By Way of the Wilderness (11 page)

“Run? I'm not running,” Bezalel said with an arrogant shrug. “We're not doing anything wrong.”

“But he's so jealous, Bezalel. He'll beat you.”

“We'll see about that.”

Laaman approached, and he was a fearful-looking sight. He was half a head taller than other members of his tribe, and his swelling muscles revealed his trade, which was moving the huge blocks of stone for the pharaoh's massive building projects. He was wearing a band around his head that kept his long black hair out of his face, and his lips were twisted in a snarl. “I told you to stay away from her, Bezalel.”

“We're just walking through the marketplace,” Bezalel said. “No harm in that.”

“You don't hear too good.” Moving quickly for such a big man, Laaman stepped forward and swung his huge, knotty fist.

Bezalel did not see it coming until it struck him right over the left eye. He was driven backward, and his world turned to stars. As he fell, he heard Adila crying out, “Laaman, don't kill him!” Then he felt more blows raining down on him. He struggled to get up, but it was hopeless. A final blow caught him in the temple, and his world turned to utter blackness.

****

When Aaron entered Miriam's hut, the first thing he did was ask, “How is Bezalel?”

Miriam passed a hand over her face. She looked weary, and lines showed the strain she had been under. “He's asleep.”

“He's lucky Laaman didn't kill him.”

“He's beaten up badly. I think he may have some broken ribs, and his face is all swollen. He looks awful.”

Aaron marched past Miriam and looked down upon the still form of Bezalel. “He looks like he was hit in the face with a tree.”

“I'm worried about him. I've sent for Marneen. She's good with broken bones.”

Aaron shook his head in disgust. “Some man's going to kill him for sure if he doesn't keep his hands off of other men's women.”

“He doesn't mean any harm.”

Aaron turned to Miriam and studied her. The two had always been very close. “I'm worried about you, sister. You should never have taken on raising Bezalel. He's been too much for you.”

“It was something I wanted to do for my friends. I couldn't let their son be homeless.”

“I know. You're always taking in strays, but Bezalel hasn't worked out.”

“He'll be all right.”

Aaron came closer and looked down at her. “You look tired. You do too much.”

“I'm all right,” she said. “Come. Have a drink of water. It's cool from the well.”

The two sat down and spoke for a time about the work there was to do. Finally Aaron drained the cup and got up. He stopped before he left and turned and asked, “Do you ever think of Moses?”

“Every day of my life.”

“We'll never see him again. You should forget him.”

Miriam shook her head and looked directly into Aaron's eyes. “God saved him from death for a purpose. If Mother and I had not put him in that basket, he would have been dead.” She reached up and put her hand on Aaron's chest. “He'll come back one day, brother, and then we'll see the Redemption!”

Aaron stared at his sister, then reached down, patted her shoulder awkwardly, and left the hut. Miriam walked back to where Bezalel lay sleeping. She began praying for the young man, who was the only son she would ever have. He was of the tribe of Judah. She was of the tribe of Levi. But he was her son in everything but blood. She leaned over, put her hand on his dark, curly hair, and prayed, “O Almighty God, put your hand on my son, heal and protect him.”

Bezalel's twisted, swollen features twitched slightly, and he muttered a few words but did not awaken. Miriam knelt down beside him and took his hand in hers. She kissed it and held it against her cheek. “Please do something, Lord. Take care of my son,” she whispered softly to the God she had never seen.

A sharp pain struck Bezalel in the side, bringing him out of a fitful sleep. He gave an involuntary grunt and put his arms around his middle as if to protect himself. Opening his eyes, he saw that the dawn had just begun to break, sending gray streaks of light in through the small window to his right. Cautiously he took a deep breath but found that this was more painful than he had anticipated.

“He must have broken some of my ribs.” He whispered the words and tried to sit up, but he could not stand the pain this caused. He lay back on his bed, a thin pad on the dirt floor of the tiny hut he shared with Miriam. From the outside came the sounds of the camp beginning to stir—chickens clucking, dogs barking, cattle lowing, and muted voices babbling as the Hebrews awoke and began their busy lives.

Realizing there was nothing to get up for anyway, Bezalel lay on his back and bitterly reviewed the circumstances that had earned him a beating. “I should have known better than to fool with that woman. Everyone told me so, but I was too stubborn to listen.”

It was a rare admission of guilt and one that he would never have made publicly. Young Bezalel was a proud young man and with some reason. His grandfather was Hur, the leader of the tribe of Judah for many years. This gave Bezalel some honor among his tribesman, despite the fact that his father, Uri, had been a rather worthless individual. He had been handsome, to be sure, but not a father to be proud of. Bezalel had received his good looks from his father: a wealth of curly black hair, lustrous, dark eyes, widely spaced and well shaped, with eyelashes any woman would have been attracted to. He had a sensuous mouth that was full and wide, and he had not been cooked by the blazing sun of Egypt as had most of his childhood companions. He could thank his artistic talents for this, for he had been pulled out of the terrible labor of making bricks and placed in the home of one of the wealthiest Egyptians, who had put him under the tutelage of the best teachers, intending to make a prize slave out of him.

Once more Bezalel made an effort to sit up, and this time he succeeded, gasping for breath with each small movement. He heard Miriam moving about outside, no doubt preparing food for him at the fire, and he dreaded seeing her. He felt guilty for the trouble he had brought to her and did not want to listen to the inevitable scolding he would receive. He would have risen and left, but that was out of the question in his present condition.

Miriam appeared at the doorway; then her face drew into a tight mask and her lips pressed tightly together. She came to stand over him and said without preamble, “Well, I hope you're proud of yourself.”

“Please don't start on me, Mother. I don't feel up to it.”

“Well, I should think not! Bezalel, you should have better sense. When are you ever going to grow up?”

“Could I have something to eat and some water, please?”

Miriam glared at him but shrugged her shoulders and moved across to where the drinking water was stored in a jar. She poured him a cupful, came back, and handed it to him. Stooping down, she watched him, her eyes intent. When he finished drinking noisily, she took the cup and said, “Son, don't you know you're breaking my heart?”

Every time Miriam called Bezalel “son,” it touched him. She had been his mother's best friend and had been like an aunt to him while his mother was alive. He was only eight years old when his mother died, and his father had died earlier, so Miriam had taken him into her little hut and raised him as her own. She had never married, so it was just the two of them, and Bezalel knew she had poured herself into him as his real mother would have done had she lived. Trying to think of some reasonable answer to her question, he realized there was none. “I'm sorry, Mother,” he said. “I was a fool.”

“Well, everyone knows that,” Miriam snapped, “but
why
were you a fool? There are plenty of fine young girls looking for a husband, but you have to chase out after a harlot like that one. Sometimes I think you don't have any sense at all!”

Bezalel dropped his head, unable to meet her eyes. He listened, knowing there was no logical explanation he could give her, for he had indeed been a fool. He was relieved when she finally got up and said, “I've fixed you something to eat.”

Bezalel sat there wondering how long he would be unable to get up and pursue his normal activities. “I'll have to send word to my master that I've been hurt.”

“He's probably already heard it,” Miriam said as she brought him a bowl of stew.

“He wouldn't be interested in the affairs of slaves, Mother.” Rishef, the wealthy Egyptian who had taken Bezalel into his service, took no thought for his servants' private lives—indeed he was unaware that they had any. He would be angry, however, if Bezalel did not come to work. “Could you get word to him, Mother?”

“I'll send someone to tell him this morning.” She looked up as the door flap opened and smiled at her brother. “Hello, Aaron.”

“Good morning, Miriam.” Aaron crossed the room and stood over Bezalel. He was a formidable figure, tall, strong, and with a masterful air. “Well, I suppose you're proud of yourself brawling in public over a strumpet.”

“Uncle, I'd appreciate it if we didn't have to discuss this right now.” Bezalel suddenly felt very weak and carefully lay down, hoping he could avoid his uncle's tirade.

Aaron laughed shortly. “I'm sure you would, but everybody else is talking about it, so why shouldn't we?”

“What are they saying?”

Suddenly Aaron laughed. He was not a man of much humor, and it took something extraordinary to amuse him. “You're not the only one who got a beating.”

“What are you talking about, Uncle?”

“Laaman gave that worthless woman a beating too—not as severe as yours, of course—then dragged her right to the priest and married her on the spot. I must say, I think they deserve each other.”

“I can't believe it,” Bezalel whispered.

“That's because you don't know anything about people. All you know how to do is to make statues for the Egyptians. Aren't you ashamed of the way you have brought disgrace to your family?”

Bezalel sat glumly, unable to meet Aaron's stern glance. He could not shut out the penetrating voice, and he could not get up and leave, so he merely endured it.

“I hope this will be a lesson to you to stay away from women like that—especially married women. I think a member of the tribe of Judah would have more pride,” Aaron added stridently. “Get yourself a wife of your own and stop chasing after other men's women.”

He turned and left the hut abruptly, and Bezalel tried to smile. “He has a rough way, my uncle.”

“He loves you,” Miriam said. She came over with a bowl of water and a cloth and began cleansing the wounds around Bezalel's face. “You have so many gifts, son, and we fear you are wasting them.”

Bezalel tried to think of a response to that, but nothing came to him. Indeed, he knew that his aunt and uncle were right. He could not understand himself, so how could he explain it to Miriam?

Finally Miriam finished bathing him and asked, “Do you want to sit up again?”

“Yes. I think I will.”

Miriam helped him sit up and propped him up with some cushions. She set a cup of drinking water by his side and left the door flap open so he could watch the goings-on in the camp. “I've got to go over to help Tabia. Her baby's coming, and she needs help. I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I'll make sure Rishef is notified that you've been hurt.”

“That's all right, Mother,” Bezalel said, nodding. “If I get tired, I'll just lie down again.”

“You'd better not try to move around too much. Those ribs need a chance to heal.” She came over, looked down at him, and said, “Try to be a good man, son.” She leaned over, kissed him, and picking up a basket in which she had put some food and items to help care for a newborn, she left.

Bezalel waited until Miriam was gone and then managed to stand up. He bit his lip, for it hurt terribly to move. Crossing the small room, he went to a box where Miriam kept her cooking supplies. He opened it and pulled out the jug of wine that she always kept there. Going back to his mat, he sat back down against the cushions, removed the stopper from the jug, and took several long swallows. He expelled his breath and sat back, the wine jug at his side. At first he thought of Adila, but he soon dismissed her. The woman had really meant nothing to him. She had simply been a challenge. As he rested against the cushions, sipping the wine occasionally, he thought bitterly of how Laaman had beaten him as if he were a child. For a time Bezalel thought of his friend Joshua. “He wouldn't have beaten Joshua like that,” he said aloud, but Bezalel was no Joshua. He was not a fighting man but an artist, grown soft from good living in the home of a wealthy Egyptian, whereas Joshua was as hard as granite.

Bezalel hated to be bested at anything, and the thought of being publicly beaten by a brute like Laaman left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was honest enough with himself to acknowledge that his pride was hurt. For a long time he sat sipping the wine until he grew sleepy. He struggled to his feet once more, replaced the wine jug, and went back to lie down on the pad. His last thought before drifting off to sleep was,
You may have married her, Laaman, but let's see how long you can keep her from me!

****

Aaron awoke with a start. His body jerked and his eyes flew open. He almost cried out but managed to restrain himself. His movement awakened his wife, Elishiba. “What's wrong, Aaron? Are you sick?”

“No, I'm not sick.”

Elishiba reached over and touched his face. “You don't have a fever?”

“I'm all right, I tell you.” He lay in the darkness, trying to collect his thoughts. “I had a dream of some kind.”

“Well, it's gone now. Go back to sleep.”

Aaron did not answer. He found that he was filled with a nameless dread. Although highly intelligent, he was a man of little imagination—he liked things well organized and in order. The dream had unsettled things. He tried to recall it, but it was elusive, like a fleeting shadow, and it would not come back to him. A message from the dream stayed with him, however, and this is what troubled him. He wrestled with it as he lay in the darkness and finally said, “Elishiba?”