Counted With the Stars (13 page)

T
ales that should never be told to children, legends of dark spirits roaming the blackness on the hunt for souls to devour—these stories had always fueled my fear of the dark.

Tonight the myths were real. The awareness that something lurked out there, something that truly would consume, pulsed through my body and pushed me forward. The whole of Egypt must sense the foreboding. No dogs barked. No birdsong greeted the twilight. Not the slightest breeze whispered through the broken trees.

The sandals Shefu had returned to me chafed, the papyrus scraping against my callused feet. The bondage of the straps was disconcerting after so many months of going barefoot. There was no time to remove them, so I pressed on. My little brown companion followed so close his muzzle bumped against my back whenever my pace slackened. The donkey, too, must sense the urgency.

How would I convince my mother to follow me? Would the bauble I wore around my neck persuade her to drop everything and flee?

Without a doubt, Jumo would agree to go. Although I was his younger sister, he trusted me implicitly. My mother adored Jumo, and for his safety, she must trust in the unknown and flee. She had only to understand the immediacy and the danger that lay ahead this night.

I wound through the city streets, hunting for my mother's house. Many months had passed since Tekurah had allowed a visit, and never at night. Homes, many burned-out by the storms and fires, haunted the streets like dark-eyed specters. I hoped my mother's stood intact. I searched for familiar landmarks, but in the waning light, nothing looked as I remembered.

Deserted streets met my every turn. All of the houses in this quarter of the city were so similar: mud and brick, a few venting windows at the top of the walls, most of them two stories . . . differentiating between them might be next to impossible. Pressing down panic and wishing I had a god to pray to, I turned the next corner.

Throwing a glance over my shoulder at the sunset, I gauged the time left to convince my mother to abandon everything she knew. Ra's boat hung low over the western horizon, silhouetting the pyramids in the distance.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized my mother's house. How I had found my way through the tangled maze was a mystery. Somehow my feet led me to her doorstep. The decoration around the doorway, painted by my brother's gifted hand, marked the mud-brick home as theirs.

Standing on the doorstep, I drew a deep breath and prayed for calm from whatever god would deign to listen. The donkey nuzzled my elbow with a whiskered chin as I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Whispers floated through the thin wooden door.

“Mother”—I knocked again—“it's me. Open the door.”

The door swung open, and my mother appeared, her black
hair swinging free and her eyes wide with surprise. Her gaze took in my frazzled appearance and the donkey behind my back.

“Kiya, what are you doing?” She gasped. “What happened to you?” She reached to lay a gentle palm on my injured cheek.

I craned my neck to peer around her. “Is Father here?”

“No, he left a week ago to trade downriver. It will be weeks before he will return.”

Or not at all.

A shiver snaked up my back, and I sensed eyes peering out of doorways. I must have knocked louder on the door than I'd realized. “I have to get out of the street.” I tied the donkey to the door handle and slipped inside, scanning the street before closing the door behind me.

“Ya-ya!” Jumo rose from the low couch on the back wall of the living area and limped toward me, his long arms held wide. “Why . . . you . . . here?”

My brother's unruly legs and staggering gait prevented him from moving about unaided. His affected speech garbled and strained to convey his thoughts. However, though his legs and tongue were uncontrollable, his artist's hands were deft and his mind keen. He missed nothing.

As he took in my bruises and my swollen face, his warm brown eyes rounded, full of alarm. Ignoring the burn of my ribs, I wrapped my arms around him. I hadn't seen him in months, long before I'd met Shira. His thick black curls were unruly as usual; my head barely touched his shoulder now. Was he still growing? At nineteen?

My older brother squeezed me tightly, a reminder of the urgency of my mission. I pulled back to look at him—the affection exuding from his eyes caused my heart to constrict.

“Mother, we must leave . . . now,” I said over my shoulder.

“Leave?” My mother's beautiful face contorted in confusion. “Kiya, did you escape? Is that why . . . ?”

I shook my head and dropped my arms from Jumo's waist. “No, but if we do not go, Jumo will die, tonight, within hours.”

She sank onto a low stool, looking from me to Jumo and back again. “Ridiculous.” She breathed the word. “Jumo is fine. Why would you say such an awful thing?”

“It's the truth. I am here to save my brother's life, and I must leave here within the next hour, with Jumo and with you, if you are willing.”

How do I make her understand?

“Listen to me. I know this is confusing and frightening, but I wouldn't have come if it wasn't real. Shefu himself sent me here. He released me from service after Tekurah did this.” I gestured to my face. “He gave me the donkey and said you must listen to me and go.”

I removed the necklace Shefu had tied around my neck and placed it in my mother's hand. That hand immediately began to tremble, and I knew the veracity of my words was proven. She looked up at me, face blanched and golden eyes brimming with tears.

“Where can we go?” she whispered.

“We will go with the Hebrews and leave Egypt.” I startled myself with this statement. I hadn't considered we would leave the country, but it only made sense. If the Hebrews were leaving like Shira had said, we would go with them. There was nothing here for us anymore. Shefu must mean for us to go too, for all the goods he'd sent with me.

She pulled her arms tight across her middle.

“The slaves? Why?” She shook her head as if to dislodge the strange idea.

“The Hebrews are leaving, and if we do not hurry, it will be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

I sighed and glanced at my brother, who seemed to be gath
ering his brushes and inks. As anticipated, he was more than ready to leave with me, no explanation necessary.

“Mother, you know the havoc unleashed upon this country . . .”

“That the Hebrews have heaped upon us . . .” She jutted her chin.

“No. Pharaoh caused this.”

Her eyes went wide and darted to the window. “Kiya, hush. How could you speak against Pharaoh? It is blasphemy.”

The discussion was spiraling into an argument. I did not have time to quarrel.

“Mother”—I knelt before her and grasped the hand that held the necklace—“Jumo is in severe danger. If we do not refuge with the Hebrews tonight, he will die. Something worse is coming tonight. Please, pack with haste and come with me.”

She looked at the necklace, a delicate lapis-beaded chain with a golden pendant in the shape of Hathor, the goddess of love and beauty. A tender look floated across my mother's features, and as confusing as it was, I was grateful for it: it was my greatest ally at the moment.

“Shefu says that we have to leave, that for the sake of Jumo, you must believe me. This danger, Shefu heard about it with his own ears in the court of Pharaoh.”

She looked up sharply. “What did he hear?”

I lowered my voice and leaned in close. “Tonight the Hebrew God will kill all the firstborn sons of Egypt.”

My mother gasped, and her face went ashen. Her mouth hung open as her golden eyes searched mine. Then she looked past me and surveyed her little home, which seemed to have somehow sustained little damage in the violent storms.

For a moment, I worried she might faint, but then she rose to her feet. “Let's pack as much food as we can. Who knows how long our journey will be?”

My brother hobbled into the room, struggling with a large basket—his own clothing and supplies, packed while I was busy persuading my mother.

“Jumo.” My mother opened a small ebony chest and handed him a pouch. “Go next door to Meritabah's home and ask to buy their wagon. Tell her we need it for a journey. She will be confused, but she owes me a favor. This should more than cover the cost.”

Jumo nodded. He shuffled to retrieve a crutch leaning against the wall and opened the door. I was relieved to see my little friend still tied to the door latch, laden with his treasures. Jumo pushed the donkey out of the way before hobbling off into the dusk on his mission.

My mother darted in and out of the room, gathering clothing into baskets, rummaging through her cosmetic chest, and talking to herself, listing articles she would need. Her change in attitude astounded me. She must have complete faith in Shefu.

How close had they been? And how long ago?

My mother was beautiful. No, exquisite. No doubt many men had been in love with her. And although humbled to the position of a lowly merchant in the marketplace, her beauty remained unparalleled.

Her ebony hair shone in the lamplight. As a child, I'd always hated when she wore wigs. There was no wig beautiful enough to match the luster of her hair. Her shapely form was the envy of all Egyptian women, even after bearing two children. Unconsciously graceful, with a voice like honey, my mother was a goddess, and I practically worshipped her.

She had always been so far above me—untouchable, unknowable. Would I ever truly understand her? Why had she married my father? Who was foremost in her heart? How could she let me be sold? Was I not worthy of her love, her protection? Was her freedom more precious than mine?

Lost in my silent conflict, I startled when she spoke.

“Kiya, Jumo is back. Go pack as much bread and food as you can. There are jugs of beer and water in the storeroom.”

We hitched my donkey to the front of the small wagon and packed baskets full of clothing and food in the bed, along with the jugs. When one more item would threaten an avalanche, I helped Jumo mount the black donkey Meritabah had insisted on including in the price of the wagon. Where had she even acquired such an animal? Perhaps, like Shefu had done, her family had purchased it from the Hebrews, whose livestock had survived.

How could such a thing even happen? That an Egyptian-owned sheep or cow or horse would die, but the Hebrews' stock would remain unscathed? I had once heard my mother joke about the slave-god not knowing the difference between Hebrews and Egyptians, but it was very apparent that he did. Would Jumo truly be safe tonight, even among the Hebrews?

I had little choice but to hope.

I
knocked on the door of the one-story hovel, my stomach curling with apprehension. Had the neighbor down the street directed us to the right door? Even if it was the correct home, would we still be turned away? Shira's family may not be as kind as she had been to me. Eben's disdain for Egyptians was more than evident; perhaps their mother was of the same mindset.

Voices overlapped on the other side of the door before it opened, spilling lamplight across my face and into the street.

Eben filled the doorway. “What are you doing here?” His face was awash with surprise and confusion. His wide eyes traveled over my injured face, and I fought the urge to recoil from his perusal.

“Who is it?” Shira's voice from somewhere behind her brother flooded me with relief, and my shoulders relaxed. She would fight for me.

Suddenly, her bright face was in the doorway. “Kiya! You came!” She squeezed past her glowering brother and grabbed my hand, trying to pull me inside.

“Wait, Shira.” I glanced behind me. “My mother and brother are with me.”

“Oh!” She clapped her hands together. “I prayed and prayed that you would come—for Jumo's sake.” She stepped over the threshold and gestured to my mother. “
Baruch haba
, welcome, come inside. We will find a place for all of you. Eben, please take their animals around back, inside the shelter.”

“Shira, we can't . . .” Eben shook his head, brow furrowed. The torchlight illuminated the conflict flickering in his eyes.

She turned on him, fists on her narrow hips. “Eben, if our father were here, you know he would not turn anyone away. I will not either. Would you keep Kiya's brother—her
firstborn
brother—unprotected this night?”

Eben looked past me at Jumo sitting on the donkey, and after a moment, his stony expression melted. Jumo shifted his crutches across the donkey's neck.

“Please, just take their animals around back and come back inside. There is only a little over an hour until midnight.” She did not wait for his answer but instructed me to bring Jumo and my mother into the house. For such a seemingly fragile little girl, I sensed she had an iron will when it came to her loved ones—and tonight I was grateful for that loyalty and that I was counted as such.

Jumo slid off the donkey without assistance but hobbled up to the doorway, overdramatizing his limp and winking at me as he passed. I bit my cheek to restrain a smirk and followed him into the house.

The doorway was painted red—to ward off evil spirits perhaps? My sleeve brushed against the smear before I realized it was still wet and dripping. I cringed. Was it blood?

Many bodies filled the small room. They were all dressed as if ready to depart, mantles across shoulders and wearing their sandals inside the house. These Hebrews were strange indeed.

“
Ima,
” Shira said to a woman standing by the curtained doorway between the living and sleeping quarters, “this is my friend Kiya, her mother Nailah, and her brother, Jumo. They are taking refuge with us tonight.”

“Kiya!” Shira's jaw dropped. “Your face!”

My hand went to my cheek, and I flushed. “I am sure it looks worse than it is.”

Her eyes shimmered with tears. “Did Tekurah . . . ?”

“I am fine. Truly.”

She peered at me, hands on hips. “You will tell me tomorrow.” Her tone assured me I had little choice.

Shira's mother offered a generous smile, cutting the tension. “You are welcome in our home. Shira has told me much about you. Adonai brought you to our door this night.”

Shira's mother was not much taller than Shira. She wore a tightly wrapped linen headscarf, but a few escaped wisps confirmed that Eben had inherited his hair color from his mother. Her eyes were almost as dark as Tekurah's, but warmth exuded from their depths; in fact, they shone as if lit from within. Something told me, however, that her eyes would snap black if she was crossed. Although a tiny woman, strength radiated from her, the reflection of which I had seen in Shira.

She put out her hands to grasp my mother's. “My name is Zerah. I apologize that I have nothing to offer you, we have already packed our stores. And the remainder of the meal was burned.”

“Oh, no, thank you.” My mother glanced at me. “We ate before we left home.”

My stomach murmured a contradiction, but I said nothing. My mother sat on the wooden crate Zerah offered, wrapped her arms about her middle, and stared at the floor.

Blood painted on doorways, burning the leftover food—what strange customs
these people have.

Eben came in through the back door and slunk to the opposite side of the room, then sat down, leaning his head back against the wall. Although he seemed to be avoiding looking my way, I caught him a few times watching me from the corner of his eye.

Wishing I could turn away and hide the evidence of Tekurah's cruelty without drawing attention, I raised my chin instead, determined to portray strength, even if Eben's occasional glances made me feel like tucking my head between my knees.

Zerah introduced us to the others seated on the floor, on low stools, and on overturned baskets and pots around the room. They included Shira's two younger sisters, Shoshana, whom I knew from Shira's stories to be nine, and Zayna, who was six; an uncle and aunt; as well as another family with very small twin boys and a couple from next door. The young wife was heavy with child. She and her husband glared openly at us, reminding me of the other slaves in Shefu's home, who saw me as an interloper. I fit in among those slaves no better than I did these Hebrews.

Would their God single us out here? Or would we somehow blend in, be counted as one of them, and therefore saved from whatever horrors were yet to come?