Shadow of the Storm

by Connilyn Cossette

  I twisted away. “But you cannot—”

  My mother would not let go of me, she forced me to look at her again. “You know, much better than I do, what Kiya needs at this moment.”

  I drew a breath that entered my body in convulsive gulps. Could I possibly do this?

  A silent whisper reached through my panic. Lay your broken pieces on the altar. It will be enough. The promise somehow spread inexplicable peace through my body.

  “All right.” I bobbed my head and pushed aside the vision of Leisha’s white face. “Be careful, and hurry back.”

  I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth against the words I had to say. But there was no time to hesitate. This labor was going fast—too fast—and a cursory examination had given life to my greatest fear: Kiya’s baby was in trouble.

  Where was Reva? Where was my mother? How could I do this? Alone?

  “Kiya.” I gripped her knee to prevent her from jerking against the pain. “My friend, I need you to turn over now.”

  “What is wrong?” Her words tangled with a groan, becoming a terrified plea.

  “The cord is coming out first. We must take the pressure off of it right away.”

  Another sustained roll of thunder shook the ground. The ghostly look she gave me ran a chill down my back.

  “Jumo,” she breathed. “That is what happened to my brother when he was born.”

  I had guessed as much from what Kiya had told me, that when Jumo was born something had gone wrong and crippled him, affecting his speech and his limbs in a drastic way, the affliction he had lived with until healed by Yahweh.

  “Flip over now,” I commanded. I would not let Kiya’s baby suffer what Jumo had, if I could help it. Without a miracle, Kiya or the baby, or both, could die.

  With my assistance, Kiya knelt on hands and knees. I instructed her to try not to push and allow me to try to change the infant’s position. Please, Yahweh, make the baby shift beneath the pressure of my hand.

  Kiya panted and moaned, her black hair swinging free with every jerky motion. As had been my habit from when I had apprenticed with Reva and a mother panicked, a song began to move past my lips. A song of hope and promise. A song of Yahweh’s love for his people. Kiya’s breathing began to slow, and in response the baby shifted, just enough to move the cord aside and ensure it was not around its neck.

  “There!” I said with a release of all the tension in my lungs. “It is out of the way.”

  “What is out of the way?” My mother’s voice came from over my shoulder. Lightning flashed behind her as she entered, and thunder grumbled a quick reply.

  “Where is Reva?”

  My mother shook her head. “She cannot come. You must do this on your own, daughter.”

  “But I—”

  “There is no one to help. The other midwives refuse to come.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pursed her lips and, with a glance at Kiya, gave a tiny shake of her head.

  Why would the midwives refuse? What reason could they have for leaving a woman to suffer? Reva would never stand for such a thing. Where was Reva? How could I possibly do this without her?

  The barrage of questions was swept away by a hiss of pain from Kiya. Exhaling, I blinked to clear my head. “The cord is out of the way now, but we must get the baby out fast. Help me lift her, and then let her squat against you. Hold her up as she pushes.”

  My mother obeyed my instructions, keeping her dark eyes trained on me as I reassured Kiya through each building contraction—“All will be well,” and “Your baby is safe,” and “Yahweh is with us.”

  With a final, agonizing scream from Kiya, a tiny body entered the world. A baby girl with a dark crown of hair and a sloped nose like her mother’s—a baby girl who lay perfectly still in my hands. Panic formed in my belly, then flashed through my body with the force of the lightning that continued to shatter the sky.

  I had killed Kiya’s baby.

  48

  First Leisha, and now Kiya’s daughter. Yet even as grief swept over me, Reva’s words whispered in my ear. Only the giver of life has sovereignty over death.

  Ignoring Kiya’s and my mother’s demands as to why the infant was not moving, I swept the tiny girl into a clean linen towel and began to rub her lifeless body with sure, gentle strokes, just as Ziba had done with her lamb.

  “Hear now, precious little one,” I said, reining in my fear with a bright, hopeful tone. “Your ima is waiting to hold you. We all want to know what color your pretty eyes are.”

  Please, Yahweh. This sweet girl is yours. She is in your hands more than mine. Please. Breathe life into her nostrils as you did HaAdam in the Garden. My desperate plea brought an idea to mind, something I’d seen Reva do before.

  I placed my mouth over her tiny nose and mouth and, with the smallest of breaths, blew into her body, willing the spark of life to flare. Her chest rose and fell. Two more of my breaths became hers.

  Was it my imagination? Did her body move?

  A little gasp. A twitch of her leg. Then a lusty cry announced Kiya’s daughter was very much alive. Every nerve in my body echoed the sentiment. The passion, the fervor I had felt the first time I helped deliver a baby rushed back with such force that it nearly knocked me over. I wobbled in relief and exhilarated exhaustion.

  My face was doused in sweet tears as I laid the infant across Kiya’s chest with a triumphant grin. “Here is your daughter, sister of my heart.”

  With her black hair bristling out every which way and her tiny bud of a mouth searching, the little one nuzzled into Kiya.

  “She is—” Kiya’s voice broke. “She is beautiful. The most perfect baby I have ever seen.”

  I smiled, more than happy to agree. “She will be as extraordinary as her mother and her grandmother.”

  Tears trailed down Kiya’s face, dripping onto the blanket beneath her. “I wish she were here,” she whispered. “I will name my daughter Nailah in her honor.”

  “She would be thrilled, I am certain.” I kissed Kiya’s cheek, and then Nailah’s tiny one. “And so proud of you.”

  If only Reva had been here as well, to see me push through my fears and renew my passion for midwifery. I turned to my mother. “Where is Reva?”

  She smoothed the blankets around Kiya’s feet and then gestured for me to follow her to the other side of the tent. She shifted from foot to foot as she watched Kiya nuzzle the baby. “Reva went to help a woman among the gerim.”

  “Someone in labor?”

  “Yes, in fact, it sounds as though there are quite a few women in need of midwives.”

  “Then I must go.”

  “No!” She gripped my arm like a vise. “You don’t understand. Reva left right before the storm began. No one knows where she is, or even if she is alive.”

  “Did no one go with her?”

  She flattened her lips. “No. Just as they refused to help Kiya because she is Egyptian, they refused to set foot in the gerim camps.”

  “Reva is alone? With no one to help her?”

  “Shira. No. This storm . . . it is too danger—”

  “Mother.” I twisted my arm away. “I know you are trying to protect me, just as you always have done.” I gestured to Kiya and her new daughter. “But this is what I am supposed to do. I did not believe it before. I was afraid to believe, afraid to face the pain. It is for Yahweh alone to command this storm. Regardless of the cost, I will use the gifts he has given me to save lives.”

  Leaving my mother with her mouth agape, I stepped out of the tent. Lightning split the sky with a thousand forked tongues, and violent thunder shook the ground. Blinded for a moment, I blinked my eyes, remembering the terrifying storm that had plagued Egypt, with huge shards of ice and swirling clouds that obliterated entire villages. I almost expected hail to pelt down, but the air was dry. It crackled across my skin, lifting the hairs on my arms. I scrubbed at the unnatural sensation. Another strike hit behind me, and then to my left. Above me the sky was dark
, eerie in its stillness. It was as if a great ring of fire encircled us, licking only at the far reaches of camp.

  Two men emerged from the shadows. I shuffled backward, thoughts skidding back to Hassam’s attack, but it was Ayal and Eben who approached.

  Relief squeezed the breath from my body as I ran to Ayal, slid my arms around his waist, and buried my face in the safety of his chest. “Thank Yahweh you are safe.”

  He ran a hand down my tousled braid and drew me closer. “How is Kiya?”

  “Oh!” I pulled back and spoke to my brother. “You have a daughter—one that might well rival your wife for beauty.”

  Eben’s euphoric expression was highlighted by another flash of lightning. “And Kiya?”

  “She is doing well. Anxious to see her husband.”

  After pressing a kiss to my cheek that spoke of elated gratitude, Eben disappeared into their tent.

  “What is happening, Ayal? This storm . . . it’s so strange.” A crash of thunder punctuated my query.

  His silence was deafening, his grip on my shoulders too tight.

  “Ayal. Tell me.”

  “The outer camps are burning.”

  Dvorah. Talia!

  I yanked away from his hold with a jerk. “We have to go! We must find her!”

  “Shira. We have searched this camp. Dvorah has blended in somewhere. There is no possible way you will find them tonight.”

  “But my daughter. My baby . . .” Tears burned my cheeks.

  Ayal cleared his throat. “Our daughter.”

  With a start, I looked up at him. “Our?”

  He lifted my chin and kissed my lips. “I was so angry . . . and so wrong. That sweet baby is not to blame for what Leisha did. With Yahweh’s help, we will find her. I will not rest until we do.”

  I closed my eyes, drawing a shuddering breath. She’s in your hands more than mine.

  “Let’s get you inside.” He twined his fingers into mine and turned toward our own camp. “Are the boys with Aiyasha?”

  “Oh. Yes, they are . . .” I planted my feet and tugged him to a stop. “But I must go find Reva.”

  “Is something wrong with Kiya?”

  “No. There are women in need of midwives. I must help.”

  His brows scraped the sky. “You are returning to midwifery?”

  “There is no one else to help Reva. The other midwives refuse to help the gerim.”

  He scratched at his beard, his eyes drawn to the south. “You are not going anywhere near those outer camps, Shira. This is no natural storm.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The gerim were on the verge of rioting tonight. That’s why the shofarim sounded. They were demanding we return to the mountain, where we were safe and our thirst quenched by the rock. Some went even further, threatening to take back the gold they’d offered for the Mishkan and flee back to Egypt, where food and water are plenty. This storm is from Yahweh. A judgment for rebellion.”

  After all the stories of Canaan—oaks, sycamores, and cedars stretching to the sky, rolling hills embracing valleys replete with nuts, dates, wheat, fruits of every kind—they were fighting to stay in this barren land? Accepting the paltry offerings of the wilderness when Yahweh had promised us so much more?

  Yahweh, will we never be satisfied? Will we forever be grasping and squalling like infants? I prayed this storm would burn out the last of Egypt from the hearts of the gerim, and the tribes, before Yahweh turned his favor from us.

  Lightning scrolled across the sky again, outlining an orange haze to the south. How many tents were burning? How many people lost?

  Not one more, if I could prevent it.

  Renewing my silent plea for Yahweh to protect Talia, I lifted my head to meet my husband’s gaze. “I have already had this conversation once tonight. I am going. Reva needs me. There are babies and mothers who might die without help. I refuse to have that burden on my soul.”

  Ayal studied my determined expression and then, with a half-grin that smacked of satisfaction and not a small amount of pride, held out his hand to me. “Lead the way, my love.”

  Five women congregated beneath the large canopy outside Reva’s tent, taking refuge from the sudden downpour of rain. I scanned their drawn faces—midwives, all of whom I had crossed paths with a time or two while working with Reva. Why were they not out looking for her?

  Dripping wet, we approached the group. Ayal had to duck to fit beneath the black wool covering. Rain sheeted off the fabric like a waterfall.

  “Has anyone yet found Reva?” I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

  Tuya, a tall woman clothed in rich Egyptian fabrics and kohl thick on her lids, eyed me and then Ayal with naked suspicion. “Not yet.”

  Next to Tuya stood Sanai, round-faced and with springs of coiled hair escaping her head covering. She crossed her arms over her body, as if holding herself together. “She hasn’t been seen since the first lightning strike.” Fear flitted across her brow as another booming clap of thunder sounded. “It hit right where she was headed.” She pointed southwest of camp.

  “Come then, let’s find her.” I lifted my hands, imploring. “She needs us.”

  The two women glanced at each other.

  Pursing her lips, Tuya lifted her chin. “We are not going into that storm. Or near the outer camps.”

  Sanai peered up at Tuya. Although her body leaned toward me, she seemed to be seeking permission from her friend. “There are many that need our help, Tuya.”

  Tuya winced and turned her face toward the flickering common fire. The other three midwives refused to meet my curious gaze.

  With another pleading glance toward Tuya, Sanai braved an answer, but her voice was low. “There have been a few gerim here, asking us to assist with the wounded. And there are at least three foreign women in labor and two who have had miscarriages—”

  “We are not going anywhere near those gerim, Sanai. They deserve the punishment they have received.”

  I stood in mute horror, gripping Ayal’s hand as I gathered a response. His presence filled me with courage, his silence proving confidence in my ability to stand strong. “So you would condemn the women, their babies, and possibly Reva to death by not even lifting a finger?”

  Unaffected, Tuya lifted a shoulder. “They did not have to follow us into the desert. All they have done is complain and incite riots. Even influenced Hebrews to stand against Mosheh.” Her upper lip curled in disgust. “The repulsive things that go on among them . . . no wonder there are so many babies being born.”

  “Perhaps so.” I released my hold on Ayal and dropped my fists to my hips. “But what of the babies? Do they deserve your indifference as well?” Somehow not intimidated by Tuya’s towering height, I stepped closer. “And Reva? She trained me to be a midwife, as I am sure she trained you. Are none of you willing to find our teacher and help her bring these children into the world?” My voice strengthened, as if the roots of newfound confidence had found sustenance in hidden depths. “Are we not one nation? Are we not one people here?”

  None of their expressions hinted at wavering. Yahweh, what can I say to sway them? In answer, a glint of gold at Tuya’s neckline caught my eye.

  “Besides,” I said, “there are a few of you who have used amulets of Isis, Tawaret, and Hathor in your work.” I aimed a slow, deliberate look at each midwife’s face. Tuya flinched and looked away. “How is their rebellion any worse than your sins? Or mine? It seems to me that all of us are in this camp only by the grace of Yahweh. None of us deserve to be in his presence. We should all be struck down, like Aharon’s sons.”

  Indignation lifted my voice, lending it fresh strength. I gestured to the sky, where the black clouds had scattered, leaving a vast sky of sparkling stars in their place. “The storm is over. Yahweh must have sent the rain to put out the fires. None of us are guiltless here, we have all grumbled a time or two, questioned Mosheh’s wisdom and therefore Yahweh’s will. He is showing us mercy, or the whole camp would b
urn. And I, for one, will show mercy to those people. I will walk the length and breadth of this camp to find Reva and work alongside her to bring precious babies into this world. And that is what they are, no matter where they came from. Each child—each life—is precious. And you—” I leveled another scorching gaze at all of them. “You of all people should know that.”

  “She is right.”

  I turned toward the familiar voice, nerves sparking to life. Miryam.

  Stepping beneath the canopy as she pushed back a sodden mantle from her head, the wizened face of Mosheh’s older sister was blank, but her eyes shimmered and I glimpsed pride in the set of her pursed lips.

  “Why are you all standing around? There are women in need. Babes to birth. It does not matter where they came from, how they were conceived, or what the gerim have done. We are midwives; we serve other women. How will we ever be one people if we do not break down the walls between us?”

  She squinted one eye and pointed a gnarled finger at me. “This young apprentice has offered you a chance to remove some of those bricks, to reach across the divide. And who better to start with than mothers and babes?”

  Chastened, or perhaps intimidated by her authority, all five midwives, including Tuya, gathered their healing bags and slipped out from under the canopy. My heart swelled at the direction of their feet—toward the edges of camp.

  “Reva was right,” said Miryam, her watchful eyes trained on me.

  “She was?”

  Miryam nodded. “You are the one she has chosen to follow in her footsteps. To train up the next generation of midwives.”

  My jaw dropped. “Me? Why?”

  “You know Reva, she keeps things to herself.” She cocked her head. “But, yes, I can see it too. You remind me of the woman who trained me so many years ago. She, too, found her courage among the ashes, and strength when waves of doubt threatened to drown her. She learned to stand tall, even against a vicious Pharaoh.”

  “Shifrah?” Reva had told me months ago that Miryam had been taught by the famous midwife who, alongside Puah, had disobeyed Pharaoh’s orders and saved so many Hebrew baby boys—including Mosheh himself. I laid a hand on my heart. “The comparison honors me.”