The Eleventh Brother

by Rachel S. Wilcox

  “Yes.” Judah was quiet for a long moment, and then he held out his hands, empty. “What do you want?”

  Her eyes traveled from his face down toward his chest, and she reached out, fingering the leather cord hanging around Judah’s neck. “Your signet ring,” she said. Judah reached up and slid the leather cord from around his neck, revealing a small, burnished ring, concealed beneath his tunic, engraved with Judah’s personal mark—his legal identity, his very word.

  He coiled the leather strap down into her open hand, and she closed her fingers around the ring—the symbol of a man’s place in the world, his birthright, bound up in a single sign—and smiled.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  And he did.

  Chapter 34

  Genesis 38:25–30

  It was nearly dark when Potiphar returned from the festival and found Amosis waiting for him at the gate.

  “Amosis.” Potiphar raised a hand. “You look very serious for someone who ought to be celebrating.”

  Amosis lowered his eyes, as though ashamed to look at Potiphar and speak the words he had to say. “Your steward—your wife has accused your steward of a terrible thing, Master.”

  “My steward?” Potiphar stared at Amosis, feeling the coming night pressing tightly around his body, as if the darkness itself would draw out the breath beneath his skin.

  “The Asiatic boy,” Amosis said. “Sasobek.”

  Potiphar was already moving, and Amosis was following, walking in brisk, long strides beside Potiphar, heading toward the villa. “We heard her screams,” Amosis told him, “and found her, on the floor . . .” He shook his head. “The boy was there, and his tunic was off—”

  “When did this happen?” Potiphar demanded.

  “This morning.”

  Potiphar wheeled around. “Why was I not sent for?”

  “Your wife asked that you not be disturbed.”

  Potiphar shook his head and walked on, with Amosis hurrying to keep up. As they reached the front doorway of the house, Potiphar slowed. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath.

  And then he went inside.

  Joseph was not sure what time it was, only that the sun had sunk and plunged the world into darkness. At last he had been left alone, still bound and effectively incapacitated, while the other servants lingered anxiously in the villa, awaiting Potiphar’s return. He had stopped trying to protest his innocence. He waited now in silence. His neck ached, and his shoulders gave a dull throb whenever he moved, and if he closed his eyes, he saw her face—heard her screaming—heard another voice screaming, buried down in the earth, and the harsh laughter of his brothers overrode her cries as he saw her, in a flash, once more stretched out upon the ground—

  He blinked, hearing scuffling outside, and voices—someone speaking to another with a low, almost mournful voice—was it mournful, he thought, or furious? And then his pounding heart began to send tingling pulses up and down his arms, and he flushed cold.

  The curtain was drawn aside, and the man with the low voice, silhouetted against the garden light, stepped inside.

  They were alone.

  “Sasobek.” Potiphar’s voice was very quiet. “What have you done?”

  Judah told the priestess that he would return to her with a lamb and retrieve his ring after the lambing. But when he returned to Timnath, he could not find her. And while it had not troubled him in the least to hand over the ring to the mysterious woman when he felt assured it would be quickly returned, the reality of its loss weighed on him acutely. Where had the woman gone? What possible use was his ring to her? It was his seal, his mark, his identity that he had lost, and he felt it keenly and could not now imagine why he had been willing to barter it away so casually.

  Because I did not think I would lose it, he told himself. Because I did not know I was giving it up.

  When Shelah asked his father what had become of the signet ring, Judah told him it had been stolen.

  “Stolen?” Shelah repeated, wrinkling his nose as if in distaste. “Why would anyone steal it?”

  That was something his father could not answer.

  Spring blossomed into summer, and the new lambs thrived, and Judah found that his flocks had increased yet again. But even this tumbling burst of new life could not turn his mind from the earth where his sons slept.

  It was at about this time that Shelah set out to visit Tamar at her father’s house and pay his respects to his brothers’ widow. Judah was in the fields with the sheep when Shelah returned toward evening, and Judah watched as his son sat beneath the tall fig tree that stood a little distance from their home. Puzzled that Shelah had not come to greet him, Judah moved through his bleating flock, the scattering sheep trotting good-naturedly around his movements, stirring the dust.

  When Judah reached his son, Shelah raised his eyes. Judah saw a strange paleness on the boy’s face that set his heart beating.

  “My son,” Judah said, “you’re not ill?”

  Shelah shook his head. “No, Father,” he said. “Not ill.”

  Judah waited, standing before Shelah as Shelah sat beneath the fig tree. “Did you see Tamar?”

  Shelah nodded.

  Judah looked at him. “What is it, Shelah?”

  Shelah raised his eyes. “Tamar,” he said, “is with child.” He looked down at his hands. “What will happen to her?”

  Judah sat slowly down beside his son. Somewhere in the fig tree, a bird began to twitter in the peacefulness of the evening. “There is only one thing,” Judah said, “that is to be done.”

  There was one law of the land, one unquestionable expectation, one code of behavior that held all people together in a delicate and inviolate trust. If the truth had been violated, it had to be restored. If the balance were upset, restitution must be made. It was not simply a matter of punishment—it was a matter of imbalance, of chaos that would come if the forces that governed the world were left upended. If a person used her life to throw nature askew, that person’s life was required to bring back the peace she had shattered. Mercy alone could not reset the balance, and no one spoke of mercy, and no one expected it.

  Judah looked out toward the sky. “There has already been so much loss in our family.” He shook his head. “We are a bare branch, Shelah.”

  And the order was given for Tamar to be burned.

  Kneeling before his master, his arms bound and his face bruised, Joseph did not speak.

  As he had waited for Potiphar to come, captive in the growing darkness, his mind had slowly begun to unleash scattering thoughts—and flashes of images—like the way the bloodied morning sky had dawned after the massacre at Shechem, and the dark shadows beneath his sister’s unseeing eyes, his father’s betrayed and furious face, and Reuben’s shame, and the way Bilhah had cowered in fear for her life.

  And then, in his mind, he had seen his mother. He saw her as he had last seen her, heavily pregnant with the baby who would cost her life, singing softly as she held Dinah in her arms, stroking the hair of the frightened, broken girl.

  Joseph imagined his mother raising her eyes to his own and smiling, sadly, holding his sister and her own approaching death in her body, and willing—willing to sit with Dinah, willing to give her baby life, willing to carry the weight of it all. This is the price we carry, Joseph, he seemed to hear her say to him, this is the price we always carry.

  As he sat there, alone, he began to wonder why he had even wondered what sort of punishment would await Djeseret if the truth were known. Whether answerable to the law of the desert or the governance of Kemet, the result was surely the same—the cowering, the fear, the sure and searing retribution of shame and disgust and blood. A life did not have to be taken for a life to be over.

  She would know what she had done, now. She would realize that her husband might not believe her. An accused servant could be dismissed, sold, given over to a life much worse than the one he had—but his own life was not the one beyond all hope of recovery. And it was not her li
fe alone—her shame was her husband’s, her condemnation the end of all his happiness. A confusion of lives, all ruined in one afternoon.

  Surely, Joseph thought, I cannot be more frightened than she is.

  Then he glimpsed Dinah’s face again, a face indeed from another life but a face that was still as much a part of him as his own soul. And he saw her curled up, as he had seen her in her tent, first after the prince of Shechem had raped her, and then after her brothers had violated the safety of Shechem and butchered the man who had taken their sister’s honor before he became her husband—all while Dinah herself was wrenched back and forth between lives and peoples and without the chance to speak for herself.

  She had lain there, without weeping—mute, listless, flattened, forgotten in the whirlwind of violent passions that stripped her dignity and her happiness.

  And in his mind, as her eyes turned to him, he could see in her face what he had been too young to see then—

  Please, she was whispering, please, see me. Please see me.

  Now Potiphar stood before him.

  Very quietly, he asked, “Is it true?”

  But Joseph simply looked up at his master, seeing the bewildered betrayal and the wild, frantic look of a man whose world has just tilted inexplicably and thrown him into a wilderness from which he fears he will never return.

  “I can have you killed,” Potiphar said, his voice low, “or have you forgotten who I am?” Joseph did not shift his gaze from his master’s face. Potiphar pointed back in the direction of the villa. “Speak.”

  But Joseph did not speak.

  “You know what she accuses you of.” Potiphar’s voice was furious, pleading. “I command you to speak.”

  Joseph’s skin was broken, purpled and stained, with one eye nearly too swollen to open. Yet he knelt without complaint. The shadows seemed to deepen the silence.

  Slowly, Potiphar bent down and looked directly into Joseph’s face—at the young man he had trusted, educated, come to look upon almost as his own blood.

  “Sasobek,” Potiphar said, his voice soft, “in the name of all the gods, you must speak.”

  Joseph looked at his master. “Your own opinion of me,” he said, his voice even quieter, “can be my only defense. If I say . . . any more . . . I have to accuse her.” He swallowed. “And for her life, and yours, I cannot do that.” And again he lowered his head.

  Judah left Shelah behind and traveled alone along the road to Tamar’s father’s house. Shelah had asked his father to let him come, to let him be there to lend what support he could in the difficulty that lay ahead, but Judah had refused. He would not ask his son to bear a burden that was not his to bear. Let each atone for his own sins.

  Judah arrived at dusk and glanced only fleetingly at the stars beginning to emerge through the dying daylight as he moved on toward the small dwelling that sat beneath a giant spreading fig tree. Tamar’s father met him at the door, holding a clay oil lamp with a sputtering wick, and led Judah toward the back of the one-room dwelling. The weak flame from the lamp leapt out ahead, throwing splotches of light along the wall and illuminating a small, curtained-off section that marked his daughter’s sleeping quarters. He set a hand on Judah’s shoulder and handed him the oil lamp. We are both old men now, Judah thought. We have seen too much lost already in this desert.

  Judah took the lamp and pulled the curtain back.

  Tamar was sitting on the ground, her hair covered and her body swathed in her robes as if in a burial shroud. She looked up. Even in her widowhood, even with the prospect of death staring unblinkingly upon her, her gaze was calm. “Please.” She held out a hand. “Sit.”

  She did not beg for mercy he could not give, Judah thought, lowering himself to face her. She simply sat. He set the clay lamp on the ground. Shadows flickered across her face.

  “Shelah tells me you are with child,” he said.

  Tamar looked at him with that unblinking, unruffled stare, not even bowing her head for shame. “Yes.”

  Judah took a slow breath. “Then you know what must be done.”

  Judah saw the briefest flash cross her gaze in the shimmering darkness. “So you take life,” she said, “and turn it into death. You destroy your sons’ only hope of increase.”

  “Shelah will be married to another,” said Judah.

  “But not Er,” she said. “Not your firstborn. This child is rightfully his.”

  “Do not speak of my son,” Judah snapped, but Tamar would not be silent.

  “You have already been content to let your sons lie childless,” she said. “You have refused to marry me to Shelah.” And then, Judah thought, she did something extraordinary—she actually dared to reach out and touch his hand. “I know you have always loved him the most.”

  “I do not love any son more than another,” Judah growled, pulling his hand abruptly from her touch.

  Then Tamar reached up and drew a thin leather cord from around her neck—a thin leather cord with a single, dangling ring. Without a word, she held it out to him. The ring caught the weak reflection of the flame as it turned gently in midair.

  Judah reached out, taking the cord and lowering it into his hand. He touched the ring with one finger as it lay in his open palm. He lifted the clay mark and scrutinized the carved signs. Then he looked at her. His quiet voice was dangerous.

  “Where did you get this?”

  She did not blink but said simply, “From you.”

  Chapter 35

  Genesis 39:20

  Potiphar face’s was suddenly, heavily, weary. He raised a hand to his eyes, as if even the flickering light was too much to bear.

  “How long have you been kept like this?” he asked.

  Joseph swallowed. “Since this morning.”

  Potiphar looked at him. Then, rising to his feet, he moved behind his steward and bent down again, and Joseph felt the rough chafing of the rope sawing against his skin as Potiphar untied the coarse knots binding his wrists. As the bonds fell away, Joseph moved his arms gingerly, gratefully, wincing as the blood began to pulse. He turned, looking toward his master. “What will you do with me?”

  Potiphar was quiet; he lowered his eyes. “If you will not speak,” he said, “there is no choice. The accusation is too public.” He looked at his steward. “It is the law.”

  Joseph lowered his eyes too. “Yes,” he said, very quietly. “I know.”

  “Sasobek,” Potiphar’s voice was also quiet, and he put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder, “you will go as a citizen, not a slave.” Joseph looked at him. “I understand . . . what you have chosen to do. And I release you from your bond to me.”

  Joseph’s throat was too tight to speak.

  “And I promise,” Potiphar said, and Joseph thought he could detect a tremor of unsettling emotion, “I will not forget you. When the times comes . . .” He paused, as if trying to gather the words. “When the time comes, I will make sure you are remembered.”

  Then Potiphar rose to his feet. He clapped his hands brusquely, twice, and the curtain jerked back. Amosis stepped inside. Potiphar looked back at his steward—his most trusted, most beloved steward—and turned his face away.

  “Take him to the prison,” Potiphar said softly.

  Amosis bowed.

  Joseph too lowered his head, exposed and naked, his tunic once more stripped away by the fury of his accusers.

  Judah stared at Tamar, clutching the signet ring in his hand—thinking back to that night along the road and the darkness beneath the stars.

  “What have you done?” he asked at last, his voice hoarse.

  She took a slow breath. “I know Shelah is the dearest to your heart.” She raised her eyes. “But”—her hand rested on her stomach, safely buried beneath her robes—“your responsibility is to all your sons, and to their children, and to their children after them.” She paused. “You are only one link, as Shelah is one link, and Er and Onan too.” She shook her head. “You might have been content to let your sons dwindle and remain ba
rren forever, but I was not.”

  Judah could not speak, hearing her voice over and over again—Your responsibility is to all your sons . . . all your sons . . . all your sons . . .

  And sons, he thought, as though the thought were not his own, have a responsibility to their fathers.

  Her eyes were fixed upon him, no longer calm but beseeching, imploring. “This is your child,” she whispered. “This is the future of your family.”

  Judah lowered his head, still clutching the signet ring in his hand. “The greater sin is mine,” he said, hoarse and quiet. “The greater sin is mine.”

  He felt her touch on his hand. He looked up and saw her sitting there in the cramped sleeping space where she had waited, and waited, and waited.

  “The sin is lifted,” she said.

  And Judah stared at Tamar, at this young woman who, mere minutes ago, had no hope of mercy because there had been no such thing—no such thing, until she brought it into the world and offered it to a mournful old man who had come to bring her death.

  “My sin to my family,” Judah said, his voice choking, “is not one you can lift, Tamar.”

  “Your sin to this family is atoned for,” she told him. “I have done it, if you will spare my life.”

  “Yes”—Judah felt the warmth spreading behind his eyes—“yes, you will live, Tamar. You will live.”

  “And your family will live,” she said quietly.

  Judah bowed his head and wept.

  And after the days were accomplished that she should be delivered, Tamar brought forth not one son but two, and the boys were named Pharez and Zarah, and it was as if Judah’s two lost sons had been restored to him again.

  And when he had seen the boys, Judah lifted up his voice, and wept, and took his family and journeyed out into the desert, toward his father’s tent.

  And that was how Tamar the Canaanite restored to Judah, son of Jacob, the memory of his birthright.