Counted With the Stars

by Connilyn Cossette

  I nodded my assent, but a shiver slithered up my back.

  She stood transfixed. “It’s like we are on the edge of something. Something wonderful.”

  Or something terrible.

  “Look.” She pointed at the swirling pillar of blue fire. “It stopped moving. I wonder if that is near where Mosheh and Aharon are.”

  “Aharon?”

  “His brother. Haven’t I told you that Aharon speaks for Mosheh?”

  “Can’t he speak for himself?”

  She shrugged. “Mosheh has some sort of trouble speaking clearly. Aharon simply helps him vocalize what Yahweh reveals.”

  “Why would your god choose a prophet that can’t speak?” I regretted the sharp accusation as soon as it flew past my lips.

  She ignored my rudeness. “I don’t know. But sometimes it seems to me like Yahweh chooses to work through the most unlikely of people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked into my eyes. “Our forefather Avraham was the son of an idolmaker, too old to have children, yet Yahweh blessed him with the child of promise. Yaakov stole the birthright from his brother, and yet he is the father of our people.”

  She turned back to the flaming cloud. “Perhaps Adonai chose Mosheh to show us all this is not about Mosheh, but about Yahweh.”

  The companies of Hebrew tribes worked to situate themselves in columns in front of the pillar of fire. The effort was anything but smooth. In fact, it was a disaster, millions of people jockeying to keep themselves and their livestock in lines hundreds wide. People mixed with bleating sheep, thousands of cattle, every shape and size of wagon, pushcart, and oxcart. Even the strange irony of a few chariots drawn by fine white horses driven by bedraggled slaves stood out among the throng. Most were on foot, the majority of them unshod, although some sported beaded and gilded sandals to match their recently inherited fine linen clothing and golden jewelry.

  The blue fire burned so bright we snuffed our useless torches in the dirt. Shira went to walk with her family, and I pushed the torch into the cart behind Jumo’s donkey. Jumo, still silent, faced the swirling light, his silhouette clear against the brightness.

  The mass ahead of us finally shuffled forward, so I tapped the donkey on his hindquarters. He responded with a jolt, perhaps as spellbound as Jumo by the phenomenon. The cart jerked forward, and a back wheel slammed against a large rock partially buried in the sand. One of the spokes shattered, and the wheel broke free of the axle.

  My mother and I tried to grab the cart before it toppled, but we were too late. Our baskets and clay pots tumbled onto the ground, spilling linens, clothing, and food into the dirt. Jumo slid off the donkey and tried to help right the cart—to no avail. Shira’s family was ahead of us and unaware of our predicament. I called to them, but the maelstrom of shouts and animal noises swallowed my voice. We might lose them in the crowd, and once they were lost, we would not find them again for a long while.

  “Let’s try again to lift the cart, Mother. Jumo, can you get the wheel?”

  Jumo limped to the wheel while my mother and I attempted to lift the cart. Hundreds of people streamed about us, gawking, but none offered help.

  I pressed my feet against the rock that waylaid us and pushed at the cart with my back. To my great surprise, it moved.

  Astonished, I looked around. An Egyptian held up our cart as Jumo pushed the wheel back onto the axle. The man instructed Jumo to press rocks and sand around the wheel to hold it in place while he retrieved a spare one from his own wagon.

  The man turned to me with a wide smile. “Weren’t you traveling with friends? Perhaps you should alert them.”

  “Hmm? Oh . . . yes.” I turned to my mother. “I’ll be right back.”

  It took me a while to catch up to Shira’s family, but luckily they had stopped already, wondering what had happened to us.

  “I will help, Ima.” Eben handed the lead rope of the black horse to his mother and gestured with a flourish. “Lead the way.”

  Pushing against the relentless stream of bodies, animals, and vehicles was nearly impossible. Eben moved ahead of me, snaking through the mob. I restrained the temptation to grasp the back of his tunic for fear I would lose him in the chaos.

  The Egyptian had already fitted his spare wheel to our cart. He was tall, almost as tall as Akhum. He dressed in plainer clothing, just a simple linen kilt, but was nearly as handsome as Akhum as well, with short-cropped black hair and wide shoulders.

  “Thank you so much, Sayaad. I don’t know what we would have done had you not stopped,” my mother was saying. “Kiya, I’m so glad you made it back. I was worried about you. Sayaad has been so wonderful fixing the cart for us.”

  “It was nothing at all, my lady.” He bowed low. “As head of my master’s stables, I was more than once charged with repairing broken wheels.”

  “You are a slave?” I blurted.

  He laughed and tipped his head toward me. “Yes, I was a slave. But we are all free now, are we not?” He glanced at Eben, who stiffened beside me. “I had better get back to my own wagon. Are you all right to move on?” Sayaad gestured to the east.

  “Yes—”

  Eben interrupted with a cold “We are fine, thank you” and then shocked me by wrapping his long fingers around my arm and turning me back toward the cart.

  He released me as if his hand were on fire. “Jumo, do you need help mounting the donkey?”

  Jumo shook his head, expertly pulled his unruly body onto the donkey, and swung one leg over its back. I handed him his crutches. A strange little smile played about his lips.

  My wide eyes and raised palms questioned him, but he just shook his head with a smirk and turned his face toward the light.

  25

  After a long night following the unearthly blue fire eastward, I was almost grateful for the year and a half of hard work under Tekurah’s hand. No longer was I a soft maiden with tender feet and weak muscles—my body was hard and strong, my feet callused and sure. Everyone around me, with the exception of a few stray Egyptians, had lived a life of harsh servitude. Our bodies were prepared for days of grueling marching in the wilderness.

  As the sunlight grew stronger, the fire at the head of the multitude transformed. It became an enormous column of cloud, shimmering an unearthly bluish-white as it roiled and swirled across the landscape. I was glad to be far back in the throng and away from the towering, ghostly column.

  The trade road stretched out endlessly to the east. A few hills lay to the south of us, but as far as the eye could see in all other directions, the land was barren. No streams, no trees; only a few squat shrubs broke the monotony of the view.

  When the Cloud finally stopped during the heat of the day, we prepared a quick repast of the flatbread from last night’s supper, some of the last of the water we carried in our wagons, and salted meat from Zerah’s stores. We set up our shelters quickly and rested, knowing that sundown was only a few hours away and the Cloud may not wait for twilight to start moving again.

  I woke after three or four hours of satisfying rest and lay on my mat for a while, listening to the overlap of voices and languages: men arguing, women gossiping, the joyous sounds of children scampering about, playing games of stick-throwing, chase, and hide-and-seek. The sounds of free people enjoying their life without shackles. I envied them. A tether seemed to be latched somewhere under my ribcage. I felt the pull of it more and more with each step I took away from my homeland. The enormous cloud hovered to the east of us. I turned my back to it.

  Stretching, I came out of our little shelter, leaving my mother to sleep and therefore avoiding the brittle tension between us. Although I understood the reason for her choices, my heart still ached from the revelation of lies, secrets, and betrayal. I had wanted to hear that she fought for me, that she tried to follow me, or rescue me, that my father was the only one to blame. But with her admission, my mother had destroyed the image of perfection I had built in my mind.

  Jumo emer
ged from the tent he shared with Eben with his usual big smile. When would he shave that beard shadowing his face? I didn’t like it.

  He tousled my hair and put his arm around my neck. “Nice . . . day. Paint . . . for . . . you?”

  Only Jumo could act as if racing through the desert, fleeing from a vicious army, was completely normal.

  I laughed. “Please do paint for me. It will keep my mind off this.” I gestured around me. “It’s been so long since I have watched you work.”

  He smiled and asked for his box of paints and brushes. The box, carved with intricate swoops and swirls and scenes of foreign gods, was a gift from my father from a voyage in the Northern Sea, and was Jumo’s greatest treasure.

  Our father, though disappointed in Jumo’s affliction, had been as charmed by his sweet spirit as the rest of us and had doted on him. Did Jumo grieve for him? I was afraid to ask for fear of revealing my new knowledge about the man I had called Master.

  I fished the box out from under a pile of goatskins given to us by Shira’s family, whose laden-down wagons overflowed with gifts pushed at them by desperate Egyptians. My poor little donkey pulled this wagon along the bumpy trade road, carrying all the spoils of Egypt. He lay in the sand now, legs folded underneath him, enjoying his rest. I ran my fingers up his prickly mane and he huffed at me. His white-tipped ears twitched, but he kept his eyes closed.

  I gave the box to Jumo and settled on a nearby overturned basket, a piece of scavenged flatbread in my hands, ready to watch the magic of my brother with a paintbrush in his hand.

  Sitting on the ground, he tossed his crutches to the side and winced as he crossed his unruly legs with his hands.

  He began with a large jar, empty of the precious last of the beer we’d brought with us. I wondered if we might have time to make more—we still had a few loaves of barley bread tucked in the wagon bed. We should be able to let it ferment, even on the move.

  Forced to hold one arm steady with the other, his movements at first seemed awkward, but once Jumo’s brush touched the jar, it flew. I had forgotten just how transporting it was to watch him work. When Jumo painted, his disabilities vanished.

  He decorated the upper rim with blue lotus flowers—so lifelike I could almost breathe in their intoxicating scent. Then he painted a scene of three people, walking together, donkeys plodding along behind, pulling overflowing carts, an illustration of this sojourn from our homeland. Looking closer at the faces of the people, I recognized the three of us. My mother and I walked with downcast faces, but Jumo’s enormous smile blazed, even in still life.

  No matter that I did my best to paint myself glad about our escape, to protect him from the crippling grief that overcame me at times—he knew. Jumo watched. He listened. Perhaps being unable to verbalize easily made him more aware of his surroundings—more perceptive than the rest of us.

  “Jumo . . .”

  His rich brown eyes locked on mine with sudden intensity. “I . . . had . . . dream. Go . . . with . . . Hebrews.”

  I gasped and held his gaze. I whispered, “You had a dream that we should go with the Hebrews?”

  He nodded, slow and firm.

  “Before the Night of Death?”

  He dipped his chin again.

  He’d come so willingly, without a word. I had assumed that he simply trusted me, but Jumo had experienced some sort of mystic vision.

  “This dream, what—?

  “Shalom, good morning!” Shira came up behind me, cutting off my questions.

  “Or . . . well, good afternoon. Isn’t it a lovely day?” she trilled, seemingly, like Jumo, oblivious to the prospect of Pharaoh’s army hurdling over the western ridge at any moment. When she saw the magnificent artwork Jumo had created on the jar, she caught her breath. “Oh! Jumo! Did you paint this?”

  He grinned at her, never too humble to enjoy someone discovering his talent for the first time.

  She crouched on the ground next to the jar. “May I? Is it dry?”

  When he nodded, she traced the flowers around the rim with a delicate finger, entranced by their beauty. “As if one could reach out and pick it . . . extraordinary.”

  “Jumo is a natural artist, never taught by a master.” I didn’t even try to resist gloating. I beamed at my brother. “His art was the main draw to my mother’s market stall.”

  “I can certainly see why, don’t you, Eben?” Shira looked over my shoulder.

  There he was, lurking again, glowering.

  “Yes.” His eyes locked on mine for a brief moment, then flicked back to his sister. “Jumo shared some of his other drawings with me. They are well done.”

  I blinked, stunned. I knew Eben and Jumo were tentmates, but had they become friends? Although they were the same age, I did not see them as compatible in any way. They were in different realms—Jumo with his effortless, warm spirit; Eben, abrasive and bitter. What could they possibly have in common?

  “Well . . . done? You . . . wish . . . you . . . could . . . paint . . . like . . . me!” Jumo threw back his head and laughed loudly.

  Eben’s face transformed, and his green eyes softened.

  A fissure had started inside me the day he killed the cobra to protect me, lengthened whenever he held me in his gaze, and widened when I heard of his pain at his father’s death. But at the genuine smile on his face, warm melodic laugh, and his obvious affection for my brother, it became a gaping need that threw me into complete disarray. My resolution to part ways with the Hebrews and their fearsome god wavered.

  However, I worried the chasm between us was too wide to bridge.

  26

  10TH DAY OUT OF EGYPT

  Sayaad strode into our campsite with the carcasses of two gray geese hanging from his large fists. “Good day!” He handed the geese to my mother with a bow. “These girls have not laid since we’ve been traveling, so I thought I would share.”

  “Oh my, thank you, Sayaad.” My mother tipped her head in gratitude. “Won’t you join us?”

  “I will!” He grinned, and then winked at me. “I must admit that may have been my true motive.”

  I raised my brows and turned away.

  “I’ve been searching for you for the three days we have been camped here,” he said.

  She gestured for him to sit. “Please then, do stay. Kiya and I are working on the meal.”

  I scrutinized Sayaad out of the corner of my eye as he sat down on an overturned crate nearby, arms crossed and long legs stretched toward me. Obviously he was a man used to working outside, with skin burnished bronze and thick kohl protecting his eyes. Broad-shouldered like Akhum, he was strong and carried himself with the aura of one aware of his masculine appeal. But unlike my betrothed, his eyes were an intense blue, like lapis stone. I had never seen the like in any Egyptian. Against his dark skin, they glowed, almost like the pillar of fire in the desert night.

  “Sayaad, are you from Iunu, as we are?” My mother placed the geese on our makeshift table fashioned from a plank and two overturned clay pots, then sat cross-legged in the sand.

  “No, I came from a small town farther up the Nile, on a small branch.”

  “You were near Avaris?” She plucked goose feathers and placed them in the basket.

  I knelt, picked up the other goose, and began tugging feathers too, glad of the occupation for my hands.

  “No, a bit farther west. My master was a vintner. The soil there was perfect for wine.”

  My mouth watered at the memory of Shefu’s crisp wine on my tongue. I glanced at my mother. Her eyes stayed on the goose, but she swallowed hard.

  “So why are you here?” I chanced a look at those blue eyes.

  They pierced my own for a moment. “I couldn’t stay away.”

  Tingles whispered up my spine, causing me to stammer. “Uh . . . uh . . . no, I mean, how did you come to be among the Hebrews?”

  A smirk pulled at his lips. I could tell he enjoyed throwing me off-center. “My master was a firstborn son and died on the Night of D
eath. His wife was too grief-stricken to care that most of the slaves in the household disappeared the next morning and so”—he shrugged—“I left too.”

  “What made you decide to join this journey?”

  “We heard the tales of the Hebrews fleeing Egypt. I figured one escape was as good as any other. So I came with a group of other refugees from my master’s household. A small group on foot had little problem catching up with millions of men, women, children, and animals.” He circled his hand in the air.

  “Why not go home to your own family?” I tried to keep my eyes on the goose, instead of his smooth, clean jaw, the cleft in his chin, and the strength of his bared chest.

  “My family is gone. Dead, long ago.”

  I caught my breath, although the truth did not surprise me. Death was everywhere, it seemed. It surrounded us like a mist. “I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged and brushed away my apology. “It was long ago, I only know Egypt now.”

  This did surprise me, although a slight accent slipped through his fluency. “You are not Egyptian?”

  “My mother was. We lived in a small village in Moabite territory. I was kidnapped by slave traders and brought to Egypt after my village was destroyed by marauders.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten.”

  “So young.” My mother shook her head, tongue clucking against her teeth.

  “Old enough.” He chuckled.

  I glanced at him. “Old enough for what?”

  “To remember where I came from and plan to escape when I had the chance.” He bobbed his head. “And so, here I am.”

  Sayaad told us of his master’s vineyards, obviously proud of his own part in their production. “My master was the richest vintner in the Lower Delta region. Of course, my fellow slaves and I made sure to collect our fair share before we left.”

  “Did his wife give you treasures like many of the other Egyptian masters?” I asked.

  Sayaad shrugged and raised his eyebrows. He wore thick gold bands on both well-muscled arms, two gold chains about his neck, and leather sandals that rivaled any of Shefu’s. “More or less.”