“Oh, she would have liked you. I am sure of it.” She sighed. “I wish she were here to see this.” Miryam lifted her eyes, looking at the sea of tents that surrounded us. “To see her legacy in the faces of so many families that would not exist without her courage.”
Miryam placed her hands on my shoulders and leaned in close. “You will see the same, Shira.” The woman’s voice rang with the authority of a prophetess. “The lives you usher into the world will give birth to the first generation in the Land of Promise, and like Shifrah and Puah, your family will be blessed through your obedience to Yahweh.” She squeezed my shoulders, the warmth of her hands soaking through my tunic and into my bones. “Do you believe this?”
Snatching a quick breath of rain-freshened air, I looked up at my husband, whose wide smile and pride-filled eyes encouraged me to embrace the promise. “I do,” I said, without looking away from the man I loved.
“Good.” Miryam patted me. “Now go, you two, and find Reva. She needs your help.”
49
Smoke rose all around us, remnants of the fiery discipline meted from the center of the storm. The caustic odor of its spiraling wisps clung to my skin, choking my breath as surely as if it had its fingers about my throat.
The rain had done its work, but more than a few tents still smoldered in the dark. The reek of charred and sodden goat’s hair overwhelmed my senses. Moving toward the place Sanai had indicated that Reva went right before the outbreak of the storm, Ayal led me through the maze of overturned wagons, blackened animal carcasses, and people sitting in the dust and mud wailing, using the ashes of their destruction to cover their heads in mourning.
A group of men, carrying a shrouded body between them, blocked our path.
Ayal pulled me close to his side. “Have any of you seen a midwife, an older Levite woman?”
“Couldn’t say.” A Nubian man, his dark face smothered in ash, jerked a chin over his shoulder. “We’ve been gathering the wounded in the meeting area. There have been some women there, tending injuries.” He grimaced. “It’s a grisly sight, though, for your little wife there.”
Ayal glanced at me. “She is more than capable.” His sincere confidence in me undergirded my own.
As we stepped into the wide meeting area, a shudder of horror vibrated in my chest, and my throat flamed with unshed grief. It was worse than I had anticipated. Bodies sprawled on the ground, some moving, some still. The moans and cries of the wounded grated against my ears. I was grateful for the shroud of night—daylight would reveal too much.
“You here to help? Or looking for someone?” A woman rose to her feet. Her dark skin and closely-cropped hair glimmered with sweat from her ministrations to the wounded. Was she a healer?
Ayal responded first. “Both. My wife is a midwife. We are looking for a friend, another midwife who came here right before the storm to deliver a baby.”
The woman cocked her head, studying me. Wooden bracelets clanked on her wrist as she rubbed her own pregnant belly. She was tall, her bearing almost regal, with a wisdom in her gaze that reminded me of Reva, although she was not too much older than I. Wrapped around her long neck was a linen scarf edged in silver beads that twinkled in the firelight, a strange thing to wear in such circumstances. “You are a midwife?” she asked.
“An apprentice still, but yes.”
“Can you deliver an infant on your own?”
I nodded, an image of Kiya’s daughter flitting through my mind, strengthening my belief in my own capabilities. “My friend Kiya just gave birth tonight. I delivered little Nailah myself.”
A little gasp slipped past her full lips. “Kiya?”
“Yes. Kiya. She is married to my brother.”
“She is Egyptian?”
“Yes. We served in the same household in Iunu.”
The woman’s eyes grew large. “Her mother’s name is Nailah? Her father’s name is Jofare?”
“You know her?”
“She was my mistress.”
I whispered the name I had heard many times from Kiya’s mouth. “Salima?”
She nodded, luminous tears forming in the corners of her dark eyes.
I reached out to grasp Salima’s hand. “She speaks so highly of you.”
“I never thought I’d see her again.” Her other hand traveled to the beautiful scarf that encircled her neck. It must be the same one Kiya had given her the day she had been sold into slavery. “She is here? With the Hebrews?”
“She is. Her mother is gone, sadly. But Jumo, her brother, travels with us as well.”
Salima clutched her fist to her chest. “An answer to my prayers.”
I smiled, feeling instant kinship with this stranger through the shared love of our friend. “And mine.”
She released a loud breath. “You must take me to her tomorrow, but right now, we must go. A woman had just begun labor pains, but I was forced to leave and tend some of the wounded. I was heading back to check on her.”
Salima’s long legs led me through the maze of tents—some burnt, some unscathed, some flattened in the mud.
“Are you a midwife, Salima?”
“No, although I have delivered a few babies when needed. Some would call me a healer,” she said over her shoulder. “But it was my mother who taught me the correct herbs to use when I was a girl. I only apply what I learned from her and others. And I pray. Yahweh is the true healer.”
That he was. Jumo was evidence of that, a boy born with twisted limbs and garbled words, now strong and healthy—healed by only a word from Yahweh’s mouth. Salima would be astounded when she saw Jumo again, without a doubt. I was tempted to say something, but anticipation of her reaction to the miracle kept me silent.
Leaving Ayal outside, I followed Salima into an undamaged tent, the familiar sounds of a woman in labor quickening my steps. Lying on a bedroll in the center of the room, a young girl sprawled, panting and sweating. Her waters were broken and, although her mother and two aunts were at her side, they were all grateful for my presence. Salima ducked out of the tent with a promise to return soon.
With the same rush of memory that had accompanied Nailah’s birth, I slipped easily into my role as a midwife. By the time the slippery infant landed in my arms, I realized I had not once worried that I was on my own. After the babe was clean, swaddled, and full-bellied in his mother’s arms, I kissed his little cheek and stepped into the night.
The sky was clear, as if there had never been a violent storm marring its expanse. The Cloud had returned to its unearthly form as a column of light off to the north of camp. A few tenacious stars glinted in the silvering dawn.
Ayal reached for me, his long arms snaking around my body. “You amaze me.”
“Oh?”
He kissed my forehead. “I was listening.”
I threw a glance back at the tent. “I hope that poor woman doesn’t know that.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with in the fields.”
I giggled. “A ewe and a woman are not the same, Ayal.”
He laughed under his breath, his lips traveling up my cheek. “This is true. A sheep is much calmer giving birth.”
I smirked. Although it had been her third child, the woman had shrieked like a wildcat.
A thin, piteous cry reached my ears.
“Do you hear that?” I pushed away from Ayal, straining my ears and standing on tiptoe.
The sun had just begun to rise, its first tentative rays sneaking across the horizon. Had I conjured the sound in my mind? So many times over the past weeks I had imagined the phantom of Talia’s cry—
“Ima!” The second plaintive call sounded so much like Ari’s voice that I moved toward it without conscious decision. Grateful for the growing light, I stepped over mangled tents, blackened baskets, and smashed pots in my singular determination to reach the child.
My heart lodged in my throat when I saw a tiny boy, smaller than Ari and Dov, crouched in the dirt as if he had abandoned hope of anyone coming t
o his aid. His face and hair were covered in sooty ash and mud, tears streaking through the mess. “Ima,” he said, gesturing to the collapsed tent behind him.
Half of the tent was burned. A wagon had toppled over the other half, crates and baskets spilling from its carcass. Someone must have tried to escape with their belongings at the height of the storm but then broken an axle, toppling the tent in the process.
I knelt and opened my arms to the boy. Without hesitation he walked into them, leaning his head against my shoulder.
“Ima,” he repeated. “Under there.” There was no movement in the flattened tent. A sick feeling churned in my gut. Had his mother burned? Or been crushed under the weight of the wagon and its contents?
Poor, sweet boy. How long had he waited here, alone and terrified? I swept a hand over his face, trying to remove some of the tear-stained soot from his skin, then brushed my fingers through his hair to dislodge the ash and mud. The color of his hair was highlighted by the first rays of dawn. It was golden. Lighter than any hair I had ever seen before.
I implored my husband with a look. “I think his mother is inside.”
“I don’t think she could . . .” He swept a hand over his face.
“We must try. Even if there is only a chance.” With a soft command to the boy to stay put, I grabbed the corner of the closest crate and yanked. It refused to yield.
Ayal joined me, and together we tugged at the soggy fallen tent. The charred fabric gave way but led only to more soot-stained baskets and pots. We moved aside a few of the smaller crates but found only singed rugs and blankets, smashed pots, and sand.
Ayal worked to move two large wine amphorae, fractured but still leaking their sweet contents into a bloody puddle in the sand. Another large crate, smashed and revealing a cache of weapons and fine Egyptian armor, lay in my path. My foot touched something soft and yielding. A body?
Energy surged into my bones as I pressed my hand onto the spot. “Ayal! Here!” I tore at the fabric, which revealed a bare and bloodied leg, encircled with a silver beaded anklet. A silver chain, lined with tiny bells, that I had seen many times—on the ankle of the woman who had stolen my child. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. “Dvorah? Dvorah! Can you hear me?”
Hot tears dripped down my face as I tore at the splintered crate that anchored the wagon to the ground and held Dvorah captive beneath its weight. Bracing myself, I wedged my bloodied fingers beneath the corner of the bed and pulled with all my might. Large hands pushed me aside. Ayal groaned as he strained to lift the wagon.
“Careful! Talia may be under here too!” I dug my fingers into my hair, which floated about, unbound, in the ash-laden morning breeze.
Desperation on his face, Ayal heaved again with a loud grunt. The wagon gave way and the crate slid off to the side, toppling onto the sand and spilling the rest of its golden spoils. He whipped a dagger from his belt, sawed a hole in the wet fabric, and tore it open. A woman, curled on her side, became visible.
“Is it her?”
With the utmost care, Ayal rolled the woman onto her back. It was Dvorah, the side of her face blistered and hair singed.
I covered my mouth against the instinct to cry out. “Is she . . . ?”
Ayal leaned over her, placed a hand on her chest. His eyes widened. “No. She is alive.” He brushed a hand across the unburned half of her face. “The wagon must have struck her on the head. She is unconscious.”
My knees wobbled.
“Oh, no.” Ayal sucked in a sharp-edged breath, then lifted tormented eyes to mine. “Shira—”
A small, still bundle lay on the ground, half hidden by the remnants of the tent and protected in the curve of Dvorah’s body. A little foot poked from the bundle.
Ayal uncovered my daughter, whose face, although covered in soot, was untouched by flames. He lifted Talia and cradled her close to his chest. “Please. Please, Yahweh. Forgive me,” he whispered.
A tiny flutter of her long, dark eyelashes was all it took to knock the breath from my body. My legs gave way, and I sagged to the ground in relief.
50
Dvorah
8 SIVAN
15TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT
My skin is on fire!
I lifted my hand to stop the flames from eating me alive, but someone pushed it away, preventing me from assuaging the pain. I cursed the interruption, cursed the person who caused it. Why would someone want me to keep burning? Who would be so hateful?
I struggled against the blackness behind my eyelids, forcing them to open, knowing that I would see fire and smoke, but instead I saw a billowing tent ceiling, one that was not alive with fire, not toppling in on me and drowning me in smoky constriction.
Where is Matti? I attempted to echo my screaming thoughts out loud, but a thousand needles clawed the side of my face, sparking the burn to life again. I moaned his name, and my throat flamed as if I had swallowed coals.
A gentle hand brushed against my hair, and a soothing whisper urged me to calm down, reassuring me that Matti was safe. My body relaxed as the voice hummed a wordless tune. My son. My boy is safe.
Slowly, the blurred scenes of memory linked together—flashes of lightning cracking the sky in constant succession, so bright it seemed like the middle of the day; the slam of heat and light jolting the ground nearby, fire chewing a hole in the tent wall; and then something plowing into the tent, bringing it down on my head and trapping me beneath its weight. I had struggled against the sucking blackness that threatened to pull me under, but I couldn’t see Matti and I could not move. I called to him as smoke clogged my lungs. The baby was still in my arms, I felt her warmth against my chest even as the flames crept closer to us.
Another wave of unconsciousness tugged at me, calling me to let go and rest. Just a moment . . . I curled my body around the baby . . . just a moment of peace.
“Dvorah?” A voice called to me from beyond the veil. “Can you hear me?”
A flicker of light beckoned me to open my eyes. An indistinct form hovered over me, silhouetted by the light of an oil lamp.
“Dvorah?” Familiarity screeched into my mind. Shira’s voice. Shira’s face close to mine.
I shrank back against the soft bed and flicked my gaze around the tent in which I was held captive. It looked familiar. A wall-hanging decorated with bright greens and blues hung nearby, the same one I had noticed the last time I had been here—this was Shira’s tent.
Alarm circulated through my body. I struggled against the heaviness in my limbs and the raging pain that speared my left leg. Shira put a hand on my chest, pressing me back onto the bed. Her bed. The bed on which I left her to be . . .
“You are safe here. But you must not move.”
Why was she speaking in such gentle tones? As if I were a laboring mother she was attempting to calm with soothing words. I opened my mouth to speak, but my cheek flash-burned again and I could not prevent tears from trickling down my face.
She smoothed the hair off my forehead with incomprehensible tenderness. “There now. Matti is just fine. Your cheek is badly blistered, and you must have inhaled smoke. It may take some time for you to speak without pain.”
My pulse raced, and my breath came in short gasps. I begged the gods for an escape, and my eyes wheeled around, searching for the door.
“I’m so sorry that your lovely hair was burned.” A pinch formed between her green eyes. “We will have to cut the other side to match. But it will grow.”
She was worried about my hair? I wanted to scream at her. What kind of foolish woman are you? I left you to be destroyed by Hassam! I endangered Ari and Dov! I stole your baby!
Talia! With desperation, I turned my head to the side, searching for her on the bedroll in the corner. Shira’s gaze trailed mine.
“Are you looking for the baby?”
I blinked confirmation.
“She is with Ayal.” Her haunted look revealed little, so I questioned her with a painful lift of my brows. Is she alive?
&n
bsp; With a shuddering sigh, she nodded. “Yes. Talia is alive. She inhaled smoke as well and is still struggling to breathe with ease. But I believe she will recover.” Shira squeezed her eyes shut. “For a moment there, however, I thought she was gone. I thought I had lost my daughter all over again.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she gripped the loose braid that hung over her shoulder. Suddenly, she stood and backed away from the bed. “Why?” She echoed my own thoughts. “I have scoured every inch of my mind to understand your actions. You left me here to be ravaged by your husband’s brother—” She drew a breath through her nose. “Thanks be to Yahweh for rescuing me in time.”
I furrowed my brow, but even that tiny movement stung like a scorpion’s lash against my cheek.
“I will tell you the story later.” She answered my unasked question with a hint of uncharacteristic smugness in her expression. “Hassam was taken to the elders. I was not the only woman attacked that night. Two other women were murdered on their sleeping mats, as well as a number of men who were standing guard. He was sentenced to immediate death by stoning.”
I breathed a sigh of relief without a whisper of guilt. I had spent these last several weeks looking over my shoulder, startling at every male voice, seeing Hassam in every shadow.
She watched my reaction, and her face softened. “You are glad he is gone?”
I dipped my chin slowly.
“Did you mean for me to be violated and killed that night?”
Deciding it was worth the agony, I shook my head.
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I could not believe that you did. No matter how much you hated me, it was hard to believe that a woman would offer up another to such evil.”
My mother’s hardened features flashed across my memory. “You’ll do what the master tells you. Just like I did when I was your age. Just like I am doing now. Survival is what matters, little Dvorah.” I blinked against the remembrance of her callous words when she’d offered up her daughter to be sold in the brothel that had mangled her own soul.
Shadow of the Storm Page 28
