Miriam

by Mesu Andrews

  Sometimes Miriam couldn’t believe it either. The days of Mehy and Anippe and Mered seemed like a dream. Miriam’s childhood had been idyllic—for a slave. From the time she was six years old, she’d lived in the estate’s grand villa, serving the Amira Anippe and helping to raise Moses as Anippe’s Egyptian son, Prince Mehy. Miriam was eighteen when Pharaoh discovered Moses’s true heritage and Anippe’s deception. After that, Miriam saw Moses only occasionally, usually to calm his troubled spirit with the ancient Hebrew songs she’d taught him as a child. Even as Egypt’s general, he often sent a house servant to retrieve her from the slave village so she could sing to him on lonely nights. El Shaddai’s presence was palpable when she sang—even for Moses. Fear of the unseen God was most often his response, and he’d abruptly send Miriam away, only to recall her when he felt alone or in need of comfort again. Please, Shaddai, it is I who need the comfort of Your presence now.

  “Where is she?” A burly slave driver slapped aside the curtain and filled her doorway.

  “Who are you looking for?” Miriam swallowed the lump in her throat.

  He stepped inside, uninvited. “Pharaoh’s concubine. I’ve heard the king discarded a Hebrew from his harem and she’s staying here.” He smiled, revealing three missing front teeth. “I want a woman fit for a king.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve been misinformed.” Miriam breathed deeply, steadying her voice. “There is no concubine here, only the old nursemaid of one of Pharaoh’s sons. I’ve placed her in the back room with my elderly parents while her broken leg heals.” She pointed to the adjoining curtain. “See for yourself.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed as he studied Miriam and then the curtain. “Bah, I’ve got an old wife at home. Why would I want an old Hebrew?” He stormed out of the room as rudely as he’d come, and Miriam sagged with relief.

  “Miriam?” Taliah peeked around the curtain, eyes round as the moon. “Who was he?”

  “Someone I hope you’ll never meet.” She tried to smile. “You should stay in the room with Abba and Ima today.”

  Taliah disappeared, leaving Miriam to wrestle with the bigger issue. It was bad enough that Taliah was a lovely, single woman, but now that the slave masters imagined Taliah a castoff of the king, she was even more of a prize. They wouldn’t stop pursuing her until she was dead or defiled by a common husband. Shaddai, what should I do with this girl?

  Only silence answered, but she didn’t need a vision to know. Eleazar must marry Taliah.

  Hoshea had been gone only two weeks, and already Eleazar felt the sting of loneliness. Hoshea’s absence had been easily masked, since he worked solely under Eleazar’s direction. This meant Hoshea’s rations were still delivered outside their chamber door morning, midday, and evening. The added provisions blessed Doda’s household, but Eleazar sorely missed the camaraderie he and Hoshea shared. Late night games drawn in the dust, reminiscing about days gone by, planning for the months and years ahead—no one understood a soldier like another soldier.

  He hurried his jog toward Goshen, anticipating the evening’s visit with Saba and Savta. He’d ignore Taliah, who seemed intent on flaunting her intellectual superiority whenever he visited. Youthful exuberance, he told himself. But she wasn’t a child. She was a woman who stirred an unwelcome desire in him. He’d known plenty of women—gifts from Prince Ram for service well done—but Eleazar never allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment.

  Taliah was different. She was dangerous. His mind melted like hog fat on a hot day when she looked at him.

  As he approached Doda’s doorway, he noted the closed wooden shutters and darkened doorway. Why were no lamps lit in the main room? The small hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention as he slowly pulled back the curtain. Empty. He slipped in quietly and saw low lights in the back room, heard pleasant conversation in low tones. Odd.

  He shoved the curtain aside. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Shhhhhh!” Four smiling faces motioned him into the room.

  Doda patted the packed dirt beside her. “Come. Sit. I thought we’d eat in here tonight.” Something in her voice betrayed her wavering grin.

  Eleazar began unpacking the small bundle he’d thrown over his shoulder: olives, bread, cheese, dates, roast lamb. Pharaoh’s soldier slaves often ate leftovers from the royal tables, and tonight’s feast came from the queen’s afternoon banquet. Saba giggled like a groom at his wedding feast, and Savta fed him from her own hand. How could two people love each other so long and well? Eleazar’s parents certainly learned nothing from them.

  “I think it’s time I began earning my own rations,” Taliah declared.

  Doda stopped an olive before it reached her lips. “How do you propose to do that, dear?”

  “I can teach peasant children when they’re finished helping their parents in the market booths.”

  Eleazar grunted his disapproval and smeared goat cheese on a piece of bread.

  Taliah snorted in his direction. “I knew a man of violence would see no need for a child’s education, but I’ll convince their parents that an educated child can barter more quickly, know the customs of other nations, and be able to converse with merchants in their native languages. An education will make their children invaluable at the market booths.”

  Eleazar rolled his eyes.

  Doda set aside her wooden plate and gently cradled Taliah’s hand. “It sounds wonderful, dear, but the Egyptians need their children’s help in the booths from dawn until dark. I’m afraid you’ll have difficulty convincing anyone to pay you for something they can’t hold in their hand or put in their mouths.”

  Taliah ripped her hand away. “That’s the kind of small-minded thinking that keeps peasants poor. If they would listen—”

  “No, you listen,” Eleazar interrupted, tired of her condescension. “You know useless facts that won’t help you survive in Goshen. You must learn a trade like Doda’s midwifery or Savta’s basket weaving and hope that a man will marry you.”

  Eleazar looked to Saba Amram—the only other male in the room—for support but found only pity in his eyes. Saba squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Doda and Savta stared at him as if he’d squashed a puppy.

  “You barbarian pig!” Taliah’s face was the color of rubies, and her whole body shook. “You play with wooden swords and wallow in the mud all day but have the audacity to call my education useless? I could take a deben of gold and turn it into a king’s ransom. You would spend it on prostitutes and beer since you’ve found no woman fool enough to marry you.”

  Eleazar hopped to his feet. “Mind your tongue woman or lose it.” Taliah skittered toward Savta Jochebed.

  Doda swatted his leg. “Eleazar, you will apologize!”

  This is why he preferred silence. And yet, he spoke. “Taking her tongue may be the only way we find her a husband.”

  Taliah untangled herself from Savta’s embrace and stood with her crutch, meeting Eleazar, nose to chest. “I resigned myself to never marry when I was in the harem, and I’d rather die alone than be bound to a man like you—or the slave driver who came for me today.”

  “Slave driver?” The declaration robbed him of breath. He turned on Doda. “Who came for her? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He’d heard one of Pharaoh’s concubines had been discarded in our village and was staying with me.” Doda lifted a brow. “I told him she was an old nursemaid of Pharaoh’s sons with a broken leg, staying with my parents. I invited him to look in my back room for himself.”

  “You did what?”

  “She used her brain instead of brawn.” Taliah’s smug expression was more than he could stomach.

  He ignored the arrogant girl and knelt before his doda. “I vow that I will get a message to Putiel, but you must try to find her a husband. She needs to leave this house before her ignorance gets you all killed.” He glanced back at the stubborn, stunning girl. “Until then, don’t leave this house, and by the gods, don’t let the guards see you.”
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  6

  One of Mered’s wives gave birth to Miriam, Shammai and Ishbah….(His wife from the tribe of Judah gave birth to Jered…Heber…and Jekuthiel….)These were the children of Pharaoh’s daughter Bithiah, whom Mered had married.

  —1 CHRONICLES 4:17–18

  Miriam tightened her grip on the small bag of barley and leaned heavily on her walking stick, praying her visit with Aaron’s wife Elisheba would go well. More than Taliah’s future depended on it.

  In the two weeks since the first slave master sought out Taliah, two more guards had come looking. Thankfully, the girl’s leg had healed sufficiently for her to hobble up the interior ladder and hide on the roof. Eleazar continued to share his and Hoshea’s rations morning and night, but if Taliah was in the room, he often dropped the bundle and left.

  His attempts to contact Putiel had been delayed by his added responsibilities in Hoshea’s absence, and anytime Miriam mentioned finding a husband for Taliah, Eleazar made an excuse to leave or changed the subject. Miriam interpreted his avoidance as confirmation that he was attracted to the spirited girl. With El Shaddai still silent, Miriam was forced to her own scheming. Eleazar just needed a little push to realize how much he truly cared for Taliah.

  The sun had descended into its late-afternoon haze when Miriam reached the edge of the waste dump and heard a black kite caw overhead. The winged scavenger landed on the mound of waste to forage its evening meal from the scant remains of the land of Goshen. Hebrews had dwelt here since the days of Joseph—over four hundred years—but now shared the most fertile banks of the Nile with the new city of Rameses. The king’s palace complex, industrial buildings, and noblemen’s villas perched along the curved Pelusiac branch of the Nile. His fine, glittering city beckoned those sailing along the Nile, while the humble dwellings, waste dumps, and brick yards of Goshen were hidden along the straight base of the desert plateau behind his glitz and glory.

  Miriam leaned on her walking stick to rest, scanning what was once a quiet Delta estate. Her long house was among those in the southernmost corner of Goshen where the Nile and plateau met. Her neighbors, like Miriam, had inherited their homes from what used to be Avaris’s village for skilled craftsmen.

  She set off again with a sigh. Now skilled workers from the Israelite tribes of Levi, Manasseh, and Ephraim settled together northeast of Miriam’s village, beyond three large dikes and planting fields. “Why must everything change?” she asked no one in particular.

  After crossing the first dike, she saw a young ima with her baby strapped to her chest. Miriam had delivered that babe a few weeks ago. Shovel in hand, the weary woman worked with other slaves to widen a canal for the swelling waters of inundation. She lifted her eyes and smiled at Miriam. They dared not wave for fear of the slave master’s whip.

  Miriam hurried her pace, anxious to see her sister-in-law. Elisheba and Aaron lived with their older sons, Nadab and Abihu. Their oldest boys had been trained in Aaron’s skill. They walked to and from the metal shop each day, creating jewelry, goblets, and trinkets for the king and for trade. Elisheba worked as a house slave for a peasant’s wife in their village, a shrew of a woman who thought herself as noble as Queen Isetneferet. Miriam hoped to bribe the grouchy peasant with the barley she carried and speak to Elisheba long enough to force her answer. Taliah needs a husband.

  On the day after the first slave driver sought out Taliah, Miriam had sought out Elisheba to suggest a betrothal for Taliah with one of Aaron’s older sons. She knew she needn’t wait for Aaron’s return or his approval since Elisheba had been making all the important decisions in that household since she and Aaron were betrothed nearly seventy years ago. As expected, Elisheba had an immediate answer. “Nadab and Abihu are important men among the tribe of Levi, Miriam. I must have time to contemplate your request.”

  Important men? Contemplate? Nadab and Abihu were spoiled old men whom Elisheba had coddled to revulsion. No abba in Israel would offer his daughter as a bride to either of Aaron’s preening sons. Miriam had given Elisheba two weeks to contemplate the betrothal—not that Miriam was anxious for Taliah to marry either of her oldest nephews. She really hoped Eleazar would discover one of his brothers had agreed to marry Taliah and would be so overcome with jealousy that he’d marry the girl himself. It was a risk, but Miriam could think of no other way to press Eleazar into declaring his true feelings.

  As Miriam neared the village, she saw Elisheba bent over a new basket, weaving a final braid of papyrus around the top. Ima Jochebed had taught both her daughter and daughter-in-law the art of basketry before her hands and body had become too frail.

  With a deep breath and renewed determination, Miriam closed the distance between them. “Shalom, Elisheba.”

  The woman shaded her eyes from the evening sun. “Shalom, Miriam. Do you bring word of my husband’s return?”

  “I’m sorry, no. Eleazar hasn’t heard anything from Aaron or Hoshea.”

  “Then I have no time to talk.” Elisheba returned to her basket weaving.

  “I brought barley for your lady. Surely, she’ll allow us a few moments to conclude our betrothal business.”

  “There is no betrothal business.” She continued braiding papyrus without further explanation.

  Miriam steadied her breathing, determined not to lose her temper. “Did you even consult Nadab and Abihu, or did you make this decision for them—as usual?”

  She set aside the basket, eyes blazing. “You have no idea what it takes to raise children, Miriam.”

  The words wounded—as intended—but Miriam gritted her teeth to keep silent.

  Elisheba tilted her head, assuming an air of instruction. “You see, Miriam, as an ima it’s my responsibility to ensure my sons’ future happiness.”

  “You’ve stolen enough of your sons’ future to secure your own happiness, Elisheba.”

  Miriam’s words hit her sister-in-law like a slap, bringing Elisheba to her feet. “My sons will never marry a filthy harem concubine.”

  “Taliah was not a concubine!” Miriam shouted, turning the heads of others working outside their homes. “Taliah was handmaid to a ten-year-old son of Pharaoh. She was tutored by the finest minds of Egypt to help a prince with his lessons. She is bright and beautiful and far too competent for my oldest nephews.” Miriam turned and left Elisheba to her basket making, noting women’s shielded whispers and stolen glances as she walked away.

  Elisheba’s harrumph propelled Miriam toward the next village. She’d wasted valuable time on a silly plan that might not have worked anyway. If only she’d felt El Shaddai’s leading. She ached for His presence, His warm breath across her spirit. El Shaddai, why have You been silent since giving me Pharaoh’s dreams? Four weeks felt like a lifetime when His presence had been life and breath to her. “Please, El Shaddai, I need to know You’re here,” she whispered to the dust.

  Silence answered.

  Her feet carried her to the only other people who might help Taliah, but a nagging dread had become reality. The Egyptians weren’t the only ones who’d believed the lie about Taliah. Had all the Hebrew gossips labeled the girl a concubine, or was it just an excuse Elisheba used to keep her precious sons under her thumb? Surely, Taliah’s extended family would either take her in or find a husband for her when Miriam explained the girl’s predicament.

  Miriam hurried past more slaves and their task masters, pressed by the sinking sun. She’d barely taken two steps into the next village, when several young women bowed low with respect.

  “Welcome, Miriam,” one girl said.

  The other kissed her hand. “We are honored by your presence, prophetess.”

  Such a fuss. Miriam touched their heads and spoke a short blessing over each one. Most residents in this village followed El Shaddai faithfully and had come to Miriam for dream interpretations or advice from the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They were descendants of the tribes of Judah, Issachar, and Naphtali—leaders of Israel, servants among the brethren, and preservers of
the ancient songs.

  Miriam lifted her hand over her brow to shield the sun, peering down the alley between two long houses and inspecting each doorway. Her dearest friends, Mered and Bithiah, had once lived here. Now their legacy filled the long houses to bursting. When Mered had dared hide the pharaoh’s daughter in his home, change her name, and take her as his wife, building a life and family had seemed impossible. Now, as Miriam watched rows of families at work and play, she stood in awe of El Shaddai’s marvelous plans and gained hope for Taliah’s future.

  “Miriam, my friend. Welcome!” The greeting came from behind her. She turned to find her old friend, Ednah, pushing herself from a stool outside her curtained doorway. “What brings you to our side of Goshen?”

  Miriam fell into the woman’s open arms, years of shared memories stripping away time between their visits. With a little squeeze, Miriam released Mered’s daughter, now a great-grandmother. “You look well. How’s your family?”

  Ednah’s once-bright eyes were now hooded with wrinkled lids, but the same genuine care shone through them. “The two oldest boys learned Ephraim’s craft, of course, and are teaching their sons to weave as well. We’ve lost a few to field beatings and one in the brick lines, but the remaining children and grandchildren are healthy and strong. Our family has grown to thirty-two, but somehow El Shaddai provides for our daily needs. Ephraim would have been proud if he’d lived to see his family grow.”

  “Your abba Mered would have been proud too,” Miriam said, hoping to remind Ednah of her family tie to Taliah. “Do you have much contact with your brother Jered’s children?”

  Ednah tilted her head, puzzled. “Of course. His family fills most of those three long houses,” she said, pointing. “Jered’s son, Gedor, is chief linen keeper and one of the elders with your brother Aaron. But, of course, you know that.” Concern furrowed her brow. “What’s this about, Miriam?”

  “It’s about Jered’s fourth-born son, Putiel.” Miriam paused, fretting about how to present her request. “Actually, it’s about Putiel’s youngest daughter. Who should I speak to about making a match for her?”