When I was thirsty, before Mosheh turned the bitter waters sweet, all I could think of was water. But there was plenty now—every jug, every skin-bag filled at the stream—and although it was rationed, I did not ache for it as before.
Therefore, free to dwell on the gnaw of my stomach, I fantasized about the banquets I had enjoyed in my parents’ villa . . . was it really all that long ago? Roasted beef, goose, and fish fresh from the Nile, accompanied by the choicest baked apples laden with cinnamon, spiced pears, fresh cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, garlic—and fresh breads of every variety, warm from the ovens and stuffed with apricots, raisins, and dates. By the third day away from the edge of the now-sweet springs and without a full meal, my daydreaming turned to more meager fare. Even the plates of plain bread and a small fish accompanied by watery beer in Tekurah’s home seemed like a paradise lost.
Zerah and Eben had already used the goats and sheep for food, the last animal sacrificed on the edge of the bitter stream to celebrate the miracle and the salvation of the girls. There was no more meat left among us, only what could be hunted in the desert.
Millions of people tromping through the hunting grounds did little to help the men forage for food. They were forced to travel out a few miles, away from the main group, to find animals not frightened away by the large human contingent. Eben traded as many wares as possible for food and grains, but we were not the only ones scraping the bottom of our reserves.
Shoshana sidled up to me. “I’m hungry, Kiya.”
“Me, too, sweetness.” I petted her hair, so like Eben’s with its dark waves. Was his as soft as Shoshana’s?
“Why won’t Mosheh let us use the rest of the animals for meat?”
“There are just too many of us. If we all started butchering animals with abandon, there wouldn’t be any left.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess Mosheh knows what he’s doing.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I certainly hope so; this group is not going to last much longer without meat. There is going to be rebellion.”
She nodded slowly, her large brown eyes too aged for her small face. “My aunt and uncle are saying we should have never left Egypt, where the rivers were full of fish and fowl. My aunt even said it would have been better to die there than out here in the wilderness, where our bodies will be food for the jackals.”
“At least someone will be eating,” I said, then clamped my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide at the carelessness of my words.
Shoshana’s little-girl laugh suddenly echoed off the rocks around us on the hillside.
I let loose, and we laughed together until my sides hurt. Morbid as it was, it felt good to smile again. When we finally calmed down and wiped the tears out of our eyes, she laid her head against my arm.
“I’m still hungry, though,” she said.
“Me, too.” I tapped my chin. “How about we do something else to keep our minds off food?”
“What can we do?” she asked, interest piqued.
“You know, I am impressed with how you can play the lyre.”
“Do you want to learn?” Her eyes twinkled.
“Do you think you can teach me?”
“Eben says I will be a great teacher.”
“Well then.” I spread my arms wide. “Here is your first student.”
We perched on an enormous boulder on the edge of camp. I had never played a musical instrument before, and I was as eager to learn as she was to teach. We spent the entire afternoon playing the lyre. By the time Shira came to find us, my fingers were numb and it was dusk, but I played Shira a simple tune while Shoshana sang.
Shira smiled gently. “That is one of my favorite lullabies. Our mother sang that to us every night when we were little.”
“It is lovely. What do the words mean?” I had picked up some Hebrew words, but many still eluded me.
“It says: As the stars in the sky, as the sand on the sea, so I will make your people, if you will follow only me.”
I put the lyre down on the rock beside me. The sun was slipping behind the curtain of dusk. One or two bright stars to the north already blinked the sleep out of their eyes, soon to be joined by millions of their brothers. And around us, campfires and torches were bursting into bright existence against the dusk. Stars in the sky. That term certainly seemed to fit the teeming mass of people and tents and animals.
“That was the promise given to Avraham, the father of our people,” Shira said.
There were millions here; I could imagine that after generations, they possibly could rival the number of stars in the heavens. Especially if others, like us, joined in.
Would I ever be counted as one of the stars? Perhaps if Eben—?
No. How could I even think such a thing? I was drawn to Eben, pulled by a force that left me breathless at times. But he still considered me his enemy, didn’t he? He stayed away, across the fire from me, never sitting too near, never walking too close.
Yet at night, through the flickering curtain of the campfire, our eyes met again and again. A brief glance, then one more, and each time, the glances became longer, more lingering, each of us attempting to pretend that we weren’t watching the other. The silent dance we performed each night intoxicated me, and I could barely wait for the sun to go down, to drink in more.
He said nothing to me outside of the mundane travel conversation, but even small talk made my stomach flutter. I assigned a thousand deeper meanings to every simple word and every brief glance.
His friendship with Jumo had grown stronger. They were almost inseparable. It bothered me sometimes, but then guilt tugged at me. How could I begrudge my brother a friendship?
Most of my life I had been my brother’s only friend, his champion, his protector. I knew him like no other person. He loved me, but now it seemed like he preferred Eben’s company to mine. Since Eben was almost pointed in his avoidance of me, Jumo followed suit. Whether it was purposeful or not did not matter. I was jealous—and it was not only Jumo’s attention I coveted.
A bird flew over me, swooping low, missing my head by mere inches. Then another twittered as it passed to the left, streaking by in a flurry of brown and white. I twisted my body around on the boulder and gasped.
When the flies and locusts had invaded Egypt, I had watched them swarm across the horizon, but the sight of millions of birds in one enormous flock swooping down into the valley around us was indescribable.
Shira, Shoshana, and I lay flat on the rock, covering our heads with our hands, but peeking out through tangled hair and trembling fingers.
A bird landed in front of us, hitting the ground so hard feathers sprayed high into the air. They were mottled brown-and-white quail, and all of them—there must be millions—were wildly spiraling to their deaths all over the camp. People shielded themselves with jars or baskets, or hid beneath wagons.
Some quail managed to slow their descent and hovered low before alighting on any available perch. Birds covered the ground. Many people braved the onslaught to grab as many as they could carry, stuffing carcasses into the baskets and jars they had been using as shields.
When the invasion stopped and mothers were assured no more missiles would be careening out of the sky, children emerged from their hiding places and, squealing with delight, began to net as many quail as they could with their linens and blankets.
The invaders were already being defeathered and roasted over thousands upon thousands of campfires as we picked our way through camp. The rich smell wafted all around, teasing a loud growl from my dormant stomach.
When our bellies were full almost to overflowing, and another evening of Eben and I avoiding glances above the pop and spark of glowing embers of the dying campfire was finished, my mother asked me about Eben.
Usually she fell asleep long before me, but tonight she was restless. The stars twinkled through the flap of the tent, and I was considering them once again when she spoke in a hushed voice.
“What is between the two of you?�
� she asked.
My mother was intuitive; I should have guessed she would notice. There was no cause to deny it.
“Truthfully, I am not sure,” I whispered, avoiding her eye even in the dark.
“Has he approached you?”
“No.”
“And why not?” She seemed curiously offended.
“We have been wandering around aimlessly starving to death—is it really the time for such a thing?”
“Perhaps not.” Her tone cooled.
“And I am not . . .”
“You are not what?”
“I am not Hebrew.”
“What does that matter?” I could almost hear her glare in the blackness.
“Shira says that Yahweh wants them to only marry their own.”
She snorted. “For what reason?”
“She said it has something to do with other gods.”
“Is Yahweh afraid of other gods?” she asked.
“No, we’ve all seen how powerful he is. I don’t think it’s fear.”
“What then?”
“The way Shira describes it is that Yahweh refuses to let his people follow any other gods. With intermarriage comes intermixing of gods.”
“Isn’t it foolish to just have one god? What if that one fails? It’s only smart to protect yourself by worshipping as many gods as one can afford.”
“Well, we haven’t been able to afford many sacrifices in the last couple of years, Mother, do you really think any of them are protecting you anymore?”
“I’m not sure.” Even in the dark, I could see she was holding Shefu’s necklace and stroking it with her thumb. Hathor, the goddess of love, was ever present around her neck.
“Shira’s god brought us out of Egypt and through the Red Sea, gave us fresh water, and quail stacked knee-high—what more do you need?” I asked.
“Some bread would be nice.”
We giggled quietly in the dark, and I was glad that it felt natural and free to be laughing with my mother. Somehow it seemed as though the journey through the sea had washed my heart of bitterness toward her and filled the empty places with a soothing tranquility. Strange that although we still wandered in a desert of uncertainty, I had never felt more at home.
The cries of children ripped through my dream. My heart was racing before my eyes opened. Shouts surrounded our tent.
“What is it? What is it?”
My mother’s head appeared through the opening of the tent, bringing with her a gush of brilliant sunlight. Joy spread across her face in juxtaposition to the loud cries all around.
“Kiya! Wake up! You must come see! He did it!”
“Who did what?” I blinked against the glare of the morning sun.
“Come.” She beckoned wildly. “Come see for yourself.”
I wrapped my light wool blanket around my shoulders but shivered at the chill in the desert air when I emerged from the tent.
It was snowing.
Delicate white flakes fluttered all around me. It was pure delight that caused the children all over the camp to scream. They were chasing the snowflakes, tongues out, gathering handfuls to toss at each other. Their wild play had stirred the flakes into the air.
But the sky was a pure, deep blue. Not a cloud hovered above us or capped the mountains that embraced the valley.
This could not be snow. It was cool this morning, as it was every morning in the desert, but certainly not cold enough to freeze.
It was not only the children who gathered handfuls of the flakes. Everyone had a basket or a jar or a linen bag they were filling with the snow—or whatever it was.
My mother seemed to be truly enjoying the melee. Her eyes danced as Shoshana and Zayna flew by, shrieks of laughter trailing behind.
“What is going on, Mother?”
“Yahweh did it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yahweh provided bread.” She turned her brilliant smile to me. “I asked for bread, and he provided.” Her face was an echo of Jumo’s as he watched the Cloud every day, a mixture of awe and peace. Peace that I had never seen in her countenance. What was the word Shira used? Shalom.
A few flakes landed on the blanket around my shoulders. I took a pinch and placed them on my tongue.
Sweet. Delicious. It was like the best of honey and spices all mixed together. It melted on my tongue with a smooth, velvety texture. Craving more, I bent down to scoop it up, for it was thick on the ground. When I smashed a handful between my palms, it stuck together, forming a flat round.
“What is it?” I took another bite. It was warm as sunshine and smooth as butter going down my throat.
“No one knows, but we’ve been told that Mosheh said Yahweh sent it and that Yahweh is going to send it to us every day. Every day! Can you believe it? We won’t be hungry anymore.”
We gathered as much of the sweet substance as we could, and we were told that there would be a limit to how much we could gather, but that each day more would appear.
It was hard to believe, but the next morning we awoke again to a field of white outside our tent doors. And the morning after that, and again the next day.
No one knew what to call the delicious substance, so we called it manna. It was beyond earthly description and could be baked into bread better than any Egyptian sweet roll. I didn’t even miss the nuts and fruits that were usually folded into such a delicacy.
No honey was needed to sweeten it, no spices to heighten the aromas, no salt to liven the taste; it was everything we needed to eat. It filled me up and satisfied every craving. I was never so full of energy, and I noticed that everyone around me looked healthier than ever before. Their eyes were bright, their skin glowed. It was so good to see my mother looking vigorous again, her golden eyes snapping with fire. Zayna and Shoshana filled out again, their once-emaciated frames filled with childlike softness again. Gone were the sharp cheekbones and dark circles under their eyes.
A few greedy people found the reason for Mosheh’s warning: anyone who collected more than his share was greeted with a pot of maggots in the morning. Therefore, we were all careful to take only what we could eat each day—except for the sixth day, before Shabbat, when two days’ portions were allowed. To our great surprise, the manna collected before rest days stayed pure and fresh through the next evening.
Shira and I spent the days trying to invent new ways to cook the manna. We found it thickened stews made from either the leftover dried meat of the quail or the odd desert animal Eben ran across with the hunting teams.
A few days after the manna arrived, Eben returned from one such hunting excursion with a quarter of a mountain goat wrapped in a thin blanket slung across his shoulders and disturbing news on his lips.
“We saw a scouting party not far off,” he told me after laying down the meat on the makeshift table I had cleared.
“Scouts? From Egypt?” My stomach sunk.
“No, I don’t think so. They did not look Egyptian. Maybe a local tribe of Midianites.”
“Are the Midianites hostile?”
“Not particularly. I’m sure they are just keeping an eye on us to make sure we are the ones who aren’t hostile.”
He asked for a cloth to wipe his hands and brushed my palm as he took it from me, throwing my path of thought into disarray.
“Oh” was all I could say. I tried to say more, but no sound came out of my mouth. This was the closest I had been to him since that day on the beach.
I dropped my eyes to gather my wits. What were we talking about? I busied myself by sharpening a knife on a stone. When he said nothing more, I looked up to find him watching me with those stormy green eyes, a small crooked smile on his face.
“What?” I asked.
“You look . . .” He paused.
I raised my brows “I look . . . ?”
“Healthier.”
“I look healthier?”
He looked down quickly, then a look of confidence, or perhaps release, crossed his face.
�
�You look beautiful.” He held me in his gaze, locking me there, breathless, speechless. The multitude around us dissolved. We were alone.
He stepped closer, without a glance around to see if we were being watched. We were, without a doubt, but I did not care.
“Shoshana tells me she taught you to play the lyre.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. “A bit, yes, but I am not very good. She’s a much better teacher than I am a student.”
“May I pick up where she left off and teach you more?”
“If you don’t care that your ears may be sore after a few minutes with me.” I laughed.
“Oh now, I doubt that. Shoshana said you are a quick learner.” His playful smile made my heart stutter.
“Oh, did she now?”
He nodded. “And she said you can sing, too.”
I laughed. “That little girl is exaggerating.”
“Shoshana never lies . . . at least, not to me.” He cocked a brow.
He was right, Shoshana worshipped at Eben’s feet. I could not imagine her telling him even a half truth.
“I’d best change my tunic from the hunt. But tomorrow—” His eyes twinkled, teasing as he leaned in and handed back the cloth and running a covert finger down the inside of my wrist as he did. “You and I will have our first lesson.”
Leaving me trembling in exquisite confusion, he turned and disappeared into his tent.
My mother sat cross-legged across the campsite with Zerah, carding wool gathered from the flocks of the Levite tribe. There was a question in her raised brows.
Attempting to appear unaffected, I shrugged my shoulders. I no more understood Eben’s change of attitude than she. She shook her head as she resumed brushing the wool back and forth, tugging at the unruly strands with a little smile on her face.
I tried, without success, to avoid thoughts of Eben by trimming the meat, but all I could think of was the thrill of finally receiving a smile from his lips, meant only for me. I relived the conversation over and over in my mind as I worked.
Midianites. Eben had never finished telling me about the scouts they had seen this afternoon. Were they simply curious about where we were going? Or perhaps now that we were no longer hounded by Pharaoh, the desert tribes that inhabited this lonely wilderness meant to take up the pursuit.
Counted With the Stars Page 23
