by Mesu Andrews
Ednah’s demeanor suddenly cooled. “I heard she was sent to the palace as a harem girl.”
“She was tutor to a ten-year-old prince.” Miriam heard the venom in her voice and regretted it when Ednah stepped back.
“You know our village is the most committed to El Shaddai of all.”
Miriam placed a calming hand on her arm. “I know, Ednah, I didn’t mean—”
“Ten of Israel’s fifty elders are men of Judah,” she said, pulling her arm away. “The women of Issachar gather spare cloth and deliver it to your door for bandages, and the men of Naphtali have maintained our ancestors’ stories for generations. Miriam, we cannot defile our village with a woman of questionable virtue.”
“Questionable virtue like the pharaoh’s daughter—my friend Bithiah, whom your abba married?”
Ednah threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin, stretching her neck like a strutting goose. “Ima Bithiah shunned Egyptian gods. She loved Abba Mered and loved his children.”
“Putiel’s daughter is hungry for knowledge, and she loves children. Isn’t there someone in this village who—”
“No.” Ednah’s features grew hard. “There is no parent in this village who would join his son to a harem girl, nor a single man who would expose his children to a woman who worshiped idols.”
Miriam shivered at the cold-hearted righteousness of her friend. “You would let Taliah suffer the plateau? A woman alone?”
Ednah’s hard exterior faltered only slightly. “Why not make her your assistant if she’s so eager to learn?”
“How long before one of the slave masters ruins her? She needs a husband and a home so she can become a common Hebrew slave, not a prize to be vied for by the slave masters.” Miriam feared she might claw this woman’s eyes out. “She has no idea what it means to be Hebrew, Ednah. Like Bithiah, she needs the love and patience of a man to teach her of El Shaddai’s love. She doesn’t need to be shunned by a family too busy being righteous to be compassionate.”
“If she’s still of birthing age, perhaps the Reubenites and Simeonites would take her to bolster their decreasing numbers. Most of their men are field and brick slaves. They die quicker.”
Appalled at her friend’s coldness, Miriam turned to go before she said something she’d regret. “Good-bye, Ednah.”
“Miriam, wait!” Ednah reached for her robe, tugging her back. “I know I sound harsh, but…” She twisted her hands and stared at the ground. “We have no wish to anger El Shaddai—or His prophetess. If our God reveals in a dream or vision that one of our men is to marry Taliah, we’ll compel him to obey.”
Miriam didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Why must they wait to be compelled? Why couldn’t compassion compel them? Miriam nodded and left the village saddened. The tribes she’d once thought the best place for Taliah now seemed worse than others. At least Elisheba hadn’t tried to hide her bigotry under a finely woven veil of good deeds.
The sun glowed round and orange just above the hills across the Nile. So close, she might reach out and touch it. Brick makers and field slaves still labored as she made the long trek back to her village. Slave drivers paced impatiently, waiting for the last glimpse of the sun to disappear behind the hills so they could return to the city of Rameses, to their wives and children, their white linen robes, and their finely carved tables and chairs.
Miriam wiped sweat from her brow, still clutching the small sack of barley. At least they’d have barley for bread tonight. It was perhaps the only positive thing about her day.
“Maybe You don’t want her to marry, Shaddai,” she said aloud, not caring who heard. “Is that what You’re trying to tell me?” Somehow hearing the words made the One God feel nearer. The audible conversation garnered a few puzzled stares from field workers, brick makers, and slave drivers, but most shook their heads and smiled. Did they accept it as an oddity of her calling? Or perhaps they simply thought her senile.
As she approached her long house, she felt the color drain from her face. How would she tell Taliah that not only had Miriam’s nephews rejected the betrothal but her own family had shunned her? Miriam had spent the past two weeks convincing Taliah that marriage was the answer to her dilemma and recounting the romantic story of Mered and Bithiah, their children, and their children’s children.
The bigger concern was the widespread perception that Taliah had been defiled in the harem. Miriam knew the damage such a rumor could cause.
Miriam arrived home as the last glow of dusk faded. She pushed aside the curtain and found Taliah in her usual spot, seated on Miriam’s sleeping mat, leaning against the wall, splinted leg outstretched. She was grinding fennel seeds in the mortar and pestle.
“You’re back,” she said, eyes hopeful. “What did Elisheba say?” Miriam’s face must have betrayed her discouragement. Before she could answer, Taliah returned her attention to the task. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I can always stay with Abba Putiel’s family. Surely they can find a husband for me among all the tribes of Israel.” She tried to keep her voice light, but Miriam heard the quaver.
“I wouldn’t have let you marry Nadab or Abihu anyway.” Miriam joined her on the mat. “You deserve a man who will appreciate your wit and beauty, my dear. Now pass me a hand mill, and I’ll grind this barley for tonight’s bread.”
They worked together in silence for a time, Miriam silently pleading for Shaddai’s wisdom. She heard Taliah sniff and glanced in her direction.
Her cheeks were wet with tears. “Abba Putiel’s family refused me as well, didn’t they?”
Miriam set aside the hand mill and gathered Taliah into her arms. “I wouldn’t let you live with them either. They’re as false as an Egyptian’s wig.”
The comparison wrested a chuckle from the heartbroken girl. She wiped away her tears and sat up. “Miriam, I need to get out of these rooms. It’s been four weeks. Please. It’s past dusk. The slave masters have gone home. I’ll walk down to the river and get fresh water. Just to the river and back.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Please.”
How could she refuse? The poor girl had been cooped up far too long. “All right, but stay on the path and watch for crocodiles. They begin feeding at dusk.”
“I will!” She pushed herself up and grabbed her crutch in one hand and the water jug in the other before Miriam could change her mind.
7
With cunning they conspire against your people;
they plot against those you cherish.
—PSALM 83:3
Late again. Eleazar hurried his pace, jogging on the dark, dusty path between Rameses and Goshen. At least he’d remembered a torch to stave off hyenas or jackals that might smell the rations he carried. Adding Hoshea’s duties to his own made Eleazar’s days longer and his nights shorter. He’d garnered a few puzzled stares from young slaves while polishing leather breast pieces and sharpening swords—tasks he hadn’t done since he’d been Putiel’s apprentice. Thankfully, no one had inquired about Hoshea. If anyone did, Eleazar held a dozen lies at the ready.
He swiped aside Doda’s curtain, panting, and found the main room empty again, but the smell of fresh-baked bread was a welcome greeting. “Doda!” He moved through the small room into the adjoining chamber and found his three favorite people. Relieved that Taliah was hidden on the roof this evening, he kissed both Saba’s and Savta’s heads and sat down beside Doda Miriam.
They greeted him with halfhearted smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. Eleazar unwrapped the bundle of rations and waited for someone to explain.
Doda reached for his hand, cradling it gently. “You must marry Taliah.”
Heat spread up his neck and into his cheeks, but he kept silent, head bowed.
Saba cleared his throat. “You made a promise to protect her, son.”
Eleazar’s head shot up, and he looked into the rheumy eyes of the man who had loved him, chastised him, and guided him his whole life. “How can you ask me to marry her when doing so would put her in more dange
r? You know what happens to slave soldiers’ wives and children. She would be tortured for my mistakes. She would be beaten and killed to punish me!” His voice broke with emotion, and he jumped to his feet. “Why do you think I’ve worked so hard to hide you three? I was stupid to mention Doda to Ram a few months ago, and now Pharaoh knows we’re connected. That means you’re all in danger. I can’t do that to Taliah. I won’t. She deserves a man more like her—smart, skilled, refined.”
Doda reached for his hand and pulled herself to her feet, looking him sternly in the eye. “Taliah went to get water at the river. Go talk to her.”
“How could you let her leave?” Not waiting for a response, Eleazar sprinted through the curtains and into the cooler night air, down the alley between long houses toward the river. He dared not cry out for fear of rousing predators—human or animal. His pace slowed as he reached the bank where women used the shaduf to fill their jars. There, at the edge of the water, lay Taliah’s crutch and a broken jug. Eleazar had gone only a few steps when he heard a heart-piercing scream. Taliah.
He clenched his fists and rent the air with a war cry. “Aahh!” In the subsequent stillness, he heard a commotion in the bulrushes on his left, saw a man’s silhouette in the moonlight. The man ducked back into the reeds.
“You there! Show yourself, or you’ll wish a crocodile had found you first.”
The man jumped up and started running, dagger in hand. Eleazar stood less than a stone’s throw from the battered-down reeds, but his knees had turned to water. Though Taliah’s cries beckoned him, dread cautioned his pace. What if that degenerate had ruined her—not her body alone, but her spirit and vibrancy? What could he say to her?
He approached the trembling bulrushes slowly so as not to frighten her more. “Taliah, I’m here. It’s me, Eleazar.” Her crying calmed to whimpers as he drew nearer, and he saw only a huddled form in the moonlight when he parted the reeds. She was curled into a ball, robe torn but pulled modestly around her. “He’s gone. I’m here to take you home.” He knelt beside her but didn’t try to touch her. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head. Of course, she wasn’t all right, but she had moved her arms and legs, so no bones were broken.
“May I carry you home?”
A low whine began in her throat. She shook violently.
He stroked her hair, and she calmed slightly. “I must get you out of the reeds. We’re easy prey for crocodiles here.” He gently slipped his arms under her back and legs.
She turned into his chest, trying to hide her battered face. “Your war cry stopped him before…before….” Sobs choked off the words, but he knew.
Eleazar squeezed his eyes shut, grateful to whatever god might be listening that she need not fear carrying a child. He’d caught a glimpse of leather and a glint of bronze, suggesting the attacker was a slave master. A soldier would have stayed to fight. A peasant would have cowered in fear. Perhaps the man would lie, boast of a conquest that never happened, and save Taliah from future attempts.
She wept quietly in his arms, still shaking, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her forever, to protect her from the chaos surrounding them. But none of them were safe. Doda was right. He couldn’t protect anyone. He had failed Putiel. Worse, he’d failed Taliah, and he could do nothing to keep it from happening again. “I’ll send a message to your abba tomorrow. He’ll know what to do.”
After he’d left Taliah safe with Doda Miriam, he stood outside her long house in the moonlight, thankful that darkness hid his silent tears.
8
The wisdom of the prudent is to give thought to their ways,
but the folly of fools is deception.
—PROVERBS 14:8
The night watchman pounded on Eleazar’s door, providing his daily alert that dawn’s glow tinged the eastern sky. Eleazar rolled onto his stomach and pulled his lamb’s wool over his head. Surely it couldn’t be dawn already. He’d left Doda’s when the moon was well past its zenith without having exchanged another word with Taliah. Doda had been inconsolable for letting Taliah leave the long house. He’d tried to comfort her, but his words grew jumbled and awkward, again proving silence was his best course of action. He’d run like a madman back to the palace, chest heaving, and fallen onto his sleeping mat what seemed like only moments ago.
The image of Taliah’s trembling, huddled form flashed through his mind, and he felt ill. If he thought he could bring her justice by finding the attacker, he’d hunt him down like the jackal he was. But no Egyptian cared that a Hebrew maiden had almost been defiled. Eleazar’s best hope—and Taliah’s—was Putiel. Perhaps he could give some direction for his daughter’s future. The problem was getting a message to him without alerting Prince Ram—or any other Egyptian—to Taliah’s whereabouts.
Eleazar sighed, rolled onto his back, and stared into the pitch-black void. He was exhausted. Between Taliah’s care and covering for Hoshea’s absence, the past month had been a nightmare. And it was getting harder and harder to cover Hoshea’s duties. If Ithamar hadn’t helped falsify armory records yesterday, Hoshea’s absence would have been discovered. Eleazar had never been so glad his little brother was a scribe.
A scribe! My brother is a scribe! Ithamar could write a message to Putiel. Eleazar would dictate it, filling it with official-sounding business but including a veiled message about Taliah. Ram’s messenger would read it aloud to Putiel, who would understand Eleazar’s hidden meaning and dictate his reply to the waiting courier. Eleazar rubbed his forehead. Could it work? Surely, Putiel would appreciate the caution. What if Kopshef discovered the correspondence? Its contents must be innocuous enough not to arouse suspicion. Eleazar’s teeth were set on edge at the thought of the crown prince. Yes, Eleazar must be very careful what he included in the message.
He rolled to his knees in his windowless chamber and patted the ground to find his flint stones. The stones lay precisely where he’d left them, beside his belt, sandals, and weapons. He struck them together and lit his single oil lamp, casting a meager glow in the small chamber. His first duty this morning would be to lay out the warriors’ weapons on the sparring field. Then take morning rations to Doda Miriam. Rush back to the palace stables to groom Prince Ram’s stallion before his morning ride—all before the prince broke his fast. Surely, he could think of a veiled message for Putiel by then. After that, he would find Ithamar.
He reached for his jug of beer, rinsed out his mouth, and spit into his waste pot. Lifting his arms overhead, he stretched high and then roared as he bent to touch his toes. He strapped on his cudgel and breast piece, then slipped his spear at an angle through the leather straps across his back. Upon opening his chamber door, he found his rations waiting as usual. Four small loaves of bread, two rounds of cheese, figs, dates, olives, and a variety of nuts. Hoshea’s rations were the same, and the same quantity would be delivered at midday. A third, smaller delivery would appear after sunset which included a steaming hot meat of some kind and usually a fine jug of beer, sometimes wine. He stuffed a few dates in his mouth and chewed on a loaf of bread, wrapping the rest of his rations and Hoshea’s in a cloth for Doda Miriam and the others. If he thought a god would listen, he’d pray that Taliah would eat something and maybe argue with him when he arrived this morning. He’d rather have her venom than her tears.
The morning progressed unremarkably until he arrived at Doda Miriam’s. She was waiting outside, arms folded across her chest, a frown affixed firmly in place.
“We need to discuss Taliah.” She kept her voice low, implying those inside were still sleeping.
Eleazar was both disappointed and grateful he wouldn’t speak to Taliah this morning. “I know I failed to protect her, but Putiel will know what to do.” He handed Doda the rations and kissed her cheek. “I must get back.” He started back toward the palace, his mind already forming a message to Putiel.
“Your brothers won’t marry her.”
Eleazar stopped, turned, and tried to remain calm. He hadn�
�t known this was even a possibility. “Lucky for her.”
“Putiel’s family won’t help her either.”
Anger rising, Eleazar raised a brow. “You’ve been busy.”
“You need to marry her.”
“We’re not having this conversation again, Doda.”
“Good. It’s settled then. Your saba Amram can pronounce the wedding blessing tonight.”
“No!” Eleazar shouted, startling birds into flight from the roofs above them. He breathed deeply, calming himself. “I’m not getting married. To anyone. I’ve told you already. Pharaoh uses close family members to torture high-ranking slaves. I won’t put a woman’s life in danger by marrying her. Good-bye.”
“Please, Eleazar,” she whispered. “I can’t hear El Shaddai. I don’t know what else to do.”
A cold chill worked up his spine as he walked back toward Doda Miriam. Her head was bent, but he could tell she was crying. What could he say? He didn’t believe in her God anymore, and this was partly why. If El Shaddai did exist, He’d proven to be vengeful and capricious, uncaring and unreliable, but it wouldn’t help Doda to hear that now.
Eleazar gathered her into his arms and laid his cheek atop her head. “If you could hear El Shaddai right now, believe me, He’d say I’m not the answer to Taliah’s problems. She doesn’t even like me.”
But you will marry her.
Eleazar heard the pronouncement from someplace deep within him, not audibly, but it might as well have echoed in Pharaoh’s throne hall. Surely, he was merely tired and imagined it.
“I’ll send a message to Putiel today and ask what’s best for Taliah.” Putiel understood a soldier’s caution. He knew the atrocities against wives and children of military slaves when Pharaoh sought to punish a man beyond a beating. He would never let his daughter marry a soldier slave.
