Water as tall as the great house of Ramses roared toward her. In its path Shiphrah could see Bedde and Lili, Puah and Mama Elisheba—everyone dear to her. Choking on fear, she could not force a single scream of warning from her throat. She watched helplessly, horrified as they vanished, swept away in the wall of water. The only sound remaining was the pounding of her heart.
Shiphrah jolted awake, shaken by the finality of her dream, the pounding of her heart becoming the pounding on her door. Scrambling to her feet, she wobbled to the door. “Miriam, what are you doing here this late?”
“Grandmother sent me to get you, Shiphrah. Deborah’s baby is coming.”
“I … I can’t come, Miriam. I’ll wake Puah for you.” Then Shiphrah remembered. Puah was away helping a mother with her firstborn. “I don’t think Deborah needs me. She’s had several births.”
Miriam shook her head. “Grandmother said I was to bring you back.”
“But…”
“Grandmother said.”
Shiphrah sighed in resignation. Once Mama Elisheba “said,” there was no arguing. If only it were not Deborah. If only the newborn would not be a male.
The flame from the bowl of fish oil danced shadows across Shiphrah’s face as she knelt before the woman crouched on the birthing stones. Jochebed and Mama Elisheba stood on each side of the laboring woman, allowing her to grip their hands as she pushed and strained. Shiphrah placed one hand on the woman’s distended belly, pressing down firmly through each contraction.
Deborah had miscarried two boys and birthed three girls in six years. Although she and her husband hoped this child would be a boy, Shiphrah hoped equally as hard they would have another girl.
The woman’s face convulsed as the tiny head appeared. Shiphrah held the baby’s head in one hand and guided the slippery little shoulders as they emerged. Each time the wonder of birth amazed her, awing her with its mystery, humbling her to have a part in it.
She had tied and cut the cord uniting mother and child before she realized the time had arrived. The infant was male.
As the other women cleaned and cared for Deborah, Shiphrah turned her back to them, placing her hand over the tiny face. Their rejoicing would become sorrow when she faced them again, the infant no longer breathing.
Jochebed looked in disbelief at the still form Shiphrah had thrust into her arms before running out into the dark.
“Shiphrah, what…”
“Is he all right? Is my baby all right?” questioned Deborah. “Give him to me. Let me hold him.”
“Jochebed, you go after her. I’ll take care of this.” Mama took the infant as she nodded toward the door.
Standing in the dark, Jochebed listened for a clue to help her find Shiphrah, but the throaty voices of river frogs and the snap of crickets covered any footsteps she might have heard. Jochebed took a few steps away from Deborah’s house. She shuddered as the darkness isolated her. Where would Shiphrah have gone?
Northern breezes cooled her face, sweeping away some of the rankness that clung around each village. Somewhere in the whispering tree branches, a night bird called to its mate and Jochebed heard the flapping of wings.
The moon’s frail light quivered in the darkness. Jochebed paused uncertainly before daring another step.
As she crept forward, something squished under her foot, and Jochebed squealed, anxious to return to light and people until a wail sounded from inside the house, reminding her of her mission.
She inched forward a single step and stopped before venturing a little farther. At this pace she would never catch up with Shiphrah.
Jochebed slowed her breath and realized she was hearing the muffling of ragged sobs. Shiphrah?
She had never heard Shiphrah cry, or at least she did not remember ever hearing her. Even when Shiphrah’s broken leg had been set, she had cringed and clamped her teeth together, but she had not cried out. Jochebed thought maybe Shiphrah had no tears or perhaps she had wept them all before they met.
Jochebed’s eyes, adjusting to the darkness, saw a huddled form curled up in a tight ball. “Shiphrah?”
Her only answer was a choking sob. Jochebed slipped closer. “Shiphrah?”
Jochebed knelt, lifted her friend’s head onto her lap, and began to comfort her as she did her children. “Shiphrah, it will be all right. You’ll see, you’ll see.” Jochebed hummed tunelessly while fingering the tangles from Shiphrah’s hair. Gradually the sobbing eased. Jochebed waited quietly, weaving her fingers through Shiphrah’s thick hair.
“I couldn’t do it, Bedde, and now Pharaoh…”
“Couldn’t do what?”
“Kill…” Shiphrah’s voice trembled. “Pharaoh commanded me, Puah and me, to let the girls live, but the boys we were to … but I couldn’t.”
Jochebed did not move, could not move. Her blood ran cold at Shiphrah’s words.
“Mama, I need to talk to you.”
“Not now, Bedde.”
“Now, Mama.”
Her mother looked as if she were about to argue, but after studying Jochebed’s face, she nodded. “Find Miriam to stay with Deborah and the baby. Her husband isn’t home yet. I’ll be there in a bit.”
Jochebed sat outside in the early morning gray waiting for her mother to give Miriam instructions. She and Shiphrah stared somberly at each other, and Jochebed couldn’t help but compare her to a tiny bird, head cocked, her black-black eyes looking trapped and desolate. Shiphrah’s fingers, like little claws, clenched and unclenched the dirt beside her.
Jochebed thought again of how she and her mother found Shiphrah, injured and almost unconscious in the rushes of the Nile. As known as she and Lili were to each other, Shiphrah was equally unknown. What did they really know about Shiphrah? Could she and Lili trust her?
Thinking of Lili, Jochebed’s heart thudded. Shiphrah knew Lili was pregnant.
Her mother joined them, listening without speaking as Shiphrah faltered through the story of the royal command. Mama reached out and patted Shiphrah’s hand.
“Remember the stories of the Lord, Shiphrah?”
Shiphrah nodded, her lip quivering. “That’s what stopped me. I kept thinking maybe I was about to kill the one who would bring deliverance to your … our people like the Lord promised.”
“Mmmm … possibly, but last night you served the Lord, and He used you as a deliverer. You could not obey the pharaoh because you know of a higher God, the Unseen One.”
“That doesn’t make me a deliverer, Mama Elisheba. I just could not take a life. I was afraid, and I knew you would be so disappointed in me. I could not face you if I killed your deliverer. Your god would never use me for anything. I’m only half Hebrew.”
“Shiphrah, sometimes the Lord works through our fears, sometimes He draws on the people we love to guide us, and sometimes He makes the most of what we know about Him through the stories we’ve heard.” Mama smiled and leaned forward to push the hair from Shiphrah’s face. “The important thing is His plan uses what is already a part of our life.”
“But Mother, what does she do now?” Bedde prodded. “Will God protect her from the pharaoh? Ramses could kill her and Puah for disobeying.”
“I pray not.” Mama bowed her head and tipped it to one side as if listening before she continued. “But if he does, the Lord will use that, too. When evil comes, He uses it to bring about good.”
“There is nothing good about Shiphrah being killed,” Jochebed stated flatly, annoyed her mother didn’t seem to understand the danger.
“I didn’t say that, Bedde.” Her mother coughed hoarsely. “I said He would bring good from it.” She looked at Shiphrah. “The Lord’s answers wait for our questions. Ask Him what to do.”
“Grandmother,” called Miriam from the doorway of Deborah’s house, “the baby is awake and Deborah is not. Should I wake her?”
“Somebody always has a problem. Girls, pull me up.” She winced. “These old knees don’t work like they used to.” She stood stiffly and paused to get her balance before resting her hand on Shiphrah’s shoulder. “My dear, when the Lord sends the one who will deliver us, no power on earth will be able to stop him from accomplishing his task.”
Shiphrah turned the quern, grinding wheat into flour. She was like the upper stone, the mano, and Egypt, the metate, intent on crushing Puah between them. She searched for a way to ease the tension between herself and her aunt. The two women had barely spoken the last week. Rocking back on her heels, she rubbed the flour with her fingers, noting how finely it was ground, a testament to her nervous tension. She eyed her aunt.
Puah sat in the doorway, shoulders slumped. A frown creased her forehead, and her eyes were closed as if deep in thought. Shiphrah wished she could smooth away her aunt’s sorrow and untie the knots in her own stomach. It would be better if Puah had never looked for her so many years ago.
Probably Puah bemoaned having found her and taken her in when she ran away from her father. Was her aunt regretting having sought her out and taking pity on her?
Her stomach growled. Yesterday’s cabbage simmered in the cooking pot, but Shiphrah pushed it to one side. If she never ate boiled cabbage again, it would be too soon. Selecting an onion from the stack against the wall, she cut the root end first to drain the onion milk and then slit and peeled away the delicate skin. Dipping a cup into a widemouthed jar, Shiphrah carried the water and onion to sit near Puah.
“Puah, you haven’t eaten all day. Are you hungry?”
There was no response.
Anxious to break the silence and perhaps delay Puah from sending her away, Shiphrah tried to coax her aunt to talk.
“Do you want me to bring more water for the day? What do you think? Aunt Puah?”
Puah blinked and then swiped at a swarm of gnats. “Shiphrah, I have prayed to the Lord … I think it is time you know … that is … well, there are things Jebah, your mother, told me, secrets we shared as sisters, about … things. I was so much younger than she, but there were only two safe people she could talk to.”
Shiphrah flinched. She did not want to hear about her mother. Retreating to a corner, she scattered more grains onto the low metate, fit the mano on top, and turned the quern furiously. Why did Puah bring this up now? Didn’t they have enough to cope with as it was?
“It has been in my heart, and you should know.” Without giving her a chance to protest, Puah began. Short of covering her ears or running away, Shiphrah could only listen, or at least pretend to listen. She kept her head down and began silently reciting the prayer to Hathor. It was a convenient trick whenever she wanted to hide but could not leave.
“Your father, Nege, was from south of Karnak…”
Holy music for Hathor … Shiphrah concentrated on the words.
“… poor … eager to learn … scribe and priest in the largest temple…”
Music a million times.
“… ambitious … priest of Amun, king of all Egyptian gods…”
Because you love music, million times music, to your soul.
“… curious about Aten, the only god of the heretic pharaoh, Akhenaten who abandoned all other gods.”
Scratching at a mosquito bite, Shiphrah tried to remember the last line of her poem. To your soul, wherever you are.
“… questions … of one god … Goshen … your mother … the Lord.”
The Lord? Shiphrah knew of Him from Mother Elisheba’s stories. What did the Hebrew God have to do with her father? Abandoning her silent recitations, she listened in earnest.
“Nege asked Jebah to tell him about our one God, the Lord. They spent so much time together, there began to be rumors. People disliked having an Egyptian in the village, especially a priest training to be a physician. They suspected he was actually a spy and began making threats to kill him.”
Shiphrah wiped the back of her neck where sweat had trickled. Why hadn’t they carried out their threats?
“Nege received word saying he had been banned from ever serving in Karnak at Amun’s temple because of his interest in the one God and Aten. He could never be more than a scribe or a lesser priest.
“My sister said the Nege she’d known vanished with his dream of becoming a physician priest of Amun. We didn’t see him for a time—I had hoped forever—although Jebah looked for him and wilted a little each day. When he returned to Pi-Ramses, he had a house in the temple precinct and worked as a scribe. Eventually he was restored to priesthood, but he had been shamed, denied the remainder of his training to become a physician, relegated to a lower order of priests.”
Puah shook her head and sighed.
“He was convinced he had sacrificed everything important to learn of our unseen God and then our God deserted him.”
Biting her lip, Shiphrah wondered again how a god could be real but not seen.
“The man my sister cared for—I can hardly bear to think his name, much less say it—nurtured and nursed a hatred of all things Hebrew. One night he brought Jebah to his house and turned on her.” Puah’s voice cracked. “He violated her, called her a ‘worthless Hebrew.’”
Shiphrah cringed, remembering when the same words had darkened her lips. Nauseous, she focused on a fly dancing just out of reach, not wanting to hear any more.
“When Jebah’s water broke and it was time for her to sit upon two stones and push you from her body, I attended her. No one else would. She could not return to our village, not pregnant and unmarried; and the Egyptian servants refused to”—Puah snapped her words—“defile themselves by touching her.”
Shiphrah stood and hobbled outside. She could not listen anymore, and there were no words worth saying.
A few days later, still trying to make sense of Puah’s story and of so much hatred, Shiphrah wandered to the water’s edge. As her heels sank into the thick mud, ooze squished between her toes, sneaking over her feet to almost cover her ankles. She wiggled her feet, and the mud floated away.
A breeze moving through the stand of papyrus clicked the reeds together in a simple rhythm. She caught herself swaying to the beat and blinked rapidly. More than dates and figs, more than clean clothes and oil for her skin, she missed her music, missed dancing and singing with her own instrument. If only she still owned a sistrum … Playing always comforted her, helped her sort things out in her mind.
It was the one thing Papa had done that she would always be grateful for—music lessons. Closing her eyes and letting her mind wander, she hummed the melodies, yearning for their solace, their steady, predictable rhythm.
Shiphrah opened her eyes. The sun had disappeared, leaving a sprinkling of timid stars. She sat, not in a music class, but alone by the river. Shivering in the evening’s chill, she wondered if Nege found pleasure in his revenge against her mother.
She forced herself to stand and splashed water on her muddy feet. Mud washed away; hate did not. Hate stained as surely as the henna plant.
With a glance at the darkening sky, she hurried to the village. The meal would be late, but at least the barley had soaked all day and only needed boiling.
Shiphrah added sheep dung to the graying embers, and once they flamed, she placed the pot of barley in the fire pit. With a narrow reed she lit the lamp wicks. The oily flames grew. Her aunt was gone, and in the silence of the house, she thought of Puah’s story—the mother she didn’t remember and the father she knew too well. Would she ever understand? Would she always be stained by his hate like Bedde was tainted by her father’s actions?
The summons to court came sooner than Shiphrah expected. This time Pharaoh required both she and Puah appear before him in the throne room.
Shiphrah scrubbed herself in the river. If this day was to be her last, and she did not doubt it would be, she refused to die smelling of sheep. She wished Puah felt the same, but Puah retorted that her people were shepherds and she, a midwife. Ramses would meet her as such.
In spite of their differences, the two women clasped hands throughout most of the dusty walk. They seldom spoke, and Shiphrah hoped Puah was praying to her Lord and her Lord was listening.
Shiphrah imagined how she would explain her disobedience to Pharaoh.
“I couldn’t,” she might offer. Then Ramses would say, “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
“I wouldn’t,” she’d admit. Ramses would look at her in disbelief and ask, “You chose not to obey me?”
If she said yes, would he ask why she made such a choice?
Shiphrah shuddered, visualizing his face if she told the stark truth. The hope of a deliverer for the Hebrews was exactly what Ramses didn’t want to hear about.
Maybe she would not answer at all. Shiphrah sighed. Either way they were doomed.
“You’re sighing a lot, Shiphrah. What’s troubling you? What are you thinking?”
“Puah, we walk to our death.”
“Probably.”
“How can you be so calm, Aunt Puah?”
“We did the right thing.”
Shiphrah nodded miserably. “I know, but Ramses won’t…”
“If we die, it will be for the right reason. We stood against evil in the Lord’s name.”
Shiphrah moaned. “But all of this is my fault. You’re going to be sent to the mines or die because of me. If I hadn’t angered my father and then run to you for help, you wouldn’t be walking to your death.”
Puah stepped in front of her niece and blocked her path. “Shiphrah,” she said, holding the girl’s face with both hands, “you are my family, the only child of my sister. It has been joy to have you in my home, to have someone to laugh with and cook for and love. No matter what happens today, know I have never regretted welcoming you into my life. I would do it all over again if given a chance. Are we clear on this?”
Shiphrah nodded.
“And dear, it’s not over yet. Give the Lord time to work.”
The women walked a bit farther, and then Shiphrah, glancing sideways, saw Puah’s lips twitching as if she wanted to smile.
“Shiphrah, what do Egyptians—or rather, what does Pharaoh know of Hebrew women, any idea?”
Absently, Shiphrah shrugged. “They think all foreigners are inferior and Hebrews are vulgar, little more than beasts of the field.”
Puah smiled.