Jochebed prayed as she plaited the last reeds in and out of the strong ribs. This would be the most important basket she ever wove. After every round she stopped to press the rushes together as compactly as possible, at times threading in an additional grass to tighten or thicken the sides.
She kept the grasses pliable, soaking them until the last minute, sometimes wetting them with her tears. It would be her gift to him: a floating cradle as sturdy as she could make it, a hiding place as safe as she could make it, a chance to live, the only way she knew, in spite of what Shiphrah said.
Without him, her arms once again were empty. Every day she would think of him, wonder if he was loved, fed, well, safe. He would never know her or even truly know himself, never hear the promises their Lord made to His people or realize he belonged to the chosen ones.
Jochebed wavered. This could not be the Lord’s plan. And yet the strange peace swelled again, welling up inside until she calmed and could plait and pray, plait and pray, weaving prayers into every fiber of the basket.
It was almost complete. Tonight it would dry, hardening into shape. Tomorrow she would coat it with the dark pitch, and when the tar dried, it would be finished—the basket … and her mothering of Amram’s youngest son. She clenched her jaws against a pain so intense, it left her gasping.
Shiphrah was right. She should not do this. She could not relinquish her baby to the river, to the capricious river, to the whims of whoever found him, if anyone did. And yet the reality wrenched through her. To keep him endangered him more.
She doubled over in agony. “Oh God, Elohim, Almighty One, what should I do?”
The voice came softly, sounding so much like Mama’s, it hurt. “While it is yet dark, the Lord is at work.”
Did she believe that? She believed Mama, yes, and Mama believed the Lord. The peace came again with the realization that she, Jochebed, trusted Him, too. This must be what Mama experienced, this calm following the turmoil with a bit more of the peace each time. Could trusting be learned, practiced? Maybe the trusting wasn’t to know all the answers or understand the plan.
If the Lord had a plan, He wasn’t telling her much of it, but she did believe He led her to make this basket and to make it waterproof. She would do her part and trust He would do His part.
She licked the tears at the corner of her mouth. Was it possible that even in her childhood, He had been preparing her for this moment? She shook her head. That was too far beyond her understanding. All she understood right now was to make this basket as best she could.
It was finished. No matter how she tried, Jochebed could think of nothing else to add to the basket. Woven tightly, it was waterproof even before she tarred the bottom and sides with river pitch. She had crafted the lid to fit snugly around the edge while leaving slits for air to enter through the top.
Inside, the basket was cushioned with the only remaining scraps of Amram’s cloak. It was all she could give this child, a last gift to their son.
There was nothing left to do … nothing except place her baby inside and leave him. Her mind could go no further than that—leaving him.
How could she do this thing, and how could she not? What mother abandoned her infant to almost certain death? But then, what mother kept her child and ensured his murder at the hands of a madman?
“Mama?”
Jochebed rocked the basket, feeling its sturdiness. Was it a cradle or a coffin? Did she send him to life or death? How could she live not knowing?
“Mama?”
Unaware of the tears on her face, she turned to answer her daughter.
“Yes, Miriam?”
“I’m taking Aaron to visit Lili. Are you all right?”
“Of course. Sissy’s children will be glad to see you.” Jochebed fingered the basket.
“Sissy’s ch…? Who is Sissy? I said Lili…” Miriam stopped. She looked from her mother to the finished basket and then back at her mother’s tears. “Oh.” Stretching out her hand, she reached for her brother. “Aaron, let’s go visiting. Come hold on to sister.”
Jochebed watched her son and daughter leave. Miriam was so good with Aaron. She would have been good with this little one, too. Maybe she should have let Miriam and Aaron say a final good-bye to their baby brother. If only Amram could return, maybe they could find another way.
For a long time, Jochebed stared at the closed door. Doors opened and closed, but the door she was about to walk through—surrendering her son—would never open again.
Jochebed lifted her son from his cradle and wrapped both arms around him. She buried her face in his neck to absorb the warmth of his being with her every sense. Her mind refused words. All she knew were feelings.
Snuggling him close, she balanced the basket on her head and left the house. She would hold him against her heart, letting him feel its rhythm, until the last possible minute.
Jochebed willed herself to walk until the well-known path became unfamiliar and disappeared. She did not hum or think or pray. She walked slowly, prolonging the trip. She did not talk or cry or rest. If she stopped, she would turn and run. She did not watch for snakes or look behind or do anything but force one foot in front of the other.
Surprisingly, she recognized the place. The stand of rushes stretched into the Nile, forming a pool of still water. A forgotten scarf of transparent linen fluttered from a low-hanging sycamore limb. The place had changed little since she’d been here with Shiphrah and Lili and overheard the highborn demanding her way. When Shiphrah scratched on her door late one night, stating an inlet of sheltered reeds would be the safest place to leave the basket, her plans were affirmed.
In the distance, Jochebed heard high-pitched voices. Her heart sank. No! They were coming. It was too soon! Too soon. She wanted to feed him one more time, feel the tug of his mouth, know that no matter what happened, he would not suffer hunger for a while.
Jochebed waded into the river and tucked the basket in a clump of reeds. Blinking furiously, yearning to see his face one last time without a blur of tears, she nestled him close, filling her senses with his scent and softness. She kissed the hair feathering his little neck and whispered her love into the curve of his ear. Gently she lowered him into the basket and stroked his soft hand. His fist closed around her finger, holding her tightly.
“Oh, dear Lord.” Disbelief wrenched through her. Must she truly do this thing? “Lord, I cannot do this.”
The voices came closer.
Unable to see through the flood of tears streaming from her eyes, Jochebed did the impossible. She pried loose his little fingers. God would have to hold this small hand. She groped in the water for the lid, fitted it onto the basket. She could do nothing more but surrender him to the Lord.
With one hand covering her mouth to muffle the sound of her heart breaking, Jochebed stumbled away, moving as quietly as possible from the floating basket to the opposite side of the pool. She must not be seen.
Once on the muddy shore, she walked quickly, aimlessly, afraid to slow down, afraid she would betray her son by running back and snatching him from the river. Jochebed wiped her eyes and nose on the hem of her tunic. This was his only chance of survival. She would not rob him of hope.
Drowsy from the rhythms of lapping water and sun-dappled leaves, Merit-Amun closed her eyes and prayed for sleep to steal her troubled thoughts and leave her with a moment of peace. This day, which the priest had promised would be of eternal importance, had already been twice cursed.
It began with the appearance of her monthly cycle reminding her she would never carry a child within her womb, never look into eyes that mirrored her own, never enter the secret sisterhood of mothers.
The day degraded into humiliation upon Merit-Amun’s realization that the subtle curve of her maid’s stomach guaranteed the slave what she, a royal, could never have. Which god or gods were so offended or jealous of her influence and beauty that they inflicted such vicious ridicule? At what price would they return their favor to her? She would give everything she possessed to cradle a child of her own.
Hot tears threatened to slip beneath her lashes. Merit-Amun bit the inside of her cheek—a trick her mother had imparted for times when emotion threatened but control was essential. No one would ever see her weep.
She sat up and abandoned the pursuit of sleep. The lift of her chin summoned her maids. She was ready to return to the palace. As the women gathered her scarves and cushions, Merit-Amun dipped her crimson toenails in the river and watched the sunlight weave through the swaying reeds. A cry startled her, and she surveyed the banks, assuming one of the slaves spied a viper or crocodile.
Alerted, the attendants and the guards regarded her as if she had cried out. When the cry came again, the pregnant maid gasped and pointed.
“My lady, beyond you—a baby boat.”
Merit-Amun whirled to face the river. A basket bobbed among the reeds. She raised her hand. The maid hastened forward, waded into the waters, tugged the woven boat to shore.
“Do not open it, my lady.”
Merit-Amun ignored the voice, unlatched the fastening, removed the lid, and fell in love.
A baby boy. Two gifts from the river god—the gift of motherhood, the gift of her son.
Hers.
Unaware of tears spilling from her golden eyes, the princess lifted the baby out of his bed and into her heart.
The child’s whimpering eased. Merit-Amun, new mother, looked into the tear-bright eyes of her baby boy and swore by all things holy she would protect his life with hers. If necessary, she would defy her father, her country, every rule and expectation controlling her life. This child belonged to her and she to him.
Lost in her grief, wandering blindly, Jochebed heard the footsteps only when they were almost beside her.
“Mama, wait.”
Dully, she turned and looked into Miriam’s shining eyes.
“The lady found our baby and sent me for a wet nurse. Hurry! I told her I knew someone. She’s waiting for you.” Miriam giggled. “I don’t think she likes to wait.”
“Our baby?” Jochebed choked out the words. “Our baby?” She dared not reach for hope. “Me?”
Miriam grabbed her hand and tugged. “Mama, come on. Hurry!” Jochebed allowed herself to be pulled a few steps, and then as Miriam’s words penetrated her mind, she clasped her daughter’s hand and raced with her back along the path.
Pushing past the cluster of maids, Miriam pointed to her mother. “She can nurse the baby for you. Her baby is … gone. It was put in the river not long ago.”
Jochebed reached for her screaming son and tucked him against her breast. Could this be happening? Was she dreaming? Was this possible?
“You are able?” asked a haughty young voice. “Follow my maids. You will be well paid to care for my son.”
The woman turned away before Jochebed answered.
Able? “Yes, my lady,” she whispered.
Jochebed stole a quick glance at Miriam. She saw her daughter nod and smile. For once she was glad her daughter had disobeyed and followed her. She knew Miriam would care for Aaron until Jochebed returned.
The maids kept their distance from her, covering their noses as if she smelled bad and watching her from the corners of their painted eyes. Jochebed didn’t care. Whatever else happened, she was holding her son again, nourishing his body with hers. Perhaps she could rock him to sleep in her arms.
How good and gracious the Lord was to her. Had this been part of His plan to save her child? Her mother’s voice whispered, “While it is yet dark…” It was still dark, but Jochebed believed the Lord was at work.
“When my father enters, say nothing and do not show yourself, girl.” The yellow-amber eyes glittered with an unspoken threat, and Jochebed nodded. She couldn’t have said anything if she’d wanted to. Merit-Amun held the baby gently. What had she called him? Ra-Moses—born, drawn from the river. Jochebed silently thanked the Lord for Shiphrah’s insistence she learn Egyptian.
So she was not supposed to show herself. Jochebed searched the room and wondered where she should hide.
Against one wall stood what must have been a bed. It was a long reed mat similar to those at home, but this mat was raised on a shiny black platform with four carved legs. A large, carved box stood against a wall painted to resemble a riverbank with scenes of colorful birds standing in papyrus clumps. An undiscerning Egyptian cat rubbed against Jochebed’s Hebrew legs, and absently she reached down to stroke it.
Small tables and several stools with tall slats of wood on one side stood grouped in clusters, and under one of the tables two kittens stretched, their tiny claws unsheathed.
A large table, centered in the room, held jars the color of the sky and pottery bottles shaped like animals or fish. Jochebed saw what she thought might be a comb with a handle carved as a monkey and beside it something round and shiny like the full moon.
Silver rings, bracelets of every color, and strands of necklaces spilled out of carved boxes scattered across the tabletop. She had never seen such riches.
“Girl, lower your eyes in my presence,” Amber-Eyes said. “How dare you stare at my things?”
Confused, Jochebed did as she was told and looked away. How was she supposed to hide if she didn’t know where to go?
Judging from the soft sound of footsteps, a group of women entered the room, and Jochebed heard Amber-eyes’s voice change.
“Mother, the gods have favored me. See what they have given me. I have named it Ra-Moses.”
Jochebed bit her tongue. Her son was not an “it.”
“Merit-Amun, my lovely, a baby is not an ‘it’ like a stray kitten, and he,” she stressed gently, “will grow to be a man.”
“Yes, Mother, and he is mine. This is my son, and is he not the most beautiful baby you have ever seen?”
“Mmm, not as lovely as you, but he is indeed a fine child. How do you come to have him, Merit-Amun?”
“I was bathing at the river, and one of my maids saw the basket caught in the rushes and brought it to me. He was crying so pitifully when we opened it, I could not help but pick him up.” She tossed her head. “I have given him the perfect name. Ra-Moses. Mother, he is a gift to me from the gods. Today they have made me a mother. I know this is true.”
Staring at the floor painted to look like a river, Jochebed heard another set of footsteps, heavy sounding, approaching briskly.
“Ramses, Horus incarnate, Protector of Egypt, Great in Victories, King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Beloved of Amun, summons the eldest daughter to his throne room. She is to bring the child which she drew from the water’s edge.”
Heart thudding, Jochebed realized she was with the royal family. Mercy, Lord. Her son was in the grasp of the family wanting him dead.
Worse yet, although she knew nothing of royal families, she didn’t think it was a good sign that the father commanded the presence of the princess using so many of his royal names and none of Merit-Amun’s.
“Tell my husband she hears and obeys,” Nefertari said.
When the heavy footsteps could no longer be heard, Jochebed saw Merit-Amun’s feet with their red-painted nails pacing across the room.
“What shall I do, Mother?”
“Why do you wish to keep this child, Merit-Amun?”
The smell of perfume moved closer, and Jochebed guessed the girl’s mother stood nearby. Jochebed clamped her lips together against the nausea that soured her mouth and threatened to spill out. Either royal could demand she leave or order her son killed. The pharaoh must not be angered.
“What is he to you, a momentary distraction, a way to annoy your father?”
“I hardly understand it myself, Mother.”
The girl’s tone had warmed and softened. Sincerity blushed within her voice. Jochebed tried to hear the meaning tucked between the words.
“I believe, with all my being, the gods gave me this child, my own Ra-Moses.”
Jochebed winced. Moses was not that woman’s, or was he? Did the Lord have a plan for her son so incredible that Moses required two mothers, one to give him life and one to let him live? Her head hurt too much to try to understand. She simply wanted her son to live.
“Very well. Do exactly as I say, Daughter.”
Through sheer will, Ramses kept his face impassive. The messenger backed away as if anxious to be out of reach. Although Ramses said nothing, rage emanated from every royal pore.
Ramses gritted his teeth until his jaw began to ache. Forcing himself to loosen his grip from the chair’s arms, he fought to clear his mind. She had gone too far this time. Right now he’d gladly feed both of them, daughter and infant, piece by piece to Sobek, the crocodile god.
Merit-Amun, this daughter of Nefertari’s, who could have been her mother’s twin even with her odd-colored eyes, was the antithesis of her mother in personality, temperament, and good sense. The girl did not think of consequences past her daily pedicure.
Ramses rubbed the bony ridge of his nose. He would not fall for her wide-eyed trickery. If he had gone to her quarters, she may have hidden the child and pled her innocence. No, he had ordered her to appear before him with the child. Even Merit-Amun dared not disobey a direct command.
Ramses waited, his face set like stone, for his daughter to appear. Guards stood near, ready to dispose of the infant and restrain Merit-Amun if necessary. He would not be mocked in his own palace. How dare she flaunt her will in his presence?
Head lowered, she approached, carrying the child as commanded. She knelt and kissed the ground before gracefully standing, lifting her head to face him.
Ramses’s eyes widened. Nefertari stood in front of him. Even he had not realized how similar mother and daughter now looked. She did not move closer as was her right. She stood, looking at him steadily, presuming nothing. She, he thought, is a woman of wisdom.
“Nefertari?”
“My lord, you are kind beyond all measure. Forgive my foolishness, I beg of you.”
“Speak, beloved.”
“All power is yours, my husband, even the right of life and death. I ask you, Great One, for the life of this child.”
“A Hebrew boy?” Ramses’s eyes darkened. “What use do you have for such a one?”
“My lord, I have asked my maids who insist Hebrews circumcise their infants when they are eight days old. This boy is at least three months, and no knife has touched him. It is possible he is not of the shepherd people.”
“Is this true? He is not Hebrew?” Ramses narrowed his eyes. “He was found in the river, was he not?”
“Our daughter believes he is a gift from the gods. Perhaps he even carries Egyptian blood, the child of a Syrian slave girl, or the son of another captive. Truly, my love, I cannot say, but if he is a gift from the river god, I fear to refuse the bounty.”
Ramses felt himself begin to weaken. He could not say no to this woman who was unfailingly compliant, never asking anything of him, seemingly grateful just to be in his presence.
He leaned forward and motioned her closer. “Nefertari”—he lowered his voice—“do you want more children?”
“Only yours, my lord.”
The love shining from her eyes gave him no reason to doubt her sincerity.
He sat back. “What shall you do with this child?” Ramses knew he would acquiesce to her wishes, but for appearances he delayed his answer. After all, he was king.
“I shall give him to our daughter, who has employed a woman to care for him until he is weaned or about three years of age. My dear, I think it will settle Merit-Amun, having a child to think of instead of only herself.”
“And the woman is…?”
“Here in the palace. She is Hebrew, my lord.”
Ramses touched the beard of kingship, thinking again how it itched and wishing he could scratch beneath it.
“Nefertari, I give you the life of the child on one condition. This woman must care for him in her own village until he is weaned. I will not abide a Hebrew under my roof.”
“I hear and obey, my dear one. It shall be as you wish.” Nefertari bowed her head.
A commotion at the entrance to the throne room caused Ramses to look up. Merit-Amun approached him slowly, kneeling and kissing the ground. When she stood, she kept her head lowered respectfully, waiting for permission to speak.
“Yes?” Ramses’s tone did not invite argument.
“Father, if you will grant the life of this child, I pledge to you that I will oversee his training. I will take care that he never brings shame on your name but will equal you in prowess and education so he may serve you all his days.”
“So be it. I have given only one condition. Your mother will explain. Now go.”
The women bowed, backing away, and did not see the glint of satisfaction in Ramses’s eyes. Foolish women. By agreeing the child would be raised in the Hebrew woman’s village, they had virtually assured it would die. Infant mortality was remarkably high. And if by chance the child possessed the strength to live, perhaps he was Egyptian after all and maybe a gift from the gods.
He—Ramses congratulated himself—was the shrewdest of tacticians. Time would unravel the truth of this child, if it, unfortunately, survived.