Chapter 15

Genesis 37:23–24

My son.

His father’s face, warm and trusting.

I must ask something of you.

It was a simple task, only a day’s journey, and his father smiled as he left.

His father, who trusted him and loved him, even if his brothers taunted him otherwise—his brothers, who were jealous, and anxious, and eager to inherit and be their own men.

You must understand, his father had said, that there must always be one chosen for the birthright—one chosen for inheritance, for succession, for the covenant—

One chosen for sacrifice.

The boy lay alone, broken open to the harsh chill of the desert and the bleeding expanse of stars, enclosed on all sides by the earth that had received his body like a dead man’s.

His memory scrabbled over the broken pieces, stumbling, like a wounded thing—his robe, stained with his mouth’s blood, the cloth wailing, the knife driving in and out and the pieces of linen fluttering to the ground as he was dragged away, his arms bruised beneath their fingers.

He had struggled, thinking he could plead with them.

Then his body had collided with the wall of the well shaft, and he fell back, screaming.

A day, already, had passed. He knew that his brothers had stayed nearby at first because he’d heard them shuffling, murmuring in low snatches, but they had not answered his cries.

Now the desert was silent.

He lay staring up through the narrowed darkness. A trickle of water ran just beneath the surface of the dry well. He had worn the tips of his fingers raw from digging down toward it. Waves of nauseated hunger stirred him whenever he slipped, intermittently, into a place of no light.

His brothers had meant to kill him, but the knife intended for his throat had been turned instead to his robe, swift hands butchering the cloth as they would a sheep. He had simply been thrown away, the unusable, unclean remnants of the slaughter.

Reuben had begged the others not to hurt the boy, but he had been pushed aside, threatened with the same knife.

Don’t kill him.

He heard Judah’s voice in the tumult, felt his older brother seize him by the arm as he lay on the ground, his captors arguing like dogs over a carcass.

Don’t kill him—Judah was breathless—sell him.

Mercy in the form of slavery. Atonement by pieces of silver.

Joseph had seen his brother’s face in the moment before he was thrown away, and he saw Judah standing there, still, watching—

Just watching.

When the rope was lowered down to where he lay, Joseph stared at the dangling strands, uncomprehending, before he reached out, pawing at the rough, fraying ends. A voice shouted down, telling him to bind his wrists together. Fumbling with clumsy, swollen fingers, eventually he managed to obey.

With a jerk, his body was lifted off the ground, and he was hauled up out of the darkness, spitting as his face collided with the gravelly sides of the pit, wincing at the rope chafing against his wrists. Another pair of hands reached down and grabbed him under his arms and hauled him up over the edge, flooding his eyes with light and lowering his stinging body gently back to the earth. He tasted the rich trickle of fresh blood.

A man bent down, shielding his face from the flickering light. The boy heard voices speaking in a quick, chattering tongue. His eyes fluttered, and he saw the man, a stranger, who had hauled him up and was sitting crouched beside him, slowly winding a rope back into a coil. Had he expected his brothers? His eyes rolled back, and he could not speak. He lost all sense, and the world was darkness.

When he awakened again, he was lying on his side and no longer felt the scorch of the sun. He could still hear strange, muted voices talking to one another, as if coming from somewhere far away. As he tried to open his eyes, drawing more fully to the surface of consciousness, the voices became louder. He blinked, wincing, and felt a presence draw closer and crouch beside him. He felt a hand on his arm.

“Boy.” Blinking, forcing his eyes back open, Joseph looked up into a calm, weathered face. “Can you drink?” Joseph nodded, and the man turned, gesturing urgently. Someone handed over a water pouch, and the man offered it to Joseph’s lips, holding the slick opening against the boy’s mouth.

“How long were you down there?”

Swallowing, Joseph moved his mouth away from the water. “Two days,” he croaked.

The man gave a low whistle. “In this heat?” He was helping Joseph sit up. “You must have a lucky star.” Joseph, eyes still raw, squinted. He had been lying in the shadow of an accommodating camel, and the beast remained kneeling beside him, chewing thoughtfully. Looking around, still blinking, he saw half a dozen other loitering camels and half a dozen other men tending to their animals or speaking quietly to one another.

Then Joseph noticed another small group sitting by themselves.

He looked back at the man who had bent down beside him. “Did you find me?”

The man shook his head, waving a hand. “Some tribesmen found you.”

Joseph felt the dirt around his eyes as he squinted. “Who are you?”

The man smiled and gestured toward the horizon. “We are traveling to Kemet.” He paused, trying to ascertain whether Joseph had understood. “The Divided Land.”

Joseph felt his eyes turn again toward the small band seated together on the ground. One of the men was staring at him, while the others sat with their backs turned.

Sell him. Don’t kill him. Sell him.

Joseph heard the words echoing around his head like a cry in an empty cave.

“I thank you,” he swallowed again, tasting another sip of blood from his dried lips, “for saving me. My father will repay you. His camp is close,” he turned, pointing, “to the east . . .”

“We have come from the east.” The trader shook his head. “There are no camps.”

Joseph looked at him. “That’s impossible.”

“You’re disoriented.” The trader reached out, pressed a hand to Joseph’s forehead. “You’ve had a fever. There’s no one coming for you, boy. It’s just the desert.”

“Let me go,” Joseph snarled, moving from the man’s touch.

But the trader merely put a quieting hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “If I let you go,” he said, “you will die.”

“No,” Joseph shook his head, voice breaking, “it’s a mistake—my brothers . . .”

And then his eyes caught sight of his wrists, bloodied from the rope, and he looked down at his stomach, thin and caved, and how he was naked except for a small cloth wrapped around his hips. His brothers had left him nothing—no clothing, no family, no identity.

The trader looked at him—sadly, it seemed. “If your people come for you,” he said, “they may have you. But I cannot leave you here.”

He rose and snapped his fingers. One of the other men approached.

“Give the boy something to wear,” the trader said, “and some food.”

His fellow traveler nodded, moving away. After a moment, the man reached back down, holding out a hand. Joseph looked up at him; then, hesitantly, he allowed the trader to help him gently to his feet. “If my brothers did to me,” the man murmured, keeping one hand on Joseph’s arm to steady him, “what they have done to you, I might take my chances in Kemet.”

Joseph turned, looking back in the direction where his father’s camp should have been, but all he saw was the desert heat bending the trembling waves of light above the sand, hovering in the emptiness of the horizon.