by Angela Hunt
Adom reached out and tugged on her hand so hard he nearly pulled her off balance. “All right, let’s go!”
“I’m coming,” she said, following him. “But first we find Halima and prepare his tray, then we visit the prisoner. Shim’on will be hungry.”
As Adom raced ahead of her toward the kitchen, her thoughts filtered back to recent conversations in which Shim’on had spoken of his own children. He had six sons by two different wives, he told her, unaware that her smile dimmed when he spoke of other women. His oldest son was twenty-one, the youngest, fifteen, and they blended seamlessly into the family compound, no more Shim’on’s children than Levi’s, no less Shim’on’s sons than Re’uven’s. “Since my wives died and they have had no mothers to spoil them,” he said, his eyes darkening with some emotion she couldn’t interpret, “they have made themselves at home wherever they could. Yehuda’s wife is good to the younger two, and Re’uven’s wife is partial to the older ones—I think. In any case, I have never worried about them. They are in the good care of their uncles.”
Mandisa couldn’t understand why he would be willing to allow his sons to remain apart from him, for he seemed a natural and patient teacher. Once he put aside his resentment toward the vizier and his captivity, his tongue loosened and he talked to her of many things, mostly of his brothers, the land of Canaan and the simple beauty of agrarian existence. Lately she had found herself recalling the life she had known before coming to Thebes, but she hastily closed the door on those memories. Nothing remained for her in Canaan, so there was no use thinking about the past.
Shim’on seemed to fill her thoughts a great deal. It was only natural, she told herself, that she should think of him when she spent at least two hours a day doing what Ani called “keeping the beast at bay.” Without someone to talk to, the restless prisoner was apt to storm about his chamber and disrupt the household.
Even with her attention, he was often irritable and gloomy, but she learned how to lift his spirits by asking for his advice. On one occasion she brought him news of a sickness affecting the vizier’s cattle, and he had prescribed powdered root bark of the avionah, or caper bush, the perfect poultice to draw out the infection. Another time she told him about a goat that no longer gave milk, and Shim’on prescribed a mash of falcon’s eye, or chickpeas. The concoction spurred the nanny goat’s milk to flow within two days.
He flushed in pleasure when she reported the success of his efforts, but his good nature could change as swiftly as a chameleon changes colors. Extremely stubborn, he refused to alter a position or opinion even if she pointed out its falseness, yet he was unfailingly loyal to the few people he held in affection: namely, his sister and his brothers. He could be caring and even gentle—once, she was several hours late bringing his meal, and instead of the rage she feared, he greeted her with tenderness, concerned that some illness had befallen her.
Halima warned Mandisa that Shim’on might be using her. “He is a savage,” she announced one afternoon as she helped prepare his dinner tray. “He will take advantage of your kind sympathy. When you least expect it, he will strike you and flee from this place. He hates us all. I’ve even heard him call down curses upon our master’s god.”
Mandisa did not believe Shim’on’s newfound stillness rested upon ulterior motives, but she wondered if he could be trusted. Though he hated his confinement, he behaved as though it hadn’t occurred to him that she might ask the master for permission for him to wander around the house and grounds. Yet he had to know such permission lay within her grasp. A few of her words in the master’s ear would certainly win approval, and yet Shim’on did not suggest or even hint that she press for his liberty.
So what was she to him—an ally, a necessary evil, a benevolent captor? She did not know, but hoped he was friend enough to agree to spend time with Adom. Shim’on was rugged, rough and wise in the ways of men—everything she was not, and Adom would need those qualities if he were to survive in the world beyond Zaphenath-paneah’s house.
El Shaddai, she reasoned, worked in unexpected ways, but she could not doubt that He was working.
Shim’on lifted his head in anticipation when he heard Mandisa’s familiar rap. An idea had occurred to him in the night, and he had many things to ask her. He wanted to know more about the Egyptian festivals, for if the vizier celebrated a feast day, perhaps he would be inclined to release his captives for at least a few hours of liberty.…
The bolt thumped onto the floor outside and the door opened, but instead of the woman he expected, a slender, bright-eyed boy stepped into the room.
“What variety of desert dung are you?” Shim’on snapped. The boy stepped back, his mouth agape, and Mandisa swept in behind him, anger lighting her eyes. “In the name of decency, Shim’on, can’t you bridle your tongue? This is my son, Adom.”
Her reprimand tore away the few remaining shreds of his good humor. “Am I a monkey in a cage, that the children of this cursed house come to gape at me?” Shim’on’s jaw clenched. “It is bad enough that I must talk to you or go insane. I never said I would perform for your son.”
“Adom, wait in the hall for me,” Mandisa answered, her eyes darkening as she held Shim’on’s gaze. When the boy had left the room and closed the door, she advanced toward Shim’on with the fury of a tigress. “You have six sons and you ought to miss them,” she said, her lower lip trembling as she glared up at him. “I thought it might do you good to spend time with a boy who needs a father.”
“A father?” He nearly choked on the word. “By heaven, woman, what makes you think I want to be around children? I don’t spend time with my own boys. I certainly don’t want to entertain yours.”
She stepped back, her eyes sparkling with tears, and Shim’on gritted his teeth, irritated beyond all reason. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, scrubbing his hair with his knuckles. “A father brings children into the world. That’s what I’ve done. That’s all I know how to do.”
“A father—” Mandisa crossed her arms across her chest “—loves his children. He teaches them what they need to know in order to survive in the world.”
“Well,” Shim’on drawled, “perhaps that is what your father did, but my father did nothing for us. Yaakov, son of Yitzhak, begot twelve sons and divided his love among two. The rest of us were left to tend to our mothers and learn from each other.”
She flinched and did not answer, but some of the fire went out of her eyes. Shim’on put his hand on his hip and looked down at the floor, disappointed at the unexpected turn of events. He had hoped to pass the afternoon with this woman, but now she was upset. And, like a woman, she wouldn’t be able to walk away and forget this conversation. She’d want to talk about it, but Shim’on would not waste his energy talking about Yaakov.
“I’m sorry your father did not give you what you needed,” she finally said, her voice fragile and shaking. She would not look at him. “But you must understand—I fear for my son, who has no father at all.”
His mind rumbled with sour thoughts. “Perhaps he is better off.”
“I think not.” She looked at him then, and her eyes narrowed in pain. “Shim’on, my son needs someone to teach him, to talk to him. Efrayim and Menashe are too young. Tarik and Ani and Zaphenath-paneah are too busy.”
“And I have nothing to do, is that it?”
She uncrossed her arms and lowered her head. “I have begged God Almighty to send someone to me. In the last few weeks I have realized that the someone God sends might be you.”
Incredulous laughter floated up from his throat. “You think God put me in prison for your sake?”
She shook her head, but he could see the beginnings of a shy smile on her face. “I think God Almighty can transform ill into good. And you are from Canaan, as am I, and Adom speaks the Canaanite language. My son would be honored—he would be blessed—to learn from a man of Canaan.”
Shim’on stiffened, making an effort to conquer his involuntary reactions to that g
entle look. No one had ever looked at him…as if he might be admirable. His anger evaporated, leaving only confusion.
A mocking voice inside insisted that she was not to be trusted, that she spied for the cursed vizier.
Shim’on stepped forward until he stood only inches away from her. “Tell me, Mandisa,” he said, his tone commanding her to look up at him, “why would you trust your son to a man you consider dangerous? I am hated and feared in this house. I hear the servants whisper as they run by my door.”
“You may be feared,” she whispered, her eyes growing large as they lifted to meet his, “but it is your strength that frightens them. You have a temper, Shim’on, no doubt, but you have great courage and tenacity. There is much good in you.”
He looked away, unable to think under her steady scrutiny. What if she was using him and trying to coerce a confession of some sort? Did the vizier hope to disarm and dupe his captive through the charms of a lovely woman? If so, he would fail.
Shim’on stood in the hush until he had an answer. If the vizier was using Mandisa, then Shim’on could use her, too. “I will talk with your son,” he said, aware that the scent of lilies rose from her skin, “if you speak to the vizier about allowing me out of this chamber.” He managed a ragged smile. “I have been a model prisoner of late. The guards will support your request. I want to be released for half a day every day.”
“An hour or two only, and Tarik will not want you to leave the villa,” Mandisa answered, looking away.
Shim’on smiled. Her reply had come too easily; she had anticipated his request. Either the captain or the vizier had coached her.
“Perhaps your son and I can walk around the villa together,” he said, breathing in the scent of her light, warm femininity. “But you must take my request to your master before I will allow your boy to come into my sight again.”
She did not look up, but nodded and moved toward the door.
“And, Mandisa—” he lowered his voice “—I don’t know what good I will be for Adom. I don’t know how to be a father. I’m not sure I knew how to be a son.”
Her gaze filled with a tenderness he’d never seen in it before. “Thank you, Shim’on,” she said, her voice a velvet murmur in the room. “Thank you very much.”
He was not surprised when Mandisa rapped early the next day. The captain of the vizier’s guard stood outside when she opened the door, and Adom stepped around the corner, his young face bright with eagerness. A quick glance left and right assured Shim’on that the captain had taken no chances. Guards stood in the hallways, blocking all possible means of escape.
“The garden,” Mandisa said simply, pointing the way.
Ignoring the boy, Shim’on walked through the hall. A columned, roofed portico bridged the gap between the house and the garden’s open expanse, and Shim’on strode through it, eager to feel the sun on his face. Once inside the walled garden, he closed his eyes in simple relief. Sunlight burnished the late-morning air; he could almost feel his skin toasting under the warm rays. He breathed in the sweet-smelling wind as the air vibrated to a long drop of birdsong from the nearby Nile.
Opening his eyes, he knew he had never seen so spectacular a garden. A fishpond dotted with blue lotus blossoms dominated the large rectangular area, and the fertile black mud on its banks had been planted with a border of red poppies, blue cornflowers and yellow-fruited mandrakes. Several varieties of flowering and fruit-bearing trees, each sitting in its own well of water, surrounded the fishpond—carica figs and sycamore figs, date-palms and dom-palms, carob trees, willows, tamarisk, myrtles and brightly petaled acacias. A host of gardeners, each working with a shaduf, poured water from the pond into runnels that crisscrossed through the garden plots. Standing amid the flowering beauty of the vizier’s garden, Shim’on found it hard to believe that famine and drought raged just outside the villa’s pink-washed walls.
“Come, boy,” he said, after a moment. “Come sit beside me and I’ll teach you how to get water from the desert grass.”
“Truly?” The boy’s countenance lifted as the long-legged youth approached Shim’on.
“It will be difficult, seeing that this is not the desert,” Shim’on said, shrugging as he moved toward a stone bench beside the pathway, “but once you know a thing that can save your life, you don’t forget it.”
“I can learn,” the boy answered, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. “Teach me something Efrayim and Menashe do not know.”
Shim’on sank to the bench. “And who are Efrayim and Menashe?” He propped his elbows on his knees and glanced around. Mandisa and Tarik had retreated to the portico beside the house, giving him at least the illusion of freedom.
“Efrayim and Menashe are the master’s sons,” Adom answered. Shim’on lifted a brow. The names were remarkably similar to words he knew, but surely the Lord High Vizier of all Egypt would not give his sons Canaanite names.
Shim’on bent to the boy’s level. “The most important thing to remember in the desert is all trails lead to water. And death comes quickly, my boy, to a man or an animal without water.”
“All trails?” Adom asked, a skeptical look on his face. “Is a trail like a path?”
“By heaven above, woman,” Shim’on called, looking over at Mandisa. “Has the boy never been out of this house?”
“Of course,” Mandisa answered, indignation on her face. “But he does not roam about in the wilderness as you seem to expect he should.”
Shim’on would have answered that the wilderness brought up better boys than the sissified atmosphere of an Egyptian villa, but he held his tongue. He had to be careful; he had worked too hard to earn this woman’s trust. In her, he knew, lay the keys to greater freedom. If he had to play nursemaid to her son for a few hours of escape, he would do it. But nurturing did not come naturally, for the sons of Yisrael had never tolerated softness. Of all his brothers, only Yosef had ever played nursemaid to a younger sibling. From the first, Yosef had delighted in baby Binyamin, coddling him as if he could make up for the baby’s missing mother.…
Yosef again. Abruptly, Shim’on returned his thoughts to the matter at hand. “All trails—yes, paths—lead to water, and if you are thirsty, you should follow the direction in which all trails converge. Trails will be marked by signs of camps—campfire ashes, animal droppings, trampled terrain. Also, birds tend to circle over water. Most flocks fly to watering places at dawn and sunset. Just as the earth points to the Creator God, so birds will point you to water.”
“Which Creator god do you speak of?” Adom asked, a strangely adult gleam in his eye. “Neter or El Shaddai?”
Shim’on lifted a brow. “Neter? Is this some Egyptian idol?”
“Neter is the unseen God of the Egyptians,” Mandisa answered, apparently unable to resist meddling. She stepped forward. “But most people in Thebes pay Neter no attention. They prefer the gods who live in temples, gods they can see and placate.”
Shim’on looked back to the boy, approving of the intelligence he saw in the lad’s face. “Each man worships his own god, boy. You will have to make your own choice.”
“Which god do you worship, Shim’on?” Adom asked.
Shim’on cast a quick look at Mandisa. “None, at the moment, for I am not at liberty to worship any. But my father worships God Almighty and clings to the belief that he and his people are part of a chosen race. He says the Almighty made a covenant with our grandfather Avraham.”
Adom’s eyes burned with eager curiosity. “What covenant is this?”
Shim’on stared into the memory of his past. “God Shaddai called Avraham out of his country and promised to make him a great nation, to amplify his name. In return for Avraham’s obedience, God promised to bless those who blessed Avraham and his seed, and to curse those who offered curses instead of blessing. He promised to give us the land of Canaan as an eternal dwelling place, and to bless all families of the earth through our family lineage.”
“A great honor,” Mandisa whispered.<
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“A great fantasy,” Shim’on answered, meeting her gaze. “The land of Canaan is not ours and has never been. We own only a small burial plot there. And our family has not been blessed, but cursed. One of my brothers died at seventeen, two nephews were struck down in their youth, my sister has been forever disgraced. That bloody business at Shekhem upset our father, then Re’uven slept with one of my father’s concubines and angered the old man beyond belief—”
He stopped and bit his lip when Mandisa jerked Adom to his feet. “Your lesson is done,” she said, pushing her son toward the house. “Go and find Ani, and ask where you might be of help.”
Shim’on waited until the boy had left the garden, then he stroked his beard in what he hoped was a reproachful posture. “I’m sorry, but I warned you. I don’t know how to behave around children.”
“You might learn to speak of more pleasant things,” she said, wrapping her arms about herself as if to defend her honor from the wickedness he had described.
“My family is not pleasant,” he responded, abandoning all pretense. “Murder, rape, incest, disloyalty, betrayal—all these I have known within my own kin. If my clan is not unsullied enough for your tastes—”
“Mine is no better,” she answered, meeting his gaze straight on. “But I do not discuss such things around children. And I would not dare call the promises of Almighty God a mere fantasy.”
“Your faith is stronger than mine, then.” Shim’on stretched out one leg and crossed his arms. “Don’t tell me you would chose the invisible El Shaddai over the Egyptian gods. I hear the idols take cruises up and down the Nile, they visit harems of beautiful women and bestow gifts to the crowds who follow them.”
“I prefer a god who does not make me yawn with familiarity,” she answered, moving toward the portico. She turned and cast her parting words over her shoulder. “A god who fills me with awe…a god I cannot control, but who can control me.”
“Good luck on your search, then.” Shim’on smiled at her naiveté. “When you find this awe-inspiring God, be sure to let me know. I may want to worship Him, too.”
