by Marek Halter
“No,” he said, abruptly. “You won’t go. Jethro welcomes anyone who wants to enter his house in friendship. But that’s all. Conceited as your prince of Egypt may be, I’ve done what I had to do, and that’s enough.”
SEVERAL more days passed. Twilight followed twilight.
The endless waiting should have worn down Jethro’s daughters, but the opposite happened. Impatience spread to all the women of the household, like an illness. The few men—husbands, brothers, and uncles—who had not left with the flocks started to wonder if they would ever see this stranger who occupied so much of the women’s chatter.
None of them any longer went to work, whether within the domain or outside, or even took a nap beneath the terebinths or tamarisks without turning their eyes automatically toward the west road. But there was nothing to be seen there but the changing blue sky, a flight of curlews or cormorants, or, sometimes, a runaway ass.
Finally, it happened.
One afternoon, when the heat was like a furnace, without anyone having seen him come, Moses was there, at the door of the domain.
There was a shout, from a young girl or a child. Openmouthed with astonishment, everyone emerged hurriedly from the shade and ran to the door. Yes, there he was.
Nobody dared say a word.
He was not wearing a tunic, only a pleated loincloth, held in at the waist by the magnificent belt that had so impressed Jethro’s daughters at the well of Irmna. On his head was a hat with purple stripes. Although he was naked above the waist, and his chest was hairless, he did not seem to mind the sun. His beard, although now as thick as a Midianite’s, did not conceal the beauty of his mouth. There was a sharpness in his eyes that was hard to describe, at once shy and powerful.
The women understood immediately why Zipporah and Orma had not been the same since their encounter with the stranger, while the men were somewhat irritated by his stiffness.
With an accent that gave his words a new sonority, he asked if this was really the house of Jethro, the sage of the kings of Midian. Before anyone could reply, he saw Zipporah among the faces looking up at him, and smiled at her.
He struck the camel’s neck with his long, bronze-tipped staff. With the composure of a beast that trusts the man it is carrying, the animal stretched its neck, bent its forelegs, and let Moses down. Now that he was standing before them, everyone became aware that he was taller than the men of Midian, even though his feet were bare.
Orma’s voice rang out. “Moses! Moses!”
The silence was broken, and everyone joined in the welcome.
“FORGIVE me, wise Jethro, if I have taken my time to come and see you. Do not think me rude. I had never ridden a camel before. I had to learn before I could come.”
He spoke all the sentences without taking a breath. It was obvious that he had been repeating them over and over to himself. Jethro, who was about to eat a fig, stopped, openmouthed. “You had to learn . . . to ride a camel?”
Moses bowed solemnly. “I had to. You gave me an animal in order to come here.”
There was general laughter, but Jethro remained silent.
They were in the shade of the canopy, comfortably reclining on cushions, pitchers of beer and bowls of fruit within arm’s reach. Sefoba, Orma, and Zipporah stood nervously behind Jethro, holding baskets filled with cakes. At a distance, in the baking sun, the handmaids and the children formed a large circle. They were laughing so much they had to wipe their eyes, but they did not miss a scrap of what was being said.
Jethro raised his hand to silence them, and threatened to send them all back to their chores if they did not show the stranger more respect.
Moses smiled modestly. “They’re right to laugh. Here, it’s stupid not to know how to ride a camel.”
“Now you know—and you learned quickly,” Jethro replied, with genuine admiration.
Moses dipped his lips in the goblet of beer, receiving the compliment with as much humility as he had accepted the laughter. Jethro’s curiosity about the stranger was, if anything, even greater than before.
“But perhaps you can ride a horse? They say there are many horses in Egypt.”
The question seemed to embarrass Moses. “There are horses.”
He fell silent. Jethro waited.
“Pharaoh has them. And they’re used in war.”
“Does Pharaoh ride a horse?”
“No, he stands.”
“He stands?”
“In a chariot pulled by four horses. The generals and the great warriors who accompany him ride horses. The others walk. Or run when they have to. There are boats, too. On the great River Iterou. Yes. Many boats. Sometimes, also, horses.”
With each sentence, Moses’ voice became more muted, as if he were less and less sure of his ability to express what he wanted to say. His accent obscured the meaning of the words, making him seem less confident and forcing him to say both too much and not enough.
The children and the younger handmaids were unable to hold back their laughter, or their harsh judgment of the stranger. He was even more unfamiliar with the language of this side of the Red Sea than he was with sheep and camels! He was certainly different, and there was something seductive about that, but it would have been better if he had remained silent.
Jethro tried to ignore these shortcomings. Not only did courtesy demand it, but he was eager to learn everything he could about how people lived far from this desert where he held sway. As he was about to ask another question, the swishing of material made him look up. Zipporah was kneeling between Moses and him.
Without having been asked, she filled their goblets, even though they were not yet empty. As she held out Jethro’s goblet, she gave him such a firm look that he could not mistake her silent command: “Stop asking all these questions. You can see they’re embarrassing him. Just thank him—that’s what he came for!”
Jethro had no time to ponder what to do next. Pushing Zipporah aside, Orma now also knelt before Moses and presented him with a basket of honey cakes—as well as herself in all her splendor.
They all heard the most beautiful of Jethro’s daughters declare, with unaccustomed humility, how happy she was to be able to offer these gifts, which in all honesty were paltry indeed, considering what Moses had done for her and her sisters and the luxury to which a lord of Egypt must be accustomed.
Jethro saw Zipporah clench her fists with anger, and Moses’ expression change to one of embarrassment. For a moment, he feared that a terrible quarrel might be about to break out between his daughters. But then, quite unexpectedly, Moses got to his feet, gripping his staff. A strange silence fell on the courtyard. Orma retreated, one hand raised in front of her beautiful face. The women put their arms around the children’s shoulders.
Moses bowed, as if about to take his leave. “You’re wrong, daughter of Jethro,” he said, his voice quite clear now. “You’re wrong.”
Taken aback, Orma laughed inanely.
“Don’t laugh! You don’t know what you’re saying!” Moses’ voice was harsh, like pebbles being rubbed together. Orma looked around her in alarm, seeking help, but everyone was watching Moses, anxious not to miss a single word emerging from his mouth. “I’m not a lord of Egypt, daughter of Jethro. You think I’m from Egypt and a prince, but I’m not.”
Was it his accent, or was he really angry? It was impossible to say. Orma got to her feet, her cheeks flushed and her lips quivering. She took a step back and found herself, without intending it, beside Zipporah. Moses’ golden eyes swept over the two of them and Jethro, and then he turned to face the people standing in the courtyard and opened his arms, although not very wide. His voice was no longer at all menacing.
“It’s the truth. I’m not an Egyptian from Egypt. I’m a Hebrew, the son of a slave, a son of Abraham and Joseph.”
Jethro had already stood up, his tunic moving around his thin body. He caught Moses by the elbow, seized his hands, and forced him to sit down again. “Yes, I know, I know! Sit down, please, Moses
. I know. Zipporah told me.”
Orma looked at Zipporah in astonishment, but Zipporah ignored her. Moses and their father sat down again on the cushions. Jethro patted Moses’ knee with tender familiarity.
“What you say is good news for me, Moses, and makes me all the happier to welcome you. We Midianites are the sons of Abraham and his second wife, Keturah.”
“Oh?”
“I want you to think of this as your own home, and to stay for as long as you wish. I owe you everything my daughters owe you.”
“All I did was fight. The shepherds weren’t strong.”
“But you didn’t know that before you put them to flight! As of today, Moses’ name and Jethro’s name are joined in friendship.”
“You are good. But you don’t know the reason that led me to the land of Midian.” Moses smiled sadly, apparently determined to continue being humble, even though it was no longer necessary.
Jethro launched into a long, vigorous tirade. “No, I don’t know it, any more than I know the manner in which you came here. You will tell me if you like. I love to hear men’s stories. But, for what I have to say to you, that doesn’t matter. You are alone here. You have no companion, no flock, not even a tent to shelter you from the heat of the day and the cold of the night. You have, it seems, no handmaids with you, no wife, nobody who knows how to bake your bread, brew your beer, or weave your garments. Let me welcome you to my domain as if you were one of my people. It is the least I can do, considering what you did. My daughters and I thank Horeb for your arrival. Choose twenty sheep to start your flock and take the canvas you need to erect a tent in the shade of one of the great trees beyond these walls. I insist. It will make me very happy. As you have no doubt noticed, and for a reason I will explain to you later, for the moment I have almost nothing but women around me—daughters, nieces, or handmaids. Among them, you will find hands to take care of you. And I daresay I shall have someone to talk to in the evenings.”
Zipporah expected to see a smile of relief on Moses’ face. Instead, she saw his whole body grow terribly rigid.
“I came to Midian because I killed a man,” he said.
A murmur went through the courtyard. The laughter and high spirits abruptly ceased. Zipporah felt the breath go out of her chest. On either side of her, Sefoba and Orma gripped her wrists, as if holding on to the branch of a tree to stop themselves falling. The only person who remained impassive, without even a glint of surprise in his eyes, was Jethro.
Moses placed his staff across his knees, and took a deep breath. “I killed a man. Not a shepherd, but one of Pharaoh’s lords. A highly placed architect and overseer. I am wearing noble garments; they are not mine. I stole them in order to flee. This staff, too, I stole from Pharaoh’s court. That is what you must know before you welcome me among you.”
“If you killed a man,” Jethro said, in a voice of unruffled calm and tenderness, “you must have had a reason. Do you want to tell us about it?”
MOSES was not the kind of man to take a long time telling his story. In any case, his lack of fluency in the language of Midian forced him to skimp on the details. But to everyone, including the children—those who had been standing in the courtyard had drawn closer—his story was all the more terrible for that. They filled his silences with their imagination, seeing in their own minds the incredible, teeming world beyond the Red Sea. Names with strange consonants—Thinis, Waset, Djeser-Djeserou, Amon, Osiris—that they had heard mentioned from time to time by passing traders assumed a new reality as Moses spoke.
They saw as if with their own eyes the splendor of the cities, the roads and the temples, the fabulous palaces, the huge stone sculptures of animals asserting the power of men who were no longer entirely men. Having established this background, Moses turned next, in his staccato phrases, to the nekhakha, Pharaoh’s whip. A whip he held tight against his chest in the hundreds of statues of him found everywhere in the country, in temples, and on tombs. A whip that cracked incessantly, raining blows on the thousands of Hebrew slaves. For it was with their blood, their screams, and their deaths that extraordinary buildings were erected in honor of the living god, the Life of Life, that ever-reborn power that reigned over the vast land of the Great River.
“Where the slaves work, anyone who tries to protest dies,” Moses said. “On a building site, the death of a Hebrew counts for less than a broken plank.”
From dawn to night, insults, cries, accidents, and humiliation were the slaves’ constant diet. As punishment, the weakest were set to making bricks, stamping on mud weighted with straw until they could no longer lift their feet.
“Anyone no longer able to stamp is beaten until he falls in the mud and chokes. Then the overseer beats him again because he’s stopped stamping. If his companions try to help him, they, too, are beaten.”
Here, in the heat of Midian, everyone heard the cracking of Pharaoh’s whip. Even the flies seemed to have stopped buzzing.
“Anyone no longer able to pull the sledges carrying the stones is beaten,” Moses resumed, his voice increasingly heavy. “Anyone who is thirsty, anyone who makes a mistake, anyone who tries to bandage his wound: All are beaten. Young and old, men and women.”
At times, Moses would fall silent, and his eyes would wander over the baskets of fruit placed before him. They respected his silence, trying to see what he himself was seeing with his inner eye: the long chains of men attached with ropes; the thousands of arms beating the stone, cutting it, polishing it, lifting it; the endless days spent extracting rocks from the cliffs, transporting them from one end of a vast land to the other, and finally piling them high in dizzying constructions.
“It wasn’t always thus,” Moses murmured, shaking his head. “But today, Pharaoh’s whip is greedier for their blood than the mosquitoes.”
He looked around, and his eyes met first Jethro’s, then Zipporah’s. There was no pain on his face, nor any real anger, either, but rather incomprehension.
“I stood next to a man who felt pleasure in the suffering of the slaves, even pride in inflicting as much harm on them as he could. His name was Mem P’ta. To be anywhere near him made you feel dirty. I was so ashamed. Ashamed of what he was doing and ashamed of not stopping him. One morning, it just happened. I hadn’t planned it. Mem P’ta went off alone to the river, and I followed him. I waited in the reeds while he did his business. It wasn’t difficult. I was so relieved at the thought that he’d never again raise his whip! I really wanted to kill him!” Moses gave a half smile. “Then I was afraid they would discover his body too quickly if the river swept it away, so I pulled him over to a strip of sand and buried him. I think that’s where I was seen.”
Again, he fell silent. It was not difficult to imagine what he left unsaid.
He rolled his staff between his hands and looked at the faces around him without lingering on any single one. Curiously, he seemed more at ease, more sure of himself than he had before. He shrugged his shoulders with a certain lightness.
“I killed the Egyptian, and it was a mistake. It didn’t lessen the suffering of a single Hebrew. All it did was increase Pharaoh’s wrath toward his slaves. To strike Pharaoh’s architects or overseers is to strike Pharaoh. And who would dare to take on Pharaoh?”
Jethro did not know if that was meant as a real question. He remained silent, not moving a muscle. Moses’ weary smile grew wider, although the look in his eyes was still serious.
“I stole garments, and a boat that carried me here. Until your daughters said to me, ‘You are in the land of Midian, on the property of Jethro, the sage of the kings of Midian,’ I had no idea where I was.”
Jethro nodded. “You are in the land of Midian, on the property of Jethro. Nothing you’ve told us has made me want to take back anything I’ve said. I stand by my word: This is your home. If such is your wish, and a modest life suits you, tomorrow you will pitch your tent and choose the first animals for your flock.”
THE sky had turned a heavier blue. The constant plume
of clouds and smoke that wreathed the summit of Horeb’s mountain was tinged with an almost liquid pink. It had been a long time since Moses, sitting upright on his camel, had ridden off into the west.
As soon as he had left, everyone had started speaking at once, but it was Orma’s voice that had stood out from the rest. Fearing that her own emotions would be drowned out by it, Zippporah had kept her distance. She had only to close her eyes to see the muscles rippling on the stranger’s back as the camel swayed from side to side. In the same way, she was able to relive each moment of their encounter. Everything was inside her: Moses’ voice, his expressions, his moments of embarrassment, and, ultimately, all he had left unsaid.
“What a strange man!” her father said, as she and her sisters were setting the evening meal before him. “Is it only because he doesn’t know our language well that he seems such a mass of contradictions? Have you noticed how he answers questions without really answering them? I’m certain he knows how to ride a horse and that he was once at Pharaoh’s side. A man like that ought to be more confident. His eyes glow with pride, but he’s humble. I can’t believe he was a slave. Yet he holds those slaves in greater esteem than himself. Yes, what a strange person this Moses is! He seems to be one thing, but he’s also its opposite. He’s caught between light and darkness. I like him.”
His words were enough to inflame Orma, like fire touching dry grass. “He killed a man and you like him!”
“Yes, he killed a man. But you heard his reasons.”
