Journey

by Angela Hunt

  “Lead on,” she called.

  Eager to be on her way, Kesi led Jendayi from the tent and filled the silence with complaints about the boredom of the journey, the dreary landscape and the rude behavior of the warriors who would not pay her proper attention.

  Jendayi ignored the girl’s whining by concentrating on the scents and sounds around her. The sun was warm on her face through the gossamer veil she wore, the atmosphere surprisingly mild and pleasant. It was the season of Proyet, the Emergence, and soon the heat of summer would be on them in earnest. But she might belong to a different master by the time summer came. If all went well, she would be a slave in Efrayim’s household. If he truly loved her, she might be his concubine.

  Since the night she had learned that Zaphenath-paneah’s son intended to ask Pharaoh for her, a thousand questions had pestered her brain. What sort of man was Efrayim? She had heard he was handsome, but what did handsome look like? How had he matured? She was not certain she would know his voice if she heard it, for though she had heard him in a group, he had not spoken directly to her since his adolescence. Was he still as bold as he had been that day in the garden? She hoped so, for it would take a bold man to approach Pharaoh and ask for one of the royal slaves. She felt a blush heat her cheeks. Did he still think her beautiful?

  Light, liquid laughter filled Kesi’s voice. “You are thinking of him! I see it in your face.”

  Jendayi opened her mouth to protest, then decided it was useless to lie. Kesi knew her too well. “Of course.” She shrugged. “You are always talking about one man or another. Why shouldn’t I think about the one who has promised to ask Pharaoh for me?”

  “I hope he is as wise as he is courageous.” Kesi’s steps slowed. “I don’t know how he can expect Pharaoh to grant his request. You were a gift to Pharaoh from the vizier. Only a fool would ask to have a gift restored after it has been given to the king.”

  “Pharaoh and the vizier have a close relationship,” Jendayi answered, hoping her words were true. “Efrayim would not promise to ask for me if he did not believe he would be successful. Perhaps he plans to find another harpist for Pharaoh. His father might wield his influence. But if Efrayim has made me a promise, it will be done.”

  “There has been no news of the Hebrews since they left,” the handmaid said after a moment. “I knew you wouldn’t ask, so I’ve been inquiring every day. The warriors at the river are to sound the trumpet when they see the sons of Yisrael approaching. The vizier’s servants are to prepare a great feast in honor of his return, so they will need every moment of warning to make ready.”

  “The vizier’s servants?” Jendayi’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. “The vizier’s servants remained here, at the river?”

  “Of course.” Kesi halted. “They are not Hebrews, so the vizier asked them to remain behind.”

  “Then someone here might know something of him.” Jendayi’s hand went to her throat as her heart fluttered in unexpected anticipation. “I have not dared ask of him, but if we are discreet, the vizier’s servants might put my mind at ease.”

  Kesi laughed. “I was beginning to wonder if you were made of stone. A young man promises to ask for you, and yet you say nothing, you ask no questions, you accept his promise as calmly as if I had just announced that dinner was being served—”

  “Stop talking—” Jendayi clutched her maid’s hand “—and lead me to the vizier’s tent!”

  “With pleasure,” Kesi answered, pulling Jendayi by her side.

  They walked for a short distance, and Jendayi followed Kesi’s cue, nodding in the direction of voices that called out greetings. She smiled until her cheeks felt stiff and lifted her sandals through the sand in dainty, mincing steps, all she could manage in her fitted gown.

  “Here is the vizier’s compound.” Kesi turned so abruptly that Jendayi stumbled and filled her sandals with sand. “Nearly all his servants remained behind while the sons of Yisrael went to the tomb. Perhaps one of the slaves here will answer your questions. There are no men in the area, only a handful of serving women. Shall we go inside and speak to them?”

  “Do they look trustworthy?” Jendayi whispered. “I don’t want them running to their master with gossip.”

  “One of the women inside is old, but seems to be of a pleasant disposition. She is probably able to hold her tongue. But to put your mind at ease, we will say nothing of Efrayim’s promise to you.”

  Still uncertain, Jendayi resisted, but Kesi dragged her forward. The musical murmur of servants’ voices stilled as the pair moved into the cool shade of a tent, and Jendayi felt herself being drawn through a silence that was the holding of curious breaths. If only immortality were not so important! She had managed without love in this life, she could do without the life to come if only she would not be eaten by Ammit…

  Feeling self-conscious, Jendayi stepped forward.

  “Long life and peace to you,” Kesi said, greeting someone. Who, the old woman?

  Jendayi blinked in surprise when the servant returned the greeting in smooth, well-modulated tones. She had been expecting the withered voice of a hag.

  Kesi wasted no time. “My mistress, Pharaoh’s harpist, used to belong to Zaphenath-paneah. Though she was only a child, she once had occasion to speak with the vizier’s son—”

  “Which son?” the servant interrupted, a spark of curiosity in her voice. “The master has two fine sons, both of whom are with their father on the burial journey.”

  Jendayi summoned her courage. “The younger one.”

  “Efrayim.” The woman answered in a mild tone, but there was no mistaking the approving smile in her voice. “Efrayim is quite the charmer. A more smooth-talking persuader I have never seen.”

  “You speak as though you know him well,” Jendayi offered.

  “I do,” the servant answered. “I have known Efrayim and Menashe since they were children. I served as a kitchen slave in the vizier’s house until Zaphenath-paneah allowed me to marry the captain of his guard.” A faint bite slipped into the woman’s dulcet voice. “Why would one of Pharaoh’s slaves be interested in the vizier’s younger son?”

  Jendayi felt a sudden chill. How could she explain her interest without revealing her secret?

  Kesi came to the rescue. “I wanted to know about him,” the maid said in a confident and breezy tone. “I have lived in Pharaoh’s house all my life, and could not believe a nobleman’s son would actually speak to a slave. Yet Jendayi tells me the situation is different in Zaphenath-paneah’s house. She says masters and slaves often converse together.”

  “Yes.” Jendayi could hear no trace of suspicion in the woman’s voice now. “Things are different in the vizier’s house.”

  “And this Efrayim, the one who spoke to Jendayi, is a man of his word?”

  Kesi was being far too forward. Jendayi would have scolded her if she hadn’t been so interested in the woman’s response.

  “Efrayim is honorable, and much like his father,” the servant answered. “He is a natural leader, and more at ease with people than his older brother. He possesses great zeal, and attracts followers like honey draws bees. His name means ‘doubly fruitful.’ At times I wonder if he has not been blessed even more than Menashe.”

  The woman lowered her voice. “They say Yisrael gave the blessing of his right hand to Efrayim, the second-born, instead of Menashe. Many in the vizier’s household see this as a sign from the gods, but Efrayim seems to think little of it. And what Menashe thinks, who can know?” Jendayi heard the gentle rustle of the woman’s gown as she shrugged. “He is a man of few words.”

  “Doubly fruitful,” Jendayi echoed, running the phrase through her mind. It was a good meaning and a good name. She reached out and smiled when the woman’s hand slipped into hers. “Thank you for your help. May the gods of heaven and earth bless you!”

  “I have already been blessed,” the woman answered. “By the vizier’s God Shaddai.”

  Chapter Ten

  Yosef c
lung to the soft darkness of sleep as hard as he could, refusing to open his eyes, but an insistent hand rocked his shoulder. “Master, you must wake.” The voice, tremulous with age, belonged to Ani, Yosef’s steward. “Your brothers have assembled outside your tent, and they have commanded me to bring a message to you.”

  Yosef reluctantly quit his sleep and opened his heavy eyes. He and his brothers had rejoined the Egyptians on the previous night. Exhausted beyond words after the ordeal of Yaakov’s burial, Yosef had immediately retreated to his tent.

  “They are outside now?” he said, his voice clotted with sleep. “What is so important it cannot wait?”

  “They did not sleep last night,” Ani murmured, fetching Yosef’s robe and sandals. “I heard them talking through the darkest hours. Sometimes they argued. Once or twice I heard men weeping. And this morning they came to me before sunrise and begged me to wake you at once.”

  “All right.” Yosef slung his legs off the low bed and slipped his feet into soft leather sandals. Covering his face with his hands, he let out a long exhalation of breath, then lowered his hands to his knees. “I hope you know what they want.”

  Ani bobbed and twisted his hands. “Yes, my lord, I did hear a word or two of their concerns. They are afraid. They have realized that their father acted as their protector. Now that he is dead, they fear you will take vengeance on them for the shameful way they treated you years ago.”

  The room around Yosef sharpened into focus. “They fear me? They talk of vengeance?”

  “Yes, master.” Ani lifted his hands in a primitive gesture of reassurance. “I know they are being unreasonable, and I tried to tell them not to wake you, but they have come with an offer.”

  Listening in bewilderment, Yosef shook his head. What did they think of him, these sons of Yisrael, his own flesh and blood? For the past seventeen years he had tried to live with them as brothers. Even though the distance between Thebes and Goshen separated them physically and the gulf between royalty and common folk separated them socially, he had strived to provide for them, lead them, do everything an elder brother should. And now they quaked like mice before a cat, believing only Yaakov’s wrath had prevented Yosef from taking his revenge.

  He swallowed hard and tried not to reveal his anger and hurt. “Summon them.” He pointed toward the opening of his tent. “Assemble all the people of Yisrael, Yaakov’s sons and grandsons, their wives and servants. I will speak to them as soon as I have dressed.”

  “Don’t you want to hear their offer?” Ani asked.

  “I will dictate the terms of our relationship from this day forward.” Yosef closed his eyes against hot tears of disappointment. “Tell them to assemble, then come back in and help me dress. If they have not slept, they are tired. And I will not keep them waiting.”

  When he stepped out of his tent an hour later, Yosef approached his brothers as a representative of Egyptian splendor. Ani had lined his eyes and painted his lids in the stern, formal manner of an Egyptian nobleman, and the most elaborate wig in his possession now covered his head. The heavy Gold of Praise, representing Pharaoh’s favor, hung about his neck. He wore his vizier’s robe, as white as faultless ivory, and fine leather sandals graced his feet. A company of armed warriors spread out at his approach, and a pair of fan-bearers took their places by his side as Yosef stepped up onto the dais and turned to face his brothers.

  He intended for them to be impressed. If his brothers insisted on fearing him even in light of his mercy and forgiveness, he would let them be afraid. When faced with the enormity of the punishment Yosef could choose to inflict, perhaps his grace would be appreciated.

  Re’uven, the spokesman for the group, stepped forward and prostrated himself on the ground. Yosef stared, amazed that the brother who had embraced and wept with him at Yaakov’s tomb could now grovel before him like a slave.

  Perspiration streaked Re’uven’s furrowed face when he lifted his head. “My lord.” His dark, deeply wrinkled eyes squinted toward Yosef. “Your father, Yaakov, charged me before he died, saying, ‘Thus you shall say to Yosef, “Please forgive, I beg you, the transgression of your brothers and their sin, for they did you wrong.”’”

  Yosef took care that the lines of his face remained set. For an instant he experienced the unsettling sensation of déjà vu—on another day, much like this one, he had sat in judgment of his brothers and pretended to feel one emotion while his heart twisted in the throes of another.

  “How odd,” he said finally, gazing at Re’uven. “I was with our father when he died. I heard all the blessings, I heard him charge me to bury him with Lea in Canaan. I closed his eyes after his last breath. But I do not recall him charging you with anything.”

  “He did so before you arrived from Thebes.” Yehuda stepped forward to intervene. Like Re’uven, he fell to the ground and pressed his hands to the dusty earth. “And now, please forgive the transgression of the servants of the god of your father.”

  As one, the other brothers knelt, prostrating themselves in abject humility. “Accept us as your slaves, only do not look with anger on us,” they pleaded, just as they had when they first came to Thebes and did not recognize the brother they had sold into captivity.

  The old feelings of abandonment surfaced in Yosef’s consciousness and pulled at his heart, dragging him down into the deep well of memory and loss. Even after years of enjoying his protection and provision, did his brothers not know and trust his heart? Did they doubt the tears of joy he shed at their reunion? Were they blind to his tender care of them?

  He could no longer pretend to be angry; he loved them too much. With a choking cry he tore his gaze away from the sight of their humility and pressed his hands over his face.

  “Do not be afraid,” he murmured, struggling to compose himself. Their desperate pleas ceased; he could feel their eyes on him, waiting.

  Slowly he lowered his hands and looked out at them, his gaze clouded with tears. “Am I in God’s place, that I should judge you? You planned evil against me, but God planned it for good so this day might come to pass. You are alive, you and your little ones, by the hand of God Shaddai. So do not be afraid. I myself will sustain you and your children. You need not fear anything as long as you are in Egypt, for I will care for you.”

  An almost palpable sigh of relief swept through his brothers and their sons. A half-smile crossed Re’uven’s face, the countenances of Shim’on and Levi brightened. One by one, the brothers rose and turned with open arms toward their families, where they were met with newly confident smiles of rejoicing. They had not slept last night, Ani said. They must have been worrying for days, each man confiding his fears to his wife, his sons, even his servants. Now they rejoiced at Yosef’s reassurance of love and loyalty, and they would fly back to Egypt on wings of contentment and release.

  And as Yosef watched them go, each man to his own family’s tent, he had never felt more alone.

  “Are you saying I was wrong?”

  Menashe turned from Yosef, frustrated by his father’s logic and unflappability. “No, you weren’t wrong to forgive your brothers, but why did you promise them protection in Egypt?” Menashe struggled to resist the vitality his father radiated like the sun. “This is the land God promised. Why didn’t you encourage them to remain here in Canaan?”

  “I belong to Egypt,” Yosef said, looking at his hands. “By the will of God Shaddai they sold me to Egypt, and now I cannot leave. Pharaoh relies on me. The king was gracious to allow me to journey to Mamre.”

  “You speak as if Pharaoh truly controls you.” Irked by his father’s cool, aloof manner, the corner of Menashe’s mouth twisted. “He does not. Amenhotep listens to you, but you could do anything, you could suggest any idea, and somehow make Pharaoh agree with you.” You could even ask for a royal slave to be your son’s bride…

  Yosef stiffened as if Menashe had struck him. “You ought to be glad no one else heard that,” he snapped, his voice like steel. “Those are the words of a traitor.”r />
  “I meant no treason.”

  Yosef sighed and locked his hands at his waist. “There was a time when Pharaoh listened to me, but those days have passed.” A brooding quality echoed in his voice as he stared at the floor. “Now I am like the father of a grown child. Pharaoh needs me, but he will not admit it. Neither will my brothers. They have the forgiveness they sought. They will go back to Goshen and be happy. And they will forget about me.”

  “They are not you, Father.” To his dismay, Menashe heard a note of sarcasm in his voice. “They do not have to go back to Egypt, for they do not belong to Pharaoh. They are the sons of Avraham, and Canaan is their promised land.”

  Yosef’s lips thinned as he looked up. “I know who they are, Menashe. And I know them far better than you do. In a way they are like children. They quarrel and bicker and would harm one another if left to themselves. If I allow them to remain in Canaan, within a year their sons will marry Canaanite women, within two years they will be worshipping the idols we passed on our journey.” He glared at the floor, frowning. “But I can watch over them in Egypt.”

  “If they are like children—” Menashe stepped toward his father “—then they must grow up. Can’t you see the time has come to push them out of the nest? We are in Canaan now, and possession is half the battle. You are here with two squadrons of chariots and a hundred warriors ready to do your bidding. You could move to Hebron under cover of darkness and seize the city. Build a fortification, leave a hundred men to guard it, and return to Egypt if you must. You have the authority to arrange an escort for the women and children who remain at Goshen.”

  Caught up in his eagerness, he knelt on one knee at his father’s feet. “I know you don’t believe me,” he said, his voice hoarse with frustration, “but God Shaddai spoke to me the other night. He told me the land is ours. We are to take it, possess it, live in it.”