Shadow of the Storm

by Connilyn Cossette

  Aiyasha and Yael returned to scrubbing their laundry and within a few moments were gossiping as if the confrontation had never happened. I, however, could not get the woman’s words out of my mind. “. . . wherever Yahweh leads . . .”

  Where was Yahweh leading us? The land of Canaan may be only a couple weeks’ walk from here, but what were we headed into? The rumors of the savage tribes that inhabited the area—barbarous child-sacrificing people—made the blood curdle in my veins. Our men had been strengthened by daily exercises in the hot sun and nourished by manna, and they were healthy and strong, but regardless, they were an untried army of former slaves, not a well-honed machine like Pharaoh’s soldiers.

  And no matter the organization Mosheh imposed on the tribes, disunity, rebellion, and a lingering refusal to sever Egypt’s hold on our hearts seemed to undermine his every effort. We were a fractured people, a vessel made up of disparate pieces with jagged edges. A nation, yes—but one only beginning to find its footing.

  A hand touched my elbow, jolting me from my discouraging thoughts. “Shira?” A young girl stood beside me, with long, black hair, a face that seemed vaguely familiar, and a baby on her hip.

  “You are Shira, correct?”

  “I am. And you are . . . ?”

  She blew out a breath of relief. “I thought for sure that was you. Do you remember me? Hadassah?” She smoothed the baby’s flyaway brown hair with a proud smile. “This is Eben.”

  “Oh! Eben! Hadassah!” My memories slipped into order: the first birth I had attended, the fearful young girl, the husband killed by the Levites. I tried to control my sympathetic expression, but her smile wavered, as if she realized that I had connected her joy with her sorrow.

  “So you heard, then, about my husband?”

  “Reva told me. I am so sorry.”

  “He was much older than me, you know. We’d only been married a year. He was kind for the most part, but that night . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment. “That awful night was not the first time he strayed.”

  A bolt of compassion speared me, and I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, wishing I had wisdom to offer. “Oh, Hadassah.”

  “Please don’t feel sorry for me.” She kissed the baby’s forehead. “I may not have been loved by Nadir, but look what Yahweh gave me. This sweet boy. My little rock. Out of all the ugliness that night and the days that followed, Eben was my little lamp in the dark. And every night I sing that song to him . . . you know . . . the one you sang to me when I was laboring? He loves it! Don’t you, Eben?” She nuzzled his cheek. “He won’t sleep without the song, even though my voice is nowhere near as lovely as yours.”

  “Is Nadir’s family caring for you?”

  “They are for now. Although, since Nadir has no unmarried brothers, we are a burden. I pray Yahweh will bring me a husband who will love both of us.”

  “And I will pray the same.” Talia squirmed on my back, flailing a hand over my shoulder.

  “Is this your baby?” Hadassah craned her neck to get a look at her. “I do not remember you being with child.”

  “No . . . I married a man whose wife passed away. This was her child.”

  “Ah.” Hadassah smiled. “Yahweh gave you a light too.”

  Eben fussed and bucked backward in her arms. “This heavy little rock is hungry. We will leave you be,” she said.

  I stroked Eben’s downy head to soothe him. “I am so glad to have seen you.”

  “And I you, Shira. I will never forget what you did for me that night. My mother died before we left Egypt, and Vereda holds no love in her heart for me.” She gave me a look that conveyed pure gratitude. “The way you held me up, sang to me, infused me with courage—you are a wonderful midwife.”

  I resisted the urge to argue with her. “Thank you. I did not know what I was doing. It was my first birth, and I was a shattered mess. I was simply offering you whatever I could.”

  “It was enough, Shira.” She cupped a palm over her son’s plump cheek. “It was enough.”

  As Hadassah walked away, Eben watched me over her shoulder. The first time I’d seen the boy, his eyes had been cloudy blue and his tiny fingers grasped wildly at the air. Now the boy named after my brother fixed me with a brown-eyed stare, then lifted a chubby hand and waved.

  The motion knocked the air from my lungs.

  “I will go wherever Yahweh leads . . .”

  I was no different than Israel. No different than a newborn babe. Grasping, straining to define my purpose through the haze. This nation had been conceived in spite of our forefathers’ sins, woven together in the harsh womb of Egypt, and born of great suffering. But Yahweh was making something new, something unique and beautiful, from all our disparate, jagged pieces. Life from death.

  I had been led from slavery and brought through the waters—born into a brand-new life. And yet I refused to let go of my shackles. I had measured my worth only by the broken pieces of my past, instead of Yahweh’s beautiful design.

  My paltry efforts had been a blessing to Hadassah, and I had saved Talia in spite of my inadequacies. I had snubbed the calling on my life out of fear, and now I must return to what I had been made to do. My hands may not have been created for designing beautiful things, like Jumo’s, Eben’s, or Kiya’s, but they were created for guiding Yahweh’s masterpieces into the world.

  Through my tears, a faraway gleam caught my attention—the bronze altar being lifted onto a wagon, reminding me of the day Eben had told me I should marry Ayal.

  I was wrong, Yahweh. I do have something to offer you. Myself. This broken vessel.

  Smiling, I lifted my eyes to the peak of the mountain and the center of the Cloud, imagining Yahweh smiling back. I will go wherever you lead me, and it will be enough.

  44

  Dvorah

  19 IYAR

  14TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  I led Hassam and his eight ruffians through camp. Their pace leisurely, they joked together with a casual air that would not bring attention to their dark plans. Pulling back inside my veil, I thanked Isis for its camouflage—no one would look twice as I moved through camp. Just another widow with black grief wrapped around her. No one could see the vengeance hidden within its depths.

  Throughout my apprenticeship to Reva, I had kept a careful eye on which tents held the most wealth, careful to steal only when there was no chance of being caught but memorizing every glint of gold to return for later.

  Although Hassam had ranted at me for my recklessness in losing my place, I reminded him that I had gleaned enough knowledge of the Levite camps to ensure plenty of gain for each of his men. But for me, there was only one tent with treasure worth obtaining.

  Although it had taken great effort to convince him, Hassam had agreed that tonight was the best night to strike, while the Levites were dismantling the Mishkan, loading it onto wagons, and preparing for the move tomorrow. The great majority of the men would be away from their tents.

  The confusion of the departure would serve to dissuade anyone from seeking justice. For just how would they find Hassam’s men in the midst of millions on the move toward Canaan? And of course, since they were dressed as Egyptians, heads shaved and eyes black with kohl, no one would be able to point out any of them with certainty.

  My brother-in-law’s group of conspirators had dwindled; their numbers had thinned after the Mishkan was raised—perhaps out of sudden tribal pride or some other such attack of loyalty—and the group shrank again after Aharon’s sons were destroyed. But I did not care whether Hassam’s plan was successful or not. I had my own revenge to exact.

  Equal parts pity and disgust had played across Ayal’s features as he spurned my advances, destroying my last hope that day. When I foolishly revealed that Shira had caught a glimpse of our encounter, he fled the tent, desperate to go after the stupid girl without a backward glance.

  They would both pay for their easy dismissal of me. I would take what I wanted—what should have been mine. I would go
somewhere else in the camp, change my name and the story of my heritage, feign recent widowhood, and never have to see Hassam again.

  He was not the only one who was grateful for the anonymity the organized chaos tomorrow would provide. I had packed what I needed last night, along with the few trinkets I was able to ferret away under Hassam’s nose. It would be simple enough for Matti and me to slip out while Hassam and his filthy wives drank to victory.

  But first, to claim my own prize.

  I had waited long enough. Isis had finally heard my pleas for justice, for recompense. She would protect me this night, for Matti’s sake. She owed me.

  Pointing to various tents as we wound through camp, I gave Hassam and his men silent indications as to which tents were the easiest targets, moving toward my own with a practiced air of casual indifference.

  Slipping between Ayal’s tent and Tomek’s, I mouthed another prayer to my goddess that I would be invisible. The night of the memorial celebration Ayal had somehow caught a glimpse of me in the shadows. I had barely slipped away undiscovered, my heart even more bent on repaying the lovers after their disgusting display of affection. They don’t deserve her, screamed the gaping cavern from deep inside me.

  I waited for the span of a few measured breaths, ears straining for male voices nearby. When satisfied only Shira and the children were inside, I arranged a look of desperation on my face and slipped through the door flap.

  Shira spun around at my entrance, her face expectant, as if to welcome her bridegroom instead of her enemy. The pleasure in her expression melted into surprise and then, quick on its heels, concern.

  “Dvorah! What’s wrong?” She reached out with both hands.

  A papyrus wall-hanging behind her snagged my attention. Painted in vivid hues and deep shadows, the depiction of our camp around the mountain with the fiery Cloud at the center was extraordinary. A pang of something pinched my chest, but I shook my head, brushing it aside. “You must give me the baby. They are coming.” I channeled urgency into my whisper.

  “Coming? Who?”

  “My brother-in-law and his friends. They are attacking Levite tents—right now. We need to get the baby out of here right away. I have a place we can hide.” The half-truth poured like warm honey from my mouth, and I stifled a self-satisfied smile.

  Conflict, disbelief, and stark fear swirled in her features, her green eyes dominating her pale face.

  “How do you know this?” she asked, moving closer to where Talia sat on the ground, chewing on a rag doll.

  How big she had grown since last I held her. Black hair curled around her tiny ears, and a deep dimple pressed into her stubby chin. How old was she now? Six months? Seven? Roughly the same as the other one would be, had she lived past that bloody night—the night the Levites took everything: my husband—the only man who had ever protected me—and the too-small baby who had been born in the aftermath, never to take a breath.

  I shoved the fruitless trail of thought aside as my purpose rushed back with clarity. Get the baby. Run.

  I gestured to Shira. “Hurry. There is no time. We must get her out of here.”

  As if to prove my point, a shriek rent the stillness. One of Hassam’s men must not have been careful and startled a woman. Shira flinched, wide-eyed.

  “Do you see? We must go! Hand me the baby. I’ll hold her while you ready the boys.”

  With one last glance at the door flap, Shira nodded and reached for Talia, who gurgled as she was lifted. Shira kissed her cheek with a whisper of assurance and then handed her to me.

  Victory sprang up from my core, nearly overtaking my careful demeanor with a shout of glee. I pulled my warm little trophy close to my body and took a couple of covert steps backward as Shira urged the boys to gather their cloaks. She glanced back at me with suspicion, almost as if she had guessed my plan, but I reminded her that we must make haste. As soon as she bent to gather essentials from a basket, I tightened my hold on the baby, spun around to flee, and ran headlong into a man’s naked chest.

  Hassam stood in the doorway, a bloody sword hanging by his side.

  Dropping the door flap behind himself, he stepped forward. The reflection of the oil lamp danced in his black gaze. “And where are you going, sister?”

  My blood stilled in my veins as he surveyed the child I clung to in a protective hold against my chest. His clean-shaven chin lifted as he reconciled my true intentions with my lies.

  “Let me go, Hassam,” I said. “There is nothing worth taking here. I’ve already checked. You got what you wanted anyway, didn’t you?” I gestured with my chin at the sword in his hand.

  “Hmm.” His eyes flicked toward Shira behind me. “Perhaps . . . Perhaps not.”

  “Dvorah, what is going on?” Shira’s question was delivered with more strength than I thought possible.

  Hassam peered around me as if just noticing her, his oily tone amiable. “Ah. And who might you be?”

  A shiver unfurled up my back. “No, Hassam,” I warned.

  He glanced at Talia again, false admiration and naked malice somehow perfectly balanced in his expression. “That’s a beautiful baby. Best be on your way with her.”

  Hassam was leaving me no choice. I knew the depths of his depravity, had witnessed it many times. It was Shira or all of us—the baby and boys included.

  My stomach squeezed violently as I turned around. Avoiding Shira’s terror-stricken stare, I told Dov and Ari to follow me, willing my voice not to shake as fiercely as the rest of my body.

  Against my better judgment, I locked gazes with the doomed woman, and her stark, pale expression told me she had already accepted her fate. The dip of her pointed chin gave me permission to remove the children. She looked so small standing in the dim light of the lamp, like a child herself. Deep within me, a carefully assembled wall crumbled to ashes.

  Trembling, I ushered Dov and Ari out to hide in the dark shadows between tents, urging them to cover their ears and close their eyes until their father returned. Then, clutching Talia, I fled into the night.

  45

  Shira

  The counterfeit Egyptian moved toward me—slow and measured like a wildcat, kohl-darkened eyes locked on his prey. A chill swept down my legs, up my back, and filled my belly with ice.

  Although I knew the cosmetics, the shaved head, and the Egyptian garb to be a ruse, the memory of another set of kohl-smudged eyes narrowing in on me reared up like a serpent. Hassam was built larger than Akharem and his skin was much lighter, but the intent in his expression made them identical in my eyes. Was this truly happening again?

  This time, it was not solely the act of a depraved man. I had been offered to this monster by Dvorah so she could steal my daughter. The stench of such an evil deed seemed to fill my nostrils, choking me. How could one woman do such a thing to another? Was my life truly worth so little to her?

  Hassam stopped within inches of me and grazed the tip of his sword up my leg, lifting the hem of my tunic. My nails bit into my palms. He lifted his hand, and I flinched, but he laid the back of it against my cheek and dragged it down my face, making the hair on my arms and neck prickle with horror.

  “It’ll be over soon, little Hebrew.” He licked his lips slowly, as if in no hurry to destroy me. He seemed to revel in prolonging my terror. My heartbeat launched into a violent throb that pulsed all the way to the soles of my feet.

  Would he even stop at murdering me? Would he go after the boys next? Through a slit in the tent, I had seen Dvorah hide them in the shadows. My sweet boys were out there, unprotected, and witnesses to the face of the man who threatened me now. Resolve and resignation bound together in a tangled knot in my stomach. I need to keep his attention on me as long as possible.

  Hassam outweighed Akharem by a large measure and towered over me like one of the giants I had heard lived in Canaan. The glint of lust and murder in his eyes was unmistakable, and the blood on his sword attested that I was not his first victim tonight. My fractured thoughts wavere
d between two choices: submit and pray he would spare my life, or attempt to fight and lose it.

  If I shouted for the boys to run and find help, perhaps they would be safe, but if I called attention to them, Hassam may turn on them first. I had no choice but to beg like a slave under the lash of Pharaoh’s whip.

  My shoulders dropped as my will crashed to the floor. Echoes of my strangled pleas to Akharem sprang to my lips. “Please. Please. Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t bother fighting.” Sharp warning edged the words, but then he shrugged, his lips carved into a grotesque smile. “Whether you live or die matters little. You Hebrew slaves are worth nothing.”

  The gleam of triumph sparked in his eyes as I wilted. He pressed his hand against my chest, pushing me backward until my heels pressed against the soft lambskin of my bed. The image of Ayal’s face burst into my mind, and mourning wailed inside my chest. My husband. My love. Would he ever look at me the same way again? His wife—whom he had defined as brave—proved again she was no more than a coward, crumbling into a thousand pieces, imprisoned in shackles of fear.

  You are no longer powerless, no longer a slave. Unbidden, the words Ayal had spoken suddenly formed in my head, reverberating again and again, growing stronger with surprising speed. My pulse seemed to lengthen, and the muscles in my arms and legs contracted.

  Ayal’s words had planted seeds of truth that day, and the realization that I believed them suddenly bloomed. A defiant shout poured out of my mouth in a powerful rush. “No! No! Yahweh, save me!”

  Hassam took a surprised step backward, but then he whipped his sword to my neck with a growl. “Quiet, or I’ll slit your throat.”

  Energy surged into my limbs, along with a calm that defied all reason. “Go right ahead,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll fight you with every last bit of my strength.” I lifted my chin, defiance curling my lips. “And my husband will finish you off after I am dead. Blood for blood.”

  Hassam’s eyes went wide, as if somehow a warrior stood in front of him and not a tiny woman, but he recovered just as quickly. Rearing back, he slammed the flat of his sword against my temple and then knocked me back onto the bed with his foot while spewing vile curses against me, against the Hebrews, and against the Levites. He dropped his body on top of me, crushing me beneath his weight. I gulped for air and bucked hard against him, attempting to twist out from underneath.