetted in the fading light.

  Asenath turned with the scroll in hand and moved back into the house, pulling the heavy wooden door closed. Servants had already lit the candles lining the walls of the open inner courtyard in preparation for the coming darkness, and Asenath passed through their flickering shadows as she moved toward her husband’s private study, secluded from the public area of the house. She found him but not as she had expected, pacing around, or reading with his eyes darting impatiently over the words, or sketching out plans for some new project.

  He had removed his wig and was standing with a small, polished bronze mirror.

  “Zaphenath,” she said, and he looked quickly over. His eyes were lined in the custom of her countrymen, and the removal of his wig revealed the beautiful hair of the desert tribe he had been born to.

  She smiled. “What are you doing?”

  He pulled at a loose curl of hair. “I’m thinking of shaving my head.”

  “Why?” She moved closer toward him. “Is your hair bothering you?”

  “I wear the wig every day anyway.” Zaphenath looked back into the mirror, focusing on his distorted reflection. “It’s just added heat.”

  “But your hair is so lovely,” Asenath said. “No one has hair like yours.”

  “Exactly.” He set the mirror down on a low wooden table. “Is that for me?” She handed him the scroll, and he unrolled it, glancing quickly over the characters. “Ah,” he murmured. “I’ll get started on this.” But she stood there, watching him, as he shuffled the scroll closed. Then she crossed her arms. He looked up. “What?”

  She made a face. “What?”

  “I have a lot to get done—”

  “Really?” she said. “Like shaving your head? Zaphenath.” She shook her head. “You’re not yourself.”

  “I’m tired.” He leaned down, placing a quick kiss on the top of her head, and brushed past, scroll in hand. Just as he reached out to pull back the curtain hanging over the entryway to the room, she said, “Zaphenath—”

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  She swallowed. “Come with me to the prison.”

  “The prison?” Zaphenath tried to laugh. “What have you done?”

  She shook her head. “I want to see your brother.”

  He stared at her, and it seemed for a moment as though he might say something. Then shaking his head, he said, “No.”

  “No?” He ducked out of the room in a rustle of curtain, but she followed after him. “Why not?”

  He waved the scroll, not looking back. “I’m not discussing it.”

  “I’m not one of your courtiers,” Asenath said, catching the curtain and ducking through after him into the corridor. “You can’t just ‘not discuss it’ with me.” The candlelight reflected off his back as he moved along ahead of her. “You can’t pretend he doesn’t exist—”

  “Who’s pretending that my brother doesn’t exist?” Zaphenath wheeled around. “I can assure you,” he said, pointing the scroll at her and then sweeping it in a gesturing arc along his linen clothing, “I am acutely aware that my brother exists.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Please,” she said, but he turned from her.

  “My love,” he said without looking back as he kept walking, “I have a lot of work to do.”

  She, following him, slowed, then stopped, and watched him walk across the open courtyard of the house toward his public meeting rooms. She watched as he brushed aside the curtain to his scroll room and disappeared from her sight.

  And then she followed him.

  Chapter 18

  Genesis 43:1–14

  Jacob’s wooden staff crunched into the dirt, a steady, percussive rhythm underscoring the bleating and hoofsteps of the sheep as he walked alongside his grazing flocks. The sun seemed to catch in the fiery brilliance of his hair, and his gray-bearded son Judah thought, not for the first time, how truly little of his father had been leached out by the passing of years in the desert. Even now, Jacob’s voice did not falter, and his hands did not tremble. Occasionally he would rest through the heat of the afternoon or ask Benjamin to read a passage to him when the light was dim and his eyes were weary, but he still walked calmly among his flocks and stood as the unchallenged center of his family.

  Today, Judah walked alongside him, quiet, not wishing to disturb, letting his father walk as he pleased, his staff striking the earth and his feet still finding their steady step.

  “Your flocks have grown,” Judah observed, “even with the famine.”

  “A blessing,” Jacob murmured.

  “There are so many to feed now.” Judah glanced over, but Jacob merely struck his staff down once more. “And two new babies in your camp.”

  Jacob nodded. “The Lord has prospered us.”

  “With so much prosperity,” Judah glanced at his father again, “it will be difficult to keep everyone fed for much longer.”

  Jacob prodded at a sheep blocking his path, and the animal trotted back into the herd. “There’s only one place with food.”

  Judah watched their shadows slip out ahead, splayed across the ground, while Jacob tapped his staff, prodding another bleating sheep out of the path.
/>   “Father,” Judah asked, “what do you want us to do?”

  Jacob slowed, and then stopped, resting his hands on the top of his staff. He looked out over his milling flock. Judah stood quietly beside him. It was only now, as Jacob’s body had begun to stoop, that Judah could nearly speak to his father face to face. It was Reuben who had always looked the most like their father—the same strength, the same physical presence.

  But Reuben was not here.

  “We have no choice,” Judah said softly. Jacob looked over, his fierce white eyebrows directed toward his son. “There is no more food.” Judah shook his head. “We have to go back.” Jacob sighed, turning his gaze out toward the desert. “I promise you,” Judah said quietly, “Benjamin will be safe.”

  Jacob grunted again. “Safe.” He glanced at Judah. “Reuben promised me the life of both of his sons in return for Benjamin’s safety.” He shook his head. “One life does not restore another.”

  “Benjamin,” Judah said, “will redeem Simeon.”

  “You had to tell him there was another son.” Jacob looked over at Judah. “Why?”

  “He asked us.” Judah looked at his father. “He asked whether we had another brother.” Jacob frowned, looking away again. “If we don’t bring Benjamin, all of our people are lost. Send him with me.” Judah’s voice was quiet and firm. “Let me be his surety.” He reached out, setting a hand on his father’s arm. “You can require him from me.”

  Jacob turned his eyes toward his fourth son. After a moment he spoke. “You will take twice the money,” he said, “that you gave before, and we will send gifts to this man who has kept your brother a prisoner.” He nodded to himself. “As we sent to my brother, Esau, when we made peace with each other.”

  Judah too nodded in quick agreement. “We’ll give the best of what we have. I know they value turquoise from the desert mines, and silver—”

  “And then,” Jacob said, “God willing, he will have mercy upon you.” He raised his eyes. “And upon me.”

  Zaphenath raised his eyes from the scroll spread open on his lap. “Yes?”

  Walking otherwise uninvited into her husband’s scroll room, Asenath gathered up her linen skirt in one hand and sank down onto the floor next to him.