Miriam (6 page)

One of Mered's wives gave birth to Miriam, Shammai and Ishbah….(His wife from the tribe of Judah gave birth to Jered…Heber…and Jekuthiel….)These were the children of Pharaoh's daughter Bithiah, whom Mered had married.

—1
C
HRONICLES 4:17–18

M
iriam tightened her grip on the small bag of barley and leaned heavily on her walking stick, praying her visit with Aaron's wife Elisheba would go well. More than Taliah's future depended on it.

In the two weeks since the first slave master sought out Taliah, two more guards had come looking. Thankfully, the girl's leg had healed sufficiently for her to hobble up the interior ladder and hide on the roof. Eleazar continued to share his and Hoshea's rations morning and night, but if Taliah was in the room, he often dropped the bundle and left.

His attempts to contact Putiel had been delayed by his added responsibilities in Hoshea's absence, and anytime Miriam mentioned finding a husband for Taliah, Eleazar made an excuse to leave or changed the subject. Miriam interpreted his avoidance as confirmation that he was attracted to the spirited girl. With El Shaddai still silent, Miriam was forced to her own scheming. Eleazar just needed a little push to realize how much he truly cared for Taliah.

The sun had descended into its late-afternoon haze when Miriam reached the edge of the waste dump and heard a black kite caw overhead. The winged scavenger landed on the mound of waste to forage its evening meal from the scant remains of the land of Goshen. Hebrews had dwelt here since the days of Joseph—over four hundred years—but now shared the most fertile banks of the Nile with the new city of Rameses. The king's palace complex, industrial buildings, and noblemen's villas perched along the curved Pelusiac branch of the Nile. His fine, glittering city beckoned those sailing along the Nile, while the humble dwellings, waste dumps, and brick yards of Goshen were hidden along the straight base of the desert plateau behind his glitz and glory.

Miriam leaned on her walking stick to rest, scanning what was once a quiet Delta estate. Her long house was among those in the southernmost corner of Goshen where the Nile and plateau met. Her neighbors, like Miriam, had inherited their homes from what used to be Avaris's village for skilled craftsmen.

She set off again with a sigh. Now skilled workers from the Israelite tribes of Levi, Manasseh, and Ephraim settled together northeast of Miriam's village, beyond three large dikes and planting fields. “Why must everything change?” she asked no one in particular.

After crossing the first dike, she saw a young ima with her baby strapped to her chest. Miriam had delivered that babe a few weeks ago. Shovel in hand, the weary woman worked with other slaves to widen a canal for the swelling waters of inundation. She lifted her eyes and smiled at Miriam. They dared not wave for fear of the slave master's whip.

Miriam hurried her pace, anxious to see her sister-in-law. Elisheba and Aaron lived with their older sons, Nadab and Abihu. Their oldest boys had been trained in Aaron's skill. They walked to and from the metal shop each day, creating jewelry, goblets, and trinkets for the king and for trade. Elisheba worked as a house slave for a peasant's wife in their village, a shrew of a woman who thought herself as noble as Queen Isetneferet. Miriam hoped to bribe the grouchy peasant with the barley she carried and speak to Elisheba long enough to force her answer.
Taliah needs a husband.

On the day after the first slave driver sought out Taliah, Miriam had sought out Elisheba to suggest a betrothal for Taliah with one of Aaron's older sons. She knew she needn't wait for Aaron's return or his approval since Elisheba had been making all the important decisions in that household since she and Aaron were betrothed nearly seventy years ago. As expected, Elisheba had an immediate answer. “Nadab and Abihu are important men among the tribe of Levi, Miriam. I must have time to contemplate your request.”

Important men? Contemplate? Nadab and Abihu were spoiled old men whom Elisheba had coddled to revulsion. No abba in Israel would offer his daughter as a bride to either of Aaron's preening sons. Miriam had given Elisheba two weeks to
contemplate
the betrothal—not that Miriam was anxious for Taliah to marry either of her oldest nephews. She really hoped Eleazar would discover one of his brothers had agreed to marry Taliah and would be so overcome with jealousy that he'd marry the girl himself. It was a risk, but Miriam could think of no other way to press Eleazar into declaring his true feelings.

As Miriam neared the village, she saw Elisheba bent over a new basket, weaving a final braid of papyrus around the top. Ima Jochebed had taught both her daughter and daughter-in-law the art of basketry before her hands and body had become too frail.

With a deep breath and renewed determination, Miriam closed the distance between them. “Shalom, Elisheba.”

The woman shaded her eyes from the evening sun. “Shalom, Miriam. Do you bring word of my husband's return?”

“I'm sorry, no. Eleazar hasn't heard anything from Aaron or Hoshea.”

“Then I have no time to talk.” Elisheba returned to her basket weaving.

“I brought barley for your lady. Surely, she'll allow us a few moments to conclude our betrothal business.”

“There is no betrothal business.” She continued braiding papyrus without further explanation.

Miriam steadied her breathing, determined not to lose her temper. “Did you even consult Nadab and Abihu, or did you make this decision for them—as usual?”

She set aside the basket, eyes blazing. “You have no idea what it takes to raise children, Miriam.”

The words wounded—as intended—but Miriam gritted her teeth to keep silent.

Elisheba tilted her head, assuming an air of instruction. “You see, Miriam, as an ima it's my responsibility to ensure my sons' future happiness.”

“You've stolen enough of your sons' future to secure your own happiness, Elisheba.”

Miriam's words hit her sister-in-law like a slap, bringing Elisheba to her feet. “My sons will never marry a filthy harem concubine.”

“Taliah was not a concubine!” Miriam shouted, turning the heads of others working outside their homes. “Taliah was handmaid to a ten-year-old son of Pharaoh. She was tutored by the finest minds of Egypt to help a prince with his lessons. She is bright and beautiful and far too competent for my oldest nephews.” Miriam turned and left Elisheba to her basket making, noting women's shielded whispers and stolen glances as she walked away.

Elisheba's
harrumph
propelled Miriam toward the next village. She'd wasted valuable time on a silly plan that might not have worked anyway. If only she'd felt El Shaddai's leading. She ached for His presence, His warm breath across her spirit.
El Shaddai, why have You been silent since giving me Pharaoh's dreams?
Four weeks felt like a lifetime when His presence had been life and breath to her. “Please, El Shaddai, I need to know You're here,” she whispered to the dust.

Silence answered.

Her feet carried her to the only other people who might help Taliah, but a nagging dread had become reality. The Egyptians weren't the only ones who'd believed the lie about Taliah. Had all the Hebrew gossips labeled the girl a concubine, or was it just an excuse Elisheba used to keep her precious sons under her thumb? Surely, Taliah's extended family would either take her in or find a husband for her when Miriam explained the girl's predicament.

Miriam hurried past more slaves and their task masters, pressed by the sinking sun. She'd barely taken two steps into the next village, when several young women bowed low with respect.

“Welcome, Miriam,” one girl said.

The other kissed her hand. “We are honored by your presence, prophetess.”

Such a fuss. Miriam touched their heads and spoke a short blessing over each one. Most residents in this village followed El Shaddai faithfully and had come to Miriam for dream interpretations or advice from the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They were descendants of the tribes of Judah, Issachar, and Naphtali—leaders of Israel, servants among the brethren, and preservers of the ancient songs.

Miriam lifted her hand over her brow to shield the sun, peering down the alley between two long houses and inspecting each doorway. Her dearest friends, Mered and Bithiah, had once lived here. Now their legacy filled the long houses to bursting. When Mered had dared hide the pharaoh's daughter in his home, change her name, and take her as his wife, building a life and family had seemed impossible. Now, as Miriam watched rows of families at work and play, she stood in awe of El Shaddai's marvelous plans and gained hope for Taliah's future.

“Miriam, my friend. Welcome!” The greeting came from behind her. She turned to find her old friend, Ednah, pushing herself from a stool outside her curtained doorway. “What brings you to our side of Goshen?”

Miriam fell into the woman's open arms, years of shared memories stripping away time between their visits. With a little squeeze, Miriam released Mered's daughter, now a great-grandmother. “You look well. How's your family?”

Ednah's once-bright eyes were now hooded with wrinkled lids, but the same genuine care shone through them. “The two oldest boys learned Ephraim's craft, of course, and are teaching their sons to weave as well. We've lost a few to field beatings and one in the brick lines, but the remaining children and grandchildren are healthy and strong. Our family has grown to thirty-two, but somehow El Shaddai provides for our daily needs. Ephraim would have been proud if he'd lived to see his family grow.”

“Your abba Mered would have been proud too,” Miriam said, hoping to remind Ednah of her family tie to Taliah. “Do you have much contact with your brother Jered's children?”

Ednah tilted her head, puzzled. “Of course. His family fills most of those three long houses,” she said, pointing. “Jered's son, Gedor, is chief linen keeper and one of the elders with your brother Aaron. But, of course, you know that.” Concern furrowed her brow. “What's this about, Miriam?”

“It's about Jered's fourth-born son, Putiel.” Miriam paused, fretting about how to present her request. “Actually, it's about Putiel's youngest daughter. Who should I speak to about making a match for her?”

Ednah's demeanor suddenly cooled. “I heard she was sent to the palace as a harem girl.”

“She was tutor to a ten-year-old prince.” Miriam heard the venom in her voice and regretted it when Ednah stepped back.

“You know our village is the most committed to El Shaddai of all.”

Miriam placed a calming hand on her arm. “I know, Ednah, I didn't mean—”

“Ten of Israel's fifty elders are men of Judah,” she said, pulling her arm away. “The women of Issachar gather spare cloth and deliver it to your door for bandages, and the men of Naphtali have maintained our ancestors' stories for generations. Miriam, we cannot defile our village with a woman of questionable virtue.”

“Questionable virtue like the pharaoh's daughter—my friend Bithiah, whom your abba married?”

Ednah threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin, stretching her neck like a strutting goose. “Ima Bithiah shunned Egyptian gods. She loved Abba Mered and loved his children.”

“Putiel's daughter is hungry for knowledge, and she loves children. Isn't there someone in this village who—”

“No.” Ednah's features grew hard. “There is no parent in this village who would join his son to a harem girl, nor a single man who would expose his children to a woman who worshiped idols.”

Miriam shivered at the cold-hearted righteousness of her friend. “You would let Taliah suffer the plateau? A woman alone?”

Ednah's hard exterior faltered only slightly. “Why not make her your assistant if she's so eager to learn?”

“How long before one of the slave masters ruins her? She needs a husband and a home so she can become a common Hebrew slave, not a prize to be vied for by the slave masters.” Miriam feared she might claw this woman's eyes out. “She has no idea what it means to be Hebrew, Ednah. Like Bithiah, she needs the love and patience of a man to teach her of El Shaddai's love. She doesn't need to be shunned by a family too busy being righteous to be compassionate.”

“If she's still of birthing age, perhaps the Reubenites and Simeonites would take her to bolster their decreasing numbers. Most of their men are field and brick slaves. They die quicker.”

Appalled at her friend's coldness, Miriam turned to go before she said something she'd regret. “Good-bye, Ednah.”

“Miriam, wait!” Ednah reached for her robe, tugging her back. “I know I sound harsh, but…” She twisted her hands and stared at the ground. “We have no wish to anger El Shaddai—or His prophetess. If our God reveals in a dream or vision that one of our men is to marry Taliah, we'll compel him to obey.”

Miriam didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Why must they wait to be compelled? Why couldn't compassion compel them? Miriam nodded and left the village saddened. The tribes she'd once thought the best place for Taliah now seemed worse than others. At least Elisheba hadn't tried to hide her bigotry under a finely woven veil of good deeds.

The sun glowed round and orange just above the hills across the Nile. So close, she might reach out and touch it. Brick makers and field slaves still labored as she made the long trek back to her village. Slave drivers paced impatiently, waiting for the last glimpse of the sun to disappear behind the hills so they could return to the city of Rameses, to their wives and children, their white linen robes, and their finely carved tables and chairs.

Miriam wiped sweat from her brow, still clutching the small sack of barley. At least they'd have barley for bread tonight. It was perhaps the only positive thing about her day.