Counted With the Stars

by Connilyn Cossette

  The promise of deep friendship—of love—with Eben that I had glimpsed yesterday afternoon during our lesson had been a mirage, yet my thirst for it was acute.

  Had I been wrong? Eben seemed to think Yahweh had called me here into this desert, pulled me along on this journey for some purpose. Jumo had received some sort of dream telling him to come with the Hebrews, but I had come of my own will. Hadn’t I?

  Even my mother seemed drawn to Yahweh; many times a day I noticed her watching the Cloud, her face a mixture of awe and peace. Did my mother hear the call of Eben’s god as well?

  The sun was very low in the sky, painting the rocks around us red. I told Jumo we needed to head back to camp, and he agreed.

  I called out to my mother and began gathering our plants and tubers into a basket. She did not answer.

  I called again.

  Only silence returned.

  A deep chill shot up my spine. “Jumo, where’s Mother?”

  Eyes wide, he shook his head.

  I walked downstream, my feet in the cool water. It flowed shallow here, bubbling on the many rocks. Twenty paces along, I saw her, facedown in the stream, black hair flowing around her, blood and water staining her white-linen dress crimson.

  I tried to scream but no sound came forth, only a strangled cry drowned out by the frantic heartbeat pounding in my ears. I struggled to turn her over. Her body was limp and heavy.

  “No. No. No. Mother!”

  Her graceful throat was slit. Lips white and parted. Her eyes—so like my own—open and unseeing.

  I opened my mouth, a desperate howl forming somewhere near the bottom of my soul, but then someone put an arm around my neck. How did Jumo find me so quickly? The arm tightened, my air supply squeezed. I tore at the arm with my fingernails, but my efforts did nothing to relieve the pressure.

  Six men, all with veiled faces, surrounded me with crudely fashioned swords in their hands. One of those swords had killed my mother. One of these men had stolen her from me and from Jumo.

  I struggled against the one who held me, kicking at his shins, biting at the hand that covered my mouth. I managed to slide out of his hold for a moment, but he seized me again with an iron grip.

  “Quiet, girl, or you will end up like that beauty,” a voice rasped into my ear. He spoke my language but with an unfamiliar accent.

  When I obeyed, he unwrapped his arm from around my throat, turning me around as he did. I gasped as precious air tore into my lungs.

  “My, my. So very lovely.” He stroked my cheek, and I closed my eyes against the lurid intimacy of the gesture. Nausea welled in my throat. My fate may very well be worse than my mother’s.

  One of the men came up behind my captor and spoke quietly into his ear.

  “All right, you have a deal. I believe you may have a good point. The other one was wasted. Take her and tie her up—tight. She’s a slippery one. We can’t let such a delicate flower escape into the desert, now, can we?”

  The second man grasped my arm and put a familiar ivory-handled dagger at my throat. “Come.”

  I pulled against his grip and twisted around to look at him. The man’s face was swathed in a dirty woolen scarf, but the eyes that greeted me were blue as the morning sky.

  37

  There was a commotion behind Sayaad and a yell. Jumo!

  He surprised my attackers and, using Eben’s short sword, managed to clip one of the masked men on the shoulder. But since Jumo was unable to aim with much precision, it had little effect. The man turned quickly on him and lashed back with his own sword. The weapon hit my brother flat along the side of his head and he crumpled, unconscious. A small trickle of blood flowed from his ear.

  I screamed with all my might.

  Sayaad startled and dropped the tip of his—of Eben’s—dagger. “Quiet!” The point was back at my throat and his large hand over my mouth and nose, cutting off my cry.

  The leader, the one who had grabbed me first, yelled. “We need to go! They will have heard her scream.”

  “What about the boy?” Jumo’s attacker pointed his sword at my fallen brother.

  Sayaad dropped a fleeting glance at me. “Leave him. He looks like his legs don’t work. He’s not going to follow us, even if he does wake from that crack you gave his skull, Taral.”

  “But I saw another girl,” Taral said. “Right before the cripple hit me. I’m going to go—”

  “No. Leave her alone!” I yelled, but my protest was muffled behind Sayaad’s fingers.

  Sayaad pushed the point of the dagger deeper into my skin. I swallowed and shrank back, my mind whirling. If I did not surrender, they would follow after Shira, add her blood to my mother’s in the stream, or carry her off. I had already lost one person I loved, and another lay bleeding and possibly dying nearby. I would give up everything to make sure Shira stayed safe.

  The fate that awaited me was a grim one, but if I could buy Shira time to run, I would do it. She’d sacrificed herself once for me, and I would return the favor—pay her back for the love and kindness she had shown an unworthy Egyptian.

  Yahweh, if you are listening to me, protect her. Let my sacrifice not be in vain.

  I twisted around, begging Sayaad with my eyes. He released my mouth enough for me to whisper. “She’s halfway back to camp. Please, I’ll come with you if we just go. I won’t make another sound. I promise.”

  Sayaad glared at me a moment but gazed back in the direction of camp. “The girl will alert the Hebrews. Let’s get out of here.”

  The leader nodded and gestured. “Bring your prize, Sayaad. And keep her mouth shut.”

  Their horses were tied up in an acacia grove nearby, near the bodies of three Hebrew guards and the remains of the smashed shofarim, which could have alerted us to the attack.

  Sayaad threw me onto the back of his horse and swung himself up behind me. My wrists were bound, and then a linen strip, cut from my own shift, gagged my mouth. Not that I would yell again—Shira needed to get back to camp and gather men to rescue Jumo, if it was not already too late.

  Sayaad gripped me about the waist, his hot hand burning through my dress. “Did you miss me?” he whispered in my ear, his voice smooth and seductive.

  I averted my eyes.

  “No? I’m wounded. Not long ago, you were ready to run off with me.” He clicked his tongue. “Did your little Hebrew slave-dog claim you for himself after I left?”

  I stiffened, and he laughed under his breath.

  “Didn’t take you long, did it? Well . . .” He ran a finger down the side of my neck, causing my stomach to lurch. “No matter, my little dove. I’m your master now. I’ve promised Ferren half my spoils when the Amalekites attack the Hebrews so I can keep you for myself.”

  I turned my head and raised my brows. Amalekites?

  “Yes, my dear, my friends and I met up with a raiding party shortly after we found a boat to take us across the sea. And since I am half Amalekite . . .” He stopped. “Oh yes, I might have left that little bit of information out of my father’s history, but your Hebrews were already wary of me—as they should have been—and I felt it was necessary to keep that tidbit to myself.”

  Sayaad told me how he had filled their leaders’ ears with knowledge of all the gold, silver, and other riches the Hebrews were trekking about in their wagons. Like many had suspected, spies had been slipping in among the Hebrews, some disguised as traders.

  “It won’t be long now,” Sayaad said. “We are almost ready to attack. Your little slave friends won’t stand a chance. Your men have no idea how to swing a sword or aim a bow.”

  The sun had laid down to rest beyond the far hills by the time we reached the Amalekites’ camp. The sight of it shocked me. I had envisioned a large raiding party—maybe a small contingent of soldiers—but this mass was not preparing for a small skirmish with the Hebrews; they were outfitted for war.

  Did the Hebrews have any idea what was about to come down upon them? Was Mosheh prepared for the army that
lay in wait within an hour’s walk? Thousands of tents dotted the landscape, with tens of thousands of men silhouetted against the glowing campfires. The elders must have known and were avoiding a panic by not telling the rest of the Hebrews. Did Eben know the truth? Was he prepared to fight? Would he, like my mother, be slaughtered by these ruthless marauders?

  Was she truly gone? My beautiful mother? Could I have missed a sign of life? Perhaps I had only dreamed her vacant eyes and her limp body in my arms. I shivered in spite of the heat of Sayaad’s body against my back.

  Sayaad ignored the blatant stares as we rode through the camp. I retreated further into my veil to block out their curious looks, grateful he insisted I cover my head and face before we came over the ridge. He dismounted and then pulled me off the horse, dragged me to a tent, and pushed me into its black mouth.

  Was I to be violated here, in the middle of this camp, with hundreds of ears attuned all around? I had seen the lust in Sayaad’s eyes those many days ago on the shore of the great sea, and the fire of it now was no less.

  He pushed me across the tent. “Lay down.”

  It was so dark inside, only a faint flicker of campfire light penetrated the heavy animal hide. The reek of death gagged me. I did not move.

  “Lay! Down!”

  “Where? I can’t see,” I shot back.

  He forced me down onto a mound of blankets that must serve as his bed. He began to tie my feet, and a rush of relief washed over me. He wasn’t going to force himself on me—at least not right now. He must have heard my breath release, for he leaned down to whisper in my ear.

  “No, my dear. Not now. There are too many wolves at the door. But soon . . .” He ran his hand up the back of my neck, snarled his fingers in my hair, and none too gently, he pulled my head back so I was forced to look at his face. Firelight seeping through the open tent flap glistened in his greedy eyes.

  He drew a ragged breath. “Soon. I’ve waited far too long. You are my prize now, but I will enjoy my reward without inflaming the others’ lusts. That would make it all the more dangerous for both of us.”

  After he tied my hands, he released me and left the tent but did not go far. I watched through the narrow opening of the tent door as he sat down by the fire directly outside. He was guarding his prize, as he’d said, and for now, he would ensure I was safe—from the Amalekites at least. But how long would I be safe from him? And when he was done with me, what then?

  I fell back onto the crumpled blankets. My hands and feet were bound so tightly I could not move to smooth his bed. I kept my face toward the front of the tent and a close eye on his back. At any moment he could change his mind and come back to claim my body.

  My mind raced through the time I’d spent with Sayaad. He had seemed only handsome and interesting and perhaps a bit brash when I’d met him. His brazen near-kidnapping on the beach had startled me. Clearly, I had misjudged him from the start. He was a killer, a thief, and cared no more for me than for the horse he had just ridden. At least he had given the horse a drink of water in a stream on the way; my mouth was as dry as the desert.

  Now given the chance to lie still, the chill at the center of my body enveloped me, and I trembled, teeth chattering and dizziness disorienting me whenever I attempted to lift my head.

  All I could see was the red stream my mother lay in and Jumo unconscious on the ground, probably near death. I would never see them again. I was sure Shira had made it back to camp; she was a fast runner. But whether Jumo lived, I would never know. And Eben would probably die when this army attacked, and then I would have lost everything, everyone that mattered.

  I could not even cry. I wanted to. I might feel some relief if I did, but no tears would come. I might as well be in that stream next to my mother . . . my heart was just as dead, my hands just as cold and numb. I could not even summon anger, or fear, or sadness. There was nothing but ice at my core.

  Eben was wrong. Yahweh had not called me. And if he had, it was only to bring me to destruction in this wilderness. He cared nothing for an Egyptian slave. He did not want me.

  Sleep was long in coming, but I finally succumbed to exhaustion. I awoke only once in the dark of night. Sayaad lay next to me, his heavy arm slung across my shoulders and his sour breath in my face. I was pinned beside him and had no energy to push him away. There was nothing to do but surrender to oblivion.

  The next two days I spent shackled inside the tent, enduring the endless darkness and the uncertainty of eternal minutes at the mercy of my blue-eyed captor. Sayaad said he didn’t want to chance the men getting too close a look at me, so he brought me food: some stew, warm beer, and bread, which seemed bland after the sweetness of the manna.

  He said nothing more about trying to force himself on me, but his impatience was palpable whenever he came near. Both nights he stumbled into the tent drunk, and I fully expected him to abuse me, but he passed out next to me on the pallet and left me alone.

  On the third morning after my capture, well before dawn, Sayaad woke me to tell me that the Amalekites were done playing games with the Hebrew throng and that they were going to war.

  “You are leaving?”

  “Not for long, my little lotus blossom.” He stroked my face with his palm, and I resisted the urge to sink my teeth into his hand. “We will make easy work of your precious Hebrews. I expect I will be back before dark.”

  “How will I be safe if you go?” My voice pitched high. Already I had heard two arguments between Sayaad and other men outside the tent in a foreign tongue, and I knew they fought over me. What would happen if I was left alone?

  The panic in my voice caused a smug smile to tug at his lips. “The women will watch you.”

  “The women?”

  He laughed. “Yes, Kiya. How else do you think we have this lovely stew? Many of the men bring their wives to cook.” He winked at me. “And I know you can cook, yes?”

  I scowled. “So, I’m to be your wife?”

  He threw back his head and laughed loudly. Voices that had been chattering near the tent ceased. All ears must now be tuned to our conversation.

  “No, no, no.” He laughed again. “I don’t need a wife, little Kiya.”

  My voice came out flat. “I am just your slave.”

  He tilted his head and moved in close to me. “Doesn’t that concern you?”

  I shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  He stroked my cheek again, and my stomach curdled. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before he would exert his full rights of ownership.

  He saw the question in my eyes. “You wonder why I am waiting?”

  I flinched, disturbed that he could read me so well.

  “Well . . .” His blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight now creeping through the tent flap. “Perhaps I am under a foolish notion that you might come to want me back.” His voice was soft, seductive. “There was, after all, a time not that long ago when I saw desire behind your eyes when you looked at me.”

  The first flame of emotion in three days began to build inside me. “You. Killed. My. Mother. Any desire I had for you bled into that stream.”

  “It wasn’t me, Kiya. She was dead before I even arrived. I would not have allowed it. And I saved you. If Ferren had kept you, you would have been sold to a dozen men by now. I am not your worst enemy here.”

  “Perhaps not, but keeping company with them makes you an accomplice to their sins.” Nausea welled, and I clenched my hands to prevent their shaking. I jutted out my chin, refusing to let him glimpse my fear. “It doesn’t matter if you want me for a wife or a concubine, I’m still a slave. And I will never want you the way you want me. Ever.”

  He shrugged, all pretense of kindness now gone from his voice and the tease in his blue eyes replaced with darkness. “Perhaps not. It changes nothing.” He turned to leave, but then paused and came back to blindfold me with the dirty woolen scarf that had hid his face before.

  “The women are watching you, Kiya,” he said low in my ear. “And they
are under strict orders to keep you in this tent. And if you think the Amalekite men are bloodthirsty . . . they are nothing compared to the women, especially with a beautiful slave like you loose around their men.” He barked a sharp laugh and was gone.

  38

  Shrouded in darkness behind the woolen veil, I shook as the terrifying crashes and screams of battle met my ears. The bray of shofarim rose above the melee. The sounds of the trumpets calling men to meeting were familiar to me, but these cries ripped high and loud throughout the valley, screeching out a fierce call to battle that raised the hair on the back of my neck and pierced me. Eben is answering that call.

  As the battle raged to the north—much closer than I had expected—the women outside the tent spoke in low, sharp tones in a foreign tongue. What I wouldn’t give to understand what they are saying.

  Eben and the other Hebrew men had been training to fight using Egyptian weapons salvaged from the seashore and donated by Egyptian households, but would it be enough? Half a million men fought alongside Eben, but he had said the Amalekites were known for their ruthless and merciless tactics. How long would it take for the Hebrews to be overcome? Two hours? Three?

  No. I refuse to believe it. Yahweh had tossed Pharaoh’s army into the depths. He had forged a path through the sea. I had seen it with my own eyes and walked through on dry land. Yahweh had saved his people over and over. He would not—he could not—abandon them now. A god who had destroyed a country to rescue his people surely would not let them perish.

  My mother, and possibly my brother, had died in the wilderness, and one way or another, I would be destroyed in this tent as well, but Eben, Shira, Zerah, Shoshana, and Zayna hovered under Yahweh’s protection. They must live.

  My ears strained. The sounds of agony and the crash of swords seemed farther away, as if the battle had ebbed northward again. Was the battle over? Had the Hebrews been overtaken? Did Eben’s sightless eyes gaze at the heavens?