Chapter 13

Genesis 42:35

The sun was sinking slowly below the horizon, setting the sky ablaze, as the caravan returned. First the excited voices of little children heralded the approach of the familiar line of lumbering camels led by their weary masters; then the women began ducking from the tents, some pulled along by tiny impatient feet, others talking and walking together, wrapping their woolen shawls more heavily around their shoulders to protect against the coming chill of desert night. One of the women, with silver streaks spreading through her once-dark hair, moved more slowly now, as if physically burdened by being the only woman in the camp whose memory stretched back to the days when there had been twelve brothers.

She heard the approaching footsteps and turned, smiling, as a curly-haired man took her tenderly by the arm. His beard was still dark and full, not yet brushed with the silver that had crept upon his brothers.

“How is Father?” Dinah asked.

“Resting,” Benjamin told her. “I’ll tell him they’ve returned when he awakens.”

In the dying light, the travelers were mere shadows against the darkening sky, with those who approached listing away into shadows themselves. Dinah squinted as she and Benjamin drew closer, hearing the chatter of the women and children (some of whom were young men and women now themselves), eager to see their returning husbands and fathers. Benjamin scooped up one of his sons and kept moving toward his brothers, but Dinah slowed and stood, watching the families embracing. As she stood, she saw her brother Judah, standing alone, unharnessing the provisions from his camel’s back as the animal stood, chewing lazily, with a thin wisp of spittle dangling from its mouth.

Dinah moved toward him.

“You’re back at last,” she said.

Judah turned.

And she stopped, staring at him in the darkness—seeing, suddenly, a flash of a much younger Judah’s face, the raw horror in his eyes and the hoarse confession in his voice—

“What is it?” she asked.

Judah reached out, taking his sister’s hand. “Simeon was kept behind,” he said, voice low, “but he’s alive. He’s alive.”

Dinah stared at him.

“We were accused of being spies.” Judah closed his eyes, putting his free hand up to his head. “I don’t know why. Simeon has to stay until we return.” He couldn’t look at her. “With Benjamin. We have to take Benjamin.”

Dinah stood, eyes fixed on her older brother’s worn, weary face, and the voices around her suddenly seemed to be swirling, stumbling—

Benjamin, who had glanced back, set down his son and moved through the gathering crowd. Judah glanced over his shoulder as Benjamin approached.

“Are you all right?” Benjamin asked, touching Dinah on the shoulder.

Dinah looked at him. “Simeon was kept behind.”

“We were accused of being spies,” Judah said, already weary of telling the story. “We’ll go back for him. It’s a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” Now Benjamin was staring at him. “Where is he?”

“He’ll be fine.” Judah turned to his camel, hoping his own uncertainty had not bled into his voice. “Help me unload some of this.” Benjamin reached up to help Judah balance the heavy sack of grain.

“The officials”—Judah’s voice was dark on the word—“want some sort of proof that we are brothers, not spies. Our numbers made them suspicious.” He swung the sack heavily to the ground with a muffled thud, and though it took him a moment even to realize that he had heard the faint jangling sound, he stopped and peered down at the sack.

“They want you to go back,” Dinah said.

“Me?” Benjamin sounded incredulous. “Why?”

Judah was untying the heavy rope sealing the top of the grain sack. “Someone told them about you,” he said. “They seem to think that you’ll prove whether we’re actually a family, not whatever they think we are.” The rope flopped onto the ground, and Judah ruffled the sack open. And stared.

A smaller bag was nestled comfortably within the mouth of the sack, poking up from where it had worked its way into the grains over the jostlings of the journey. Benjamin and Dinah looked down as well, then glanced at each other. Slowly stooping, Judah clenched his fist around the mouth of the smaller bag and pulled it out, sending trickling streams of grain down the tiny creases in the material. He looked back in the direction of his other brothers, but they were all speaking to each other and their families and eagerly unloading their own sacks, entirely unaware of the strange new devilry at work.

“So,” Judah murmured, gazing at the offending bag clutched in his hand, “he plans to torment us still.”

“If you think I had a better choice,” Joseph said, arms crossed, facing his brother, “tell me what it was.” He was older, taller than he had been when he and Judah had chased lambs together, when Judah had assured him that in time things would get better.

Judah said quietly, “You’ll make enemies, if they think you’ll always run to Father—”

“They’re Father’s flocks,” Joseph snapped, “and if his own sons are stealing from him—”

“You know,” Judah said, stepping closer, “they don’t trust you. You have to understand how they see it, not just”—he altered his voice—“the higher moral principle involved.” He stuck a finger against Joseph’s chest, where the folds of Joseph’s robe did not cover the tunic beneath. “You have to think about the whole family. If we come apart—”

“Unity at any cost,” Joseph said, “will destroy us, too.” He glared at Judah. “What would you have done, if Father had sent you and you saw that they were trading the sheep for themselves?” His voice was gaining a harder edge. “Ask them to stop?”

“As the birthright son,” Judah said, “you should consider your position once Father is gone.”

They faced each other over the barren ground.

“It would be easier,” Joseph said at last, “if you helped me to stand up to them.” He waited, but Judah said nothing. “Our brothers respect you,” Joseph said, his voice quieter. “They look up to you.”

“I don’t want to be involved.”

“We’re all involved.” Joseph narrowed his eyes. “You just don’t want to help.”

“Joseph,” Judah said and then took a slow breath before speaking. “You need to be careful.” He grew quiet. “They weren’t doing what they did because they thought it was right.” He paused. “You have to try to understand them, even if you don’t like them.”

“It’s not disliking them,” Joseph said. “It’s distrusting them.”

“Especially if you distrust them,” Judah said, “you have to try to understand what they want. You can’t just”—he waved a hand—“condemn them, accuse them. You can’t overpower them just by arguing, even if Father supports you.”

“So what would you do?” Joseph crossed his arms. “Negotiate a share of the profits?”

“No,” Judah said, sounding impatient. “Watch them. Figure out what they want. Everybody wants something.” He held out an open palm. “Everyone has a price.”

Joseph looked at him.

Judah, waiting in the quiet, looked back.

Joseph turned and walked away.