He moved toward her and pulled her into his arms, and she leaned heavily on him. “You look exhausted. Why so late tonight?”
Her light brown eyes moistened. “Miriam is not doing well. I don’t think she has much time left.” She brushed away a tear. “She is so weak. I could barely manage to get her to finish a cup of milk. She refused to eat.”
He led her to the fire. She sat and reached for the skin of milk but he intercepted it, grabbing the cups with his other hand. He poured her some of the cool liquid and offered her a cake of manna.
“She’s dying, Zadok.” Her voice trembled.
“I know, habibti.” He set the food aside and drew her close, her tears soaking his tunic. “She’s been dying for a while now.”
“Yes, but I think it will be very soon. Days, maybe. I can no longer pretend it won’t happen.” She drew in a ragged breath.
He held her tighter, rubbing circles on her back. “All the old ones are dying. She’s one of the only ones left.”
She nodded against his shoulder.
He kissed her temple and gently pushed her back. “You need to eat if you’re to care for her again tomorrow.” He returned her food and milk to her lap. “Who’s with her tonight?”
“Ruth and Hannah.” She nibbled on some manna.
“Have Moses and Aaron been by?”
“Every day. Moses is having an especially hard time.”
“He is?”
“He can barely manage. It grows worse each day. He doesn’t want to cry in front of her, but …” She shook her head.
“Do you think she would care if he did?”
“Of course not. She knows she’s dying better than anyone.” Her voice broke and Zadok reached for her hand. “But I think he wants to be strong for her.”
Zadok shrugged. “I think it’s natural for men to want to protect women. Younger, older, sister, wife, mother—doesn’t matter.” He drew circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. If only I could take this from you.
“Well, he can’t protect her this time. I wish he could.” The tears fell again.
They finished the meal in silence. “Can I do anything for you?”
A small smile broke through the gloom. “You’re doing it.”
He tucked a lock of her long, dark wavy hair behind her ears. “Finish eating and get some rest. You’ve had a long day.” Glancing over her shoulder, he saw Imma step outside the tent. He took the plate from Arisha and helped her to rise. “I’ll be back in the morning.” He kissed her cheek and allowed Imma to lead her inside.
Zadok stared at the tent flaps, watching the subtle movement as Imma tied the strings from inside. Then the cloth went still. His heart felt as empty as his arms.
He wandered up and down the row of army tents the Israelites had taken from the Egyptians thirty-nine years ago. None of them showed a day of wear. They all looked as good as the night they were first pitched, the night after they had escaped from Egypt. At least that’s what he’d been told. Of course, he wasn’t alive then. After Israel escaped, they spent the first night at Succoth, the large flat ground the Egyptians used as a staging area, full of tents, water and other supplies. The forty years Moses had spent as a prince had served him well, teaching him not only military strategy, weapons, evasion, and leadership, but secrets like where the tents were kept, and the fact there were eleven forts on the shorter northern route, and that the southern route, though longer, would be safer.
With the death of Miriam, the quiet, safe life they’d been living at the oasis of Kadesh would end—abruptly. Within the next year they would head into Canaan, and then the wars would begin, wars that that he had no guarantee of surviving. How could he do that to Arisha? He too had heard the stories of giants and iron chariots and walled cities, and while he believed Yahweh would give them the land, he knew the Canaanites wouldn’t hand it over without a fight.
He rubbed his hand down his face and sighed. He wasn’t prepared for this — for any of it. But it was coming, whether he was ready or not.
10th day of Abib
The tent was quiet except for Miriam’s labored breathing. Arisha dipped a cloth into the bowl at her side. Squeezing the water from it, she dabbed it on the older woman’s brow, cheeks, neck. The water evaporated as soon as she lifted the rag.
Hannah and Ruth sat on Miriam’s other side. Occasionally Hannah would take the older woman’s hand between her own and softly caress it. Ruth’s lips moved silently.
Arisha reached for a clean cloth, using it to soak up some water from a cup. Hovering it over Miriam’s mouth, she let a few precious drops fall onto the cracked lips. She tenderly brushed her hair away from her eyes, savoring the feel of her skin beneath her fingers. Wetting the cloth again, she dropped a little more water onto Miriam’s swollen tongue.
Arisha's chest constricted, watching the suffering of this woman who had taken the place of her absent mother, this woman who had taught her what it meant to be a child of Yahweh, this woman who had taken the bitterness from her heart and replaced it with love.
The time between Miriam’s breaths lengthened, and it seemed as if everyone else held theirs waiting for her to draw another one. When at last she sucked in a noisome, wet chestful of air, then expelled it, the tension in the stuffy tent abated for a brief moment. It slowly built back up as the women surrounding Israel’s matriarch nervously anticipated the next one. Fingers were chewed, knees bounced, tunics were twisted.
Arisha's heart was breaking, but she ignored it. Right now, all that mattered was Miriam’s comfort. Arisha searched her face. Did she hurt? Her breathing sounded painful, but she actually looked peaceful. Her body was relaxed. When Arisha lifted Miriam’s arms to smooth the cool cloth across her skin, they were almost weightless. She offered no resistance. She didn’t grimace or groan like so many of the old ones she’d seen—and heard—as they lay dying. If not for the pale quality of her skin, Arisha could almost believe the old woman was sleeping.
Another loud breath snapped her back to the aching reality that Miriam would soon be gone.
A noise from outside drew their attention.
“May I come see my sister?” Moses’s soft voice drifted in.
Hannah rose to push aside the tent flaps to let him enter. Arisha was surprised to see the sky was dusky—where had the day gone?
Miriam’s youngest brother stepped inside. “And Aaron, or …?”
“I think he should come now.” Arisha tried to keep her voice steady, but she didn’t succeed.
Moses’s face lost all its color.
“I’ll get him.” Hannah stepped outside as he knelt next to Miriam.
“Oh, Miriam, my love.” Tears gathered in his gray eyes. He stroked her hair, bent to kiss her forehead. “I will miss you so much. As loud, as demanding, as interfering as you could be, I will miss you.”
Aaron entered and Arisha scooted into the corner to allow him to sit across from his brother. The other women backed away to allow the men room.
“She did like to interfere, didn’t she?” Aaron chuckled dryly.
Moses nodded. “I think she always wished she were a man so she could be truly in charge.”
Aaron smiled. “I thought I was the only one who believed that.”
Moses took her hand in his. “I will always remember her singing on this side of the Yam Suph, lifting her voice to El Shaddai. She was so beautiful that day. More beautiful than usual.” Moses’s eyes took on a faraway quality, as if he were watching her dance at that very moment. “She spun like she was still a girl.”
“She had all the women whirling with her.” Aaron laughed softly.
“The whole camp was dancing and singing by the time she was finished.” Moses smiled down at Miriam and bent to kiss her again, but a noisy gasp stopped him short. He shot a look at Arisha, his eyes wide.
Arisha shrugged slightly. “She’s been doing that all afternoon.”
He returned his gaze to Aaron. “Did you think she would be the first?�
�
“No. She’s too stubborn.” Aaron reached for her other hand.
Miriam took a shallow breath, then another, and another.
Moses and Aaron turned to Arisha.
“That’s new.” Tears burned her eyes. Was this it?
“Aaron, you need to go now.” Hannah touched his shoulder.
He didn’t move.
The quick, quiet breaths continued.
Arisha's hand went to her mouth. Her heart pounded in her chest, in her ears. Yahweh, please no. Not yet. And yet, why not? Should she stay here, past her time? Too weak to move, to speak?
Hannah rose and took Aaron’s hand in hers. “You know what happens if you are here when …”
The breaths slowed even more.
“Aaron, now!” Hannah’s gaze darted to the doorway and back as she pleaded with the High Priest. “You cannot even be in the tent with her if she dies … please come outside with me.”
Aaron slowly rose and followed Hannah out.
Arisha and Ruth left as well. The tent flaps had been tied open, and after a moment Arisha could see Moses fall across her unmoving form, his shoulders shaking. Aaron stood beside her, tears streaming silently down his cheeks.
Hannah leaned in and embraced her. “I’m going to see my children and feed my husband. I’ll return to prepare the body in the morning,” she whispered.
“I think I will, too.” Ruth followed Hannah, leaving Arisha alone with Aaron.
Moses’s sobs followed her as she kept guard outside the tent. The wind raced through the camp, moaning, whipping tent flaps and blowing sand. Hopefully it would die down, or tomorrow would not be a good day for a burial.
At length the sobs from within softened, and Aaron turned to Arisha. His face was dry but clouded, his usually bright eyes dark.
“And how are you, daughter? I know you will miss her terribly.”
Until then, she had managed to keep her tears in check, but Aaron’s soft words unleashed them.
The High Priest drew her close. “She loved you very much, you know that, don’t you?”
She knew very well that Miriam had loved her, loved her before anyone else had truly loved her. Arisha had counted on her to show her how to be a wife and mother.
And now she was gone.
Arisha's eyes burned as she washed Miriam’s body once more. If only she could keep washing her, then it would never be over. But Hannah and Ruth had already stopped, and now they stared at her.
She dropped her cloth into the bowl at her side and dried her hands. Another woman—what was her name?—had come to help prepare Miriam for burial. Arisha reached for the clean tunic, and between them they managed to slip it over her head and draw her arms through. The others waited as she gently combed the thin hair, removing every tangle, arranging it perfectly around Miriam’s placid face.
They lifted her a few handbreadths off the floor of the tent, and Arisha and Ruth slid a thin board of acacia wood under the body, then pulled a long, wide cloth over it. They stretched it tight, removing all the wrinkles, and slowly lowered Miriam onto it. Hannah and Ruth pulled the fabric over her to their side and tucked it under, then handed it back to Arisha. She blinked several times, vainly trying to clear her vision, as she placed the edges of the sheet under her.
The scene before her was all too real now, too final. Miriam was gone, gathered to their ancestors.
Arisha wiped the tears from her cheeks. There was nothing more to be done. Preparations were complete. She and the others picked up the bier and slowly rose, lifting the body with them. She weighed so little. Spinning the bier so the head faced the door, in measured steps they carried her out of the tent from which she had not emerged in weeks.
After being inside for so long, Arisha squinted in the late afternoon sun. She blinked rapidly—a good way to hide her tears.
Four men stepped forward to take the body from the women, careful not to come in contact with them. Arisha reached for Miriam one last time; her fingers lingered, refusing to relinquish their hold. Aaron approached his sister once more. His hand hovered over the linen-clad body as he choked back his tears, unable to touch her.
Arisha pulled her hand back, and the men carried her away—away from the tent, away from camp, away from Arisha forever.
The people of Israel joined them as they passed through camp, heading past the springs out to the edge of the desert. The brawny, noisy wind whipped hair, tunics and cloaks. Not yet dangerous, not quite a khamsin, but fierce just the same.
The sun hurried to sink behind the mountains, as if even it could not bear to watch Miriam’s final goodbye. An almost full moon rose in its place. As rocks began to appear, the men stopped. The people stood in a half-circle, their backs to the wind, heads bowed against the sand the hot air flung at them. The men set their precious load on the desert floor, the crowd blocking the wind. Moses appeared from the east and stepped to the far side of the body and raised his hands. His lips moved but no words came forth.
Arisha and the other women stood aside, keeping away from the others as they were now unclean. “Now she no longer suffers.” Hannah’s whispers reached her ears from behind.
Miriam had been sick for months. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t left her tent in weeks. She’d not really participated in the leadership of Israel’s women for the last year or more. Arisha looked at the faces of those around her. Soft smiles, whispers of remembrances, some sniffles and tears. It wasn’t that they didn’t grieve, but she’d lived a long and good life, and her time here was over. They’d said their goodbyes. Only Arisha, Hannah and Ruth, and a few others had still seen her every day, still needed to bid her farewell.
Moses’s voice caught her attention. “Yahweh, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations. Before the mountains were born or You brought forth the whole world, from everlasting to everlasting You are El Shaddai. A thousand years in Your sight are like a day that has just gone by, or like a watch in the night.”
The rest of his words faded as she thought of the time Yahweh had given her with Miriam. He didn’t have to give her anything. Miriam was not hers; Arisha had no family, yet Yahweh had placed her in Miriam’s tent. Instead of lamenting over what she had lost, she should be grateful for what Yahweh had given her, as little as it seemed.
The men picked up the bier and slid Miriam’s body into the shallow depression that had been dug beforehand. Sand clashed against the fabric covering her body as they tossed the sand over her. More men came forward to place rocks over her to keep the nighttime animals at bay.
And then it was over.
Arisha waited until the crowd dispersed, remaining with Miriam. Finally she turned to go. She faced east, trudged toward the tent outside of camp. She’d taken only a few steps when a lone figure caught her attention. She stopped.
Zadok.
He stood silently, maybe twenty strides away, pain written across his face. The wind blew through his hair, whipped his sheepskin cloak around his shoulders, tossed sand onto his sandals, but he remained immobile. As solid as the mountains beyond. He couldn’t touch her, couldn’t come with her, but still he had found a way to let her know he would be waiting when she came back.
She continued to where she would spend the next seven days with the other women, waiting out her time of uncleanness, her heart heavy. Miriam was gone. Arisha would soon marry Zadok, and though Miriam would not be there to teach her to be a wife, perhaps Adi would help her.
As Arisha turned to tie the tent flaps tight against the wind, she noticed Moses crawling into one of the other tents staked into the desert sand, away from the women. He, too, was now unclean, having embraced his dead sister. He’d been out here last night as well. She hadn’t even thought about that. Aaron had refrained; as Israel’s High Priest, he was not permitted to defile himself, not even allowed to mourn. Moses would be grieving alone, away from the others, at least for the first seven days. She would be here with three other women, but he would be alone.
&nb
sp; At the moment, she couldn’t think of anything more agonizing.
Seven
13th day of Abib
MIRIAM DANCED AND sang on the shore of the Yam Suph, surrounded by spinning circles of young women banging tambourines. Older than nearly all the women there, she still exuded an enviable energy. Her strong, clear voice carried above the deafening sounds of the water still swirling from the watery walls Yahweh had collapsed. “I will sing to the Lord for He has triumphed gloriously …”
Though the celebration had taken place long before Arisha's birth, she’d heard the story so many times she could picture every detail of Miriam praising Yahweh on the shore.
Arisha didn’t know everything about Israel’s history, but she did know Miriam’s. Many nights, as they waited to fall asleep, the woman had told her the cherished tales. Her favorite was the story of when Moses was an infant, and the Pharaoh—Seti I, Ramses’ father—hatched his evil plan to kill all the baby boys. Miriam hid him in a basket and settled him in the papyrus reeds along the Nile, waiting for an Egyptian to find him. Arisha could only imagine the fear and shock that must have coursed through her when one of the princesses found him. And yet that didn’t stop Miriam. She marched right up to her and offered to find a wet nurse, then took Moses home, where his own mother raised him for several years.
Arisha longed for that kind of courage, that wit and audacity. Miriam knew what she wanted and how to get it. She was the unquestioned leader of the women. She was confident and competent—everything Arisha desired to be.
“Arisha?” Hannah touched Arisha's shoulder, rousing her from her daydreams.
“Arisha, why were you caring for Miriam? After her death? Now, we”—she pointed to the circle of women in the small tent—“do that all the time. We’re widows. We spend our days caring for the dying and comforting their loved ones. So we have the time to spend weeks out here. But you’re young.” She sighed. “Why didn’t you leave with Aaron? Why allow yourself to become unclean, spend a week away from your betrothed? He cannot be happy about this.”
The Walls of Arad (Journey to Canaan Book 3) Page 7
