But to the enslavers: ‘Moses. Brother of Aaron.
The one who killed the Egyptian and ran away.
He’s back now, thinks no one remembers.’
What is all this? What tale do you think you’re
‘True. Look, sir, I was always a friend of Egypt.
I can give good information. Valuable. This Moses
Is up to no good. I would appreciate,
Sir, a little Egyptian generosity…’
To work. You are drunk. Go on, friend of Egypt.
Young girls spoke of a god, golden-haired,
With a firm strong body, young, bearing comfort,
Making life easier (said the older women).
But to Aaron fell the task of talk, to the elders,
To the young who bore authority: Joshua was one,
Hard-eyed but supple of thought, as though thought were muscle.
‘What god’? an elder said, and patiently,
Aaron: ‘The God who spoke from the burning bush
On Mount Horeb. The bush burned and was not consumed.’
And the voice said: ‘I am the God of Abraham,
Of Isaac, Jacob. I am sending one who shall
Set my people free.’ But another elder, doubtful:
‘It is the notion of the one god that I
Find tough to eat. What is this god’s position
In relation to the other gods? That, I would say,
Is a reasonable thing to ask.’ Patiently, Aaron:
‘There are no other gods. God is God.
The God of the Israelites is God, the one God.’ –
‘The one remaining god, is that what you mean?’ –
‘Our thinking’, Aaron said firmly, ‘has become
Egyptian thinking. The Egyptians see the world
As multiple, various. Do you understand me?
There are, they say, many things in the world of sense
And, so the Egyptians argue, there must accordingly
Be many things in the heavens, matching, ruling
The many things of earth. We Israelites
Never believed that. In the beginning we knew
That all was one, that All was made by One.
We forgot the knowledge. Now, my brothers, we are
To remember that knowledge. Remember it in action.
It is that knowledge that is to set us free.’
And an elder wavered in doubt: ‘Free – you mean
Free to leave Egypt?’ Aaron said: ‘Just that.’ And Joshua:
‘Mere knowledge, I would say, sets no man free.
Man, I would say, does not find freedom through God,
But God through freedom.’ Aaron: ‘And how does he,
How do we find freedom? We cannot fight
These Egyptians with Egyptian weapons. We have no
Battering-rams or crossbows. We can achieve freedom
Only by knowing the power of God and knowing
That one man can call down that power.’ – ‘Knowing?’ –
‘You have heard of the signs. Of the miracles.’ – ‘Heard, yes.
But seen, no.’ – ‘You will see, will certainly see.
But meantime, you must believe.’ – ‘Must? Must believe?’
‘A man must believe there is a better life
Than this life of bondage. Our God is not a
God of slavery.’ An elder shook his head:
‘If you say there is one God, then it is this
One God that has sold us into slavery.’ And another:
‘Or else one could say that there are at least two Gods –
One to enslave and one to free. And to have two Gods
Is the beginning of having many gods. So we are back where we started.’
Aaron cried: ‘No. Not that. Cannot you see
That our God may have let the wicked work on the innocent,
The enslavers enslave the enslaved? God will in no wise
Interfere if he sees not fit to do so.
Is this our bondage not perhaps a test,
A proving of our right to be the
Chosen of God?’ An elder said: ‘Unconvincing.
I am unconvinced.’ Caleb, another of the young,
Spoke boldly: ‘There are weapons other than
Bows and battering-rams and pitchballs.
There are bricks and mattocks. There are muscles.’ –
‘Fools, fools’, cried Aaron. ‘Egypt is the world.
Only the maker of the earth and sun and stars
Can prevail over Egypt. God is our way, God.
And our way to God is through him.’ Head-shakings.
‘His that is come.’ Wistfully one old man said:
‘Free to leave Egypt. We are all, I fear,
Growing too old for that kind of freedom.’ But Joshua,
A trumpet to that plaintive piping, said: ‘We
Will help you to courage. None is too old to be free.
We, the young.’ Head-shakings still: ‘I am not convinced.’ –
‘Nor I. Very far from convinced. Convinced. Nor I.’
In the house of Aaron, at sunset, a ceremony,
A celebration: the bathing and clothing of Moses
For his visit to the Pharaoh. It was women’s work,
And they sang, bringing water from the well, a song of water,
How water would yield to man, but only so far,
Water as flood or river or sea, never yield.
And Moses, smiling in a fodder-trough turned to a bath,
Was laved by his sister, who said, clucking: ‘So dirty.
It seems you carry the dirt of a twelvemonth journey.’
And Moses: ‘Dirty or not. You knew that. It was I.’
Nodding, ‘I knew. I will always know. Remember your name:
It means I have brought him forth. And the I means I.’ –
‘And yet you do not’, he said. ‘Know me. We have had
No youth together. Have not rejoiced. In each
Other’s marriage. Or children. Though I can rejoice in
Your children now. If only I can find out
Which they are. Ah, I know. You are Lia.’ –
‘No’, said the child. ‘I am Rachel.’ Miriam said:
‘There, that is Lia.’ And then: ‘My husband died
Soon after she was born. Soon after our mother…’
And Moses, sighing: ‘Yes. Before I had time. To know them.
Both dead. Too many dead. Before the promise.’
Miriam, brisk to his sudden melancholy: ‘When do I meet
Your wife? Your son?’ Moses, brightening: ‘They will be
Waiting for us. On the way. To the land. A long
Long journey. And we,’ in gloom again, ‘are not yet even
In the way of being able. To start on the journey.
My first. Door out of Egypt. Is a door into the
Very core and temple and shrine. Of Egypt. Pharaoh
Must be asked. Then begged. Then entreated. Then
Threatened. Then the threats. Must start to be
Fulfilled.’ Miriam said softly: ‘It will be a hard time.’ –
‘Ah’, said Moses, brightening, ‘you are Elisa.’ –
‘No’, the child said, ‘I am Rachel. I
Told you I was Rachel.’ Moses begged graceful pardon,
Then said: ‘Hard? It will, I fear, be a hard time
For all the innocent. It is always the innocent who
Must suffer first. We sacrifice a lamb.
Not a crocodile. One of the great mysteries.’
Then he turned to women’s noises of pride, pleasure,
And saw what they had drawn forth from a hiding-place –
Cleaned but worn, ravagings of moth and white ant
But poorly disguised, that former princely robe,
Robe of a lord of Egypt. The smiles turned to pain
And puzzlement when he thundered ‘No’ at them.
<
br /> ‘No’, he thundered, ‘I go as an Israelite.
I go. As what I am.’ And so he went
In the summer evening, in a pilgrim’s jerkin,
His old rough cloak, carrying his staff, to the palace.
At first they tried to beat him away but he said:
‘Moses. My name is Moses. Formerly a prince.
And still cousin to the king. I am expected.’
So he was half-bowed in, in puzzlement, and was expected
In the room where the models of treasure-cities,
Grain-cities, were built. A new rich project gleamed
Among torches, candles, gold effigies, effigies,
Rich on the walls. Then Pharaoh entered, softly,
Alone, with the face Moses remembered, a clever face
Though hard (and it must learn, he sighed, to soften),
And Pharaoh said: ‘Is it you? Is it really you?’
Moses smiled. ‘I fear. I can give you. No
Proof of. Who I am.’ But Pharaoh: ‘The voice is enough.
Everything else has changed. But the voice, no.
That sudden cutting off between phrases, as if
Speech were sometimes being whipped out of you.
Moses. Cousin Moses. You look,’ smiling, ‘like a
Very poor relation, if I may say so.’ Moses said:
‘You summoned me back to Egypt. I did not come.
Now I am come in my own time. But tell me why
You summoned me.’ Pharaoh said: ‘Simple. I could not
Forget you easily. Others I forgot –
Streams of courtiers, glorying in self-abasement,
Wise men, men who were called wise, sycophants,
Relations, none of them poor relations. A time came
When I felt homesick for you – you, the cousin
Who taught me, against his will, how to hunt gazelle.
The enigmatic prince of my boyhood. I must have been
A most unlikely boy. I was, of course,
Too young to use you.’ Moses said: ‘And now
You are old enough.’ – “Old enough. Also, smiling,
‘Master of the world, of the sacred blood of Horus,
Blood that, the poets write, is knitted from the stars.
Divine and holy, wholly divine, cousin Moses.
Gods work through men. And gods need men
Who know what godhead is. Do you still listen
To the voices of bats at nightfall?’ Moses said:
‘In the desert there are many voices. Voices
I had not. Heard in Egypt.’ – ‘You did not hear
My voice calling you? Or any voice
That spoke of me?’ Moses said: ‘Yes. I did.’ –
‘A human voice?’ said Pharaoh. And Moses: ‘No.
No human. Not a. Human voice.’ Pharaoh fingered
An ornament, gold-chained, dangling from his neck, saying:
‘Voices of the desert. That formless shifting world,
Whistling and singing nonsense. There is no
Solidity, no certainty in the desert.
Reality is here, cousin. For a thousand years
We Egyptians have been the masters of reality.
We have an exact and perfect, an exquisite,
An almost painful knowledge of the nature of
Power, power. The means of its acquisition,
Its growth, its maintenance. Power is here and for ever.
This is the real world, and you belong to it.
You, who know reality, have been whoring too long
After dreams of the desert. You are recalled to
Reality.’ But Moses, softly, ‘Called, not
Recalled.’ And his eyes were lost an instant
Among the effigies, and Pharaoh did not
Well, for an instant, understand. But then he
Looked up, showing pleasure, for into the chamber
His queen came, and also a nurse, and in the nurse’s arms…
‘My son,’ cried Pharaoh in joy. ‘My first-born.
Is he not beautiful?’ Moses nodded sadly. ‘Beautiful.’
Pharaoh took the child in his arms, saying in joy:
‘My son. He will reign after me.
The unbroken and unbreakable chain of rule.
The strength which sets the desert winds
Howling in impotence. And you, and you
Choose these empty voices out of the dead sand.
This I cannot comprehend.’ Moses said:
‘It is a simple matter, majesty. It is a
Matter of one’s race. One’s people. The
Destiny of that people. I have discovered
Where I belong.’ The child cried, putting out arms
Towards his mother, and Pharaoh kissed and
Hugged him, handing him reluctantly over,
The queen saying: ‘He is ready to sleep,
Now he has seen his father.’ And she left,
Looking curiously at Moses, whom she did not know.
‘Where you belong?’ said Pharaoh. ‘You belong to us.
To me. Bemused by the fable of your birth,
You ignore the truth. And the truth is that you are of Egypt.
Of the blood. For the blood is not what passes
From mother to son. That belongs to
The order of the beasts. It is rather what is of the soul,
Whatever the soul is. The woman who
Made herself your mother – she was the substance. She
Remains the substance, even in death. You, Moses
You are of Egypt, and one of my tasks
Is to confirm that truth – in your own life,
In that bigger life called history.’ But Moses,
Impatient: ‘This is the. Mysticism. I must
War against. The voices of the. Desert spoke hard
Metal. The shifting. Swirling. Insubstantial.
Those are in your words. I reject Egypt.
I embrace my people.’ And Pharaoh, harder now,
Metal: ‘Your people, as you call them,
Belong to Egypt. They are the tough skin of the
Hands and feet of Egypt, no more, but the
Body does not disown them.’ And Moses, urgent:
‘Beware of such. Images. The reality is that
We are a. Different animal. We scent our.
Own destiny. We must be free. To track it.’
And Pharaoh, hard, metal: ‘Never. Never.’ Moses said:
‘I know. You will never be. Persuaded by.
Entreaties. Egypt is locked against
Voices from the desert. It must be signs, signs.’
‘Signs from whom or what or where?’ asked Pharaoh. –
‘From the Maker of the World who is the
God of my people. The God. Of what he has made.’ –
‘Signs?’ cried Pharaoh. ‘Tricks? The Egyptian conjurers
Know them all. You are being more Egyptian
For thinking of signs. What will you do, cousin Moses –
Turn that stick to a snake? My sorcerers
Can do that yawning. Make your snake swallow theirs?
We must from Moses, must we not, expect
Big magic? I should be appalled if Moses let mere
Magicians, salaried nameless men of trickery,
Beat him at that game.’ But Moses shook his head.
‘My Lord Pharaoh. Highness. Majesty. There must be
None of that manner of. Commerce between us. No
Ambiguity in your mind. You must believe that the
Signs and the demands. Come from a true. Israelite.’
But Pharaoh could smile, saying: ‘You are an Egyptian.
Will always be an Egyptian.’ Moses did not smile.
‘So you will believe. Until the signs
Persuade you otherwise. Let the tale begin now.
I shall not at first be in it. I am not qualified.
Being so. Slow o
f speech.’ And Pharaoh, smiling again:
‘Another of your fallacies, cousin Moses.’
But Moses was troubled at having to hate this man.
5
THE PLAGUES
THUS the tale beginning, the voice was Aaron’s.
And all was done, in the beginning to a
Strict pattern of decorum. For, to an official,
An overseer of overseers, Aaron brought the petition
That was partly a lie, but a lie was part of the pattern.
Saying, with proper humility: ‘Three days in the desert.
A small request, your honour. We have orders
To sacrifice to the God of our people.’ But the official
Stormed, according to the pattern: ‘Orders? Orders?
We give the orders. You interest me, little man.
Why in the desert?’ Aaron duly replied:
‘Since it was in the desert that my brother Moses
Heard the command.’ – ‘Whose command?’ – ‘The command
of Him who demands the sacrifice.’ The official said:
‘You talk round and round, round and round.’ –
‘Three days in the desert, your honour.’ The official said:
‘Request refused’ – ‘What request?’ spoke a voice.
It was in the open air, near a half-built wall
Of the new half-built treasure-city, and the voice
Was that of some peacock of the royal household,
Gorgeous, his face already an effigy,
On a horse sumptuously caparisoned. ‘My lord’,
Grovelled the overseer of overseers, ‘this slave here
Asks on behalf of other slaves permission to spend
Three days in the desert. Request refused, my lord.’ –
‘Who put you up to this nonsense?’ His lordship asked,
And Aaron: ‘With respect, we do not consider it
Nonsense. We must sacrifice in the desert.
You have your gods. We have our God. Only one.
We make no high pretensions.’ His lordship said:
‘You have not answered my question.’ So Aaron answered:
‘It was my brother Moses who in the desert
Heard the word of God.’ – ‘Why does your brother
Not make the request himself?’ And Aaron said,
True to the pattern, ‘My brother is slow of speech.’ –
‘And slow perhaps of understanding. When will you
Israelites realise what you are?’ Decorously, Aaron:
‘We are beginning to realise, sir.’ – ‘Take him back this answer.
And deliver it as slowly as you will.’ He raised his whip,
Its handle gorgeously patterned, and lashed. The blow was feeble,
Collected Poems Page 13
