Counted With the Stars (23 page)

My understanding of creation was so drastically different—so many gods took credit for building the world and certainly none had done so to bring delight to mankind. I had never heard of a god wanting to have fellowship with men, to cherish them like children. As if he were an adoring father.

“But Elohim knows the end from the beginning, and he had already arranged a plan to bring us back together. Instead of killing HaAdam and Chavah as they deserved, in an act of pure grace, he made them leave the garden, so they would not live forever and eat of the Tree of Life in their sinful state. He made the first of the sacrifices with his own hand, spilled the first blood to cover their shame and spoke of a Coming One who would defeat HaSatan, the adversary, and his followers. It is this story that is written in the stars, and it is this story that the Egyptians changed and replaced with gods of their own making.”

He pointed to the eastern horizon. “There is the constellation known to Egypt as the woman Shes-Nu with her desired son in her lap, but in our language she is Bethulah, the virgin waiting for the Promised One. In her right hand she holds the
bright star Tsemech, the Branch, for out of Avraham's sons will come a Branch who will rejoin the people to Elohim. Another star in Bethulah is Bezah, the despised, but in Hebrew we call it Asmeath, or sin offering, for the shedding of blood is necessary, as it was in the Garden. An innocent—a perfect sacrifice must be made to pay the penalty for our sin. It covers our shame, if only for a time, for it must be repeated time and time again.”

All my life, I had been told that animals must be sacrificed to appease the gods, to please them and coerce them to answer our prayers. But this god called Elohim, or Yahweh as I now knew him, asked for sacrifice not to please himself or to be appeased, but as a gift to his people, to cover their sins.

Eben's rich voice filled me with longing and warmed me, even in the cool of the desert evening. I could listen to him tell stories all night. He looked up at the stars as he spoke, pointing to the constellations along the horizon and above our heads. The stars were as familiar to me as my own family members, reared as I was on the stories of the gods and their movements in the heavens, but Eben's words changed my realities. The tales Egypt had assigned to the stars seemed almost absurd compared to the depth of meaning that Elohim designed when he placed them in the sky.

“Smat, as the Egyptians call him, or the one who rules—we call him Bo, for he comes to tread underfoot the Adversary with a sickle and spear in his hand. Then there is Tulku, the sacred mound of your creation myth.” He gestured to me and I flinched, strangely resentful that he'd included me as a purveyor of those legends. “Tulku in Hebrew is called Mozahaim, the scales which weigh our deeds and show us wanting. There is a price to be paid now, a ransom to be bought. Each time a sacrifice is given and blood is spilled, it is a reminder that we owe a debt to the Righteous One and that one day, a greater sacrifice will be made.”

The fire burned out, leaving only glowing embers. Shoshana slept curled against her mother's shoulder, and Zayna lay cradled in Eben's arms, long ago lulled to sleep by his soft words.

I should not be jealous of a little girl, but I wanted more stories from Eben's lips about the stars. I ached to lie against his chest and enjoy the resonance of his words against my cheek. After two years of longing for nothing more than freedom, at this moment, I wished more than anything to be locked in Eben's arms.

30
TH
DAY
OUT
OF
E
GYPT

I
t's like being followed around for days with wagons full of freshly baked bread at your back and being forbidden from touching it.” Shira released an exasperated groan.

Even perennially optimistic Shira could not stave off the frustration of consuming hunger. “There are thousands of cows and sheep swirling around us all the time.” She threw down the knife she had been using to scrape the meager flesh off a leg bone.

Eben and some of the other men had managed to encircle a weakened oryx and bring it down. Once it had been divided among the men involved, all that was left to feed our whole group was a leg.

It might have been better to have nothing.

After three days of no food, my empty stomach had stopped complaining. Fatigue and weakness told my mind that my body was hungry, but my stomach did not protest. After tasting the meat, even such a meager portion, the pain of hunger would roar back to life. Once again it would be my constant travel companion.

Shira took the meat she'd removed from the bone and placed
it in a pot of water, already scalding from sitting in the midst of the flames. The broth might help satiate and trick our minds into believing our stomachs were full, at least for an hour or two. I ached for a few vegetables—some leeks or cabbage to add to the thin broth.

“Perhaps the children might have some luck looking for small reptiles among the rocks,” I said.

Disgust marred her delicate features. “No! Yahweh does not want us eating reptiles.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know, but we've always been told that it's forbidden.”

She sat on the ground and stared into the campfire, arms folded across her knees, her face void of any emotion. Was she dreaming of food like I was?

When I was thirsty, before Mosheh turned the bitter waters sweet, all I could think of was water. But there was plenty now—every jug, every skin-bag filled at the stream—and although it was rationed, I did not ache for it as before.

Therefore, free to dwell on the gnaw of my stomach, I fantasized about the banquets I had enjoyed in my parents' villa . . . was it really all that long ago? Roasted beef, goose, and fish fresh from the Nile, accompanied by the choicest baked apples laden with cinnamon, spiced pears, fresh cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, garlic—and fresh breads of every variety, warm from the ovens and stuffed with apricots, raisins, and dates. By the third day away from the edge of the now-sweet springs and without a full meal, my daydreaming turned to more meager fare. Even the plates of plain bread and a small fish accompanied by watery beer in Tekurah's home seemed like a paradise lost.

Zerah and Eben had already used the goats and sheep for food, the last animal sacrificed on the edge of the bitter stream to celebrate the miracle and the salvation of the girls. There
was no more meat left among us, only what could be hunted in the desert.

Millions of people tromping through the hunting grounds did little to help the men forage for food. They were forced to travel out a few miles, away from the main group, to find animals not frightened away by the large human contingent. Eben traded as many wares as possible for food and grains, but we were not the only ones scraping the bottom of our reserves.

Shoshana sidled up to me. “I'm hungry, Kiya.”

“Me, too, sweetness.” I petted her hair, so like Eben's with its dark waves. Was his as soft as Shoshana's?

“Why won't Mosheh let us use the rest of the animals for meat?”

“There are just too many of us. If we all started butchering animals with abandon, there wouldn't be any left.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess Mosheh knows what he's doing.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I certainly hope so; this group is not going to last much longer without meat. There is going to be rebellion.”

She nodded slowly, her large brown eyes too aged for her small face. “My aunt and uncle are saying we should have never left Egypt, where the rivers were full of fish and fowl. My aunt even said it would have been better to die there than out here in the wilderness, where our bodies will be food for the jackals.”

“At least someone will be eating,” I said, then clamped my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide at the carelessness of my words.

Shoshana's little-girl laugh suddenly echoed off the rocks around us on the hillside.

I let loose, and we laughed together until my sides hurt. Morbid as it was, it felt good to smile again. When we finally
calmed down and wiped the tears out of our eyes, she laid her head against my arm.

“I'm still hungry, though,” she said.

“Me, too.” I tapped my chin. “How about we do something else to keep our minds off food?”

“What can we do?” she asked, interest piqued.

“You know, I am impressed with how you can play the lyre.”

“Do you want to learn?” Her eyes twinkled.

“Do you think you can teach me?”

“Eben says I will be a great teacher.”

“Well then.” I spread my arms wide. “Here is your first student.”

We perched on an enormous boulder on the edge of camp. I had never played a musical instrument before, and I was as eager to learn as she was to teach. We spent the entire afternoon playing the lyre. By the time Shira came to find us, my fingers were numb and it was dusk, but I played Shira a simple tune while Shoshana sang.

Shira smiled gently. “That is one of my favorite lullabies. Our mother sang that to us every night when we were little.”

“It is lovely. What do the words mean?” I had picked up some Hebrew words, but many still eluded me.

“It says: As the stars in the sky, as the sand on the sea, so I will make your people, if you will follow only me.”

I put the lyre down on the rock beside me. The sun was slipping behind the curtain of dusk. One or two bright stars to the north already blinked the sleep out of their eyes, soon to be joined by millions of their brothers. And around us, campfires and torches were bursting into bright existence against the dusk. Stars in the sky. That term certainly seemed to fit the teeming mass of people and tents and animals.

“That was the promise given to Avraham, the father of our people,” Shira said.

There were millions here; I could imagine that after generations, they possibly could rival the number of stars in the heavens. Especially if others, like us, joined in.

Would I ever be counted as one of the stars? Perhaps if Eben—?

No.
How could I even think such a thing? I was drawn to Eben, pulled by a force that left me breathless at times. But he still considered me his enemy, didn't he? He stayed away, across the fire from me, never sitting too near, never walking too close.

Yet at night, through the flickering curtain of the campfire, our eyes met again and again. A brief glance, then one more, and each time, the glances became longer, more lingering, each of us attempting to pretend that we weren't watching the other. The silent dance we performed each night intoxicated me, and I could barely wait for the sun to go down, to drink in more.

He said nothing to me outside of the mundane travel conversation, but even small talk made my stomach flutter. I assigned a thousand deeper meanings to every simple word and every brief glance.

His friendship with Jumo had grown stronger. They were almost inseparable. It bothered me sometimes, but then guilt tugged at me. How could I begrudge my brother a friendship?

Most of my life I had been my brother's only friend, his champion, his protector. I knew him like no other person. He loved me, but now it seemed like he preferred Eben's company to mine. Since Eben was almost pointed in his avoidance of me, Jumo followed suit. Whether it was purposeful or not did not matter. I was jealous—and it was not only Jumo's attention I coveted.

A bird flew over me, swooping low, missing my head by mere inches. Then another twittered as it passed to the left, streaking by in a flurry of brown and white. I twisted my body around on the boulder and gasped.

When the flies and locusts had invaded Egypt, I had watched them swarm across the horizon, but the sight of millions of birds in one enormous flock swooping down into the valley around us was indescribable.

Shira, Shoshana, and I lay flat on the rock, covering our heads with our hands, but peeking out through tangled hair and trembling fingers.

A bird landed in front of us, hitting the ground so hard feathers sprayed high into the air. They were mottled brown-and-white quail, and all of them—there must be millions—were wildly spiraling to their deaths all over the camp. People shielded themselves with jars or baskets, or hid beneath wagons.

Some quail managed to slow their descent and hovered low before alighting on any available perch. Birds covered the ground. Many people braved the onslaught to grab as many as they could carry, stuffing carcasses into the baskets and jars they had been using as shields.

When the invasion stopped and mothers were assured no more missiles would be careening out of the sky, children emerged from their hiding places and, squealing with delight, began to net as many quail as they could with their linens and blankets.

The invaders were already being defeathered and roasted over thousands upon thousands of campfires as we picked our way through camp. The rich smell wafted all around, teasing a loud growl from my dormant stomach.

When our bellies were full almost to overflowing, and another evening of Eben and I avoiding glances above the pop and spark of glowing embers of the dying campfire was finished, my mother asked me about Eben.

Usually she fell asleep long before me, but tonight she was
restless. The stars twinkled through the flap of the tent, and I was considering them once again when she spoke in a hushed voice.

“What is between the two of you?” she asked.

My mother was intuitive; I should have guessed she would notice. There was no cause to deny it.

“Truthfully, I am not sure,” I whispered, avoiding her eye even in the dark.

“Has he approached you?”

“No.”

“And why not?” She seemed curiously offended.

“We have been wandering around aimlessly starving to death—is it really the time for such a thing?”

“Perhaps not.” Her tone cooled.

“And I am not . . .”

“You are not what?”

“I am not Hebrew.”

“What does that matter?” I could almost hear her glare in the blackness.

“Shira says that Yahweh wants them to only marry their own.”

She snorted. “For what reason?”

“She said it has something to do with other gods.”

“Is Yahweh afraid of other gods?” she asked.

“No, we've all seen how powerful he is. I don't think it's fear.”

“What then?”

“The way Shira describes it is that Yahweh refuses to let his people follow any other gods. With intermarriage comes intermixing of gods.”

“Isn't it foolish to just have one god? What if that one fails? It's only smart to protect yourself by worshipping as many gods as one can afford.”

“Well, we haven't been able to afford many sacrifices in the
last couple of years, Mother, do you really think any of them are protecting you anymore?”

“I'm not sure.” Even in the dark, I could see she was holding Shefu's necklace and stroking it with her thumb. Hathor, the goddess of love, was ever present around her neck.

“Shira's god brought us out of Egypt and through the Red Sea, gave us fresh water, and quail stacked knee-high—what more do you need?” I asked.

“Some bread would be nice.”

We giggled quietly in the dark, and I was glad that it felt natural and free to be laughing with my mother. Somehow it seemed as though the journey through the sea had washed my heart of bitterness toward her and filled the empty places with a soothing tranquility. Strange that although we still wandered in a desert of uncertainty, I had never felt more at home.