Journey

by Angela Hunt

  For a moment Yosef studied him with a curious intensity, then his eyes clouded and he waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You do not know our people,” he said, his voice heavy and final. “While I admire your spirit and your sincerity, you speak with the naiveté of youth. They are my people, and my responsibility. Until I die, I will keep them in Goshen. They want protection—didn’t you hear them this morning? So I will be their protector. I have promised to take care of them, and I will keep my word.”

  “But God said Canaan is ours!”

  “And it will be. But not yet.”

  Like an old wound that ached on a rainy day, Menashe again felt the distance between himself and his father. Yosef was the vizier, the Bread of Life and Sustainer of Egypt. Menashe was an ill-favored son, an unfortunate dreamer. Nothing more.

  When Menashe had gone, Yosef leaned his head on his hand and closed his eyes as jagged and painful thoughts whirled inside his head. He had rejected Menashe’s idea as absurd, but doubt reared its ugly head in the silence of his empty tent. How could he have spoken with such perfect confidence? He did not speak for God. He had dreamed no dreams of late; he had not heard the quiet inner voice he had come to recognize over the years. Either God Shaddai had fallen silent…or He was now speaking to someone else.

  But would He speak to Menashe? Yosef doubted it. Menashe had fine qualities; in fact Yosef had always favored toward the boy, for Menashe reminded him of a younger version of himself. But while Menashe was bright and intuitive, Efrayim was more suited for leadership. Even Yaakov had recognized the difference in Yosef’s sons. Yisrael had revealed a unique depth of understanding when he crossed his hands during the blessing…

  Perhaps…I am no longer fit for God’s service. The thought made his right temple pound, and Yosef rubbed the throbbing area as his eye watered. Another headache, and this would be a severe one. Soon he’d be in bed, overcome by nausea and weakness, ashamed to allow anyone but Tarik or Ani into his presence.

  The headaches had first begun to afflict him during the years of famine. Once his own family was safely ensconced in Goshen, Yosef had turned his attentions to consolidating Pharaoh’s power. In those days Amenhotep had been young and unsure of himself, and Yosef secured the king’s position by trading stored grain for silver, then cattle, then the land itself. When the people had nothing else to give, they surrendered themselves in total allegiance, swearing to align themselves with Pharaoh’s purposes. Yosef wisely distributed Egypt’s citizenry from one border to the other, uprooting age-old loyalties to cities and regions, until the land and its people were united in service to Pharaoh alone. Only the priests had remained outside Yosef’s sweeping reforms, and he had been keenly aware that they despised him. He did not worship their gods. He might have even persuaded the king to worship El Shaddai, but the priests held one undeniable advantage: Pharaoh ruled as the divine son of Amon-Re. If he denied that god, he denied his own divinity and his right to rule.

  Amenhotep was inexperienced, but he was no fool.

  The pain pounded like a tom-tom behind Yosef’s eyeball, and he clenched his fists, trying to will it away. His physicians had tried every sort of ointment, chant and massage, but nothing soothed his agony but darkness and quiet.

  His thoughts whirred and lagged as he massaged his temple. Had he been wrong to work so diligently for Pharaoh? Had he been too acquisitive? No. He did not confiscate the silver and cattle for his own benefit, but for Amenhotep’s. And the vizier’s estate surrendered a fifth of its produce to Pharaoh like every other nobleman’s manor.

  Opening his eyes, Yosef came back to reality. His estate, his work, waited in Thebes, and he longed to return to it. And just because God was silent did not mean He would not speak. Yosef had known times of silence before, long years of unjust imprisonment, other years of slavery. But even during those times of testing, Yosef had known God had His hand on him. He had only to wait until God revealed His will.

  And he would wait now. Until God spoke and indicated otherwise, Yosef would keep his people in Egypt, under his protection. And when the time came for them to leave, Yosef would know it.

  A light, relaxed mood filled the entire camp as the Hebrews and Egyptians finalized details for the journey home. Yaakov had been mourned and buried; Yosef’s forgiveness had been asked and received. As Menashe glanced around at the cookfires and festive gatherings, he wondered why none of the others had considered that this might be the ideal time to discuss the possibility of remaining in Canaan.

  A large ceremonial fire burned in the clearing before his father’s tent, and around its welcoming flames a host of Egyptians and Hebrews had gathered to share stories. With Jokim on his left hand and the crown prince on his right, Efrayim served as the center of attention and interpreter for the convivial group. Yosef, Menashe noted, had not come out to join in the revelry.

  Glumly, Menashe found a place in the company and pressed his sandals into the dirt, only half listening to the lively conversations around him. He did not want to talk. His own feelings were too raw to discuss, his recent defeat beneath the opinions of his father too fresh in his mind.

  A servant threw a shovelful of dung onto the fire, and its impact sent a volcano of sparks into the night sky. As Menashe stared at the glowing, maniac cinders, soft shuffling sounds broke his concentration. His heart leaped when he saw Akil enter the circle with the musicians.

  “If it please you,” the chironomist said, bowing to the crown prince, “I thought a little music might strengthen your heart for the journey home.”

  The prince applauded, his young face wreathed in a smile. “Yes, please.”

  “Excellent idea, Akil.” Efrayim lifted his hand in salute. “Please, play a happy song, a song of praise.”

  The men in the circle parted to make way for the musicians. The women came shyly forward and took their places in the sand before their director. Menashe felt his weary heart expand as Jendayi moved into the glow of firelight, her harp in her hands.

  He lifted one knee and rested his arm on it, contemplating her lovely face. Regardless of whatever happened between the Egyptians and the Hebrews, he would soon go to Pharaoh to ask for her. If by that time he had managed to convince his uncles to return to Canaan, perhaps he and Jendayi would make their home in Hebron. If not, they might live in Thebes—

  He frowned, finding that idea distasteful. Jendayi needed to be free from Pharaoh and the people who had enslaved her. If he could not take her to Canaan, he would make a home for them in Goshen where she could live and create her music at her own whims, not those of a master.

  Would she care, he wondered, that he had just fought—and lost—one of the most personal battles of his life? He wished she could have been by his side as he confronted his father. Though she might not understand the significance of God’s promise to Avraham, as a slave she certainly would understand his desire to be free from Egypt. Oh, what he would give in exchange for the right to freely talk to her! He yearned to discover the secret joys and sorrows that ruled her lovely frame. But until she was his, he had no right even to approach her.

  Akil beat a soft rhythm on his knee and the women began to play. The sharp, nasal tone of the oboe whined against the darkness; the soft strum of Jendayi’s harp blended with the fire shadows dancing on the faces of the jovial men. Ignoring the others and their feeble attempts to enjoin him in conversation, Menashe studied Jendayi, impressing her enchanting image on his wounded heart as if it were a salve that could heal the wound he had received.

  In time, he would find a way to lead his people to God’s promised land. Jendayi had certainly known loneliness, pain and sorrow, but she had persevered with her gift, finding fulfillment and joy in it even as a slave.

  And he would rejoice in his holy calling. His father might deny him; Efrayim might mock him. The others might not believe. But if God Shaddai had truly called him, God would equip him for whatever lay ahead.

  As the music stopped, the men around Menashe lif
ted their hands and voices in appreciation. Akil stood, bowed from the waist and managed a tentative smile. “I know what I am about to propose is unconventional.” His eyes wandered over the men assembled by the fireside. “But Pharaoh’s slave, the Harpist-Most-Blessed-by-the-gods, has asked permission to offer a song tonight.”

  “Bravo!” Efrayim called, the whiteness of his smile dazzling against the darkness. “Bring her forward, Akil!”

  Others took up the chorus, urging Akil to allow the girl to sing, until the man finally lifted both hands in mock surrender and gestured toward her. “Listen, then, to the Harpist-Most-Blessed.”

  Menashe stirred in his place, searching for a plausible explanation. Did this unexpected gesture have anything to do with him? He did not dare hope that it did, but Jendayi now knew he cared for her. Perhaps this song, like the one she had offered in his father’s tent, would contain a subtle message of encouragement.

  A confusing rush of anticipation and dread whirled inside him as he leaned forward. He longed to announce his love and his intentions to the world, but only a fool would boast of loving one of Pharaoh’s slaves. Men had been executed for comments far less brash. But Jendayi must be careful as well. Any message to Menashe would have to be merely insinuated.

  The semicircle of musicians parted; every eye focused on the harpist’s slim young figure as she stepped forward and sank to the sand. Her wig, intricately braided with golden strings and tiny beads, fell past her shoulders in a soft, dark tide. Her smile lighted her face from the inside, like a candle in translucent alabaster. She steadied the harp against her shoulder, then her long, sensitive fingers caressed the strings and released the delicate, trickling sounds of running water.

  “My beloved master,” she sang, and at her words several of the men smiled in anticipation. Menashe shivered, half in fear, half in hope that she would sing of him. But she was discreet, her “beloved master” could be Pharaoh, beloved to all his people, or Menashe, the husband she hoped to have.

  Her voice carried the melody while her hands provided soothing sounds of accompaniment.

  Of whom shall I sing today?

  Of my beloved master, who is a leader among men.

  My beloved master, who persuades others to do his bidding.

  Menashe felt heat steal into his face. If she intended the song for him, she had obviously not heard how he had failed to convince his Hebrew relatives to follow him.

  Of whom shall I sing today?

  Of my beloved master, born to the Great Provider,

  My beloved master, the favored one.

  Like a vineyard, he is generous to his people,

  Like fine wine, his kiss is sweet on my lips.

  Despite his embarrassment, Menashe felt a warm glow flow through him. He was the son of the Great Provider, Zaphenath-paneah. One day the men who had mocked him would remember this night and realize that Jendayi had sung of him, not Pharaoh. Then their cowardly hearts would shrivel with jealousy!

  Of whom shall I sing today?

  Of my beloved master, who will lead his people to greatness,

  My beloved master, the blessing of double fruit.

  Menashe blinked in stunned silence as the circle of men erupted into exclamations of raucous delight and surged toward Efrayim, eager to clap him on the back. Jendayi had apparently forgotten that many in the gathering spoke Hebrew; her meaning had been plain enough for half the company to understand. The Hebrew word for “double fruit” was Efrayim.

  She had sung of a kiss Menashe had never given her…and of the favored one.

  One cold and lucid thought sliced through the misty dreams that swirled in Menashe’s head. Efrayim was the favored one. Yaakov had decreed it. Jendayi had sung of Efrayim, not Menashe, from the first word of the song.

  A suffocating sensation tightened Menashe’s throat. He had been foolish enough to misunderstand everything. She sang that her love had kissed her, and Menashe had never dared to take such a liberty; he would not even dream of doing so until he had spoken to Pharaoh.

  Had Efrayim? He lowered his head, cringing with anger and humiliation. Of course! His bold and impudent brother had probably kissed a hundred women; he wouldn’t care whether they were slave girls or princesses.

  Menashe rose from his place, unwilling to look on his brother’s smirking smile. This time Efrayim had gone too far. Menashe knew his brother longed to marry Princess Sitamun, but Sitamun had remained in Thebes, while Jendayi was here, vulnerable and within reach.

  Numb with confusion and shock, Menashe whirled away from the fire and retreated into the darkness, desperate to be alone.

  An oddly primitive warning sounded in Jendayi’s brain at the sound of the riotous clamor around Efrayim. She had been certain he would grasp her hidden message, but she had never dreamed anyone else would guess that she sang of any master other than Pharaoh.

  “By all the gods, Kesi, what are they doing?” she whispered, reaching out through the darkness. “Why are they calling Efrayim’s name?”

  “Do not fear, Jendayi.” Kesi crept closer. “Efrayim smiles and laughs as the others tease him. Even the crown prince seems to be impressed at your wit. No one is angry, except perhaps—”

  “What are you doing?” Akil’s curt voice broke into the girls’ conversation, and Jendayi flinched at its harsh tone. “You foolish, insolent girl! Sing again, and sing of Pharaoh or you will find yourself working in some temple kitchen! You are as stupid as stone, as ugly as a baboon. If you value your life, you will play again!”

  “I only meant—” Jendayi faltered, fumbling for her harp.

  Kesi thrust the instrument into Jendayi’s arms. “Play quickly. Akil is right. Oh, mistress, this was a rash act!”

  Why? Jendayi wanted to shout. She had spoken in the only way she could, for a slave could not approach a nobleman, especially the son of a ruler like the vizier. And apparently her song had its desired effect, for Efrayim had smiled…

  “Play!” Akil’s voice hardened. “Obey me, or I shall sell you to the temple priests myself! Sing about Pharaoh!”

  Her fingers trembling, Jendayi began the song again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Menashe did not sleep, but paced for hours in the desert, not caring if a lion or bear or darting snake should catch him unaware. He thought about walking west toward the Great Sea. Part of him wanted to walk into the water and feel it rise over his arms, his shoulders, his head and his life. He had spent his youth preparing to undertake a role as significant as his father’s, and within the past month his heart had been moved to adopt two destinies: Canaan and Jendayi. But within the space of twenty-four hours, both dreams had been denied. For what, then, had he spent his life preparing?

  His feelings were a mass of confusion, one powerful yearning melded with another. He had dared to think God Shaddai might speak to him, but his father had defeated that dream with a few well-chosen words. He had dared to hope Jendayi might love him, and the girl herself had dispelled that notion with a simple song. Her heart yearned for the favored one, Efrayim, who collected the attentions of women as easily as other men collected weapons or horses.

  When he arrived back in the camp, no one seemed to notice either his bloodshot eyes or his disheveled appearance. Slaves and servants scurried about, rolling canvas, coiling ropes and loading pack animals. The camp would disappear far more rapidly than it had risen. They would leave Canaan within the hour, and each step would take them farther away from where God eventually wanted them to be.

  Soon Menashe would begin his work to bring them back. But first he must take care of another matter.

  Shouldering his way through the milling crowd, Menashe ignored the servants and guards working around his father’s tent until he spied his brother. He clapped Efrayim on the shoulder and spun him around.

  “Menashe! Where have you been?” As always, mischief gleamed in Efrayim’s eyes. “You look terrible. Did nightmares keep you awake again last night?”

  Several of th
e nearby servants snickered, but they fell silent when Menashe rebuked them with a stern glance. “Last night—” Menashe’s eyes narrowed as his gaze returned to Efrayim “—Jendayi sang of you…and a kiss. What have you been doing?”

  The question seemed to amuse Efrayim. “Surely you don’t think I have been toying with Pharaoh’s harpist?” He broadened his smile and winked at one of the guards. “I haven’t time for such pleasantries.” His dark eyes moved into Menashe’s and his smile faded. “Nor the inclination.”

  “She wouldn’t lie. You have kissed her.”

  Efrayim’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Maybe I did once, years ago. I can’t remember.”

  “You will remember!” Menashe crossed the space between them and pressed his hands to Efrayim’s shoulders. He had wanted to confront his brother, to rebuke him for his distasteful behavior, and yet his fingers, as if possessed with a jealous fury all their own, yearned to slide upward to his brother’s neck and choke the air of life from his throat.

  A steel will kept Menashe on the edge, one step away from irrational fury…

  In a blur of movement, Efrayim brought his hands up before his face, then spread his arms wide, effectively knocking Menashe’s arms away. The defensive maneuver was simple and familiar, for Tarik had taught it to both brothers, but the Hebrews had never seen anything like it. Jokim, who stood behind Efrayim, gasped in admiration.

  Menashe stepped back, unwilling to remain on the knife-edge of fury. Jealousy had fueled an anger unlike any he had ever felt, but he would not hurt his brother.

  Barreling his chest, Efrayim stepped forward, close enough that Menashe could smell the scented oil on his skin. “I did kiss her once,” Efrayim whispered, the glitter in his half-closed eyes both possessive and defiant. “And apparently I made quite an impression. But it was long ago, Menashe. I have not touched her. I have not even spoken to her during this entire journey. So calm yourself and sheathe your anger. There is no reason for you to make us look foolish before the Hebrews and the Egyptians.”