“Now, when are they coming?”
Kamose’s chest heaved. After several noisy breaths he looked up. “We are not coming. Yahweh is not with us. We will not be back for forty years.”
The prince’s eyes flashed. Another finger.
Kamose’s back blazed with each blow. First one guard, then the other, slammed the thin strips of leather onto his bare back. Blood dribbled from his shoulders to his lower back and onto his shenti. He gritted his teeth against the pain.
“I need an answer. The truth, this time.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“You are trying to trick me, to lull me into thinking you are not coming so you can take my city without a fight. It will not work. I will fight to the death. Even if the death begins here.”
“We are not coming. We have been defeated. Even if we were, haven’t you already proved you can beat us?”
The prince raised his finger again and the lashes rained down.
Flesh ripped from Kamose’s body as the leather pulled away. He tried to arch his back, but that only pressed his chest into the raw wood. His body wanted to collapse, but the ropes held him securely, threatening to pull his shoulders from his torso.
“He should think about his answers for a time. Put him back in the cell.”
Twenty
Tirzah squatted in front of Sarah, staring at the sheep’s thick gray fur. How long had she been here? She’d left the tent this morning to come milk the animal, or at least that’s what she’d told everyone. The truth was she couldn’t stand to see one more person give her an encouraging smile, couldn’t bear to hear one more person say, “He’ll be home tonight. Everything will be fine.” She told herself that enough. It was starting to sound hollow.
Joshua checked every day to make sure she had everything she needed and to reassure her Kamose would be home later that day. Except lately even he had stopped promising that.
She sat back on the sandy desert floor. The morning sun beat on her head as she rested it on her knees.
She wearied of putting on a smile in front of the girls and Ahmose. It was exhausting, pretending to be calm and content when she was panicking and losing hope.
Hope. What an elusive thing it was. She’d been better off without it. Life was dreary but predictable. Manageable. Then he came. And everything changed. He turned her life upside down, and then left. She should have known better than to trust a man.
She kicked a flower at her feet, dug the heel of her sandal into its root until it lay toppled onto the sand, the life draining from it.
She studied the fallen plant. That’s how she felt. Rootless, tumbled on her side. Life, purpose, meaning, ebbing away. Why hadn’t he left her alone? She was doing just fine without him. Why did he have to come and tell her all those beautiful words she didn’t need to hear and that meant nothing? And in the end, changed nothing.
Hot, salty tears filled her eyes, and though she tried to fight them, she lost. She pounded the ground at her sides with her fists, while screaming with her mouth closed. She grabbed handfuls of sand, wishing she were still a child and could throw it at something, anything. Instead, she pitched it back at the ground.
Sarah backed away.
Her anger spent, her tears gone, she sat staring at the cloud above her. The cloud that protected her, but no longer protected Kamose. If he were still alive. Which was doubtful.
She was tired. So tired. Every part of her body felt as if it weighed an enormous amount.
Hadn’t she felt just like this before Gaddiel had gone on his mission?
Wonderful. She’d made no progress at all.
Kamose awoke on cold, hard stone. He tried to move, but his head pounded. Dried blood adhered his back to the floor. He rolled to one side, peeling his back from the stone in prolonged agony, ripping flesh once again. How did he end up on his back? He would never have done that with open, bleeding wounds. He must have lost consciousness and been thrown on the floor by his captors.
He sat up, and blood dribbled down his back. His shoulders ached. His stomach growled. He considered the cell that he feared would be his prison for a long time. This was not the room he’d been kept in before the beating. Light came from a tiny window set at least twice his height above him in the wall. He could see feet shuffling past it. The sounds of sheep and voices in a language he didn’t understand filtered down. He was deep underground.
Crimson stained the stone floor and walls. The hot air in the room refused to move, and settled around him, holding in the stench of sweat and urine. A pile of hay tossed in one corner was someone’s feeble attempt at a bed. The ceiling was made of long timbers laid across the walls. His cell must be at least adjacent to the city, perhaps on the outside wall.
They’d taken his sandals and dagger. How long had it been since he’d had anything to eat or drink? When he was younger he could go for days without food, but he was not so strong any more. His age, the lack of water, the loss of blood, the beating … he was getting weaker by the moment.
And of course there was Tirzah.
He fought to control his emotions. Sentiment got in the way. But how could he have possibly foreseen he would need to be so clearheaded at this point in his life? He thought he was past all that, all the soldiering, all the fighting, the need to be insulated, isolated. It was finally safe to fall in love.
Or so he’d thought.
He shook his head. He needed to concentrate. He studied his surroundings again, looked for any way to escape. The only entrance was a massive, wooden door with a narrow opening. At least this one seemed to be at a reasonable height. He rolled onto his knees. The edges of the stones sliced into his skin as he pushed himself up, then he lumbered to the door. He stood with his back toward the door—careful not to lean on it—at one side of the window, and listened for movement. Hearing none, he twisted around and peered out. On the other side, earthen steps led up. The tiniest bit of light shone at the top. He took a step back and his fingers vainly groped for space between the door and the wall; it was well-built. There was half a hand’s width at the bottom, but that didn’t help.
He ran his hand over the surface of the door. It was worn. He fingered the window, about the width of a small child’s head and three times as high. Each edge, inside and out, was smooth as well. He turned and surveyed the floor—also worn and aged. This was a very old prison. Many men had been held here. How many had died here?
He paced. He had to get back to Kadesh. But how?
He thought back to the beginning, when he was caught. Try to remember everything. He’d never been captured before, never been on the defensive.
He was not beaten here. Good. That meant they’d take him out of here if they wanted to interrogate—or whip—him yet again. He’d have a better chance of escaping from almost anywhere else. Could he remember where he was before? He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he could remember were the faces of the men who had chained him to the pole so he could be beaten senseless.
Think! He’d been there, he must have seen that room. Think beyond the guards. He’d stared at his feet. The floor. The floor was polished stone, like the palace in Pi-Ramses. He’d been brought before the prince of Arad. He was young, maybe Joshua’s age. But he didn’t stay in that room. He was led to another room, beyond that one, to be tortured.
The prince. What did he want to know? Yahweh. He wanted to know about Yahweh, kept asking about Yahweh’s plans. As if Kamose would know. Yahweh was not going to share his plans with an Egyptian. The prince didn’t believe him when he said the Israelites weren’t coming. That’s what got him punished.
The door opened. The guard set a bowl of food on the floor, then locked the cell again.
At least they were feeding him. Which brought up another question.
How long did they intend to keep him here?
28 Av
Kamose looked at his hands, tied to the ring at the top of the pole again. The air cracked as the whip sliced through it, again and
again. After twenty lashes the guards stopped, but the pain did not. One hundred lashes was a common punishment in Egypt. If the guards used a man’s entire back—from shoulders to calves—there was plenty of skin to flay and keep a man alive and conscious. More often, however, it took more than one session to reach the total. By his count he was only at sixty, but the strokes had all been to his back, and they were having a profound effect.
The prince drew closer. “When are you coming?”
Kamose stared at the blood dripping onto the floor at his feet while he caught his breath. This time he could not raise his head. He could not speak. He could only shake his head slightly.
The prince stepped back. “Count?”
“Sixty.”
“Twenty more.”
The blows began again. Kamose held out as long as he could, but somewhere around blow number six, everything went dark.
1 Elul
Tirzah rolled over onto her back. The early morning sun shone through the flap. She should get up. She didn’t want to. She’d rather stay in the tent, stay asleep. Maybe then she could forget everything that had happened. She threw one arm over her eyes, then the other, as if trying to block out the memories. It didn’t work.
She glanced around the tent. The girls were already up and gone. Again. She dressed, skipped brushing her hair, dragged her exhausted body into the too-bright day. Better hurry before the manna melted. She grabbed the pot and headed outside of camp.
She knelt to gather the precious food, then just dropped onto the sand. It was easy to reach enough of it from her knees. She gathered enough only for two.
She stood and shuffled back to her tent, where she boiled the manna, then scooped some into bowls for Naomi and Keren. After placing the bowls beside the fire, she laid a cloth over them. Everyone else was already finished with the morning meal and had wandered away. She was grateful for the quiet, and sat in front of the fire, staring at the flames that seemed once again to mock her.
Kamose is dead.
She knew it. He had to be. The others had been back over a week now—eleven days. He was either dead or dying. No one else would say it out loud, but she knew it was true. She drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest. She laid her head on her knees and softly cried.
After a while she dried her tears and crawled back into her tent. She curled up on her mat and fell asleep.
Meri shook her gently. “Tirzah?”
Tirzah struggled to break through the fog in her head. How long had she been asleep?
“Tirzah?”
Go away.
“Tirzah, it’s time to eat.”
She rolled to the other side, facing away from Meri. “I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat last night or this morning.”
“I’m still not hungry.”
“Do you want to at least come outside and sit with us? Everyone wants to see you.”
I don’t want to see them. “No.”
“Please?”
Tirzah said nothing.
Meri finally left.
Tirzah sank back into the numbing fog.
A voice woke her once again. How much later was it? She tried to open her eyes, but they would not cooperate for long. It was dark out.
“I’m really worried,” the voice whispered. “She’s been sleeping all day.”
Meri.
“Me, too.”
And Sheerah.
“Come here, girls, let’s get your sleeping tunics on, and brush your hair,” Meri whispered again.
“Is Imma sick?”
That voice was Keren’s. Meri and Sheerah are putting the girls to bed. I can’t even do that.
“In a way. But she’ll get better soon. Lie down now.” Blankets and mats rustled, and kisses on cheeks smacked, followed by giggles.
“What should we do?” asked Sheerah, as she crawled out of the tent.
“I don’t know. But I’m getting very worried.”
4 Elul
The tent flaps rustled as Rebekah stepped inside Tirzah’s tent. Tirzah didn’t much care, though. She didn’t much care about anything. The last thing she wanted was to talk.
She watched Rebekah glance around. The girls were already gone, as usual. Clothes, pots, and shoes lay scattered about.
An hour later, Tirzah sat by the fire. Meri and Sheerah had basically dragged her from her tent. She’d hidden there for three days and apparently Meri had had enough.
So what?
Meri had helped her clean herself and Sheerah returned to tidy up the tent. At least they had done it after everyone else had left the fire so she didn’t have to face or talk to anyone. Thank Yahweh.
Thank Yahweh? She didn’t feel like thanking Him for anything. How could He give her what she needed—though she didn’t know she needed it—and then take it away again? She’d been doing fine without Kamose. She’d adjusted to what was expected of her. She didn’t like it, but she’d become accustomed to it. The girls had food and a place to live, and that was all that mattered. But then He had to go and give her a taste of what could have been, just so He could yank it out from under her.
She felt rather than saw someone sit next to her. She peeked out from under her lashes and saw Meri and Sheerah by the tent. Had to be Rebekah sitting beside her. A hand landed on her shoulder. Instead of comforting her, the tears began to flow.
“Tirzah, you must eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know. You still must eat. You have the girls to think of.” She handed Tirzah a bowl of hot manna and a spoon.
Tirzah held the bowl between her hands. The warmth was soothing, moving from her hands through her arms. It felt good against the chilly morning breeze. She picked up the spoon and stirred the porridge.
Rebekah gently lifted Tirzah’s hand to her mouth.
The hot, sweet manna slid over her tongue and filled her mouth. She swallowed and dunked the spoon for another bite. Then another … and another. The bowl was emptied quickly.
“I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
“I know.”
Rebekah handed her another bowl.
“That’s the second time you’ve said I know.”
Rebekah nodded. “I was about your age when Bezalel’s father died. I know how it feels. How empty your heart, your home, your future feels. But you have to keep going. You have to take care of yourself so you can care for your children. Even if you don’t want to right now.”
Tirzah shoved the last bite in her mouth. “I’m not sure I can. Not again. It’s different this time.”
Rebekah shrugged. “How? Alone is alone.”
“But before, I was alone even when I was still married. Jediel was a horrible man. I was better off when he was gone. But Kamose …” The tears began to pour from her eyes and she couldn’t stop them.
“You can still do this.” Rebekah took the bowl from Tirzah’s hands.
“I can’t …” Tirzah raked her hands through her hair, leaving her hands on her neck.
“Yes, you can.”
“How do you know?”
“I did it.”
She glanced sideways at the older woman. “How?” She wasn’t nearly as strong as Rebekah. She’d never make it.
Rebekah shook her head. “You just do it. Every day. You wake up, feed your children, take care of your house, wash the clothes, put the girls to bed, and do it all again the next day.” She put her arm around Tirzah. “And you will not be alone. I had Bezalel’s grandfather. He did it alone, too.”
Tirzah sniffled and wiped her eyes. “He did?”
“Yes. His wife died when Bezalel’s father was but a young boy. His family helped him. He helped me. And we will help you. And Yahweh is always with you. Never forget that.”
But the weight that had momentarily lifted crashed on her shoulders again. “Maybe it would have been better if I had never known Kamose.”
“Oh, no. Never think that.” Rebekah pulled her closer and rubbed her back.
<
br /> “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.”
“But think of all you have gained, even though you knew him for only a short time. You know what real love is. You have good things to remember, instead of all the things Jediel did to you. Kamose showed you what you are worthy of, what Yahweh thinks of you. Your girls know what an abba’s love is like, and they will not settle for someone like Jediel. You have a new family now to be part of. And, most importantly, you are free from Nathaniel. Yes, you have lost a great deal, but you have gained far more than you ever lost.”
5 Elul
Kamose lay on the stone floor, and tried to think about anything other than the raging pain of his bleeding back. The cuts from the first two beatings had finally begun to heal when the guards dragged him back to that hated room again last night, and whipped him after he refused to tell Prince Keret that the Israelites were planning an attack on Arad.
He opened his eyes at a noise at the door. A boy came in with a small bowl of food. The boy closed the door behind him and the lock clicked into place.
The boy—a young man, really—held out the bowl and offered it to Kamose. His smile was disarming and he held his other hand palm up to prove he was not armed.
Kamose grimaced as he sat up and took the bowl. He mumbled his thanks in Egyptian.
The boy’s eyes grew wide and he backed toward the door, bumping into it. He banged on it and waited for the guard to let him out, then Kamose heard his footsteps race up the stairs.
Now how could he have scared that kid? He could barely move. Surely he did not appear a threat.
Several hours later, the jingling of keys woke Kamose from a light sleep. He must have dozed off. The boy entered the room, this time with a large tray. On it sat two large bowls of hot food, another smaller bowl, and some cloths. He sat on the floor across from Kamose.
“Hello. I am called Danel.” He spoke in perfect Egyptian.
By the Waters of Kadesh (Journey to Canaan) Page 22
