Counted With the Stars (8 page)

And now, at Tekurah's malicious revelation, every whisper, every caress, every promise rushed back. I dropped the fan. Hitting the edge of the stone ledge, it toppled into the pool with a muted splash.

The last cherished shard of my life, the man with whom I shared my secrets, whispered with late in the night, kissed under
the stars in my mother's garden—this man now shared his life with another. I would never know love, or feel the shelter of a man who would protect me from this life of slavery and share my burdens. I was alone.

Like Tekurah.

Somehow as my heart shattered, I saw my mistress for who she was—bitter, lonely, broken—abandoned inside her marriage. Shefu protected her and her children, provided for their every need, but he neither gave her affection nor shared his heart with her. According to Shira, he loved my own mother.

This woman did not know the tenderness and gentleness of her husband's love. Perhaps she still hoped to capture his heart. She watched him covertly at meals. Her eyes followed him as he talked with his children, laughing with them, teasing them. Shefu spoke only of household matters with his wife, if at all.

Unloved, unwanted, and with a heart void of anything but resentment, it was no wonder she lashed out with such violence. Everything in me wanted to lash out as well, but I would not give her the satisfaction.

Instead, I fished the fan out of the pool, shook the water out of the feathers, and resumed fanning.

Her hooded eyes studied me. I braced for more provocation, but she kept her lips pursed and said nothing.

The golden cat startled and ran off. Tekurah's hands remained upturned in her lap for a few moments. Then she stood, brushed cat hair and dust from her dress, and strode into the house without a backward glance.

“What is that?” Tekurah pointed her bony finger to the north as we left the marketplace the next morning.

I squinted. At first it appeared only as a shadow of low hills along the eastern horizon. But the black cloud swelled and
billowed, stretching higher and higher, spreading like pooled ink across the sky.

“We'd better get inside.” A heavy basket filled with perfume, cosmetics, and gifts for the children bumped against my hip, but I picked up my pace. I turned to glance at the cloud. It raced toward us at breakneck speed, a huge, grasping monster of black silhouetted against the bright blue sky. We were only a few blocks from the villa. Tekurah lagged for a moment, watching the dark swirls, but soon caught up, and then outpaced me.

We ran past the temple gates. Lined up on the porch in front of the pylon, the priests stood petrified, mouths agape.

“What evil is this?” Tekurah yelled over her shoulder as we neared the gates to the villa.

I attempted to match her long stride and hoped she wouldn't notice the perfume that had jostled out of the basket back near the gates of the temple.

Before we made it to the front door, the cloud overtook us. But it was no storm cloud. Within ten paces of the entry, a massive swarm of huge flies enveloped us. They swirled, biting, latching onto our skin, refusing to let go, ignoring our vigorous swats and thrashings.

The rest of the contents of the basket landed on the ground, and we ran shrieking into the house. I slammed the door behind me, swatting at the flies. They clung to my eyelids, behind my ears, tangled in my hair. Their merciless bites stung like the fire of a thousand scorpions, burning away the notion that these scourges, and whatever was causing them, were anything but natural. How much more would we have to endure?

28
TH
D
AY
OF
P
ERET
S
EASON
OF
E
MERGENCE
1447 BC

S
hira would never miss her weekly meeting with Eben. It had been days since I had seen her, and I was so eager to apologize for my hurtful words that I would brave crossing paths with her brother.

Before any light threaded through the darkness on the seventh day of the week, I rose, triple-checking to ensure Tekurah's breath remained slow and even. With hands outstretched to feel a safe path through the pitch-black room, I padded to the door, hoping to avoid stubbing a toe or stumbling over a cat on my way.

A rainstorm had swept through during the night. The morning smelled fresh and crisp—a welcome change from the stagnant air that had settled over the city the last few months. The winds cleared the remainder of the horrid flies from the land.

We had spent seven days trapped inside the villa, locked inside windowless rooms, stuffing every crack and crevice with cloth, trying to evade the flies. Even worse than the bites from the
flies were the headaches I endured from the constant burning of lavender and lemongrass in the household braziers, which did little to ward off the insects.

I shivered, my eyes burning at the memory, and quickened my pace toward the canal, savoring the cool, moist earth beneath my bare feet.

After filling my jug, I curled up cross-legged on my favorite rock until dawn feathered across the horizon. The clouds from last night's storm rested in the eastern sky, and the sunrise shattered through them, creating bright oranges and pinks. Captivated by the splendor, I did not see Eben until he stood in front of me.

He stopped, ten paces away, clearly surprised that I, and not his sister, waited for him.

My surprise echoed his.
Where is she?

I had not seen Shira since that afternoon in the market. Perhaps she was still avoiding me, but it was not like her to be late to a meeting with Eben.

The weak predawn light obscured Eben's face. A stray breeze ruffled his dark hair. Did the man never visit a barber?

“Where is she?” His voice sliced through the stillness.

My defenses rose, and when my hands began to shake, I grasped them in my lap to hide them. “I don't know.”

He moved closer. “Where . . . is . . . she?”

Suppressing the instinct to retreat, I unfolded my legs and stood, leaving the water jug on the rock. “I have no idea. I thought she would be here this morning.”

He moved within a few paces. “Why are you here?” He pointed a long finger at me.

I lifted my chin, but my stomach flipped. He glared at me, contempt narrowing his eyes to dark slits.

I crossed my arms. “She is my friend.”

He huffed out a scornful breath. “Friend?”

“After what she did for me, she became my friend.”
My only one.

He flinched. “What did she do?”

Shira hadn't told him. Of course not. She would never take credit for her kindnesses.

“Months ago, she took the blame for something I did and was relegated to the kitchens.” Did the weak light hide the flush on my skin?

“Why would she do that?”

I shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea. But you know your sister better than I do. She had her reasons.”

He clenched his fists and spoke through gritted teeth. “And you did not speak up?”

I saw myself then, in the mirror of Eben's accusing eyes. It was true. I should have confessed after I'd smashed the box. But cowardice and pride had kept me from accepting the punishment. I had allowed Shira to stand in the way of Tekurah's wrath.

A thousand excuses came to mind, but none held any weight.

“And now my sister is missing, and you”—he aimed a condemning finger at me again—“her so-called friend, have no idea where she is?”

I winced. “She
is
my friend. And I am worried about her.”

“You'd best ask your mistress. Her spy has been following Shira for quite some time.”

“I've never seen anyone following her.” I surveyed my memories. All the times we'd met at the river Shira never mentioned anything. And I had seen no one lurking about.

The sun pushed higher into the sky, and shadows no longer guarded Eben's face. His eyes released me, and his gaze lifted over my shoulder, toward the Nile. The brilliant sun at his back outlined his body, illuminating gold in his dark brown hair. His beard, and its foreignness, momentarily fascinated
me. Clean-shaven men surrounded me. But the beard fit Eben, lent a certain strength to his face. He was not striking like Akhum. No kohl accented his eyes. But I felt myself drawn to the planes of his face, his narrow nose, a small scar at the top of one high cheekbone, the line of his lips pressed together in aggravation.

“Perhaps you ought to look around yourself sometime. You people only care about yourselves and your own comfort.”

I startled at the venom in his tone.
“You people?”

“Yes, you Egyptians. With your self-centered prancing about.” He twirled his hand in the air.

“You don't know me. You have no idea about my life and who, or what, I care about.” My own fists clenched tight, fingernails slicing my palms.

“I know enough. I've had my fill of this country and her people. Egypt deserves what's coming.” He folded his arms with a haughty jerk of his chin.

“And that is . . . ?” I stepped forward in challenge.

He mirrored my movement. “Vengeance.”

“By whom? An army of slaves?”

“Aided by Yahweh.”

For some reason, I shrank back when Eben pronounced this name. My pulse raced, and my breath shallowed. Surprise flashed across his face at my reaction.

When the strange emotion released its grip on my throat, I sputtered out, “Who is that?”

His curious gaze swept over my face. “Our God.”

“Shira said your god has no name.”

“An elder from Goshen arrived this week to tell us what has transpired there—since all we have heard was rumors. Yahweh gave Mosheh his name as a sign, among others.” Pride leaked into his voice, and he stood taller. “The name in our tongue means that he always has been and always will be the Almighty God.”

“How mighty is a god who cannot deliver his people from slavery?”

He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his stance. “He will.”

“So the last two hundred years your god was, what, asleep?” A caustic laugh slipped past my lips.

“Yahweh does things in his own time. He is preparing us.”

Shira's odd statement, that her god might be preparing me for something, brushed through my thoughts. “For what?”

Standing at eye level with a man was strange to me, especially in such close proximity. I was taller than Shira, but all the men I knew—my father, Shefu, Akhum, even Jumo—towered over me. Eben's ability to stare straight into my eyes unnerved me.

Defiance hardened his features as he brought his face closer to mine. “We will soon be ready to take back what has been stolen: our freedom, our wealth, our pride. Egypt will pay.”

His fierce words tore into my heart. My galloping pulse, caused by Eben's proximity, was drowned out by their echo. When he looked at me, he saw only an enemy.

“You forget you are not the only one who has lost such things.” I turned my back on him to conceal the insistent tears that stung my eyes, snatched my jug, and rushed up the path.

Entering Tekurah's room carrying a large water pot on my hip, without making noise, was no easy feat. I had cracked another vessel once in this same doorway in the past. I nudged the door open with my elbow, willing the leather hinges not to squeak and breathing freely again when they did not.

My stealth went unrewarded. Tekurah was awake.

She perched, head down, on the edge of her bed, with one hand on each of the cats sprawled on either side of her. The
black and gray cats basked in the golden sunlight spilling across the white linen spread.

“I've been sitting here, without my head handmaid, for the last half of an hour.”

My stomach twisted. “I apologize, mistress.”

She still did not look at me. “That is all you have to say? You are sorry?”

I racked my brain for a suitable excuse, fear shredding through my veins at her strange response. “There were many other servants at the canal this morning. I was forced to wait my turn.”

She flew off her bed, dislodging the cats, to tower over me. “You. Lie.”

I drew back, afraid again that she might finally resort to violence—her claws seemed quite unsheathed today. “No . . . mistress.”

Her face contorted in anger. “I knew something was going on. Do you have a lover you've been meeting?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“No one.” I looked straight into her eyes, desperate to protect Shira and, against instinct, Eben as well.

She glared back, waiting, studying me as if she could lift the truth from my brain. Like a bird caught in the hypnotic gaze of one of her cats, I was ensnared.

“Tell me,” she said through gritted teeth.

“There is nothing to tell. If I have been late, it's only been from walking slowly or waiting on others to fill their jugs. It won't happen again, mistress. I will walk faster. I swear. I swear upon Bastet.”

Her body relaxed, and she lifted her chin, looking down her nose at me. “You are right. It will not happen again. You will be here before I wake each morning or I swear by all the gods in the sky, you will feel the end of a whipping cane.”

I shivered.

“And have no doubt, I will ensure that not even Shefu will have anything to say about it.” She touched the corner of one kohl-rimmed eye. “I have been watching. I will watch even more closely.”

I ate my afternoon meal without tasting a bite. I picked at the whitefish stew in my bowl, usually a welcome change from my daily fare. The delicious aroma tantalized me a little, but dread soured my stomach.

Most of the household servants gulped down their meals and ran to attend their duties. A few lazed around the courtyard, stretching out their last precious minutes of false freedom. Two men behind me argued about fowling and fishing. The women clumped in small groups, laughing, gossiping. None of them spoke to me. None glanced in my direction.

Another quarter of an hour passed before the courtyard started to empty. I would be late, but I must know what had happened to Shira.

When only Hashma, the head cook, and a few weary kitchen slaves remained, I stood.

Most of the servants in Shefu's household acted less than cordial to me. Being new to slavery and a former-master-turned-slave branded me as an outcast. Most of them had been born into bondage, some in this very household. Therefore, no one trusted me. Besides, friendship with me, or even kindness, might bring about wrath from Tekurah. I was a pariah. No longer on equal footing with masters and mistresses and rejected by the servants that bowed before them.

Hashma, however, did not follow the rules. She treated me as an equal. As dark and exotic as my Salima, she worked tirelessly, with a tattered headscarf barely containing her wildly coiled
hair. Her wide face gleamed with perspiration from laboring in the courtyard all day. Her voice boomed with authority, yet compassion exuded from her every pore.

And Hashma knew everything that went on inside this villa.

She ordered the kitchen girls to scrub the pots with sand and to boil water for rinsing. Then she knelt, with a heavy breath, in front of the still-smoldering bread oven to scrape ashes with a clay shard into a flat-sided pot.

“Hashma, may I speak with you?” I glanced over my shoulder.

She looked up, and her eyes flickered, but she smiled and nodded.

“I have not seen Shira for days now. Is she all right?” My voice was soft, for her ears alone.

The warmth on her face faded.

“What happened?” My heart picked up its pace. “Where is she?”