He patted the ivory handle now back in its sheath at his side. “The traitor found it when he returned home and knew immediately whose it was; my father was known to have carried it long before he gifted it to me, and a carved ivory dagger at the hip of a Hebrew drew attention.”
I covered a gasp with my hand, anticipating the end of his story.
He nodded. “Yes, you guessed correctly. The Hebrew turned my father over to the Egyptians, and he was imprisoned. It was only two days later that so many of our men were rounded up to be slaughtered, my father among them.”
Eben lowered himself to the ground, sorrow in his expression. “In the heat of my reckless twelve-year-old fury, I confronted the traitor the next day. The man was actually remorseful when I told him it was me that had destroyed his belongings. He returned the dagger, vowing that he would not have turned my father in if he had known what would happen.”
“So”—he pulled my hand into his—“now you see. Without my destructive choices, my father might be alive now. And as much as I tried to lay the blame at the feet of the Egyptians, at my core my anger was directed at myself. It took friendship with your brother and falling in love with you to face it.”
He ran a finger down my cheekbone, and I stifled a sigh.
“When I saw you talking to Sayaad, when your wagon broke down, it was all I could do not to sling you over my shoulder and run off with you.”
“Truly, you knew even then?”
His finger moved to caress my lips. “Yes, my love. I was half mad with jealousy.”
“No wonder Jumo was smirking at me.”
His brow quirked.
“Jumo always knows.”
Eben laughed. “Yes. That he does. He teased me mercilessly from that night on. But I am glad he did, because it helped me to admit that it wasn’t you I was angry with, or even your people, but myself and my foolishness.”
“But you were only a child. You could not have known what would happen.”
“That is true; my father may have been rounded up had I not done what I did—evil men do evil things and even Yahweh’s people are not immune to suffering. You did not know what would happen to Nailah, either. You were following the path Yahweh made for you, here into the wilderness with me. And your mother loved you; she would not hold you responsible.”
I missed my mother so much, ached to hear her voice again. There were so many things I had never told her, questions left unanswered, memories yet to be made. She would never see me married or hold a grandchild in her arms. I longed to tell her of my love for Eben, and of the experience I had on the floor of the tent when Yahweh surrounded me in love. Her face on the morning the manna appeared—“I asked for bread, and he provided,” she had said—she must have understood, at least in part. But still, I had only begun to know her, to see her not as some goddess far above my reach but as a fallible and lovely human, weak in some ways and strong in others.
Would this chasm inside me ever be filled?
Eben gazed into my eyes. “Would you like me to play for you?”
I nodded and handed him the lyre, then folded my knees under my chin and wrapped my arms around my legs.
He played the song he had sung at the campfire by the sea, a lament that matched the heaviness pressing against my ribs yet brought with it also the memory of the night I had fallen in love with this fascinating and talented man. If he truly meant what he said, that he would stay by my side, then perhaps the pain might be easier to bear.
Shira had questioned, all those months ago, whether Yahweh was preparing me for something. Now I could see that it was true. Yahweh had brought me here into the wilderness to free me, to show me how to leave my idols behind, and to meet the man I would spend my life with. Yahweh cared enough to bring me out of slavery and ignorance, protect me in the desert, and to reveal himself to me in a tent during the middle of a battle.
The God who parted the sea could surely mend the rift in my heart.
41
50TH DAY OUT OF EGYPT
We stood at the foot of a mountain. The Mountain of Yahweh, many were calling it. The Cloud that had protected us from the hands of Pharaoh hovered above the summit, larger, darker, and now violently booming and flashing sporadic blue lightning. Shoshana huddled beneath Zerah’s arm, and Zayna buried her face in Eben’s shoulder. She twitched every time the thunder rolled out from the mountain, shaking the ground and threatening to knock us from our feet. The sound of it was even more bone-rattling than the storms that had plagued Egypt.
Three days had passed since Mosheh had returned to the summit, carrying a promise from the Hebrews and from all of us who chose to be included in a covenant: a promise to Yahweh that we received his offer to be his Am Segula—his special people—and follow his instructions, his Torah.
Eben had taken me aside after the elders relayed Mosheh’s instructions from Yahweh. He said that Jumo and I, anyone who desired so, regardless of their heritage, would be included in this covenant with the Hebrew God, if we chose to take part.
I was Egyptian, my mother and father, both of them born of the Nile, but my heart leapt at the prospect of becoming a part of this nation, the nation that would be called Israel.
From the day I had fallen on my knees and cried out to Yahweh, I had desired to know him better. If I felt his presence there on the sandy floor of an enemy tent, how much more would I know as a part of his chosen people?
Now, after three days of washing, preparing, and making new linen garments, we stood at the foot of the great mountain. All eyes were trained on the path from the top, a white-clad sea of people waiting for the return of Yahweh’s messenger, Mosheh.
Midway through the morning, a tide of murmurs and echoes swam through the crowd.
“Mosheh has returned!”
“There, do you see him?”
The silver-blue Cloud roiled above the mountaintop, and a figure appeared at the foot of the path, standing high above the crowd.
Our families were so far back in the multitude, however, that his voice could not reach us.
But the message rolled back through the crowds.
“. . . Yahweh will speak.”
“. . . his own voice.”
“. . . wonder what it will sound like . . .”
Zayna’s little face peeked out from the sanctuary of Eben’s chest. “Yahweh is going to speak? With his own voice?”
“It sounds that way,” Eben said.
The voice of a god? I had served silent gods—wood, stone, and gold—for eighteen years of my life. And now, this God of the Hebrews would speak? Would we all hear it? Or would the words need to be passed among the multitude?
Jumo’s eyes were locked on the summit of the mountain. The flashes of lightning reflected blue in his dark eyes. I reached out and put my hand in his. He squeezed, a reassuring gesture, but did not look my way.
A shofar sounded in the distance. Once again, the eerie sound raised the hair on the back of my neck and sent a mixture of longing and fear through my veins. The sound began to grow and build. It must be moving closer to us. It continued to intensify, coming not from the valley floor but from the summit of the mountain.
This was no ordinary instrument, and no human breath could produce this loud of a tone.
Louder.
Louder.
Ear-splitting.
Many around us covered their ears. Children shrieked at the abuse of their eardrums.
My bones vibrated in rhythm with the complicated patterns of notes echoing off the steep cliffs all around this protective valley. Who—or what—was giving breath to these ethereal instruments?
As the notes grew louder, the Cloud sitting atop the mountain seemed to respond in kind, billowing higher into the sky and blazing brighter as it did. It became a swirling rainbow of color, hues of every shade, some I had never seen before. The sensations were overwhelming—light, colors, and sound.
A Voice emanated from the Cloud, knocking me to my knees. An earthquake shook
the valley, rattling the mountains and tossing boulders about like pebbles.
Most everyone was on their knees, or on their faces, many pleading or crying, some screaming in terror. My body instinctively attempted to struggle, to stand, but the weight of the force was immense.
Every horrible thing I had ever said, done, or thought swirled through my mind. Every time I cursed Tekurah, every time I disobeyed my mother, every disrespectful word I had spoken to Salima, every patronizing one to Shira, the nights I had spent with Akhum . . .
And the thoughts—the thoughts were even worse than the words or actions—every dark, violent, or evil imagining that had ever flickered inside my brain bubbled to the surface, ripped and tore its way through my consciousness. My stomach quelled violently at just how depraved I could be. I was black inside, filled with hate and pettiness.
The Voice did this; with only one pure syllable it stripped me bare, and I was undone. I hadn’t even discerned the word spoken by Yahweh. The echo of it swirled around the valley, bounced off the cliffs, rose above us, and dissipated into the sky.
As the echo of the word died away, it left me with an emptiness at my core. Vaguely aware of those around me, their faces slowly blurring back into focus, I was not the only one decimated under the scrutiny of the Voice.
Most were sobbing, eyes closed, gripping their stomachs with clenched fists.
Eben was on the ground next to me, his face in the sand, arms outstretched toward the mountain. Shira crouched in front of me, protective arms wrapped around Shoshana, but Shoshana held her chin high, gazing at the face of the mountain. Her head was not bowed.
I peeked at Zayna sitting on the ground next to Eben. Her hand rubbed circles on his back. The precious girl was reassuring her older brother. Her upturned face was so peaceful, so joyful. A stab of envy shot through me. The Voice broke me into a million pieces, but the girls were enraptured. In fact, all of the children were looking up, their faces bright with the same fierce joy. They were not afraid of the Voice; they must hear something in it that I could not understand.
The Voice sent splinters of fear shredding through my veins, but I ached for it at the same time. I could not reconcile the confusing emotions.
The Voice spoke again. This time, the words filled my senses. They hung shimmering, as though written in the air, visible and musical—a song far more beautiful than human words could describe. And the fragrance . . . How could words have a smell? But they did, and it was the sweetest and loveliest smell to ever be imagined. I had smelled a shadow of it before, while I lay on a sandy floor with my hands bound. There was no spice fragrant enough, no breeze sweet enough, no fruit ripe enough to compare to the smell that permeated this valley. I pulled in an open-mouthed breath that melted on my tongue like a luscious delicacy.
The Voice told us that he was Yahweh, the God who had rescued us from Egypt, and there were to be no other gods before him. For hours, maybe days, he told us what he expected of us. He taught us, like little children, everything he wanted us to do, how we should live and treat each other, and most of all, how we should respect him, our God.
And what he promised, if we obeyed him like little children, was so far beyond what I expected. Yes, there were consequences for our disobedience, but the promises far outweighed them. We were to be his Am Segula—a special chosen nation, and as his people, we would inherit the promise given to Avraham so long ago, the land specially chosen to bless his family. But even more exciting was that Yahweh promised to be among his people, to reside with us, and teach us, protect us, and guide us. How could that be? A god, walking among humans?
When the last of the precious words shimmered away, I stayed on my knees, wishing the Voice would speak again. I wanted the song to fill my ears and heart forever. I ached long after the echo faded and knew I would do so for all my days. I understood every one of Yahweh’s words, but had he spoken in Egyptian? Or Hebrew? Or something else that my soul understood instinctively? I tried to remember the specific words, but only the meaning rang through me.
Long minutes passed before people began coming to their feet and moving off toward their tents, slow and silent.
I stayed on my knees in the sand, willing the Voice to return. But when Shira finally stood, I did as well. She put her arms around me—her face full of the joy that I had seen on the girls’ faces, and I knew mine must be a reflection of that as well.
“Kiya,” a voice said.
I glanced at Eben, thinking it was he who spoke my name, but he stared at something behind me, a startled look on his tear-stained face.
I spun around. Jumo was behind me.
“Kiya,” he said again.
Shock flooded me, and I blinked hard and fast. “Did you just . . . ?” I whispered.
He nodded.
“Sister, I can speak easily now.” Tears streamed down his face, and mine.
“How . . . ?”
“I am healed.” He spoke with reverence; an awe filled his new voice that almost brought me to my knees again.
My mouth gaped; no coherent words would form.
“The very first word that Yahweh spoke healed me. I knew instantly that I could speak. And . . .” He stepped back, then turned and walked in a circle. Smooth, effortless movements.
My brother was completely healed. His speech was clear, and his legs were whole—as if he had never been afflicted in the first place.
42
The milky-white spray of stars above us witnessed a barely contained celebration. Hundreds of bulls were sacrificed at the foot of the mountain and the meat shared with all of us. Zerah had skewered our gift on a spit, the fat popping and crackling in the fire, and the mouth-watering scent of beef smoke drifted over the camp.
Between the sweet bread baked with manna, the tender flesh of the bull, and a few sweet onions purchased from traders that Eben and Jumo had encountered in the desert a few days ago, we feasted. However, my overstuffed stomach could not compare to the fullness of my heart.
Eben sang near the campfire until his voice was hoarse. He told me his fingers were numb as well, but he kept on playing, his joy spilling out into the language of music.
Jumo, too, sang in an unfamiliar and clear, sweet voice, in flawless Hebrew. His brilliant mind had absorbed every word in the long, unbroken months of listening as we journeyed toward this mountain.
We had spent the day together, knee to knee, absorbed in precious conversation, sharing stories of our mother, crying, and adjusting to the absence of silence between us. He told me more of how Yahweh had called to him in a series of dreams, promising blessings if he would follow the Hebrews, and I told him of my surrender on the floor of Sayaad’s tent and my conversation with Mosheh.
Jumo’s heart bubbled over, his thoughts tumbling over themselves like the water from the rock. The exquisite pain of finally understanding the depths of my brother’s heartbreak over his inability to protect our mother—and me—dredged up fresh grief. We cried, foreheads pressed together, until the sun passed into the underworld.
Now he played the drum—the one made by his own hands, under Eben’s guidance—with freedom and dexterity. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his black curls as he worked out the complicated patterns. Exhilaration was painted all over his face. I laughed until my sides ached and my cheeks were sore and my heart did not feel quite so empty of my mother’s presence. She was there in his face, the thickness of his hair, the flicker of his smiles as he enjoyed his own talent.
Although I would grieve for my mother, probably for the rest of my days, I was grateful for the pieces of her that Jumo carried. And after basking in the all-encompassing light from the mountain and grieving with my brother, the sharp edges of pain did not throb as deeply tonight as they had yesterday.
Zayna and Shoshana finally succumbed to sleep, their little bodies exhausted from dancing like butterflies all evening. Shira and I gathered bowls, scrubbed them with sand, and rinsed them with water from the nearby stream.
; Jumo sat cross-legged in front of the fire as the remainder of the flames licked at the embers. I wondered what was going through his mind and was tempted to ask him more questions, but for now, I sensed he needed time alone to wonder at the restoration of his limbs and his tongue.
Arms went around my waist, and Eben’s low voice tickled my ear. “Come with me.”
My pulse took flight. “And where am I going?”
“You’ll see.” His breath on my neck affected my equilibrium. “I’m stealing Kiya, Sister. Are you finished with her?”
Shira lifted an eyebrow, pursed her full lips, and folded her arms. “Well, there are a couple more pots to clean . . .”
“Hmm . . . I’m sorry to hear that.” He pulled me by the hand with a mocking grin, and Shira’s musical laugh floated behind us as he led me outside the reach of the firelight.
Shira had taken me aside earlier to tell me of her joy at the connection between Eben and me, and that she hoped she and I would soon be more than sisters of the heart. The thought of such a future lifted my hopes to unimaginable heights yet called attention to the delicate bond that could be broken by the truths in my past. Would Eben turn his back on me when I revealed such things? The burn of anticipation in my chest, and the conviction to tell Eben, grew the farther we moved from the campfire.
I should be fearful, plunging into the night, following Eben up a hillside path with only a small torch to light our way, but with his strong hand wrapped around mine, and the memory of the light of Yahweh’s presence, my lifelong fear of the dark had been completely erased.
When we finally stopped climbing, Eben guided me to sit on a flat outcropping high above the valley floor. I caught my breath. The campfires spread out below us were smaller and farther away than I’d expected. Echoes of distant laughter and music floated up to our perch.
Counted With the Stars Page 28
