Counted With the Stars (24 page)

The cries of children ripped through my dream. My heart was racing before my eyes opened. Shouts surrounded our tent.

“What is it? What is it?”

My mother's head appeared through the opening of the tent, bringing with her a gush of brilliant sunlight. Joy spread across her face in juxtaposition to the loud cries all around.

“Kiya! Wake up! You must come see! He did it!”

“Who did what?” I blinked against the glare of the morning sun.

“Come.” She beckoned wildly. “Come see for yourself.”

I wrapped my light wool blanket around my shoulders but shivered at the chill in the desert air when I emerged from the tent.

It was snowing.

Delicate white flakes fluttered all around me. It was pure delight that caused the children all over the camp to scream.
They were chasing the snowflakes, tongues out, gathering handfuls to toss at each other. Their wild play had stirred the flakes into the air.

But the sky was a pure, deep blue. Not a cloud hovered above us or capped the mountains that embraced the valley.

This could not be snow. It was cool this morning, as it was every morning in the desert, but certainly not cold enough to freeze.

It was not only the children who gathered handfuls of the flakes. Everyone had a basket or a jar or a linen bag they were filling with the snow—or whatever it was.

My mother seemed to be truly enjoying the melee. Her eyes danced as Shoshana and Zayna flew by, shrieks of laughter trailing behind.

“What is going on, Mother?”

“Yahweh did it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yahweh provided bread.” She turned her brilliant smile to me. “I asked for bread, and he provided.” Her face was an echo of Jumo's as he watched the Cloud every day, a mixture of awe and peace. Peace that I had never seen in her countenance. What was the word Shira used?
Shalom
.

A few flakes landed on the blanket around my shoulders. I took a pinch and placed them on my tongue.

Sweet. Delicious. It was like the best of honey and spices all mixed together. It melted on my tongue with a smooth, velvety texture. Craving more, I bent down to scoop it up, for it was thick on the ground. When I smashed a handful between my palms, it stuck together, forming a flat round.

“What is it?” I took another bite. It was warm as sunshine and smooth as butter going down my throat.

“No one knows, but we've been told that Mosheh said Yahweh sent it and that Yahweh is going to send it to us every day. Every day! Can you believe it? We won't be hungry anymore.”

We gathered as much of the sweet substance as we could, and we were told that there would be a limit to how much we could gather, but that each day more would appear.

It was hard to believe, but the next morning we awoke again to a field of white outside our tent doors. And the morning after that, and again the next day.

No one knew what to call the delicious substance, so we called it
manna.
It was beyond earthly description and could be baked into bread better than any Egyptian sweet roll. I didn't even miss the nuts and fruits that were usually folded into such a delicacy.

No honey was needed to sweeten it, no spices to heighten the aromas, no salt to liven the taste; it was everything we needed to eat. It filled me up and satisfied every craving. I was never so full of energy, and I noticed that everyone around me looked healthier than ever before. Their eyes were bright, their skin glowed. It was so good to see my mother looking vigorous again, her golden eyes snapping with fire. Zayna and Shoshana filled out again, their once-emaciated frames filled with childlike softness again. Gone were the sharp cheekbones and dark circles under their eyes.

A few greedy people found the reason for Mosheh's warning: anyone who collected more than his share was greeted with a pot of maggots in the morning. Therefore, we were all careful to take only what we could eat each day—except for the sixth day, before Shabbat, when two days' portions were allowed. To our great surprise, the manna
collected before rest days stayed pure and fresh through the next evening.

Shira and I spent the days trying to invent new ways to cook the manna. We found it thickened stews made from either the leftover dried meat of the quail or the odd desert animal Eben ran across with the hunting teams.

A few days after the manna arrived, Eben returned from
one such hunting excursion with a quarter of a mountain goat wrapped in a thin blanket slung across his shoulders and disturbing news on his lips.

“We saw a scouting party not far off,” he told me after laying down the meat on the makeshift table I had cleared.

“Scouts? From Egypt?” My stomach sunk.

“No, I don't think so. They did not look Egyptian. Maybe a local tribe of Midianites.”

“Are the Midianites hostile?”

“Not particularly. I'm sure they are just keeping an eye on us to make sure we are the ones who aren't hostile.”

He asked for a cloth to wipe his hands and brushed my palm as he took it from me, throwing my path of thought into disarray.

“Oh” was all I could say. I tried to say more, but no sound came out of my mouth. This was the closest I had been to him since that day on the beach.

I dropped my eyes to gather my wits. What were we talking about? I busied myself by sharpening a knife on a stone. When he said nothing more, I looked up to find him watching me with those stormy green eyes, a small crooked smile on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“You look . . .” He paused.

I raised my brows “I look . . . ?”

“Healthier.”

“I look healthier?”

He looked down quickly, then a look of confidence, or perhaps release, crossed his face.

“You look beautiful.” He held me in his gaze, locking me there, breathless, speechless. The multitude around us dissolved. We were alone.

He stepped closer, without a glance around to see if we were being watched. We were, without a doubt, but I did not care.

“Shoshana tells me she taught you to play the lyre.”

Blood rushed to my cheeks. “A bit, yes, but I am not very good. She's a much better teacher than I am a student.”

“May I pick up where she left off and teach you more?”

“If you don't care that your ears may be sore after a few minutes with me.” I laughed.

“Oh now, I doubt that. Shoshana said you are a quick learner.” His playful smile made my heart stutter.

“Oh, did she now?”

He nodded. “And she said you can sing, too.”

I laughed. “That little girl is exaggerating.”

“Shoshana never lies . . . at least, not to me.” He cocked a brow.

He was right, Shoshana worshipped at Eben's feet. I could not imagine her telling him even a half truth.

“I'd best change my tunic from the hunt. But tomorrow—” His eyes twinkled, teasing as he leaned in and handed back the cloth and running a covert finger down the inside of my wrist as he did. “You and I will have our first lesson.”

Leaving me trembling in exquisite confusion, he turned and disappeared into his tent.

My mother sat cross-legged across the campsite with Zerah, carding wool gathered from the flocks of the Levite tribe. There was a question in her raised brows.

Attempting to appear unaffected, I shrugged my shoulders. I no more understood Eben's change of attitude than she. She shook her head as she resumed brushing the wool back and forth, tugging at the unruly strands with a little smile on her face.

I tried, without success, to avoid thoughts of Eben by trimming the meat, but all I could think of was the thrill of finally receiving a smile from his lips, meant only for me. I relived the conversation over and over in my mind as I worked.

Midianites.
Eben had never finished telling me about the scouts they had seen this afternoon. Were they simply curious about where we were going? Or perhaps now that we were no longer hounded by Pharaoh, the desert tribes that inhabited this lonely wilderness meant to take up the pursuit.

A shiver feathered across my skin. Had we escaped one danger only to be led directly into the waiting arms of another?

E
ben placed an extraordinary instrument in my hands. My mouth gaped, and I tried to refuse the offering. “No, I can use the lyre Shoshana taught me with.”

“I made it for you.” He pressed it back, his voice low and rough. His searching eyes and gentle hands on mine caused my thoughts to crash into one other, fanning the sparks of attraction into a wildfire.

I had seen him working on the lyre for days, smoothing the wood with constant strokes of a rough stone, carefully steaming the wood above the fire and shaping it with skilled hands. His brow furrowed in concentration as he carved intricate etchings into the body of the instrument. I never dreamed the beautiful lyre was meant for me.

“Jumo painted it. He insisted it needed some color.” Eben shifted his stance. Was he not sure I would like it?

“Thank you,” I whispered. “It is the most exquisite gift I have ever received.”

His lips twitched with a self-conscious smile. “Glad you like it. I remembered how you seemed to appreciate the one in the market that day.”

My mind darted back to the festival, when Eben and I had met. I caressed the swallows he had carved into the body of the lyre, the ones that symbolized freedom and new love. A delicate vine trailed around the entire length of the wood, blue lotus flowers blooming along its path. As his hands had crafted this magnificent work of art, he had thought of me?

I strummed a few notes. Such a sweet sound emanated from the twisted-gut strings. A strange dichotomy—beauty born from death.

Jumo had laughed when I gagged at the sight of Eben stretching the entrails of the last goat back at the bitter-turned-sweet stream, twisting them and preparing them to dry in the sun. Now I heard the fruits of his labor and understood the reason for his method.

I followed Eben, the lyre folded in my arms and my mind buzzing. Two feathery ghaf trees nestled against the foot of the hill at the edge of the camps, providing some early-afternoon shade. A miracle, since foraging for wood was another constant in the desert.

We sat in the shade, away from the hum of voices that surrounded us all the time. Until removed from the noise, I had not realized how desperately I coveted silence.

I breathed in, eyes closed, listening to the breeze brush through the leaves above me and remembering my still mornings near the Nile.

“What are you thinking of?” Eben's voice drew me back to the present.

My eyes fluttered open. “Home.”

A shadow crossed his expression. “You regret not going with Sayaad?”

“No!” I shook my head. “Never. There is no place I would rather be than here with you.” I sucked in a breath, shocked by my own boldness. Would he get up and walk away from
me? Turn his back? I steeled myself for the pain that would follow.

Instead, Eben leaned back against the trunk of the tree, his gaze locked on my face. The silence stretched long between us, shimmering in the air and vibrating like a note plucked from a string and growing louder with each moment. Neither of us seemed willing to break the spell.

His dark brown hair, in disarray as usual, danced about in the breeze. It was getting so long, almost to his shoulders. Should I offer to cut it for him? How could I, without giving away the depth of my attraction to him?

The beard that had once seemed so foreign to me was now one of my favorite things about him. I imagined trailing my fingers through that beard and pressing my lips to his. My cheeks flamed. Hopefully the sun had browned my skin enough that he did not notice.

I love him.

The thought startled me.

The contrast to Akhum, and Sayaad, was evident. Eben was loyal, brave, fiercely protective of his family—and mine, for that matter. His whole demeanor had changed toward me, as if what had happened on that beach had an effect opposite of the one I had predicted. I wanted to spend every moment with this Hebrew slave; this foreign man with his foreign ways fascinated me, and I was more than willing to be drawn into his world.

When Akhum had granted me his attention three years ago, I had been excited, heady at the thought of a man, especially one as powerful and handsome as Akhum, showing me favor. Bringing me expensive gifts, flattering me with praise, parading me through town on his arm—he had done it all to impress me, and those around me. And when he asked, I willingly gave myself to him, so sure of his love and his intent to make me his wife.

How would Eben feel if he knew about my intimacy with
Akhum? Fear seized me at the thought, surprised me with its force. He looked at me now with warmth in his eyes. If I told him, would disdain fill them once again?

I looked away, desperate to avoid him seeing the truth on my face. Shame coursed through me, and tears blurred my vision.

No one will want your precious heart.
Akhum's vicious words reached out to me from his grave at the bottom of the sea.

But Eben's hand was suddenly on my face, stroking my cheek with his thumb. I leaned into the sensation, my lips tingling with anticipation and my pulse pounding out a quickening rhythm. My gaze flitted over his shoulder, to the nearest tents, only a few paces away. There was no privacy here, among the millions.

His lips parted, as if to say something, but then a smile lifted their corners. He took his hand away, and his brow lifted in a teasing manner. He was playing with me, testing my response to him, and my eager acceptance of his caress had told him what he wanted to know. I was hungry for more.

I narrowed my gaze. “I thought we were here to play the lyre.”

He laughed, and my heart thrilled at the sound of it, as if its musical tones were created only for me.

“That we are.” He winked. “For now.”

I rolled my eyes at him but was glad of the lighthearted banter—such a contrast to the tension that had filled the chasm between us before we crossed the sea.

Eben leaned back against his tree. “Play me a song that Shoshana taught you.”

I hesitated for a moment, unsure about performing in front of him. But the reassuring smile he offered tempered my fears.

My fingers trembled as I plucked the strings, yet I managed to push through the nerves.

“Very good. I am impressed. I told you Shoshana would never lie.”

He took the lyre from my hands and played a simple tune,
then handed it back so I could mimic him. We repeated this process back and forth for a long while, and his broad smile was confirmation that he was pleased with my progress. I reveled in his approval.

I stopped to massage my fingers. “I don't think I can play anymore.”

He reached for my hand, holding it palm up in his own. My heart skittered around inside my chest as he touched my fingertips. “Yes, you will need to work up those calluses, until they are no longer tender.”

I flipped my hand over and smoothed it over his palm. “You mean like yours?”

He sighed, a drawn-out sound of contentment. “Unless you spend your days practicing with a sword, then no, just the tips of your fingers.” He matched his own fingertips with mine, and even that tiny contact filled my stomach with flutters.

“So that is where you go every morning? To practice?”

He nodded. “Jumo and I meet with the other Levites to learn new skills and go through exercises.”

“My brother is learning to fight?”

“Of course he is. We must all be able to protect ourselves and our loved ones.”

I shifted, unsettled by the image of my brother engaged in combat. “Who teaches you?”

“There are a few men among us who served in Pharaoh's army. A few Egyptians, two Syrians, and even a few Hebrews who found a way to elevate themselves into a regiment. They are working to teach us what we need to know.”

I raised my brows.

“Yes, it's nearly as foolish as it sounds. A few soldiers working to mold thousands of slaves into warriors.” He released my hand to scratch his forehead. “It was almost laughable for the few first days because most of these men have spent their
lives hauling mud bricks. They are strong, but most have no idea how to fight.”

He shook his head, as if he were locked in an internal debate.

“One thing is to our benefit, however,” he said.

“What is that?”

“We all certainly know how to follow orders.” A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

Ignoring his sarcasm, I pointed at his empty leather holster. “How did you come to be so good with a dagger?”

“My father gave it to me shortly before . . . before he was killed. Someone traded it for one of his beautiful instruments.”

And yet Eben had sacrificed that gift to save me from Sayaad. “Did he teach you to use it?”

He shook his head. “I taught myself, spending hour upon hour practicing. It was my only solace after his death. Somehow I would repay the Egyptians for what they did.”

I looked down at my hands, feeling a vicarious stab of guilt for those of my heritage who had committed such an atrocity.

“I don't blame you anymore.” He lifted my chin with a gentle hand. “I'm sorry that I ever did. My bitter heart refused to see any Egyptian as guiltless.”

“Well, that's good to know,” I said. “And I'm very glad for your skill with a knife. Thank you—for saving me from my stupidity.”

“I'm glad that I was so helpless to take my eyes off you that day. If I had missed him taking off with you . . .”

My heart stirred at his admission. “But you didn't. You saved me.” I held his gaze.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to an intimate volume. “You will always be protected.”

“I will?”

“Yes.” A teasing smile played across his lips as he pointed
at the instrument in my lap. “Besides, who would attack you with that weapon in your hands?”

“How can a lyre be a weapon?”

“A beautiful woman playing an alluring song? There is nothing more dangerous.” He raised a brow.

My throat was too tight to speak. I could do nothing but watch him watching me, until a thought surfaced through the haze. “What are you training for? Pharaoh's army is at the bottom of the sea.”

“We are in Midianite territory. And they are not the only tribes that roam these parts. There have been rumors that a large contingent of Amalekites is moving this way.”

“Who are they?”

“A large group from the south, and among the most ruthless tribes around. They move from place to place, claiming any grazing land and livestock they come across. ”

I shivered.

“Exactly.” He nodded. “They are beyond vicious. And we must be ready. Our crossing at the sea has put us directly in their path northward.”

“Why doesn't Mosheh lead us somewhere else? We need to get away from them.” Panic rose in my throat. “We can't risk it.”

“Do you not believe that Yahweh is protecting us?”

“I don't know . . .” I searched the skyline above the hills for an answer to my doubt. I deliberately kept my glance from the north end of camp, where the blue Cloud glowed relentlessly near Mosheh's tent.

“No one dares attack us, Kiya. I spoke with some traders that came through yesterday. Word has traveled all over the region about our miraculous rescue through the sea.”

“It has?”

He nodded. “Every tribe around has heard of it. They are terrified.”

“Do the Amalekites fear your god?”

Confusion crossed his face. “Is he not
your
god as well?”

I pursed my lips while considering how to answer and then opted for the truth. “I believe he is a powerful god—perhaps the most powerful. But he frightens me. I am not sure I can submit to a deity who slaughtered my people so wantonly.”

“And your Pharaoh did not slaughter
my
people?” His eyes pinned me.

“Yes . . . but . . .”

“Do you not think our freedom was worth the price that was paid? That our murdered sons and fathers, our violated women, did not deserve justice? Blood for blood? A life for a life?” Anger drew his brows together, and he pulled away from me.

“I don't . . . I don't know . . . Must blood always be shed?”

“Yes. Yahweh is the creator of life, and it is his alone to give and take away. Your worthless gods have no such power.”

“My worthless—” My lips trembled, and blood crashed through my veins. “Your god cares only for his own people.”

“You are here, are you not? Your brother, your mother, they are safe? And many of your countrymen followed us as well. It has always been so—anyone who follows Yahweh is welcome.” He lifted his chin, a challenge in his expression. “Even Avraham was not a Hebrew, his father was a maker of idols and he came out of the land of Ur. From our very beginnings, those who answered Yahweh's call were brought close.”

“He has not called me. I have not heard some voice out of a burning bush. I came with you to save my brother and to be free. Yahweh cares nothing for me, and I care nothing for him.”

He did not respond but leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and hands grasped tightly together. His silence testified to his dissatisfaction with my answer. He hung his head, leaving me unable to see the effects of his contemplation in his expression. Was he regretting the affection he'd shown me?
This time spent with me? Would he turn his back on me now, like my father had?

As tempted as I was to contradict my own words, to profess my belief in Yahweh, to smooth the sharp edges that had come between us in the past few minutes, I held my peace. I could stomach no more lies, and I would not willingly deceive him, even if it meant losing the tenderness I had cherished in his gaze today. Already the wound of the loss throbbed at my core.

Eben stood. He offered me a hand to stand but released me quickly. I followed him back to camp, blinking away tears and clutching the beautiful lyre to my chest as if it could somehow keep me bound to the man I had come to love—in spite of the obvious canyon that once again yawned between us.