by Angela Hunt
But sleep would not come. He lay for some time in silence, his fingers linked on his chest, his head spinning with the events of the day. Above him, the moon bathed the area with dazzling light. His exhausted uncles and kinsmen slept around him; many snored irregularly through the silence of the night.
Leaning back on his elbows, Menashe sat up and studied the nearby Hebrews. Efrayim slept not far away, quiet and still, and Jokim lay near the firepit, his face reddish-gold in the gleaming embers’ light. Menashe yearned to talk, to compare his experience at the tomb with someone else’s, but all the others seemed to sleep as soundly as Yaakov in his grave.
He glanced over at his father’s tent. Tarik might understand if Menashe chose to wake him, but Yosef would not appreciate being aroused in the dead of night. He was undoubtedly tired; for as long as Menashe could remember his father had smiled at him with exhausted eyes. Tonight, as Yosef slipped into his tent, Menashe caught a glimpse of his father’s haggard face. Fatigue had settled in deep pockets under Yosef’s eyes, and he bid his brothers goodnight in a pose of weary dignity.
No, his father would not want to hear Menashe ramble on about the mysteries and intentions of God Shaddai. Not tonight.
He slouched out on his mantle, bleary-eyed and restless, until his mind drifted into the fuzzy haze of sleep. After an immeasurable interval—it might have been a few moments or a few hours—he dreamed that he walked along the Nile with Jendayi by his side. The sky was a faultless curve of blue above him and the river, bright with the verdigris of summer, ran without a ripple in the windless calm. A choir of songbirds sang from a stand of trees on the shore, and Jendayi’s deep gray eyes moved into his and shone with love.
He linked her hand through the crook of his arm and felt his heart turn over. In all his life he could never remember such a feeling of contentment, of bottomless peace and satisfaction. This was how life should be, how his life would be if God Shaddai answered prayer…
His thoughts must have summoned the Almighty, for the sun brightened and descended with a terrific downward swoop. Menashe threw up his hands to shield himself from the blinding light; sweat poured in rivulets down his back and arms.
The dreamy silence shattered, and over the roaring of blood in his ears he knew he was hearing the voice of his father’s god. “Cursed is the man who trusts in mankind and makes flesh his strength,” the voice insisted, a surprisingly gentle softness in its tone, “and whose heart turns away from the Lord. For he will be like a bush in the desert. He will not see when prosperity comes, but will live in stony wastes in the wilderness, a land of salt without inhabitant.”
Menashe froze as if rooted to the riverbank. Would the Almighty God really speak to him? Or had this dream been conjured up by the day’s momentous events?
“Blessed is the man whose trust is in God Shaddai,” the voice continued. “For he will be like a tree planted by the water, that extends its roots by a stream. He will not fear when the heat comes. But his leaves will be green. He will not be anxious in a year of drought, nor will he cease to yield fruit.”
Above the blazing orb the blue sky darkened; the preternatural voice echoed with entreaty. “Speak, son of Yosef, to the sons of Yisrael. Say to them, ‘When you cross over the Jordan into the land of Canaan, then you shall drive out all the inhabitants of the land from before you. You shall destroy all their figured stones and molten images and demolish all their high places. And you shall take possession of the land and live in it, for I have given the land to you.’”
“Canaan?” Menashe asked in a suffocated whisper. “We are to possess Canaan…now?”
He squinted to look at the hand before his eyes—it was solid, of substance, so this was no vision. When he lifted his gaze, the dream world went black around him. The blazing fireball and the river had disappeared, so had Jendayi. He lay on the packed earth of the grove; above him loomed Avraham’s ancient tree, backlit by the starry plain of evening.
And yet the voice lingered. “I am YHWH who brought Avraham out of Ur of the Chaldeans to give you this land, to inherit it.”
Menashe breathed in shallow, quick gasps, silently waiting for his heart to settle into an even beat. If he had been asleep, he was definitely awake now. And he had heard the voice in the darkness of the grove as clearly as in his dream of Jendayi.
When he was reasonably certain his voice would not crack in terror, he sat up and crawled to Efrayim’s side.
“Brother.” He shook Efrayim’s shoulder. “Did you hear something?”
Efrayim wiped his hand across his eyes and blinked. He tensed when he read the expression on Menashe’s face. “Is there danger?”
“No.” A great exultation filled Menashe’s chest. He squatted on the ground and looked up at the sky. The silence of the night was broken only by the light applause of fluttering leaves from the tamarind and terebinth trees. “I had a dream. But when I woke, I could still hear the voice from my dream.” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Did you hear anything?”
Efrayim frowned. “You woke me up on account of a dream?”
“It was not just a dream. I think it may have been like the vision in which Yaakov saw the ladder to heaven.”
“You are insane, Menashe. You have lost your mind.”
Menashe glanced over his shoulder. Fortunately, the others did not stir.
Efrayim’s expression darkened with unreadable emotions. “You will go back to sleep and forget about this…vision.” A thread of warning laced his voice. “The uncles’ tales have filled your mind with all sorts of fanciful stories. If you say anything to the others, they will laugh at you.”
“But El Shaddai spoke! I heard Him.”
“Why would God speak to you?”
Menashe crossed his arms and looked away from Efrayim’s accusing glare. Why wouldn’t his brother believe him? For though God Shaddai could have chosen Yosef, Yehuda, Re’uven, Shim’on or any of the others, He had spoken to Menashe.
Waking Efrayim had been unwise.
“I don’t know why He would speak to me,” Menashe finally murmured, dismayed to hear a quaver in his voice. “But I know I heard Him.”
Efrayim shook his head as he lowered himself to his cloak. “Now you have a story to tell when the sons of Yisrael next gather around their campfire. That is all you wanted.”
Menashe opened his mouth to protest, but Efrayim closed his eyes, a clear signal that he would not listen to anything else.
The next morning, as the sons of Yisrael gathered their belongings and prepared to rejoin the Egyptians at Goren ha-Atad, Menashe walked into the center of the company and lifted his hands. “Sons of Yisrael, uncles and cousins,” he called with quiet but desperate firmness. “Last night the voice of El Shaddai spoke to me in a dream.”
The noise of the camp ceased. Waves of silence began from those nearest him and spread outward to the servants who were loading the donkeys.
But no one interrupted, not even his father. Emboldened, Menashe thrust back his shoulders. “El Shaddai spoke to me and said—”
“God Almighty spoke to you?” Re’uven stepped from the cluster of his sons and took two steps toward Menashe, an expression of pleasant curiosity on his face. “Why would El Shaddai speak to you?”
Re’uven’s implication was clear. If God had a message for them, why wouldn’t He address one of the elders?
“I don’t know why He chose me.” Menashe lifted his jaw. “But I am certain He did.”
“What is Yosef’s son saying?” Dan, who had grown deaf over the years, called through the silence. “What is the boy telling us?”
A cacophony of voices rose in response.
“What sort of madness is this?” Gad demanded.
“Yosef, what has happened to your son?” The question came from Yissakhar.
Efrayim stepped forward, his arms folded tight as a gate. “I warned you not to speak of this!”
Menashe’s breath quickened and his face grew warm. Crimson
with confusion and humiliation, he crossed his arms.
The noise ceased when his father stepped through the crowd, resplendent in his gleaming vizier’s robe and the Gold of Pharaoh’s Praise about his neck. Yosef’s steps slowed as he lifted his gaze to Menashe’s face in a keen, swift look. “Tell me, son.” Yosef’s eyes flickered with interest. “What did El Shaddai say to you?”
Yosef’s question silenced the doubters.
Surprised as much by his father’s apparent support as by the stillness, Menashe hesitated. “God Shaddai—” his breath caught in his lungs “—said we should enter the land of Canaan and possess it.”
A new and unexpected warmth surged through Menashe as he proclaimed the message. He lifted his chin, amazed at the thrill racing through his soul.
The sons of Yisrael broke into laughter.
“Possess Canaan?” Shim’on looked at Menashe in amused wonder. “With what? We have no army.”
“We have two squadrons of Egyptian chariots and a company of warriors waiting at Goren ha-Atad,” Menashe said, taking an abrupt step toward Shim’on. “The Canaanites are afraid of us. All we would have to do is make a stand. They would not resist us.”
“What of our flocks and little ones in Egypt?” Shela grimaced in good humor. “Would you have us leave them behind? I would not mind leaving my mother-in-law, but it would pain me to leave my wife and six children who wait in Goshen.”
“Not to mention your cattle,” Dan quipped. “Which would it pain you most to lose, Yehuda—your wife or your cows?”
“We could send the Egyptians troops to Goshen. They will return, escorting those we have left behind.” Menashe opened his hands. “The crown prince could act as our ambassador and explain our situation to Pharaoh. The king would understand if we tell him our god has spoken.”
Yosef regarded Menashe with open amusement. “You do not know Pharaoh like I do, son. One does not simply send a message to the king and expect him to understand.”
Efrayim swaggered forward, a bold grin on his face. “You surprise me.” He lowered his voice so only Menashe could hear. “What of the little harpist you love so dearly? If you think you can keep her in Canaan, you are sorely mistaken. She is Pharaoh’s property.” He shook his head. “You will not live long if you persist in this foolish notion.”
Menashe frowned and fell silent. He had not considered Jendayi’s situation. Because she had been in his dream he imagined she would remain with him always, but how could he win her freedom if he remained in Canaan? Did God expect him to send her back to Egypt? Surely a loving god would not demand his heart’s desire!
His mind spun with bewilderment. Perhaps he had imagined the dream and the voice. Yesterday had been a long and trying day. His heart had been rent by grief, his body wracked with weariness. His longing for Jendayi might have been transmuted into a longing for El Shaddai, his desire to return to the roots of his forefathers into a desire to return to the land of promise.
Undiluted laughter floated from his relatives as the men returned to their packing. “Even so, He did say to possess the land,” Menashe murmured. He turned and saw his father watching him. The vizier’s brow was creased with worry, his mouth set in a careful smile.
“It’s all right, Father.” Efrayim stepped forward to deflect Yosef’s attention and cast their father a disarming grin. “Our Menashe has often been troubled by nightmares. You can ask Ani or Tarik. On many a night he has awakened them with his screaming.”
Menashe glared at his brother. “I haven’t suffered from nightmares since I was a child.”
Efrayim ignored him. “Last night he woke me—” he waved his hand in a gesture of reassurance “—but he will be himself soon. No need to worry.”
Yosef studied Menashe for another moment, then he nodded at Efrayim. “Grief weighs on all our hearts,” he said, swiveling his gaze to Menashe. “But soon we will be home, and back to life as we have always known it.”
“We look forward to it, Father.” Efrayim looked briefly over his shoulder at Menashe. “We will all be better when we are home again.”
Yosef smiled and turned toward his chariot. Efrayim waited until Yosef moved away, then he tugged irritably at his wig and glared at his brother. “Do not speak of this again. They will not listen, they will only mock you and laugh at our father. Soon all of Egypt will be laughing. Do you want to bring shame to Zaphenath-paneah’s household?”
Menashe’s soul roiled, but he dropped his eyes before his brother’s steady gaze. “No.”
“Then remain silent,” Efrayim muttered. “Say nothing of this to anyone else. Forget what you think you heard, for you heard nothing.”
Jokim ran his hand over the back of his neck and winced when his nails scraped his sunburned skin. Yesterday he had followed the burial sledge with his long hair tied back with a strip of leather, and now the flesh was tender. He jerked the leather out of his hair, reasoning that it was better to have heavy hair on the nape of his neck than to wince every time his rough tunic scraped irritated flesh.
They had been traveling for half the day, and Jokim had purposely kept to himself. He had journeyed to Mamre with Efrayim, but Yosef’s younger son now walked behind the vizier’s chariot, a measured distance away from his brother. A pall of humiliation seemed to hang over both young men. Apparently Menashe had not recovered from the storm of protest that met his bizarre pronouncement, and Efrayim seemed embarrassed for his brother. Not knowing them well enough to intervene in an uncomfortable situation, Jokim left them alone.
He quickened his pace until he walked alongside his father and grandfather. “Perhaps Menashe’s idea is valid,” Shela was saying. He shrugged. “Perhaps we should consider moving back to Canaan. After all, we came into the Black Land on account of the famine, and that time of starvation has long past.”
Grandfather Yehuda frowned. “But Yosef remains in Egypt. And after the wrong we committed against him—”
“That is another matter for concern,” Shela interrupted, his voice rough. “While Yisrael lived, Yosef would not dare to lift a hand in vengeance. But his beloved father is dead. What if he turns against you now? The grief in his heart could easily blaze into anger.”
“At the tomb,” Yehuda murmured, stroking his beard, “he did say something about God delivering him from those who hated him.”
“He meant you and the others.” Shela ground the words between his teeth. “You were the ones who drove him to a day of calamity and he has not forgotten. Even at his father’s grave he spoke of his time of trouble.” He lowered his voice. “How do you know, Father, that he does not despise all of you? If we return to Egypt where he wields the full authority of Pharaoh, he may use his power against us. He brought you into the Black Land for Yisrael’s sake, but now he may destroy you to satisfy his own thirst for vengeance.”
Yehuda’s brow furrowed. “So you think we should run back to Canaan? We have no place there and our father is dead.”
“I’m only saying that we should consider the idea of returning,” Shela answered, wearing an expression of pained tolerance. “Don’t allow a few of your brothers to make a decision for all of us. Now the sons of Yisrael are more than twelve, we are more than three hundred. Your sons and grandsons should also be consulted, lest they and their little ones suffer for the evil you and the others committed long ago.”
“We will see,” Yehuda murmured, staring forward at the caravan. “We will talk to the others.”
“How can you sit there and play that same tune over and over? I am going crazy. I am bored, bored, bored!”
Back at the Egyptian camp, Jendayi stopped playing and turned toward the sound of Kesi’s agitated voice. The maid had been pacing in the tent all morning, and only through concentrating on her music had Jendayi been able to block the sounds of the girl’s annoying shuffling.
Jendayi stilled the strings of her harp. “You might find something to do.”
“There is nothing. My only job is to serve you.”
She cast a suggestion over her shoulder. “You might help one of the other servants.”
“Bah! I am not a kitchen slave.”
“One of the other musicians, then. Surely Akil could find something for you to do.”
“There is nothing to do but wait, Jendayi, and the Hebrews are taking forever to bury the old man.” A teasing note slipped into Kesi’s voice. “I had thought to wander among the Hebrew women and see if I could discover anything interesting about your friend, the vizier’s son.”
Fear shot through Jendayi. “You didn’t say anything to anyone, did you? They must not know.”
“I said nothing,” Kesi interrupted. “Do not worry. I understand. I intended only to ask about the vizier’s younger son while saying nothing about you, but the Hebrew women are all gone on the journey. Only a few of their slaves remain.”
Jendayi took a deep breath as her heart slowed to its normal pace. She was as nervous and pent-up as Kesi, so perhaps a walk would do them good. She put her harp aside and stood, carefully brushing wrinkles from the stiff linen of her dress. “Let us go outside. The air by the river will refresh us both.”
“Wonderful!” Kesi’s hand closed around Jendayi’s upper arm. “Several handsome soldiers have been posted along the riverbank. I was hoping for a chance to see them at a closer range.”
Jendayi lifted the sheer veil on her shoulders to cover her head. If Kesi insisted on dragging her out in the hot sun, she would at least protect herself from it.
