Counted With the Stars (16 page)

Zerah glared at her son with what seemed to be frustration. Had she not known Eben had been developing military skills?

Ignoring her, he continued, “Regardless of whether we turn back or go forward, there will be conflict.” He pointed to the northeast. “If we go up the Way of Horus to Canaan, there are garrisons all along the road. It's most likely we will take another route.”

How long would we wander out here in the wilderness? We could very well run out of food. The beer was already running low, and the grain we carried would stretch only so far. Was this sorcerer Mosheh able to conjure bread out of rocks? Fresh water from air?

The fear that my family, led by me, faced more death and destruction pulled at me, weighing me down. In Egypt we would be traitors, but at least there we had Pharaoh to protect us.

Yet, Pharaoh hadn't really protected us, had he? The Lord of the Two Lands was powerless to keep his people from starvation, economic ruin, and pestilence . . . or from death.

Maybe the Hebrew God, with all his power to destroy, might be the best protection for my family, but would he still deign to protect us, as strangers among his people?

The dark glances from the women on the shore tugged at my thoughts. They didn't want me here. I was their enemy, their slavemaster, their oppressor. A traitor among my own people and a foreigner among theirs. Tekurah may have had the power to hurt my body, but this God the Hebrews served—what kind of a master would he be?

Before Shira and I finished our ibex stew, loud shouts echoed all around. We stood to see what had caused the commotion.

Young men walked through the camp, yelling as they went, calling heads of families to a meeting. They were instructed to move to the closest banner. Fifty or so makeshift banners lifted on the points of spears, hoisted aloft by men standing on wagons. These banners were spread throughout the multitude. Symbols decorated each banner—symbols that made no sense to me. Two banners stood in our vicinity, on one a coiled snake and on the other, a lion's head.

Eben was the head of his family. Some discussion followed whether Jumo should go, since he was Egyptian, but Eben insisted that he should.

Eben's obvious disdain for all Egyptians didn't seem to extend to Jumo. Of course, no one resisted my brother's charms, but somehow Eben didn't seem to fit into that category in my mind. The two men walked off together, Jumo hobbling deftly on his crutches. Thinking of Jumo as a man was foreign to me. He was my older brother, two years my senior, yet I had spent so much of my childhood protecting him. Now that my father was gone, he was indeed the head of our family—disabled or not.

My mother whispered in my ear before retreating to the shelter of our tent. “No matter where we go, we should not just be sitting here.”

She was right. We should flee as fast as possible away from Pharaoh and his chariots, the most feared army in the world. As the shadows stretched long across the sand, millions of pairs of eyes kept diligent watch on the horizon. Each time a breeze stirred up dust in the west, my heart quickened.

Shira's uncle and his wife had kept to themselves, sitting with us only when we ate a meal. Otherwise, she stayed inside their shelter, and he sat with his back to a wagon wheel, weaving grasses into baskets and ropes. I wondered if he felt a little useless not being the head of a family and simply needed something to occupy his time and hands.

I whispered into Shira's ear. “Are your uncle and aunt childless?”

“They are. There were a few babes, but none ever took a breath outside the womb.”

“But even so, is he not the head of the family? As the eldest male?”

“Oh, no. He is my mother's brother.”

“He has no authority?”

“No. An older brother lives in Goshen. He bears the authority in my mother's family. She is of the tribe of Ephraim.”

“Tell me about your father.” I needed a distraction from the eternity of waiting for Eben and Jumo to return with news.

“I was only ten when he died. I have scattered memories since he was gone so much working for Akensouris, but I loved him so much. His stories, his loyalty to Yahweh, shaped who I am. Eben, however, was already apprenticed at the instrument shop with him at twelve years old. He was very close to my father, which is why his heart is still so shattered.”

Unbidden compassion flooded through me at the thought of Eben's pain. “What happened?”

“Several years ago, there were rumblings again of a rebellion against the Pharaoh. Many of our people prayed fervently for the Deliverer to come, for Elohim to rescue us. A few men decided that they could not wait for a Deliverer that would never come. There was a failed attempt at escape by about three hundred people. They made it as far as this very canal, in fact.” She pointed to where we had bathed earlier. “Pharaoh's chariots were faster than slaves on foot. They say the water ran crimson for days.”

I shuddered. The shrieks of three hundred men, women, and children, pleading for mercy, seized my imagination. What would possess them to attempt the impossible? They were no match for the might of Pharaoh.

Shira lifted the question from my mind. “It was desperation that drove them. Those who attempted to escape had been driven to it by the whip of the overseers. They figured they were dead already under the heavy hand of the Pharaoh. Most of our men don't live past thirty-five or forty. They were laden with such extreme labors, bodies broken by years of carrying bricks and rocks to build the storehouses and palaces. Many women were violated by overseers, and their children were forced to labor as soon as they were weaned. How could they not dream of freedom or try to reach for it at any cost?”

I understood that desire all too well. “But your father was not among those who tried to escape, was he?”

“Oh, no, my father believed the Deliverer would come. He had been told of Mosheh's departure all those years before and was certain that he would return.” Pride in her father shone on her face, but it faded quickly. “It was shortly after the massacre that Pharaoh decided to teach our people a lesson. He ordered his soldiers to cull one thousand men from each tribe and execute them publicly.” She closed her eyes against the simmering tears.

“They weren't given the dignity of a quick death.” The bitter voice startled me, and I jerked my head around.

Eben loomed behind me, his green-gray eyes reflecting the embers of the cook fire. “They were tied to stakes and whipped, one hundred lashes apiece, although most of them didn't make it to forty.” He glared at me, fists clenched, loathing on his face.

“And you Egyptians stood by while my father was shredded by the spiked scourges of the soldiers. Some even cheered as they tore the life from his broken body.”

“I was not there.” I clenched my own fists, willing myself to remain calm.

A wave of emotion stole across his face, and then was gone. “It makes no difference.”

A
slight breeze fluttered the linen tent, casting transient shadows around me as I turned, again and again, trying to find a comfortable position on my mat.

My mother and I lay side by side in the tent. Her back was to me. She had not stirred for a long while.

This is foolish. Why am I dancing around demanding answers?

Sitting up, I steeled myself for the long-overdue conversation. If I could confront Tekurah, I must have the courage to speak to my mother.

“How could you do it?” I whispered softly, half hoping she would not hear me.

She startled me by turning over.

My heart raced.

“Shefu came to me,” she whispered back. “It was his idea.”

“But I thought Father . . .”

“No, Kiya, your father did not want to sell you.”

I slowed my breath, not wanting to miss a word.

“We knew we were trapped. There was no other way to pay back our debts than to sell ourselves into servitude. Your father,
myself, you, and Jumo.” Sorrow edged her voice. “The debt was greater than even I knew.”

“How could you not know? Everyone in town knew Father insisted on the finest of everything. His ships, jewels, our home.”

“I knew that, but I assumed he was bringing in a fortune, and I had no concept of any such dealings or the cost associated with them. I didn't even know that he'd asked a loan of Shefu for the ships.”

“You didn't know? Why didn't he tell you?”

“Your father did his best to hide his failings from me. It must have galled him to ask Shefu, of all people, for a loan. He must have figured that the return on the investment would pay Shefu back before I ever suspected.”

“It was his greed that did this, subjected us to this misery.”

“Yes, it was. But it was mine as well. I may not have known the cost or understood the burden of debt we were under, but I spent the gold. The gowns, the wigs, the jewels . . . we are both to blame. And for that, my beautiful daughter, I am so sorry.” She placed a warm hand on my cheek. I resisted the urge to pull away, but still I winced.

“When Shefu came to me, offering to pay off our debts, to shield us from slavery to some unknown master who knows where, to protect our family from being permanently ripped apart, I jumped at the chance. You have such strength, my precious girl; I knew you would emerge on the other side of this in victory. Shefu promised to protect you, to ensure that no harm would come to you. It was either allow us all to be sold or put you under Shefu's care and trust him—as I always have.”

I let her confession hang there. Sink in for a few moments. She must have known what my next question would be.

“Shefu. Tell me. I need to know.”

She expelled a long, slow breath.

“Ah, Shefu. I loved him as a little girl. Our fathers were friends
from childhood, and our families were close, but his mother was ambitious. She forbade us from marrying. My father had been a wise businessman but had nowhere near the clout that Tekurah's father did, as a high priest in the temple of Ra.”

She reached up to caress the lapis necklace tied about her neck, tears glittering in the corners of her eyes. “He was my first love. My heart's desire. Everything I knew was wrapped up in Shefu. Without him, I was lost. And he, as well, was heartbroken. He vowed he would never love another. As did I.”

“You didn't love my father?”

“I did. Well, in a way, I loved him. He adored me and pampered me, treated me like a queen. But not the way I loved Shefu. Shefu was my morning sun and my evening star.”

“Tekurah always knew?”

She closed her eyes. “No. I am sure she had heard rumors of affection between me and Shefu, but he never told her.”

“Then how did she find out? She surely knows. I dealt with the results of her knowledge every day.”

Her expression was tortured. “I know, my dear. I'm so sorry. I was told how awful she was to you. I was helpless to do anything, but I knew you were strong. I knew you would endure.”

“Yes.” My tone was brittle as anger began to burn in my chest. “I endured. I endured daily humiliation, shame on every level, and complete lack of dignity.”

Her eyes welled with tears, and her chin wobbled. “Please. My beautiful girl. Forgive my weakness. When I came home that day and you were already gone, I should have gone after you. Begged Shefu to reconsider. My heart splintered into a thousand pieces that day. If it weren't for Jumo, I would have come. I promise. I would have come.”

What would I have done, in her place? Caught between love for her son and love for her daughter. I knew the answer. Jumo
would not have survived slavery, and there was nothing I would not do to save him, even now.

A thought struck me. “But Tekurah—why was she so vengeful? It was not simple jealousy, Mother. The way she beat me that day . . . there must be another reason.”

My mother was silent, her lips trembling.

“Mother, what happened?”

She pressed her eyes shut again, lashes fluttering on her cheeks, drawing a few quiet, ragged breaths before she spoke.

“Every day, sometimes twice a day, I gave offerings to Tawaret, believing that the goddess would protect me and my baby. But when Jumo was born, he was so small. So still. It wasn't until the midwife laid him at my breast that I even believed he lived.”

A gentle smile played on her lips. “He looked up at me with those huge, dark eyes, and I was smitten. When we saw how rigid his little arms and legs were . . .” Acid leaked into her tone. “Even some of my closest friends suggested we should just let him pass and try again.”

A spike of hot anger shot through me. What if my precious brother, with all his talent and goodness, had not been allowed to live? How many other beautiful children were wasted, exposed to the elements for the sin of being born unwanted or sickly? How many artists? How many brilliant minds?

“Jofare and I agreed that Jumo must live, that we would make sure he thrived, and we would beg the gods to heal him. When he was almost two and still had not walked, or even crawled, your father and I took him to the temple. We paid for spells, incantations, healing balms, anything the priests and priestesses recommended. Nothing worked. My heart was broken.”

She stopped. Gauging my reaction? Gathering courage? “Your father was away on a trading run, as he was much in those days. I think perhaps it was his escape from the grief and disappointment. And Shefu . . .”

“You had an affair.” My tone was flat.

She winced. “Yes. In a moment of weakness, I sent him a message. I was desperate for comfort from someone who loved me. And he came, to be a listening ear. I was so lonely and hurt, frustrated with the gods for not healing my little boy. And angry that your father chose to be away when I needed someone close. When Shefu held me in his arms, the love that I harbored deep in my heart rushed back, and we gave in to our desire for each other.”

It was as I had expected. All of it. No wonder Tekurah was so harsh and vengeful. Not only a woman unloved by her husband, she had been betrayed and made a fool. If I had been in her position I would have been just as bitter, I had no doubt.

My mother looked at me, brows pinched, face wet with tears. “He loved you, though. As his own.”

“Shefu?”

“No, Jofare.”

I couldn't speak, my mouth could not form words.

“Shefu is your father, Kiya. It is why I knew I could trust him with you. That he would protect you and ensure your safety.”

Spots of light flashed before my eyes, as if I'd been struck by temple incense again. My head swirled.

“But your father—Jofare, that is—I don't think he ever knew. If he did, he said nothing. Tekurah, though, she probably suspected our relationship from the beginning. Knowing her, she may have had spies following Shefu. When you were born, you looked so much like me, I hoped no one would suspect my infidelity. But Shefu is there too, his strength, his intelligence. Sometimes when you would gaze up at me with a certain look in your eye, I would catch my breath. You are so like him in some ways.”

That must have been what my father, what Jofare, saw that day on his boat in Thebes. Something in my face proved that I
was not his own. He saw his friend Shefu in my expression. As I am sure his wife did as well.

“I wonder why Tekurah never exposed you.”

“Tekurah is shrewd, Kiya. She knew that exposing us would only make her look foolish. Instead, she held it over Shefu's head. With the information, she ensured her every heart's desire would be fulfilled.”

“Does Jumo know?” My heart skipped a beat. Jumo was not my full brother.

“No, I doubt it. Although you and I know that Jumo sees much more than anyone else. It's possible he has caught a glimpse. But even if he did know, it wouldn't change his immense love for you.”

Sefora and Liat. They were my half siblings. The yearning I'd felt toward them, that I could gather them to me like an older sister, must have been understanding beyond my own comprehension. And I would never see my little brother and little sister again.

I dug my toes into the sand, desperate to feel the strength of the bedrock buried beneath.

My heart throbbed with the weight of the secrets she had unloaded on me and the lack of solid foundation upon which to stand. My gods were not all-powerful. My father was not my father. My master was not my master. And my mother was only human, not the goddess I had lifted her up to be.

Everything I knew, built my every belief upon, drifted away like dust in the breeze. I floated, unbound to the earth, unsure of where my destiny lay, grasping at false memories and inherited lies.