Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  And you will have your field back at the cost of Pharaoh doing it for you, RaEm thought. Still, she admired his wiliness. “How many slaves for how many days?” she asked him.

  He looked like a raisin, bald, brown, and shriveled. The people were quite unattractive by adulthood, she thought dispassionately. “Twenty workers out here, from dawn to dusk, should take a week, fifteen days at most.” His squinty dark eyes sized her up. “I know about twenty men who would do it, probably cheaper than slaves.”

  RaEm crossed her arms, feeling sweat roll over the bumps on her arms and legs from mosquitoes in this marshland. “Cheaper than slaves?”

  He picked his teeth—the few still in his head, then adjusted his kilt, a grimy, coarse cloth. “Slaves have to be fed, haii? A few cucumbers, bread, salted fish, that is what they are due according to contract, am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “Seeing how food is what Pharaoh, living forever!—”

  “Glorious Pharaoh, living in the light of Aten forever!” RaEm corrected him automatically.

  “Exactly. Seeing how food is what he doesn’t have, wouldn’t it be better to hire some men who can feed their own bellies, then pay them in something Egypt isn’t running out of?”

  “Like?” RaEm asked, swatting another mosquito. “Stone, mayhap?”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “You’ll get your stone, old man. I’ll be back here in seven days—”

  “Seven days! Do you think I am a pagan’s god to reclaim land from the waters in seven days?”

  “Seven, old man, or we have no deal.”

  He crossed his breast in respect, an antique gesture that warmed RaEm to him even more.

  “It had best be done by then, or I will use the stone to bury you.”

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, speaking slowly. “If you can’t get to the grain, my lord, then no stones will be needed. Hunger will weigh us down.”

  Suddenly weary, desirous of a bath, a change of clothing, and a young boy, RaEm ordered the oarsmen to carry her back to the Nile.

  Seven days. It was the final hope, a giant silo beneath the earth filled with grain to feed a hungry people. Seven days.

  CHAPTER 7

  THAT NIGHT AT DINNER the tzadik N’tan stood up as we slaves sat down, grateful for the break. It was Yom Rishon dinner, which actually took place the evening after the Sabbath, since the holy day went from dusk to dusk. People stopped talking to each other and reclined, as N’tan adjusted his white robe.

  They were used to being entertained like this, by N’tan’s sermonizing. Every week, Yom Rishon dinner was filled with laughter and dancing—and stories. The tribesmen would have made great subjects for a focus group on television programs; they were good spectators.

  “We are to be like sheep,” N’tan said, and the crowd groaned.

  “If it weren’t for your lovely bride, we would worry about you!” some gibori shouted at him.

  N’tan’s very pregnant, very red-faced bride threw a loaf of bread at the heckler. “He has to talk to you of sheep, so that you, Dov ben Hamah, understand!” Everyone laughed.

  The tzadik continued speaking. “We are to have a sole shepherd to guide us, one voice to follow.” He twisted his sidelocks, appearing to be in thought. “We tribes are not to worship other gods, as other peoples do. We are a nation set apart. To us, el haShaday is not part of the process of nature. He is not a season, or a weather condition, or any one thing we can touch or see. He is not the land.”

  He looked out at his audience. “What is this land? What did Shaday give us?”

  “Chalev oo’d’vash, the Sages said,” a young gibori repeated proudly.

  My lexicon showed me a carton of Borden’s, then a honeycomb. Milk and honey. Got it.

  I was no longer amazed when what I heard jelled with what I’d been taught about the Bible. I hoped that somewhere in the darkness beyond this shelter, Cheftu listened. Standing there in the dark, beneath the stars scattered like sand on the seashore, he must be rejoicing in his heart. God was real. The Bible was true.

  His faith was deep, mine less so, but then we’d always had differing levels of conviction. I know it saddened him that I didn’t believe more, or more fiercely. But if I said I trusted so that he would be comfortable, it wouldn’t be genuine.

  He was almost in a contented awe to be here in David’s Israel. I kept waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop, but the waiting was convincing my left-brained, well-educated, totally Western mind that all the Hebrew mythology I’d ever heard was true.

  “Nachon!” N’tan said. “We are not Pelesti, or Mizri; we do not have gods for the seasons. Shaday gave us fertile land, did he not?”

  “Sela!” the people shouted. I’d learned that the closest equivalent to sela was a gospel church crying out, “Amen, brother!” It could also be used as a benediction.

  “Sela,” N’tan said. “The fertility of the soil is within the land. We, we are the ones who control how it is received. We control the productivity of the earth, the frequency of the rains, by how we behave.

  “We are chastened to remember, which is why our branches are tied with red thread.”

  Huh?

  N’tan tugged at his beard for a moment, focused elsewhere while we watched him. “All of our traditions focus on remember. Remember what Shaday did for us, leading us up out of Egypt.”

  Oh yeah, I remembered that. Vividly.

  We all said, “Sela.”

  “Remember how he provided for us in the desert.”

  “Sela!”

  “Remember how he passed over us as the death angel.”

  I shivered, recalling that horrifically beautiful face, the claw marks in its wake, the screams in the night as it took yet another victim.

  “Sela!”

  “Remember how he destroyed the Egyptians in the sea.” Gold and bodies afloat in white water, then the mighty rushing wind that calmed and cleaned the waters.

  “Sela!”

  “Remember, remember, remember!”

  They knuckled the ground with enthusiasm. N’tan did know how to get the blood pumping. He turned to the crowd. “For generations, since we entered this land beneath the leadership of Y’shua and Ka’lib, the tzadikim and kohanim have returned to the Mount of God in Midian to give legs to their remembering. There we see the place where haMoshe and the zekenim sat with Yahwe and ate for the b’rith.”

  I almost dropped my jug. N’tan had just said that the leaders of the tribesmen—the prophets, the priests, and the individual tribes’ rulers—sat down and ate a covenantal meal with God? This was in the Bible? They knew where this meeting took place?

  “To remember the b’rith, our forefathers climbed the mountain to sit, eating in remembrance of our fathers and Yahwe.”

  Obviously I had been listening to the wrong Bible. “So: Because it is tradition, because it is necessary for remembrance, I will be leaving with a group of kohanim to make this pilgrimage, after Shavu’ot. Those who wish to join me, to sit where their forefathers and fathers have sat, to see the mountain of our God, you are bidden to walk with me. Come to remember!”

  The mental image I had was of a picnic with God on a mountain. My brain, even my useful lexicon, was having a hard time wrapping itself around this one!

  “Wine!” I heard in a voice that sounded as though it had been calling for it for a while. I hustled over, poured distractedly from my jar, and actually spilled a little on the ground. The glance I received was displeased, but I didn’t care. I stumbled back to slave’s row, where we all stood, waiting to serve.

  I was blown away. I’d grown used to knowing what to expect in this day and time. No one else seemed shocked by this pronouncement, however. This was something they all knew? Dadua sang another psalm, we all said, “Sela,” then I was cleaning again.

  By the time I got back to our watchtower, the sun was creeping across the horizon and Cheftu was walking out the door. We kissed. “Did you hear?” I
asked sleepily. “Last night. Were you there?”

  “Lo, what happened?” He glanced out at the dawn, harried. “Beloved, tell me tonight. We harvest in the far fields today.” He kissed me again and left.

  My dreams were bizarre, a cross between Alice in Wonderland and what I’d heard about the zekenim—the seventy, my lexicon added—sitting down with God. Only this time God was sipping tea, the seventy were white rabbits, and RaEm stood in the Queen’s outfit screeching, “Off with her head!”

  I woke to the sound of Shana screaming for me.

  “That idiot!” she said at the top of her lungs. I joined the back of the crowd of slaves: tribesmen and children, pagans and women. “He willfully makes these choices with no concern for the upcoming festivals, the seasons. Ach! Men!”

  I glanced at the other slaves. Kali’a, whom I saw on occasion, leaned over. “Her fit is because of N’tan’s announcement last night. We have been preparing for Shavu’ot all week. Now he plans to leave the night after it.”

  Though the times may have changed, my Mimi and my mom had said almost those same words about the men in their lives: people were people, no matter when. I grinned at the thought.

  “Isha! Is what I say so amusing?” Shana homed in on me. I shook my head violently. God forbid she think I was laughing at her! She glared at me, though she didn’t seem as angry as usual. She continued. “So: haMelekh’s fields need b’kurim.”

  My lexicon was not forthcoming.

  “You and you,” she said, pointing to two young boys, “will be in charge of managing the sheep and the lambs. You and you”—she pointed to two young girls, one a tribesman, the other a pagan—“will tie the branches of the orchards.” She chose ’Sheva to join a group tying the grape clusters. “You,” she said with her customary antagonism toward me, “will be in the kitchen.”

  Great, everyone else got to play outside. I felt as though I were grounded. “You are not a tribeswoman,” she said. “You cannot touch the b’kurim.” She sighed. “I can tell from your expression you don’t know what it is.”

  I shook my head. I was Pelesti, remember?

  Shana turned to us all. “Yahwe brought us into this land, with chalev oo’d’vash. Three times a year our men are to present themselves at the Seat of Mercy. The b’kurim are the first fruits of the season, ken? Every farmer, every vintner, when he sees the first produce of this season, instead of eating it, he ties the branch with a red thread.”

  Shana gestured to some slave, then turned back to us. “These fruits are to be presented as a thank offering to Shaday, with a prayer.”

  “What is the prayer?” some other, braver soul than I asked.

  She covered her head with a scarf and raised her arms, intoning the words. “My father was a stranger in the land of Mizra’im. There he grew into a mighty nation. The Mizri were jealous and enslaved us, afflicted us. With miracles and magic, Yahwe freed my people from their hands, and brought us into the land, rich with milk and honey. So: I bring to Yahwe the first of what he has given me.” She opened her eyes. “In this, we remember. Now go! We have much to do, and to prepare food for the seventy.” She walked away, tch’ing.

  Before I handled any food, I had to wash my hands and bind my hair. Then they showed me the dates.

  A mountain of dates, an Everest of them! Each had to be seeded, then inserted with raisins or nuts. We’re talking millions of dates, enough for everyone in the palace, including the thirty giborim and their families.

  It would be Shavu’ot of next year before I finished this! My blade was a flint, and I started splitting the dates, throwing them from one basket to another and thinking that if I were Catholic, this would be purgatory.

  People bustled all around me. Wonderful smells came from the ovens, where cakes and breads were baked, then dusted with spices or decorated with fruit, then wrapped in dried palm leaves and set aside.

  I limped home that night, noticing the budding vines of grapes were adorned with threads, the b’kurim. Cheftu had gotten dinner, a few pieces of meat and a mash of lentils, for us. “From what I recall of my friends who were married and both working, our lives aren’t much different,” I said, trying to sound positive. I was too tired even for lovemaking.

  “Women work?” he asked.

  I chewed, looking at him. “There really are light-years between us, at times.”

  “A year filled with light?” he said, bewildered.

  I just kissed him, too ragged to start explaining. “Have you heard what N’tan said last night? About the seventy, the dinner with God?”

  He sat back. “Indeed. It was all we talked about in the fields. Families are vying for a way to get their sons included. It is an unspoken way of declaring the new rulers of their tribes.”

  “There are seventy rulers of this tribe?” I asked.

  “Lo, it is open to all the other tribes as well. They will join at Shek’im, then journey down the valley, past the Salt Sea. From there they will board a ship that will take them to Midian. Then, I hear, it is only a two days’ walk.”

  I put aside the bones of my meal. “Is it my imagination, or do you sound wistful?”

  He looked away. “Think on it, Chloe: They know where to go. They know where the mountain of God is! In my time, we think it is the Sinai. How wrong we are!”

  “In my time I think we think it is the Sinai, too,” I said. “If anyone knew it was in Saudi Arabia, well, there would be another war against Israel.”

  He sat up. “Israel is a country in your time?”

  “Ken,” I said. “My father is a diplomat, trying to establish peace between the Jewish state and the many Arab countries.”

  “That is why you are here,” he whispered in wonder. “You know these things.” He shook his head. “I marveled at the way you spoke with Yoav. You were arguing with a man from history, chérie! You dared to insult a Bible character.”

  “Don’t tell me that. It’s too immobilizing. I can’t think of who these people are, or where I know them from.” I took a quick drink of beer, spitting away the husks. As slaves we didn’t have the cups with the built-in filter. “So what is this story N’tan was telling? Have you heard it before?”

  He stood up, stretching, looking out over the vineyards where the leaves were just starting to show. He held a hand out to me and we climbed onto the edge of the wall, sitting in the setting sun, looking out over the prosperity of the land. “Chalev oo’d’vash,” I whispered.

  “It is,” Cheftu said. “According to the Holy Writ I recall, this story of Moshe sitting down face-to-face with le bon Dieu is unknown. In fact, he could not see God face-to-face, but only the back of him. Even that caused him to be burned, and his face was so terrifying that the people, when he returned to the camp, begged him to cover his features.”

  “Why?”

  “He’d been in the presence of God, and it showed on his face and scared them.”

  Whoa. Like radiation or something?

  “I thought that to touch the Mount of God was to die,” he mused. “This story N’tan told, I know nothing of this.”

  “Do you think it is true?” I said. The sky was streaks of lavender, pink, and gold. Cheftu’s strong fingers were linked in mine. Tears welled in my eyes at how perfect this moment seemed. I didn’t even feel the chains anymore. My ears had healed, and I realized that I’d probably made the whole enslaving experience worse by being so scared. Now, it was just as if they were pierced; granted, they were pierced with quarter-inch holes through cartilage, but so insignificant. I squeezed his hand, smiling. We finally had our corner of heaven.

  “Ach,” he said. “How can I know? These people, they have kept these stories alive for generations.”

  “Do you think it is a legend that was expounded on, or a fact? If it is a fact, why have we never heard of it?” I asked.

  “For seventy men to have climbed the mountain, to have dined with God, this seems too extraordinary to be a falsehood.”

  “Not a falsehood, j
ust an exaggeration,” I said.

  “Is not an exaggeration a falsehood?” he asked.

  I frowned at him; I didn’t know. “When did they go up?” I saw Charlton Heston coming down from the mountain, as Moses, alone with the Ten Commandments. “I thought God wrote the commandments on stone with his finger.”

  Cheftu smiled, drawing me closer. Night had fallen, and the stars were starting to glimmer in sparkles of white, green, pink, and yellow against the night sky. It amazed me that I could actually see the color, though I knew it had always been there. Was that like the rest of my life? Had I ever been this happy? “You remember quite well for an isha who claims no knowledge of the Bible.”

  “My Mimi would be proud to hear that,” I said, nuzzling his neck.

  “Your grand-mère?”

  “Oui.”

  Cheftu laid his cheek against mine. The fuzz of his beard had finally passed from the sandpaper stage through the horsehair phase and now was a soft pelt. The curls over his ears were growing, and he had taken to wrapping the long pieces of hair around his ears just like an Israelite. “It must have been the second time Moshe climbed up,” Cheftu said, rumbling in my ear, a vibration I felt through his chest. “When he took down God’s words in his own hand, maybe then?”

  “I love you,” I whispered, pulling away to look up at him. “Your knowledge astounds me. You make me breathless with your mind.”

  He crooked a brow at me. “Just my mind?”

  “Well,” I hedged, chewing on my lip.

  He took over my mouth, murmuring that perhaps he needed to remind me he was more than just wit.

  Later, as we lay curved together like spoons, almost asleep, I asked a fatal question. “We are making love with no protection, nachon?”

  Cheftu was silent so long, I thought he was already asleep. “You are,” he finally said.

  “Why?” I asked, half-dreaming, half-awake. “I thought you hated the thought of having a baby here?”

  He kissed my jaw, pulling me tighter against him, his fingers splayed across my belly. “I feared having a baby amid the disasters we have seen,” he said. “I also feared what would happen if you were not in your own body.”