Journey

by Angela Hunt

  “If you do touch her—” Menashe met Efrayim’s gaze straight on “—you will be more than foolish.”

  Efrayim took a half-step back and strengthened his voice so the others could hear. “Pharaoh’s slave is a pretty thing,” he said, eyeing Menashe with cold triumph. “And apparently she approves of me. Perhaps after Pharaoh allows me to wed Sitamun, he will present us with the little harpist as a wedding gift. She would make a sweet concubine.”

  The biting words unleashed something within Menashe and he lunged, his treacherous hands again intent on Efrayim’s throat. Instantly the crowd around them boiled to life; men who had been busy packing donkeys dropped everything to rush forward and separate the brothers. Menashe felt hands scraping his arms, his legs, even his chest, but he could only think of causing Efrayim pain equal to the hurt he had just inflicted.

  Strong arms held Menashe and pulled him from the place where Efrayim lay on his back, his face marred by a wisecracking grin. “See, friends, what a fighting spirit my brother has,” Efrayim joked, accepting the hands that offered to lift him up. “No wonder he wants us to remain in Canaan. No doubt he intends to single-handedly defeat the Canaanites.”

  The men around Efrayim laughed, then helped him brush sand from his cloak and kilt. Though he seethed in silent resentment, Menashe jerked his head in a tense nod and shook the restraining arms away, wordlessly agreeing that he would not attack his brother again.

  He turned and lowered his gaze, unable to look his relatives in the face. He was an angry, jealous and resentful youth, unable to lead or command the others. He couldn’t even command his own emotions! His spirit was willing to lead and obey God, but his heart was given to treachery, despair and confusion…

  When the intervening Hebrews and Egyptians had finally gone back to the business of packing, Efrayim turned to face Menashe.

  “A pity Grandfather Yisrael did not see this stouthearted side of you,” Efrayim said, lifting a brow as he folded his hands. “Perhaps he would have been more inclined not to cross his arms.”

  Resentment bubbled again in Menashe’s soul, but before he could react, Efrayim grinned and darted away, hurrying toward Tarik’s chariot.

  Far in the back of the caravan, Jendayi sat in her woven basket and rested her forehead on her knees. Her song had been a dismal failure, for though the men had applauded and howled their appreciation, Efrayim had not responded. Had he approved of it? Or had she embarrassed him beyond recourse? If he cared for her as he vowed he did, shouldn’t he have had some response, and shouldn’t she have heard of it by now?

  Had he flushed, preened or wept as the words poured from her heart? Clenching her fist, she silently cursed her blindness. If she had sight, she would have been able to look around the circle and judge the effect of her song on its hearer. She might have caught a warning glance and stilled her voice before going too far.

  Afterward, of course, she heard Akil’s dreadful outburst and sought to repair the political damage by offering a song of praise to Pharaoh, her true master. But perhaps she had unwittingly caused Efrayim irreparable harm.

  If only she could freely approach him! But even if she were free from Pharaoh’s ownership she would have no right to speak to him. She did not know him, and he had not spoken to her since that long-ago afternoon in the garden. Her memory could not recall his scent, and she had never taken the liberty of touching him. She knew only the sensation of his lips on hers, but that caress had been enough to convince her that he cared.

  She pressed her fingertips to her lips, remembering. If he still cared, he would find her. She was a powerless slave, so she could do nothing but offer prayers to the gods of Egypt…and wait.

  Menashe walked alone over the dun-colored sand at the side of the caravan, consciously setting himself apart from both the Hebrews and the Egyptians. Movement atop a nearby hillside caught his eye, and when he looked up he saw a band of armed Canaanites scurrying away from the ridge. He had felt the pressure of spying eyes all morning; the residents of this area must now be preparing to offer sacrifices of gratitude to their gods. All over Canaan tonight, men and women would sigh in relief that they would not be called to defend the land that had been promised to another nation. All because the sons of Yisrael, led by Zaphenath-paneah, the Hebrew with an Egyptian heart, did not have courage enough to claim what God had willed for them to possess.

  And as Canaanites danced around their heathen idols and offered sacrifices to gods of wood and stone, the Hebrews would continue into the Black Land, choosing comfort and provision over a season of faith.

  Somewhere, Menashe thought, looking over the rutted road ahead, Yaakov, Yitzhak and Avraham were sorrowing.

  JENDAYI

  And Yosef dwelt in Egypt, he, and his father’s house…

  Genesis 50:22a

  Chapter Twelve

  “Again! By the life of Pharaoh, I am as dumb as a post. Why can’t I play this?”

  In a flurry of frustration, Jendayi slapped her palms to the vibrating harp strings. She had been diligently attempting a melodic run that had rippled in her head all morning, but her fingers balked at the maneuvers required of them. It was as if her hands expected to play for Efrayim, not Pharaoh, and refused to cooperate until they had been returned to the vizier’s house.

  But Jendayi had heard nothing from the vizier’s son. They had been back at Malkata for ten days, and there had been no news from the young man who had promised to risk Pharaoh’s disapproval for Jendayi’s sake. Had he been teasing her? Or had Kesi invented those messages in an effort to bring hope to a life that had none, that would never have anything.

  A hot tear rolled down her cheek and Jendayi angrily dashed it away, then returned her hands to the harp. “As Merit lives, you can do this,” she told herself, concentrating. She took a deep breath and began the passage again.

  A soft footfall sounded on the tile behind her, but Jendayi smelled the particular oil of lilies that Kesi used and did not turn around. It would be better for everyone if the maids bathed more often and used fewer unguents…

  “Mistress, Akil bids me tell you that Pharaoh plans a banquet tomorrow.”

  “So?” Jendayi heard a note of impatience in her response. She kept her fingers moving; such news need not interrupt her practice. “Pharaoh has a banquet nearly every day.”

  “But this one is special. He will most certainly request a new song from you. Akil suggests that you compose a proper hymn of praise.”

  Jendayi clenched her mouth tighter. “I will give him a song he likes.” Her fingers moved over the strings as her head counted the demanding rhythm: one-Or-sir-is, two-Or-sir-is, three-Or-sir-is…

  “There will be guests.”

  “There always are.” Four-Or-sir-is, no, no! The rhythm was wrong; this was not what she had imagined.

  Kesi continued, a coaxing note in her voice. “This banquet, mistress, is to honor the vizier. Pharaoh wants to hear the details of the burial journey. And since his sons will be present, I thought you might want to be forewarned.”

  Jendayi slapped the strings in frustration. “What do I care about his sons?” She lifted a brow and turned in Kesi’s direction. “I was wrong to be hopeful, Kesi, so do not think my heart is broken. I am a slave. I will always be a slave. Apparently my last song was not to Efrayim’s liking and he has decided to find a more talented harpist. So I am content with my lot. Humiliated—” she felt herself flush “—but content.”

  “You are not humiliated.” Kesi’s hand fell on Jendayi’s shoulder. “No one knew anything about your hopes. You followed the song about Efrayim with a tribute to the crown prince. The Hebrews probably think you merely meant merely to sing a song to praise those noble sons. Such things are often done.”

  “No.” Jendayi’s anger faded to fear. “My song did not win his heart. Somehow it turned him against me. And last night I had the dream again.”

  Kesi moved closer and lowered herself to the floor. Her warm hands clasped one of Jendayi�
�s. “Not the old nightmare.”

  Jendayi blinked, annoyed that tears had risen in the sightless wells of her eyes. “Anubis again asked for my heart. I brought it forth, and nothing filled my hand but a stone! And the stone was not even smooth and beautiful, but hard, pitted and ugly. I could not place it in the scale, knowing I would surely fail the test, so I clutched it and screamed and woke—”

  “Hush now.” Kesi’s arm slipped around Jendayi’s neck. “Do not let these dreams trouble you. I know you haven’t been eating, and there are dark circles around your eyes. Forget the dreams, Jendayi. Concentrate on pleasing Pharaoh.”

  “Anubis says my heart is dead,” Jendayi insisted, fear and anger knotting inside her. “But how can my heart live if it is not loved?”

  “I love you,” Kesi said, her voice artificially bright.

  Jendayi gave the girl a weary smile. “You are my handmaid.” She pulled out of the girl’s embrace and leaned her forehead on the stem of her harp. “If Pharaoh gave you to one of his wives or his daughters tomorrow, you’d be happy to leave me.”

  Kesi remained silent, and Jendayi knew the girl would not dispute her. Friendships among slaves were shallow and brief, for a slave’s ultimate bond was to her master. Any other attachments ran the risk of being broken.

  “Sometimes you are as silly as a tipsy widow.” Kesi tried a more playful approach. “Of course you are loved! Akil is devoted to you.”

  Jendayi snorted softly. “If I refused to play the harp, Akil’s devotion would disappear like a leaf in a windstorm.”

  “Even so, you are loved. I am certain that people of your past adored you—your own mother, for instance. Every girl is loved by her mother.”

  Jendayi stared into the deep well of her memory, back to the days when her diseased eyes had been able to discern fuzzy images and outlines. Perhaps there had been a woman who tended her, but any sense of protective and tender care had faded with Jendayi’s sight. Over the years several women had moved through her life, many who played instruments of music and sacrificed to Merit, the goddess of song. These women, who combined in Jendayi’s memory as a whirlwind of soft voices, sweet scents and twirling music, had often admired, petted and disciplined her. But had they loved her? She didn’t think so.

  She could not recall a gentle hand combing her hair, a tender kiss at bedtime, or anyone gathering her into a sincere and warm embrace. She had no idea when she had been born, or where. She had no knowledge of father or mother, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, cousins…

  Sometimes she felt that she had dropped into the world like a raindrop, utterly without significance or meaning.

  “Jendayi, you are ungrateful!” Kesi’s outburst was sudden and raw. “Merit herself loves you, and she has given you a talent far beyond any other woman’s. Your fingers fly faster than anyone’s. Sometimes I wish you could see Akil’s eyes widen when you play one of your songs. I have seen Pharaoh drop his cup in order to lean forward and watch you play! Even the queen approves of you.”

  “If Merit loves me—” Jendayi lifted her head as her fingers moved back to the strings of her instrument “—then she will save me from the fate I must suffer in the Other World.” Her mind replayed the troublesome passage she wished to master. One-Or-sir-is, two-Or-sir-is, three-Or-sir-is, four—

  Another thought whipped into her consciousness. I pray Merit’s love is more steadfast than that of the vizier’s son.

  Efrayim gaped when he entered the king’s banquet hall with his father and brother. Amenhotep had charged his chamberlain and steward with preparing a magnificent feast to honor the vizier’s father, and those officials had spared no extravagance. As he stared around the sumptuous hall, Efrayim could think of only one or two previous state occasions that would rival this one in splendor.

  A company of the famed Medjay warriors, the king’s elect Nubian guards, had greeted their boat at the small harbor outside Malkata and escorted them to the glorious banquet hall. Other warriors in resplendent white kilts, shining leather sword belts and leopard-skin sashes stood like posts around the walls of the chamber, their arms hanging rigid, awaiting Pharaoh’s command. Several nobles had already been seated in gilded chairs scattered throughout the chamber, and a pygmy with jingles tied around his ankles danced his way through the assembled guests.

  In the center of the vast hall an Egyptian drummer held his instrument at a jaunty angle and thumped out a steady beat. A line of trumpeters blew their instruments; one man lifted his horn toward the painted ceiling in a vain attempt to make his instrument heard above the others. A group of Libyans, recognizable by their ornate feathered headdresses, beat their clappers in a staccato rhythm, while in another corner a band of priestesses played their sacred sistra, the delicate thumping sounds echoing through the room. The chamber seemed alive with noise, the sound rising from the musicians and dancers and then spiraling down again from the tall ceiling.

  The king’s chamberlain led Zaphenath-paneah and his sons to seats of honor near the raised dais where Amenhotep and Tiy would sit. Efrayim sank back in his chair and sat on his hands as he looked around the room. Menashe, who had said little since they landed on the western riverbank, sat next to him, his drooping eyes fixed on a bas-relief painting of Pharaoh on the opposite wall.

  Efrayim leaned forward to whisper in his brother’s ear. “Do not fret, Menashe. Pharaoh would not give a feast without the little harpist. He will save the best for last.”

  Menashe’s lips thinned with anger, but a sudden blaring of trumpets cut off his retort. A group of ladies, adorned in identical wigs with tall unguent cones of fat on their heads, danced into the room. They waved acacia branches as they came, and the diaphanous material of their sheer gowns reinforced Efrayim’s opinion that the king had an expert eye for feminine beauty.

  After the women came a group of men, shaven and oiled, walking with dignified and erect postures as they carried gigantic vertical bouquets. Hundreds of fragrant lotus blossoms, poppies and cornflowers had been tied to long river rushes and palm branches in tiers, the smaller flowers filling the space between the larger ones, so the slaves carried a profusion of blossoms on a single stalk. Efrayim could smell the flowers even from a distance, then the men spread throughout the chamber, infusing sweet fragrance to every corner.

  After another blare of the trumpets the royal children entered. Efrayim smiled as he counted heads, realizing that Amenhotep intended for this to be a truly significant occasion if he had invited Tiy’s children—even Yosef had once remarked that Tiy’s offspring were as wild and unruly as unbroken horses. Yet here they came, on their best behavior, eyes downcast and their hands clasped in front of them: the princesses Ast, Hentmerheb, Hentaneb, Baketamun and Sitamun. Behind the royal daughters, in a circle of glory all his own, strutted Neferkheprure’ Wa’enre’, the crown prince and future king.

  Efrayim gave a polite nod of recognition and acknowledgment to the prince, then ran his hand over his chin and sought Sitamun’s eye. She had been seated on the opposite side of the chamber, but with any luck, she’d soon be sitting beside him and blocking his view of dour Menashe. Pharaoh’s formal banquets tended to be drawn-out affairs, and diners frequently moved about during the meal.

  When Sitamun finally looked up, Efrayim’s eyes caught and held hers. Her gaze swept over his face approvingly and he grinned, making no attempt to hide the fact that he had been watching her.

  Another trumpet blast, this one deafening, pulled him to his feet. Every man and woman in the chamber, including the royal offspring, prostrated themselves on the floor. Efrayim blinked at the painted tile beneath his nose, knowing it would take some time for the king and queen to walk to the dais where their chairs waited. Finally the chamberlain’s voice broke the silence. “Rise, all of you, and be blessed by the presence of your god and king, the Son of the Sun, Son of Amon-Re, God of gods, Lord of lords, King of kings, King of the gods!”

  The diners rose and stood by their chairs. Pharaoh wal
ked before them, his arms crossed over his chest, the ceremonial crook and flail in his hands. Though he stood only five feet tall, far shorter than any of the Hebrews, his narrow face suited his small frame and gave the impression of compact musculature. His almond-shaped eyes, topped by heavy lids, seemed almost elliptical under the heavy black lines that flew outward from his lids. Both the king and queen wore elaborate collars of blue glass beads and fresh lotus blossoms, the floral symbol of rebirth.

  The royal couple stood with somber eyes, mournful faces and slightly sagging shoulders—the appropriate body language of sorrow. All to honor Yisrael.

  “You must tell me, Zaphenath-paneah—” the king’s gaze moved toward his vizier “—of the burial of my friend, Yisrael, son of Yitzhak. Did you have a good journey? Does he now rest with his ancestors according to his wish?”

  “Yes, my king.” Yosef stepped forward. He pressed his hands to his breast in a humble gesture and bowed before Pharaoh. “And we offer our thanks to you. You generously supplied us with so much, including the presence of your beloved son. My family will be eternally grateful to you. The sons of Yisrael will forever speak of your kindness.”

  “And so I will be as immortal as Yisrael.” A soft smile crinkled Amenhotep’s lips. He took a quick breath as if he would say something more, but apparently changed his mind. He smiled at his wife, and together the royal couple took their seats. Cautiously, the guests slid into their chairs while Pharaoh inclined his head toward his steward. The slave clapped his hands, and within a moment the room flooded with servants bearing trays.

  The delicacies were presented to the dancing beat of drums. First in the rich procession came a multitude of breads and sweet cakes, some baked in loaves as large as a man’s head and others so small that five could fit on a man’s palm. After the breads, slaves brought in baskets of roasted onions, followed by nine kinds of meat, including beef kidneys, goose, duck, teal, roast beef, dried and salted fish and roasted pigeons. Two different kinds of cheese filled a carved wooden bowl so big that two slave girls struggled beneath the weight of it. As was customary, the foods were presented first to Pharaoh, who waved the parade on with a subtle flick of his royal wrist. Only after a dish had been offered to the divine pharaoh could it be whisked away to fill the dinner trays of mere mortals.