Are you certain we are safe here?” Remembering my conversation with Eben about the marauding tribes that called this wilderness home, fear prickled up my neck as I looked up at the sheer cliffs that loomed over us.
Shira pointed farther up the wadi, where a few scattered trees and chest-high grasses choked our view of the stream. “Eben said there are three lookouts up there, and they will alert us to any dangers.” She elbowed me with a smile, trying to lighten my mood, which had been at the bottom of a well since Eben and I parted ways yesterday. “There are men stationed all over the place, Kiya. We are fine. Let’s wash and then see what we can find.”
It was almost a relief that Eben had left after the morning meal, called to a meeting once again. Rumors of spies among the traders were rampant, and a few stragglers had gone missing over the last couple of days as we made our way through rocky canyons, group by group. The air seemed to crackle with anxiety as we waited to move along, nearly as much as it had on the beach by the sea when we waited for Pharaoh.
Zerah had asked us to look for plants for dyes here in this narrow canyon where a small stream wound a twisted path among the rocks. She hoped we might have a bit of time before the Levites were told to move to the next stage of our journey.
Zerah had promised to teach me to weave. I was fascinated by the swirl of her distaff as she spun and the complicated patterns forming on her looms. Excitement built in me as I considered which plants would create the most vibrant colors. The desert yielded a surprising abundance if one knew where to look—henna, dye-weed, indigo—all useful for making paints for Jumo as well.
My mother walked with Shira and me, saying she was desperate for a wash in the stream after many days of little water. Jumo hobbled along, too, slowly picking his way behind us across the uneven ground, a short sword hanging at his side.
Yesterday evening he and Eben had practiced swordplay before our meal, and I had resisted the urge to protest. His encumbered limbs prevented him from doing much more than basic defense. Yet Eben had encouraged him at every step, and Jumo’s smile bore witness to his pleasure at being treated like a man instead of a child.
He found a nearby rock to sit on, his crutches across his lap, and focused on the sun hanging low in the sky. What was going through his mind? If only he were able to express with freedom what was in his heart. I knew him, I could see that he was enjoying the beauty of creation, studying it. The sharp attention to detail that was so evident in his paintings made him aware of every leaf, every flower, every stray ray of sunlight.
Every so often, he pointed out a plant to us as we searched, his keen eyes finding them long before anyone else could see, even while he still sat on his rock.
Shira found some roots, and we used pointed sticks to dig around the edible tubers. My mother ventured farther down the stream to wash. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as we worked. Shira went to find a private place to relieve herself, a constant frustration for all of us. She went back the way we had come and disappeared behind a boulder.
Shira had asked me nothing about my time with Eben yesterday but had fawned over the lyre he had given me, exclaiming that it was one of his finest instruments. The comparison made my heart ache worse, for he had made this exquisite gift for me and offered it to me along with a tender caress—a wordless admission of his attraction to me, and I had repaid him by rejecting his god.
Must I throw away everything in my heritage to love him? Must I submit to a god I feared?
I knew the answer; Shira had told me that they were only to marry other Hebrews, that there had been dire consequences when that direction was not obeyed. Eben could not marry me. He would be forbidden by the elders to do so.
And just like Shefu had reluctantly agreed to marry Tekurah, Eben would marry another. And just like Shefu, I knew that Eben would not fight against the command. His loyalty to his people and to Yahweh was too great. Any affection between us would be sacrificed.
The promise of deep friendship—of love—with Eben that I had glimpsed yesterday afternoon during our lesson had been a mirage, yet my thirst for it was acute.
Had I been wrong? Eben seemed to think Yahweh had called me here into this desert, pulled me along on this journey for some purpose. Jumo had received some sort of dream telling him to come with the Hebrews, but I had come of my own will. Hadn’t I?
Even my mother seemed drawn to Yahweh; many times a day I noticed her watching the Cloud, her face a mixture of awe and peace. Did my mother hear the call of Eben’s god as well?
The sun was very low in the sky, painting the rocks around us red. I told Jumo we needed to head back to camp, and he agreed.
I called out to my mother and began gathering our plants and tubers into a basket. She did not answer.
I called again.
Only silence returned.
A deep chill shot up my spine. “Jumo, where’s Mother?”
Eyes wide, he shook his head.
I walked downstream, my feet in the cool water. It flowed shallow here, bubbling on the many rocks. Twenty paces along, I saw her, facedown in the stream, black hair flowing around her, blood and water staining her white-linen dress crimson.
I tried to scream but no sound came forth, only a strangled cry drowned out by the frantic heartbeat pounding in my ears. I struggled to turn her over. Her body was limp and heavy.
“No. No. No. Mother!”
Her graceful throat was slit. Lips white and parted. Her eyes—so like my own—open and unseeing.
I opened my mouth, a desperate howl forming somewhere near the bottom of my soul, but then someone put an arm around my neck. How did Jumo find me so quickly? The arm tightened, my air supply squeezed. I tore at the arm with my fingernails, but my efforts did nothing to relieve the pressure.
Six men, all with veiled faces, surrounded me with crudely fashioned swords in their hands. One of those swords had killed my mother. One of these men had stolen her from me and from Jumo.
I struggled against the one who held me, kicking at his shins, biting at the hand that covered my mouth. I managed to slide out of his hold for a moment, but he seized me again with an iron grip.
“Quiet, girl, or you will end up like that beauty,” a voice rasped into my ear. He spoke my language but with an unfamiliar accent.
When I obeyed, he unwrapped his arm from around my throat, turning me around as he did. I gasped as precious air tore into my lungs.
“My, my. So very lovely.” He stroked my cheek, and I closed my eyes against the lurid intimacy of the gesture. Nausea welled in my throat. My fate may very well be worse than my mother’s.
One of the men came up behind my captor and spoke quietly into his ear.
“All right, you have a deal. I believe you may have a good point. The other one was wasted. Take her and tie her up—tight. She’s a slippery one. We can’t let such a delicate flower escape into the desert, now, can we?”
The second man grasped my arm and put a familiar ivory-handled dagger at my throat. “Come.”
I pulled against his grip and twisted around to look at him. The man’s face was swathed in a dirty woolen scarf, but the eyes that greeted me were blue as the morning sky.