My heart was strangely absent of grief. In truth, I had grieved the loss of my father since that trip to Thebes. In that at least, today was no different than any other day. But I wondered: did my father enter the afterlife with a light heart? Or did Osiris find that his misdeeds outweighed his goodness? Could a man who sold his daughter be counted among those who deserved the pleasures of the afterlife? For that matter, what of a daughter who did not grieve her own father?
Annihilation covered the land. Carcasses of hundreds of animals bloated in the sun. Most were nearly rotted away, destroyed during the plague of the beasts, but many lay along the road, their breath stolen only a few hours ago, glassy eyes staring into the void.
Gone were the lovely date palm branches that used to line this road. Their wasted trunks stood like ghostly sentinels now, guarding a ravaged city. What the hail and fire hadn’t destroyed, the locusts had finished. Only bleakness and desolation met my eyes.
My heart ached for the beauty and the lushness of my home from only a few months before. The former jewel and envy of the world, Egypt was no more. Barren now, she lay naked, stripped of her beauty, her children, her pride, and her power—the entire world witness to her violation and despair.
She was a desert, her golden-green fields now gray and desiccated. Tumbleweeds and sand already encroached upon my beautiful Iunu. The city of Ra, the city of jeweled gods and of the golden temple, now was only a city of despair, home to defeated deities and defeated people.
We walked for hours without rest, traveling the trade route running alongside a wide canal, thousands of feet churning up a haze of dust. I pulled a linen cloth from the wagon bed to drape over my head and keep the grit out of my mouth and nose.
As the road climbed, the ghosts of palm trees destroyed by hail and locusts became more and more sparse. Only hardy scrub brush and the occasional skeleton of a yew tree ushered us out of the Valley of the Nile.
When we reached the top of the ridge that offered our final view of the river, I slowed my steps and looked over my shoulder at the beautiful land that was no longer beautiful, nor bountiful. All that was left of my home was a wasteland, stripped of her green trees, her thriving farms, and the spirit of the people who worshipped her once-fertile soil.
The destruction made my stomach turn. What good could come of destroying Egypt? What kind of pernicious deity would ruin my home and my people? And here I was, at his mercy, stumbling along with this ragtag group of slaves, fleeing to the-gods-only-knew-where.
For the sake of my brother and my mother, I kept my face composed. The farther we traveled from Iunu, the smaller my mother looked. She seemed to be shrinking along with the outline of the pyramids in the distance, and I refused to add to her fears with my indecision.
I shrugged off my home, the Black Land, turned my face toward the road ahead, and placed one sandal in front of the other into the Red Land, the unknown.
22
16TH DAY OF NISAN
1446 BC
A teeming mass of people, animals, makeshift tents, and belongings stretched out around us on the shore of an enormous lake. After a few failed attempts, Shira and I had finally succeeded in creating a crude tent from two linen sheets, some rocks, and the side of our wagon.
Shira shaded her eyes with one hand, a slow smile spreading across her face as she took in the sight of the massive congregation. “We came in seventy strong.”
“Excuse me?” I swatted at a lazy fly buzzing near my ear and cringed at the memory of hundreds of bites.
“When Yaakov and his sons came to Egypt, there were but seventy in their group. Adonai multiplied us—well, just look around you.” She waved her hand in an arc. “I wonder if Pharaoh himself is even aware truly how many people have exited his kingdom.”
“I thought Pharaoh killed your sons? How is this possible if there are so few Hebrew men?”
Shira laughed. “You underestimate our women, Kiya.”
I wrenched my eyes from the throng to look at her. “What do you mean?”
“You remember the story I told you of the midwives?”
How could I forget?
“Well, I told you the midwives rebelled and that even many Egyptians were unwilling to turn in the newborn boys. But, even so, Pharaoh sent his guards to search houses, randomly checking for babies of any age. Each time a precious little one was taken and thrown into the Nile, the stronger the will of the women became. They vowed to give birth to ten children in place of those they had lost.”
The pain of losing a little one to such a gruesome death was unimaginable, but the drive to protect my brother had allowed me a glimpse into the strength of their hearts. I would have vowed the same.
“They became adept at hiding the babies. Some even took refuge in the limestone caves, among the tombs of the dead, until their children were weaned. The Egyptians thought the wails came from spirits of the dead.” Shira smirked. “Once the little ones were of an age where they could be put to work—as young as four or five—Pharaoh’s guards ignored them, figuring they were worth more alive than dead.”
I pictured children younger than Shoshana and Zayna toiling in the sun, and acid burned my throat.
“When that Pharaoh died, his successor did not have the same bloodlust, so the extermination law was not enforced much anymore. He decided we were sufficiently subdued and was ambitious enough to know that it was foolish to kill more of his workforce.”
What would Egypt do now, with the majority of that workforce gone? Who would build roads, temples, and cities? Who would dig the canals?
“From time to time, if whispers of rebellion arose, the guards would be sent out again to destroy babies, but it became rare over the years.”
I looked again at the millions surrounding me. “A quarter of Egypt must be camping here on this shore.”
“Possibly. And just think, after the Night of Death, how decimated that population is to begin with.” She shook her head, and tears glistened on her lashes.
“Does that make you sad? The destruction of the land that enslaved you? Killed your people?” I could not believe it did.
She sniffed. “Yes, it does. Egypt was a beautiful land. It is the land of my birth. Everything I have ever known was there. Just like you.”
I hadn’t considered that. Shira was as much a child of Egypt as I was.
“And I have known many good and kind Egyptians, like Shefu and Akensouris.” She patted Jumo’s donkey. “Many treated Hebrews with respect, as more than chattel to be bought and sold. My heart is heavy with the thought of their sadness, their hopelessness, and their desperation.”
I had forgotten about Shefu. Was he a firstborn? If not, today he would be grieving alongside Tekurah over the death of Talet. A stab of empathy surprised me at the thought of my former mistress weeping for her firstborn son. No matter the selfishness of the woman, no mother should outlive her child.
The depth and dreamlessness of my sleep caused disorientation for a few moments when I awoke. The sun had dipped only a little deeper into the west, but my sleep refreshed me, as if I had slept a whole night uninterrupted.
The sand molded to my body, its soft warmth cradling me—such a contrast to Tekurah’s tiled floor. And waking next to my mother . . . maybe I was dreaming . . . but no, she smiled and caressed my face.
“My girl,” she murmured, her voice still wrapped in sleep. “I missed you.”
My mother had been my world before the day that world crumbled. Every minute I had been in Tekurah’s house I had ached with missing her. But I could not speak it now. My mouth could not form the words.
Where was my mother that day, the day my father sold me? She never said good-bye, did not call my name, did not run after me. There must have been some explanation, some reason she could condone it—her love for me had always been written on her face. My splintered heart could not put one together with the other.
And the relationship with Shefu? Did she know the price I had paid for his love—the
humiliation, the abuse?
She trailed a soft finger across the bruise over my eyebrow, and I winced. Her eyes held questions, but I knew she feared the answers as well.
“I think I will go see what I can do to help Shira and Zerah.” I kept my voice low, remembering the linen walls around me.
She dropped her hand from my face.
I rummaged through a basket in the tent to find clean clothing, for I wore the same rugged slave garment Shefu had outfitted me with. I took one of my mother’s, the kalasaris of a tradeswoman, and pulled it over my head, tying it closed with a strip of blue cloth. It may not be a fine linen gown, but I sighed as I let the soft material ripple around my shoulders.
A smile hovered on my mother’s mouth. “I wondered if you were ever going to get rid of that hideous shift,” she said with a wink.
I shrugged.
“I wish we could wear some of the fine linens we are carting around in the wagon.” She sighed and lay back on the ground.
I snorted out a laugh.
“What?” She cocked her head.
“I just pictured the two of us in Tekurah’s gowns, jewels, and wigs, tromping around the desert, leading our donkeys.”
She joined in my hushed laughter until tears ran down our faces. Yet even our laughter seemed strained, on edge. Only a day away from the death of so many, my heart was too tender to voice the questions that needed answers, and I knew she felt the same. I would wait. But not much longer.
When I emerged from the tent, our campsite was deserted except for Shira and her elderly uncle, who huddled against a wagon wheel, weaving a rope from grasses he must have collected from the waterside. He gripped a great knot of strands between his toes as he braided. Already a good length of rope looped on the ground next to him.
He did not look up.
“Boker tov, Princess. Sleep well?” Shira winked.
I ignored her teasing. “Where is everyone?”
“Eben and Jumo have gone to trade for food. My mother and sisters are bathing at the canal. Shall we join them?”
“Yes, please. I need to be clean.” I sniffed my hair. It reeked of donkey and sand. “Tekurah wouldn’t even allow me in her presence.” We both laughed.
I peeked in the tent to see if my mother wanted to come with us, but her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful for the first time since I’d knocked on her door—I could not bring myself to disturb her.
Shira and I headed down to the canal. As we wove our way through the camps, the immensity of the mass of people overwhelmed me. I hoped Shira remembered how to get back to our wagons, for I was completely lost. Everyone jumbled together in a chaotic mess.
We followed another group of women that seemed to be heading toward the same purpose, winding their way through the melee toward the water.
Children splashed about, enjoying the coolness. Their mothers called out to stay close and watch for crocodiles. I shivered.
Crocodiles, those silent, swift hunters, were well known in canals such as these. I hoped there were grates protecting this stretch from the giant killers.
Many of the women bathed in the nude, as I did, but some were discreet like Shira, wearing a shift in the water. I didn’t see Zerah or the girls, but among this massive population, it would be hard to find anyone.
A small group of women gathered on the banks, their washed garments lying about them on the shore, drying in the midday sun. Shira approached them and in her strange melodic tongue, asked a question.
They all seemed to have an opinion about what she inquired—voices overlapped, growing louder. An argument broke out between two of them, and more than a few regarded me with open hostility.
Shira pleaded with them in her gentle voice, and to my amazement they stopped quarreling.
What an effect this girl had on people.
Something in her spirit soothed, calmed. Even Tekurah seemed more docile when in Shira’s care. She was like honey: everyone was drawn to her—myself included.
My mother was awake and helping Zerah and the girls prepare a meal when we returned.
“And where have you been?” Zerah pointed a large wooden spoon at us. A quiver ran through my chest, but she smiled. “It’s good you made it in time. Eben and Jumo were about to steal your portion.”
Jumo and Eben sat cross-legged on the ground next to each other, eating out of clay bowls. Jumo grinned at me, his mouth full, and shrugged. I made a face at him before I realized Eben’s eyes were on me as well. I turned my head quickly, hoping he missed the flush in my cheeks.
“What do we have to eat?” Shira peeked into the pot in the middle of the fire. “Mmm, smells lovely.”
“Eben found someone willing to trade some ibex for a gold necklace from one of the Egyptian packs.”
“Ibex? Don’t we have plenty of cattle or sheep for meat?” Shira filled a bowl and handed it to me.
There were thousands of sheep, cattle, and goats milling around the basin near the lake—surely enough to feed even this multitude.
“We must be careful not to overuse our resources,” Eben said.
My mother sat down across from me. “It’s only an eleven- or twelve-day walk to Canaan, is it not?”
Eben nodded. “It is.”
“Then surely we wouldn’t use all the animals in that time, would we?”
“Possibly not.” He lifted a shoulder. “But if everyone eats whatever they want, and the journey takes longer than expected, we will be without meat at all. There must be some restraint, or there will be anarchy.”
“Some of the women at the canal said we may not head for Canaan.”
Eben raised a brow. “Where else would we go?”
“Some say we will go back.” Shira broke off a piece of flatbread. “That we will invade Egypt.”
“Why would you do that? How would slaves invade the most powerful country in the world?” My mother’s golden eyes were wide and troubled.
I placed my hand on her arm. “Mosheh was a general as a young man, Mother, in Pharaoh’s own army.”
Zerah nodded. “The Kushites, the Syrians, the Canaanites, they all feared him. Many tribes gave up without a fight when his army invaded their villages. There was talk that he was a contender for the throne at one point . . . until he disappeared.”
I glanced at a few of the Hebrews gathered around their own cook fires, seeing tattered clothes and the markings of years of sun on their weathered faces. Most of them had not fared as well as Shira’s family during their years of captivity.
Here they were, following a leader they had probably never seen, trusting that he would take them to a freedom they had never known. Instead of sheep, Mosheh now led a shabby army of slaves, blindly following him into this forsaken desert.
As if he could hear my thoughts, Eben said, “We may look like slaves, but we have been hardened by our service. And many of us have been training, for months, to prepare for whatever may come.”
Zerah glared at her son with what seemed to be frustration. Had she not known Eben had been developing military skills?
Ignoring her, he continued, “Regardless of whether we turn back or go forward, there will be conflict.” He pointed to the northeast. “If we go up the Way of Horus to Canaan, there are garrisons all along the road. It’s most likely we will take another route.”
How long would we wander out here in the wilderness? We could very well run out of food. The beer was already running low, and the grain we carried would stretch only so far. Was this sorcerer Mosheh able to conjure bread out of rocks? Fresh water from air?
The fear that my family, led by me, faced more death and destruction pulled at me, weighing me down. In Egypt we would be traitors, but at least there we had Pharaoh to protect us.
Yet, Pharaoh hadn’t really protected us, had he? The Lord of the Two Lands was powerless to keep his people from starvation, economic ruin, and pestilence . . . or from death.
Maybe the Hebrew God, with all his power to destroy, might be the bes
t protection for my family, but would he still deign to protect us, as strangers among his people?
The dark glances from the women on the shore tugged at my thoughts. They didn’t want me here. I was their enemy, their slavemaster, their oppressor. A traitor among my own people and a foreigner among theirs. Tekurah may have had the power to hurt my body, but this God the Hebrews served—what kind of a master would he be?
Before Shira and I finished our ibex stew, loud shouts echoed all around. We stood to see what had caused the commotion.
Young men walked through the camp, yelling as they went, calling heads of families to a meeting. They were instructed to move to the closest banner. Fifty or so makeshift banners lifted on the points of spears, hoisted aloft by men standing on wagons. These banners were spread throughout the multitude. Symbols decorated each banner—symbols that made no sense to me. Two banners stood in our vicinity, on one a coiled snake and on the other, a lion’s head.
Eben was the head of his family. Some discussion followed whether Jumo should go, since he was Egyptian, but Eben insisted that he should.
Eben’s obvious disdain for all Egyptians didn’t seem to extend to Jumo. Of course, no one resisted my brother’s charms, but somehow Eben didn’t seem to fit into that category in my mind. The two men walked off together, Jumo hobbling deftly on his crutches. Thinking of Jumo as a man was foreign to me. He was my older brother, two years my senior, yet I had spent so much of my childhood protecting him. Now that my father was gone, he was indeed the head of our family—disabled or not.
My mother whispered in my ear before retreating to the shelter of our tent. “No matter where we go, we should not just be sitting here.”
She was right. We should flee as fast as possible away from Pharaoh and his chariots, the most feared army in the world. As the shadows stretched long across the sand, millions of pairs of eyes kept diligent watch on the horizon. Each time a breeze stirred up dust in the west, my heart quickened.
Counted With the Stars Page 15
