Journey

by Angela Hunt

  As Menashe gaped at his brother, Efrayim’s dark brows arched in a mischievous look. “I’m only jesting, so wipe that affronted look off your face. You are tired, we all are. Go to sleep.”

  But his words had cut deep, spreading an infection of doubt. Were Menashe’s fervent feelings only the result of grief-induced exhaustion? Were his convictions only the offspring of his fevered imagination? Perhaps the desert had played tricks on him, inflating his hopes for the future with dreams of Jendayi and the false notion that he might prove to be as favored as his younger brother…

  Menashe nodded at Efrayim and Jokim and wished them a good night.

  As soon as dawn lit the horizon, the sons of Yisrael packed their donkeys and camels and turned them toward the fertile Jordan River valley. The Egyptians, remaining behind at Yosef’s order, would wait for the children of Yisrael to rejoin them after the burial.

  Still smarting from their last encounter, Menashe avoided Efrayim’s presence, preferring to walk with his uncles. Each of Yaakov’s sons seemed as strong and stable as the earth itself. Though stooped with age, Re’uven could control the younger men with a simple flick of his gray brows; Levi displayed a quality of assurance Menashe had never seen in an Egyptian. Shim’on had been gifted with wit, directness and intelligence, while Yehuda possessed an unshakable spiritual force, a presence born of certainty.

  Menashe supposed his uncles fascinated him because their lives had been so different from his. Born in a rough wilderness, they had learned to fend for themselves in a cruel environment; he had been born in a polished chamber where slaves brought his food and would have hand-fed him had he commanded it. From childhood the Hebrews’ livelihood depended on strength, quickness and courage; he had spent his earliest years learning how to read and write hieroglyphics. Though he had later received military training, Menashe had never feared for his life—indeed, he had ventured into duels knowing he would not be harmed. No one would dare wound the vizier’s son. Only Efrayim had ever landed a blow on him.

  His uncles were self-confident, sensible and practical; their fierce, protective manner simultaneously amazed and encouraged Menashe. The Egyptians he had known were easygoing and carefree, separated by class differences as cleanly as the Nile separated the cities of the living from the dead. And yet the Hebrews considered a cousin as close as a brother, regardless of his social standing or how far away he lived.

  Shim’on, the largest and loudest son of Yaakov, invited Menashe to travel with him and his wife. Menashe accepted the honor, knowing the invitation had been prompted by Shim’on’s unique tie to Yosef’s family. Years before the brothers knew Zaphenath-paneah was their long-lost Yosef, Shim’on had spent nearly a year as a prisoner in the vizier’s house.

  Shim’on seemed especially eager to arrive at the burial place. His long steps left gaping holes in the desert sand, and Menashe grew breathless trying to keep pace with him.

  “Once, many years ago, I went to the tomb alone,” Shim’on told Menashe as they walked, his hand tightening around the staff in his grip. “Before we descended into Egypt. Before I married Mandisa.”

  Menashe cast a quick glance at the woman who rode atop the camel. Though protective veils covered her head and much of her face, Menashe could see eyes that shone with a fawnlike beauty. He knew that Mandisa had once been his mother’s handmaid, but she left the vizier’s house when his mother died. When Menashe searched his memory for his mother, he found only a whisper of sweet lotus fragrance, the ghost of a cool hand on his head, and the melodious tones of a young woman’s voice…

  “I stood alone at the burial cave—” Shim’on’s voice drew Menashe back from the brink of memory “—and there I felt the presence of God. I left the cave a changed man, Menashe. Though I was not yet the man I should have been, my soul burned with the knowledge that a man cannot trifle with God Shaddai.”

  His dark eyes searched Menashe’s face, reaching into his thoughts. “You have been distressed of late,” he said, with no expression as he moved with easy grace through the sand. “Would you like to tell me what troubles you?”

  Menashe thrust his hands behind his back and tried to organize his thoughts. Would his uncle understand his feelings toward Jendayi? Could he appreciate the love that would compel him to approach Pharaoh when they returned to Egypt? Or perhaps Shim’on had noticed Menashe’s longing to know his heritage, his fascination with the history he had just discovered.

  “I am not distressed,” Menashe said, “but in the past few days I have learned so many things. I had never heard such stories of Avraham, Yitzhak and Yaakov. My father occasionally mentioned the names of my forefathers, but never did he share those stories—unimaginable treasures! I never imagined that God would stoop to make personal promises and covenants with men.”

  Shim’on grunted in response, but said nothing for a long while. They had left the fertile valley of the Jordan River and now climbed the foothills of a mountain range. Bawling winds scoured the ridges and mountain rims, whistling through skeletal trees and leafless brush as it blew dirt into their eyes and hair.

  “I think there is more on your mind,” Shim’on finally said, firing the words over his shoulder as he moved ahead to take the reins of his wife’s plodding camel. “For I have seen your eyes, and a young man’s longing glance is easy to read. Love has taken root in your heart, has it not?”

  Menashe lowered his head against the wind. He wanted to cry, Yes, haven’t you seen her? but Shim’on would think him insane. An iron-core patriarch like his uncle would not understand the throes of love.

  But the face Shim’on turned to him displayed an uncanny awareness. “Remember this.” Shim’on slowed his step as he lowered his gaze. “If you love, you must be prepared to sacrifice all you have. If you are not willing to surrender even your life, you do not love at all.”

  In a movement as unexpected as a clap of thunder on a clear day, Shim’on reached up, took his wife’s hand and pressed it to his lips. The smile Mandisa gave him in return was as intimate as a kiss.

  One day, Menashe thought, the back of his neck burning as he turned his eyes from the tender scene, Jendayi will smile at me that way.

  Two days later the procession of Hebrews passed Hebron, a prosperous walled city. Two miles outside Hebron, the company halted at the grove where Avraham had resided. While the women set about preparing a meal, the men watered the animals and made camp. “We will pass the night here after our father’s burial,” Yosef declared. “As soon as camp is established, let us fulfill our vow to Yisrael.”

  Menashe was helping one of his cousins raise a tent when Shim’on pulled him aside. “Come see this,” his uncle said, gesturing toward the grove. He lifted his hand and pointed to a majestic terebinth tree whose massive trunk divided into four colossal branches and spread like wings toward heaven. “Our forefather Avraham sat under that tree,” he said, his voice heavy with an almost reverent nostalgia. “He was sitting under yonder tree when the three mysterious visitors from God told him Yitzhak would be born.” Shim’on’s dark eyes shone with kindness as he smiled at his nephew. “I thought you would like to know.”

  A stab of feeling caught Menashe off guard. “Yes,” he answered in a husky voice he scarcely recognized. “Thank you for telling me.”

  Leaving his uncle’s side, he walked toward the ancient tree and laid his hands on the scabrous, pitted bark. Avraham, the one who bargained with God, had stood here. Perhaps his hands had touched this bark, his flesh had pressed against these rough ridges.

  Menashe turned, resting his back against the rugged surface of the tree, then slid down, scarcely feeling the discomfort. What dreams had filled the patriarch’s head as he sat here? Avraham had believed God’s promise to create a nation from his heirs, but had he known that a ruler of Egypt would rise from his lineage? And from that ruler, two sons? “Would he—” Menashe lifted his gaze to the branches overhead “—have given my brother the blessing of the right hand? Or would he have seen somet
hing in me that Grandfather missed?”

  He wasn’t sure how long he remained there, but the soft sound of the approaching burial sledge distracted him from his reverie. He turned in time to see the ox-drawn sledge, topped by the elaborate sarcophagus and the chest of canopic jars, begin to move out of the camp. Yaakov’s sons, six on each side, walked beside the conveyance, their somber faces like stone masks of grief.

  Efrayim walked at the end of one line, like a thirteenth son, and Menashe grimaced as he stood and brushed the dirt from his tunic. Yaakov’s dying gesture had proclaimed him and Efrayim as sons in name and inheritance, and he realized he ought to be walking with them, across from Efrayim. Quickly he hurried into place, behind Binyamin, and hoped none of the others had noticed his absence.

  For twenty minutes they walked in silence, the only sounds the whisper of the sledge and the occasional jingle of the oxen’s harness. An unseasonable heat covered the mountain slope like a blanket, drying the perspiration on Menashe’s skin before its dampness had a chance to cool his body. He wore a long tunic and cloak in the style of his uncles; now he sent a covetous glance toward Efrayim’s elegant kilt. Every bit the Egyptian, Efrayim looked cool even under his heavy wig.

  The procession came to a halt outside a large stone outcropping at a brown and barren ridge. A half-dozen rock hyraxes squealed and scurried away as Shim’on’s shadow fell across the scree at the base of the cliff. Without comment, Re’uven, Shim’on and Levi advanced and jammed a beam of wood beneath an immense boulder. Wedging a smaller rock beneath the beam for a fulcrum, they pressed downward with all their might. Within a moment the boulder scraped against the wall of stone and moved away.

  A fetid breeze broomed the dust, and Menashe peered toward the opening, half-afraid of what he would see. The Hebrews did not ordinarily mummify their dead, and Menashe stirred uneasily at the thought of viewing an unpreserved corpse. Avraham and Sarah were buried here, along with Yitzhak and Rebekah and Lea. Had the arid air of the desert preserved them? Or had their mortal remains submitted to the slow decay of death?

  Relief settled over him when he realized he would not discover the answer to his questions. Yosef and Binyamin, the sons of Rahel, pried open the sarcophagus and wooden coffin, then carefully lifted out Yisrael’s mummified remains. While the others watched in silence, these two carried the body of their father into the tomb and laid him to rest for the ages. Then Yehuda pried open the canopic chest and removed the jars; these he gave to Dan, Naftali, Asher and Zevulun, who deposited them inside the tomb.

  The expensive granite sarcophagus and elaborate canopic chest were left outside the burial place. They were too heavy to lower into the cave, and of little significance to the Hebrews. No Egyptian would think of entering the Other World without adequate protection for his remains and enough worldly goods to sustain life in the spiritual realm, but Menashe knew his father placed no faith in the Egyptian beliefs. He had allowed the priests to perform a ceremonial mummification in order to preserve the body, but Yaakov would be buried according to Hebrew tradition.

  When Yosef and Binyamin finally trudged out of the cave, their faces drawn with grief and weariness, Levi, Re’uven and Shim’on maneuvered the guardian stone back into place. When it had settled back into its customary position, the brothers looked to Yosef, expectation on their faces.

  He drew a ragged breath. “I love you, O God, my strength,” he said, lifting his hands to heaven. His words echoed among the rocks. “God Shaddai is my rock, my fortress, my deliverer. He is my god in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. I call on El Shaddai, who is worthy to be praised, and I am saved from my enemies. Though the cords of death encompass me and the torrents of ungodliness terrify me, though the cords of Sheol surround me and the snares of death confront me, in my distress I will call on God Shaddai. He will hear my voice and my cry before I even speak it.”

  The uncles’ somber faces seemed to relax at Yosef’s reassuring words. They breathed more easily, for their responsibilities had been fulfilled and their father laid to rest. The day of Yaakov had passed; they were the fathers now.

  “God Shaddai sent help from on high,” Yosef went on. “He drew me out of the pit. He delivered me from my strong enemy and from those who hated me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, but God Shaddai was my stay. He rescued me because He delighted in me.”

  Menashe’s emotions bobbed and spun as he stared past his father into his own thoughts.

  God Shaddai ordained a covenant with one man, Avraham, in order to bless the nations of the world.

  God Shaddai reached down to rescue his father from the prison pit in order to preserve Avraham’s seed.

  God Shaddai not only ruled the overreaching affairs of nations, He reached down to offer help and solace to individual needy souls. The god of many was also the god of one.

  “You have delivered me from the contentions of the people. You have placed me as head of the nations.” Menashe heard his father’s voice as if it came from far away. “A people whom I have not known serve me. As soon as they hear, they obey me. Foreigners submit to me.”

  A hush settled over the men congregated at the tomb; Menashe heard nothing but the distant drone of his father’s voice and the pounding of his own heart. He looked toward the sky, almost expecting to see the heavens open before his eyes.

  New insights filled his head, the stories of his forefathers now fitted into a pattern he had been too close to see. The old ones buried in this place had heard the voice of El Shaddai and obeyed it. Forsaking all, ignoring those around them who worshipped the powers of nature, they sought and followed the Originator, the creator of the world.

  “God Shaddai lives,” his father continued. “Blessed be my rock, and exalted be the god of my salvation, the god who subdues peoples under me and delivers me from my enemies. Therefore I will give thanks to You among the nations, God Shaddai, and I will offer praises to Your name.”

  In a breathless instant, Menashe understood the connection between the oft-repeated story of his father’s miraculous rise to power and the god his grandfather had worshipped. The god who had blessed Yosef in the Black Land also sent him away from Canaan. God Shaddai’s divine will guided the jealous brothers who drove Yosef away from Yaakov’s camp. God Shaddai was infinitely more complicated than the single-minded Egyptian gods, for He held things together, He connected past and present, He fulfilled the longings of desperate human hearts and worked His will in the direst of circumstances.

  For generations El Shaddai sought men who were willing to follow him, and only a few had answered that divine call to total, obedient surrender. Avraham. Yitzhak. Yaakov and Yosef. Shim’on, certainly, judging by the look of reverent awe on his face, and Yehuda. But many of the others had not, and Efrayim had not. And until that moment, Menashe realized, he had not completely understood what God Shaddai expected of a man.

  Obedience. Total, sacrificial, blind-and-yet-seeing obedience. His father had used another word for it at Goren ha-Atad: faith.

  Leaving the funeral sledge at the tomb, the brothers unhooked the oxen, then returned to the camp they had erected near the grove. Efrayim frowned as he walked; the entire burial had been a frustrating and troubling experience. He was glad the Egyptians had not accompanied them to Mamre, for they would have severely criticized the sons of Yisrael. No treasures, no supplies had accompanied the body into the grave. The uncles had not even carried the majestic canopic chest, Pharaoh’s gift, inside the humble cave. No wonder his father had asked Pharaoh’s representatives to remain behind!

  He seethed with quiet anger and humiliation. The uncles might as well have dug a hole and tossed Yaakov into it. The meanest nobles of Thebes were buried with professional mourners, weeping women and marvelous ceremony. But what did they do to honor Yaakov, the father of twelve sons? They laid him in another man’s tomb, with nothing but grave cloths to protect his body. Canaanite grave robbers would roll away the stone once the
y had gone, and they would mock what little was provided for the father of Egypt’s noble vizier.

  The mood of his uncles had lightened considerably since the burial. The sons of Yisrael now walked in companionable groups of three and four, but Efrayim found himself walking alone behind his father. The Egyptians of Thebes, including Pharaoh, would be hurt and angered if they knew the boatloads of supplies had not followed Yaakov into the tomb, but had been used to provision the funeral procession. Though his father did not believe material comforts were necessary to provide for an immortal soul, those burial customs had strengthened Egyptian society for generations. The people of the Black Land were so much more advanced than the Hebrews who lived and died with only the barest necessities, still clinging to their smelly, dusty tents…

  A wild ass, startled by the company’s approach, looked up from his grazing. He stared at Efrayim for an instant, a shred of tough desert grass hanging from his mouth, before turning and trotting away.

  Go, Efrayim silently urged him. You are a creature of the desert, but my people are not.

  He must convince the others to change their ways. Only a lingering respect for Yaakov had stilled Efrayim’s tongue thus far, but now Yisrael rested with his ancestors. Efrayim would rise to leadership among the sons of Yisrael, and they would listen to him, for he was the favored son of the favored son. Though his father held the reins of authority, Yosef’s duties to Pharaoh would leave him little time for the Hebrews in Goshen. So Efrayim would move to influence them. He would teach them about the glories of Egypt, about strength and power and how to maintain influence in Egyptian society…

  He licked his lower lip, managing to quell his unrest by anticipating the victory to come.

  Chapter Nine

  The sons of Yisrael camped at the grove near Mamre. Insistent breezes blew down from the hills, pushing the suffocating heat toward the arid region to the west. Menashe unrolled his cloak on the ground at the base of the ancient terebinth tree, preferring to sleep under a canopy of branches and the endless plain of stars than in one of the dusty tents.