Miriam

by Mesu Andrews

  Eleazar felt as if a boulder had lodged in his chest. He stared down at Saba Amram and Savta Jochebed. How could this be the last time he would see them?

  Yahweh, if You hear me, please take care of my saba and savta as they have cared for me. Uncontrolled sobs shook him. He had no idea how long he wept, but no one hurried his grief. When the emotion ebbed, he leaned over to kiss their foreheads and arranged their hands on their chests.

  “Good-bye.” He swiped both hands down his face and stood, eyes lowered. He halted at the door and offered his hand to his wife. She cradled his huge paw with both hands. Eleazar lifted his eyes to Moses. “Thank you,” he said, and then led his bride through the adjoining curtain.

  He noticed the interior ladder Moses had installed—overlooked when he’d passed through earlier. Pressing his thumbs against his eyes, Eleazar tried to stop the tears. What man went to his wedding bed a blubbering idiot? He jumped like a virgin when Taliah laid her hand on his back but regained some control with a deep breath.

  “After you.” Eleazar pointed to the ladder.

  Taliah wiped her own tears and silently began the climb. He might have enjoyed the sway of her hips had his chest not ached so terribly. She pushed aside the ceiling cap that kept birds and animals from sneaking into the house. It also provided a place to knock for anyone who might wish to visit the newlyweds.

  Eleazar climbed the last rung and stepped into their rooftop bridal chamber, amazed at the transformation. Moses had created a newlyweds’ hideaway. A three-sided shelter with lamb’s wool headpieces protected a new sleeping mat—no doubt woven by Doda—long and wide enough for both Eleazar and Taliah. The moonlight bathed Taliah’s features, and Eleazar knew then he’d married the most beautiful creature on earth. He could never deserve her.

  Taliah knelt at his feet and began unlacing his sandals.

  Fire coursed through his veins. “Stop!” She jumped as if he’d shot her with an arrow. He softened his voice. “I’ll do it.”

  She scooted onto the mat and hugged her knees to her chest. “Don’t yell at me.” She laid her cheek on her knees and faced the Nile.

  With a frustrated sigh, he pulled at his laces and threw his sandals aside. He considered asking Doda to come up and tell Taliah that he hadn’t yelled. It seemed everything he said to this woman was misconstrued. Instead, he replaced the cover on the rooftop entry, doomed to more misunderstanding.

  He lumbered over and sat on the mat beside her. She scooted away. Perfect. “I didn’t shout. I’m used to doing things myself.”

  “You did shout, and you’re not by yourself anymore.”

  “Taliah, I…” What was there to say? His grandparents were dying. How could he enjoy a night of pleasure? “Good night.” He stretched out on his back, crossed his ankles and rested his head on his hands. The stars were bright, the moon full, and he was losing two of the three people who had been his anchor in every storm.

  Taliah didn’t move. Then he heard it—the sniffing. The whimpers came next.

  Feeling utterly despicable, Eleazar sat up and scooted closer, then reached for her shoulder. “Taliah, I’m sor—”

  “I’ll miss them too, you know.” She shot to her knees and attempted to shove him. “I’m the one who’s spent every day of the last two months with Amram and Jochebed, but do you notice my pain? Do you care how I feel? No, because all you think about is how their deaths affect you. How much you’ll miss them. Well, here’s something to think about, Eleazar. You have a wife now, someone else to consider.” She lay down on her side of the mat, back toward him, curled into a ball. “Good night.”

  Stunned, Eleazar lay down again too—and began fuming. He stared at the moon and counted the stars, as well as the ways he’d tried to protect this ungrateful woman beside him.

  He pushed himself to his feet and hoisted Taliah up to meet him toe to toe. “I’m sure you’ll miss Saba and Savta, but don’t you dare call me selfish. I consider everyone before myself. You eat my rations, you live in my doda’s house, and I waited to marry you until every other possibility was spent.”

  “Oohh!” She stomped her foot. “And I’m supposed to thank you for marrying me because you had no other choice?”

  He grabbed her face between his hands. “Anyone close to me is in danger, Taliah. I would have married you weeks ago if…” His inadvertent confession silenced him.

  “You would have married me weeks ago?” Taliah’s awe made her so vulnerable, so stunning, so irresistible.

  Still cradling her cheeks, Eleazar touched her lips with his thumb. So soft. Their breathing grew ragged, expectant. He bent to swipe a gentle kiss across her cheek, her mouth, her neck. She tilted her head, parted her lips, and closed her eyes. This was his wife, and he barely knew her. He knew even less about being a husband.

  Eleazar kissed her gently, timidly. Would she be afraid? But her hunger grew, and he knew then that his wife possessed all the passion and candor to teach him how to be her husband. He kissed her deeply and lowered her to the sleeping mat so carefully prepared by those they loved. They would grieve Saba and Savta in the morning, but tonight he would discover new depths of this woman he’d married.

  26

  Precious in the sight of the LORD

  is the death of his faithful servants.

  —PSALM 116:15

  Miriam gazed out her parents’ small window at the half moon in the starry sky. Two oil lamps sputtered, their fumes mingling with air fetid with decaying fish and the bloody Nile. She sat between Abba and Ima, waiting, hoping—but neither had regained consciousness since Eleazar and Taliah’s wedding this evening. Miriam had sent Hoshea to tell Aaron that their parents were failing quickly, but Hoshea returned with Aaron’s regrets. He was too tired to visit tonight. Miriam thanked Hoshea and sent him home, refusing to show her disappointment in Aaron’s continued indifference.

  Moses sat on the other side of Abba, his head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. How could he flaunt his communion with Yahweh when he knew Miriam yearned for such intimacy?

  “I suppose Yahweh is telling you more of His plan for Israel.” She heard the bitterness in her tone but didn’t care.

  His eyes opened, and he lifted his head slowly. “I don’t understand Him any more than you do, Miriam. If Yahweh hadn’t required me to return, Pharaoh wouldn’t have ordered bricks with no straw. The overseers wouldn’t have been beaten. And our parents wouldn’t be dying.”

  Miriam felt a twinge of guilt. Moses need not carry the world’s troubles on his shoulders. “Ramesses has imposed arbitrary decrees before. Slaves are beaten every day, and our parents are old.” She reached for his hand, trying to ease the tension between them. “We are old, little brother.”

  “So why choose us, Miriam?” His eyes blazed. “And why has Yahweh brought only trouble when He promised rescue and deliverance for our people?”

  Abba Amram’s lips parted, his dry mouth crackling. “Must get worse…to show…”

  Miriam dropped Moses’s hand and reached for the damp cloth to dab on Abba’s parched lips, while Moses leaned over him and tried to sooth his restlessness. “Save your strength, Abba. Don’t speak.”

  “Let him speak,” Miriam said. “These are our last moments to hear his voice, to learn from hi—” Emotion strangled her words.

  Abba’s chest rattled as he drew another breath to speak. “To see the true measure…of Yahweh’s power…and authority…things must get…worse.” The last words fell from his lips as if heaved off a precipice. His breathing grew more labored.

  Moses leaned over, kissed his forehead, and let tears fall onto their abba’s cheeks. He looked up at Miriam, his sorrow mirroring hers. “You’ve lived with this kind of wisdom all your life. I’ve only begun to glean from its depths. How can Yahweh take them from me now?”

  “And so much more difficult when they’re woven into the fiber of your being.” Miriam lifted Ima’s hand to her lips, closed her eyes, and rocked as waves of despair washed over her.
/>
  They wept together until Abba’s voice rattled again. “Greater suffering means deeper revelation as you near God’s promise.” His words were barely above a whisper, but they were lucid and fervent. His eyes never opened. It felt as if Yahweh spoke directly through him.

  Awed, Miriam glanced at Moses and then returned her attention to both parents. Ima lay silent, her chest still rising and falling, but haltingly. Abba exhaled a long breath—and then breathed no more. The panic she’d anticipated in this moment didn’t come. Instead, she felt a strange sense of resolve.

  She stroked Ima’s feathery cheek. “Greater suffering means deeper revelation as you near God’s promise.” Repeating Abba Amram’s words somehow extended his life—and would give Ima the peace she needed to join him in paradise.

  Ima lingered as Miriam and Moses anointed Abba Amram’s body with bitter-almond oil and wrapped it for burial. Miriam shared countless pearls of wisdom their parents had imparted during their long lives. Insights on life, and love, and Yahweh. They laughed a little, cried a lot.

  Shortly before dawn, Ima Jochebed also breathed her last. Miriam was exhausted and could see the same weariness on Moses’s deeply lined face. As they finished Ima’s burial preparations, heavy footsteps sounded on the rooftop. Eleazar would soon come down. Oh Yahweh, may his and Taliah’s marriage bring comfort to this grieving house.

  Eleazar woke before dawn’s glow brightened the eastern sky. Taliah slept snuggled against him. He carefully pulled his arm from beneath her head, trying not to disturb her deep, steady breaths. She stirred but didn’t wake.

  He donned his tunic and strapped on his armor, staring at the beautiful woman he now called wife. His chest ached at the responsibility. What if Prince Ram or Kopshef discovered her? What if Pharaoh had her beaten for Eleazar’s mistakes? Taliah should stay close to the long house. Maybe she shouldn’t fetch water from the river anymore. What if one of the slave drivers attacked her again? Eleazar would kill any man that touched her. Was this how every Hebrew husband felt?

  He scrubbed his face and tried to wipe away his worry as he removed the rooftop cover and descended the ladder. A single oil lamp was lit in the main chamber, but he heard quiet whispers in Saba and Savta’s room. He crossed Doda’s chamber in five long strides and shoved aside the curtain.

  Sattar was curled up in the corner, farther from Doda than normal. He perked his ears but didn’t growl at Eleazar. The scent of bitter-almond oil filled the air, and the sight of Saba’s wrapped body nearly felled him. “He’s gone?”

  Moses pushed to his feet, and Eleazar saw that he’d been wrapping Savta Jochebed’s head with linen. The realization knocked him back a step, and he covered a sob. “They’re both gone?”

  Doda lifted her hand to Moses, requesting help to stand. Eleazar raced across the chamber to embrace her, and she hugged him fiercely. “They’re together, boy. All is well.”

  He released deep, wrenching sobs. He’d known that last night would probably be the last time he’d see them, but the finality of death was too cruel. To face the rest of his life without Saba and Savta’s love and encouragement—how would he survive? Eleazar held Doda Miriam tighter and tried to tamp down the overwhelming fear of someday losing her. He kissed the top of her gray head. “I’ll help with the burial.”

  She gave him a final squeeze, released him, and nodded.

  Hoshea peeked through the curtained doorway, concern etched on his brow. “I’m early with this morning’s rations, but I wanted to see how…” His words trailed off as Eleazar gratefully accepted the rations. Hoshea offered a second bundle. “Take mine too.”

  Eleazar started to protest, but Hoshea interrupted. “I don’t need them. And don’t worry about your duties today. I’ll tell Prince Ram your grandparents died, and that you’re helping with the burial.”

  Eleazar grabbed Hoshea’s breast piece, pinning him with a stare. “You’ll tell him I’m ill from drinking unboiled water.” He released Hoshea and addressed the others. “If Prince Ram learns my grandparents died, I won’t have an excuse to live in Goshen. He can never discover I’m married. I will live with my wife.” He felt his cheeks grow warm at the raised eyebrows around him.

  Doda Miriam smiled, her eyes glistening. “Family first. Your saba Amram would be proud of you, Eleazar.”

  No one had ever said kinder words to him. He turned to Hoshea. “I whipped the Hittites last night. Make sure their wounds are cared for. Check every battle-ax before you send it with the troops to Libya. I return to duty tomorrow.”

  Hoshea pounded his fist over his heart, the warrior’s salute. “You’ve taught me well. I’ll take care of our men. You take care of your family. I’ll return tonight with more rations.”

  27

  Seven days passed after the LORD struck the Nile. Then the LORD said to Moses, “Go to Pharaoh and say to him, ‘This is what the LORD says: Let my people go, so that they may worship me. If you refuse to let them go, I will send a plague of frogs on your whole country.’ ”

  —EXODUS 7:25–8:2

  Miriam woke to Sattar’s nearness, his soft fur rising and falling beneath her hand as morning light invaded another dreamless sleep. The now-familiar ache assailed her—Abba and Ima were gone, buried two days ago. But what did time matter?

  The Shaddai she’d once known had vanished. Eleazar had Taliah to care for him. And she’d proven Moses’s observation on fear true. She was alone in a house full of people, and she was terrified.

  The sound of clattering pots and bowls roused her. What was Taliah doing? Miriam turned her back to the noise. Hoshea must have delivered the rations and gone. She wasn’t hungry.

  Taliah should eat. She should keep up her strength in case she conceived quickly. But why should Miriam be concerned? Moses said the weak wouldn’t survive the wilderness, and Miriam felt weak. She wouldn’t survive freedom.

  “Miriam.” Taliah shook her shoulder. “Miriam, Moses is gone.”

  “What? Where—” Miriam sat up too quickly, sending the room into a spin.

  Taliah helped her sit up and held a warm cup of water to her lips. “Drink this. Hoshea brought more water this morning. The river is beginning to clear, and I’ve boiled enough to fill a jug.” Miriam tried to push the cup away, but the girl held it steady. “All of it. You’re not eating or drinking enough. Eleazar said it’s my job to get you on your feet today. My only job.”

  Miriam was too tired to fight, so she relaxed into Taliah’s arms, letting the girl lower her back onto the mat.

  “Did you see Moses this morning?” Taliah’s face looked like a cloud, blurred and wavy. Miriam blinked her eyes, trying to unmuddle her mind. Was the girl asking her or someone else? Concern shadowed Taliah’s sweet face. “I left early this morning to get water from the seep hole, and Moses was already gone. He hasn’t returned.”

  Miriam lay still, her mind clearing enough to let fear speed her heartbeat. She’d heard Hoshea’s whispered rumors. A few disgruntled Hebrews had made plans to kill Moses. Her tears came unbidden. She couldn’t lose Moses too. “You must go find him.”

  Taliah sat back on her heels and released a deep sigh. “I can’t. Eleazar told me to stay near the long house.” She drummed her fingers on her leg and fidgeted with a loose string on her sleeve. “Eleazar will just have to understand.”

  She grabbed Miriam’s head covering from the peg on the wall and pulled it low over her forehead. She tied her long, black braid into a knot to hide it beneath the rough-spun cloth. “I’ll be back as soon as I find him.”

  Miriam pulled Sattar close, digging her gnarled hands into his thick fur. “I’m of no use,” she whispered into his perked ears. “I can’t even look for my lost brother. What purpose do I have without Abba and Ima? Without Shaddai’s dreams and visions?”

  The only answer was Sattar’s deep, steady breaths, wooing her to rest and sleep.

  Miriam’s next awareness was Eleazar’s raised voice. Startled awake, she gasped and heard Sattar’s warning
growl as Eleazar entered holding Taliah’s arm in a deadly grip.

  “Was I unclear when I ordered you to stay in this long house?”

  “No.” Taliah’s chin was raised in defiance despite Eleazar’s anger.

  Miriam struggled to sit up and felt surprisingly better after this morning’s water. “Don’t shout at your wife, Eleazar. I told her to find Moses.”

  He released his wife’s arm and crouched beside Miriam, spewing his anger less than a handbreadth from her face. “And why would you risk my wife’s life to save a man who’s had more military training than I have and won more battles than the reigning king of Egypt?”

  Miriam turned away. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous, but I was worried about my broth—”

  “Ridiculous!” He stood and continued ranting. “Yes. Ridiculous.”

  Miriam felt her own anger rising. “Why are you in Goshen at midday anyway? You would never have known Taliah was searching for Moses if you hadn’t come home—”

  “Taliah came to the armory to enlist my help in finding my uncle.”

  Miriam looked to Taliah for an explanation, but her head was now bowed. Miriam lifted her hand to Eleazar. “Help me up, boy.”

  Once on her feet, Miriam grabbed Eleazar’s hands to steady herself, but her destination was Taliah. She tilted the girl’s chin. “Tell me you didn’t name Moses as Eleazar’s uncle.”

  “Of course not. I simply asked the guards to tell Eleazar that his elderly uncle had wandered away from home and his family needed help locating him.” She turned to Eleazar. “With all the rumors of attempts on his life, I thought you’d want to know he was missing.”

  “Who’s missing?” Moses stood in the doorway, staff in hand.

  Aaron peeked over his shoulder. “Are you feeling better, Miriam? Elisheba is better today too.”

  “Aahh!” Eleazar roared his frustration. “Where have you been, Moses? These women have been clucking over you like hens, and every soldier in Ram’s army has now seen my beautiful wife.”