by Cliff Graham
“You conjure tricks that shame me. I would order you tied down in the scorpion pit this very moment, but I wish to crush the name of your god in front of your people, so that their men will always be laborers and their women whores for my soldiers.”
Moses held his stare. For the first time, he spoke himself.
“Great king, the Lord will humble you before the nations of the earth, and he will defend his people. Whatever it takes.”
That night, at the temple of Nute, I watched the priests cleanse themselves in the golden baths and sacrifice three bulls to the goddess of the river. Their incantations and chants were guttural and heavy; occasionally one would stand up, sprinkle more blood across the altar, and then return to the group.
I got in a skiff and rowed across the blood river to the temple of Osiris, where those priests were sacrificing to their patron. Up and down the banks of the Nile, torchlight shone from every temple great and small, from the smallest dwarf god’s idol to the grandest corridors of Amon Ra. I wanted to see every one of them. Wanted to experience everything I could of the efforts that the king was making to thwart this foulness.
Remember, the river was one of our gods. As I rowed across it under an endlessly dark sky, the smell of putrefying flesh made me vomit over the side of the skiff until I had nothing left in my belly.
Hippopotamuses, crocodiles, pike, snakes, frogs, turtles, every living creature that swam in those waters had died and was floating on the surface. The furnace sun of the desert did the rest, speeding up the decaying process, causing intestines to bloat with gas and burst, spraying excrement and flesh across the fetid surface of the once-beautiful river.
There was no fresh water to be found in the land. Every vase, every cistern was full of rotting blood.
I had to pull hard on the oars to move the skiff through the blood. I looked at the sky as I rowed, trying to get my mind off what I was rowing through. Amon Ra would emerge on his fiery chariot in the east in a matter of hours, and if there was no relief from the gods by the end of the coming day, the young and the old would begin to die, with the healthy not long behind them.
No moon was out, only the dim stars of the late season. The Scorpion held his claws out across the heavens as he always did, passive and uncaring.
I made a sign against evil with my hand against my forehead and closed my eyes. “Great goddess,” I said quietly, “give us purity once more.”
As I finally approached the bank, my eye caught a glimpse of a small campfire not far away. Curious as to what sane man would be sleeping so near the river in its present state, I rowed my skiff in its direction.
As I drew near, I saw that it was Moses and Aaron sitting across the fire from each other. They were speaking quietly and occasionally taking drinks from two waterskins. I was amazed that their own water had not been contaminated.
I tried to hear what they were saying, but they were just out of my ears’ reach. Neither man appeared to be bothered by the smell. I detested them both, but I had to acknowledge that they were courageous, only the two of them in the middle of a land that hated them, surviving only because the king had chosen not to have them killed.
I learned from Moses many years later that, indeed, Yahweh had shielded their nostrils, and their food and water had remained pure.
The next morning I slept late since I had been out all night and I did not have a guard shift in the palace that day. I was in a deep dream as I lay on my pallet. I do not remember everything about the dream, but a creature I had never seen before was swallowing our entire Egypt in its great jaws, emptying the blood-filled Nile down its vast throat, and I was swimming against the rush of blood as hard as I could, crying out for salvation but seeing none. The stench was enough to suffocate me, and as I emerged it seemed only to intensify.
I awoke with my nostrils and throat clogged with the revolting smell of the river. The overnight sacrifices had not worked.
I slowly sat up, my throat parched. I tried to swallow, but it only caused a gag and a biting pain in the back of my throat.
I stumbled my way through the palace to where Pharaoh normally held his audiences, but he was not there. I searched for them for an hour, until finally I caught a glimpse across the gardens of a gathering of people at the riverbank.
There was a small temple on the palace grounds used for the fish sacrifices made weekly to ensure abundant catches, and it appeared as though the nobles and servants were gathered there. I approached quietly, since I had no reason to be there apart from my own curiosity.
The king was sitting on a small wood-and-ivory throne in his full regalia of face paint, robes, and the double crown. Around him, priests stood before various jars with their hands raised, uttering spells over the vases. I leaned in and asked a house servant what was happening.
“The priests have found water from the wells above the cliffs,” the servant answered quietly. “Everything below the desert in the valley is contaminated, but the wells above are still clear. They have brought water from those wells before the god-king to demonstrate that they, too, can turn the water to blood.”
I saw Moses and Aaron standing on the edge of the courtyard, watching this as well. Pharaoh sat straight up and did not move, impressing the power of the state upon all who viewed him.
With three loud clacks of their black staffs against the smooth courtyard paving stones, the same staffs that had been turned into serpents, the priests held still for a count. No one moved.
One of them moved forward and picked up the middle vase. He held it up before the king and then poured it out.
Blood.
Everyone cheered rapturously, chanting their praise to the god-king for solving the riddle of the demon Hebrews. I was elated as well and waited expectantly for them to change the blood back to water and so rid us of the rotting swamp that had become our river.
Pharaoh appeared to be waiting as well, for he raised his hand for silence from the crowd. Because this temple was just outside the palace grounds, hundreds of commoners and peasants had streamed in from the city upon hearing of what was happening.
Each of the priests apart from Nembit were still smirking to one another about their success in transfiguring the water to blood, but as the crowd quieted down, they appeared to grow uneasy.
“You may proceed with returning our beautiful Nile to its previous purity, and may the gods be blessed,” the king said.
Nembit knelt down before the king. Unadulterated hatred was on his face as he glanced at Moses. He bowed low.
“Divine Pharaoh,” he said, “we have made every offering known, but we do not know the mystery of blood back into water. The filthy Hebrew has conjured a trick we have not overcome yet.” His voice trembled, clearly aware that he could be executed on the spot.
Pharaoh glared at them from behind his white face paint. He stood, turned without a word, and walked down the backs of his slaves until he reached the corridor and disappeared into the palace.
Seven days the river was tainted. Seven evenings I lay down my head and prayed to the gods that water would flow again, and seven mornings I awoke to see that none was forthcoming. Disease started spreading from the putrefaction. We had to clear out the servants and slaves from the palace itself so as not to risk the lives of Pharaoh, his wives, or his children.
For seven nights I climbed the palace wall and looked out over Memphis. It was dark; no one stirred after the sun went down because they had no energy. Many had deserted the Nile Valley and were living above the cliffs. They had little shelter but they had water.
Some finally discovered that if they dug into the mud by the riverbank, there was water to be found there, and many thousands of holes were gouged out, and peasants stuffed their heads directly into the murky water, not caring that they were swallowing just as much silt as water.
Seven days of absolute suffering. The worst we could imagine.
But it would get worse. Far worse.
As the sun set on the seventh day,
Moses raised his staff over the waters, and they returned to normal immediately. I did not see it happen, only sensed it when a fresh breeze from the east came in and cleared the air. We had become so accustomed to the stench by then that it was startling to smell sand and palm leaves instead of rotting fish and hippopotamus.
We were overjoyed. I ran down to the bank and dove in, marveling at how crisp and pure and cool it felt, taking great gulping drinks of the water until it made me so full I was sick.
I got in my skiff and saw that it, too, had even been cleaned of the blood from the river. I rowed happily late into the night, working the strength into my shoulders and back that had lain dormant during the suffering.
The stars were dazzling that night. It was as if the river’s curse had clouded the sky and dimmed them, but now the dry air had returned and they were on display. The Scorpion twinkled at me, uncaring.
“Hello, old friend!” I cried out to him. “You were not stopped by their god! You hunt the heavens still!”
Moses and Aaron appeared before Pharaoh in the receiving hall. I watched from the shadows.
Pharaoh appeared physically well, as did the rest of his house, for he had servants to fetch him well water from the heights during the time that the river was foul. His mood appeared high, for the river flowed pure again.
“Why do you come before me now?” he demanded.
“We have told you,” Aaron answered the king. “Yahweh wants his people to be able to leave Egypt and to sacrifice in the desert.”
“I will do no such thing,” he said steadily. “The Hebrews are mine.”
Silence in the great hall. I felt a pang of dread in my soul. The expression on the face of Moses told me that something else was coming. That the river had not been the end of it; that their god might have more than one or two tricks in his powers.
Moses’s face was cast half in shadow from the torchlight, giving him a sinister appearance. He nodded at Aaron.
“This is what Yahweh says to you, O king: Let my people go to serve me in the desert. If you refuse to let them go, I will send a plague of frogs upon you.”
Pharaoh tilted his head. “Did you say . . . frogs?”
Aaron did not answer.
“How strange,” the king said. He grinned. “I suppose I must be terrified at this, but I fear that I am not. Enough! Be gone from my presence.”
The priest who served as the Voice of Pharaoh seemed exasperated again at this breach of protocol in the court. Pharaoh speaking! The Divine Voice heard by common men! I knew what they were all thinking, for I was thinking it as well: Perhaps the gods were withholding their helping hand from the king because he had stooped to the level of the Hebrew filth and had actually been speaking to them.
Moses and Aaron turned their backs on the king and left.
I followed them from a distance. They walked through a crowd of Egyptian commoners, who jeered and taunted them. Occasionally a soldier would toss a stone in their direction to make them dodge it. People mocked them, though I noticed it was not as venomous as before. I think they were all starting to become afraid of the power of this unknown new god from the desert, who could turn their river into blood.
Eventually, Moses and Aaron made their way to their camp near the river. No other Hebrews were able to visit them. They were indeed a pitiful delegation to represent the vast numbers of their race.
I watched them pray a while, on their knees with their arms raised, their faces skyward. Their mutterings and groans went into the night in a mournful song of lament.
14
Those Who Remember
Caleb took a long drink from his water pouch and stared into the distance a moment. Othniel held his hand over the parchment, the charcoal stick locked in his hand, anxious to hear more.
“Uncle?”
Caleb blinked. “Yes?”
“You were telling me of the frogs. The second of the plagues.”
Caleb sighed. “Do you think it necessary? Our people know what happened then. Moses recorded it. It is read in the tents of meeting and in the tabernacle.”
“You are one of the last two who remain who saw it. I wish to record how it was for you.”
For the second time that night, and the second time that Othniel could ever recall, Caleb appeared every bit of his eighty-five years in age. He slumped forward, rubbing his eyes. His breathing was labored. He coughed, hard, and spat. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. Othniel grew concerned.
“Do not make me relive it, Nephew.”
“But Uncle,” Othniel said, “it was Yahweh’s greatest triumph! The finest hour of our people.”
Caleb reached for his water pouch and took another long drink. “Indeed, it was.” But he looked at Othniel as though he had been flogged.
“I am confused, Uncle. Can you tell me why you are so saddened by this?”
Caleb nodded slightly, then set aside the water pouch. “I will tell you of the plagues. But I wish that you would let me tell them to you in my own way. They were . . .” He exhaled heavily. “They were the greatest thing I have seen. And the worst.”
It appeared to be physically painful for Caleb to say more, so Othniel held off from pushing him. Outside, the watchman came to the flap of the tent and called out the hour. Caleb thanked him. Othniel shifted to a more comfortable position.
Gazing with vacant eyes toward some point in the far distance, Caleb said, “In all the years of battle I have seen, I saw nothing to compare with the horror of what Yahweh struck the Egyptians with. The suffering was . . .”
Othniel could not be sure, but he thought a tear appeared in the corner of Caleb’s eye. He was looking older by the breath. Othniel grew genuinely concerned.
“Uncle, I apologize for the strain of bringing it up. I will leave and—”
“No, I will speak of it,” Caleb cut him off. “But only once. And I will speak only of the parts I wish to speak of, and leave out the others. Everything that men need to know of this time was written by Moses and his scribes.”
Caleb reached up and quickly wiped his eyes. He stared back into nothingness. “You must understand. Many of the people of Egypt were good people. Many were wicked, yes, but many were decent citizens who worked hard, loved their families, and tried to live a quiet life. It was their king who brought this terrible thing upon them. Lost in the telling of our story is the suffering of the people of Egypt for the stubbornness of their pharaoh. Had he simply let Israel go, there would not have been so much death, so much sickness, so much suffering. More suffering than I could write on a thousand scrolls.”
Caleb sat up straight and seemed to gain control of himself.
“They were idolaters and pagans, and yet I do not believe that Yahweh wanted them all to suffer. He needed to show his might to the Egyptians, for they were a muleheaded people, stubborn to the end. But if Pharaoh had only listened . . .”
Othniel tried to keep his writing steady as he made notes. He was unsure of what to think just yet. Sympathy . . . for the Egyptians? What blasphemy was this? And yet Caleb had been quick to acknowledge that they were heathens and wicked men.
“Two things I must mention before I begin,” Caleb said. “The first is that every plague, or terror as we called them, had the same thing in common. Darkness. Would you want to relive memories of total darkness and terror? And the other is that regardless of how wicked men may become . . .” His voice then lowered to a whisper, his eyes brimming with pain. “I do not think Yahweh takes any joy in seeing a mother’s or father’s tears for their dead child.”
He took another deep breath and continued.
15
Infestations
I was sleeping deeply when they came late that night. A creaking sound, dim in my mind. I floated through the darkness of dream, wondering what the strange noise was. Crickets in the tens of millions? What sign was this the gods were giving me?
I rose and made my way to the window of my small barracks room on the palace wall. I push
ed aside the curtain and looked out. A full moon shone over the Nile. The city was asleep. Only the occasional watch fire burned, with a few of the poor gathered around them to ward off the night’s chill.
Though nothing appeared out of the ordinary, I could still hear that sound. It grew deeper. Less of a whining, more of a crackling. A croaking, even. I peered toward the river.
Something monstrous and black was emerging from the water’s surface. A great serpent, I was sure of it, for it writhed and shifted and swirled, a canvas of shadows and darkness that rippled like the current of the river itself, and it was swallowing the city.
I blinked and stared. The noise grew louder. Deeper. Yes, it was croaking, like the croaking of a . . .
The frogs came from the Nile in their tens of millions, hopping on top of one another, smothering each other to make way for the millions hopping fast behind them. They emerged from the waters like clouds rose from a great storm, growing darker and more dense, a black stone wall. So many of them that as I looked left and right, to the north and south as far as the river could be seen, it was as if a god had punched a large fist into the water and sent a wave over the land.
The surge was relentless as the creatures slithered and leaped tightly together, until their wave was twenty, thirty cubits high of solid frogs, dying as they smothered each other. Yet there were ever more that came, painting the city in blackness.
The screaming began as people had their homes covered in frogs. I saw the watch fires snuff out one by one as the awful creatures flung themselves in a mass into the basins of fire and burned themselves to death simply because there was nowhere else for them to go.
Panic-stricken watchmen tried to throw flaming sticks at them in the streets, but it was utterly useless and had no effect on the frogs. They jumped through the flame, many of them heating up and exploding, spraying the men and women who ran for their lives, making popping sounds as they burst. But still the surge of frogs came, overwhelming everything in their path.
