Signs and Wonders (15 page)

Simeon dipped Joseph’s coat into the blood of the lamb they had slaughtered for their meal, and the brothers returned to Jacob—all except Reuben, who dared not face his father. “The child is not,” cried Reuben. “And I, where can I go now?” And he did not return to his father but stayed with the flocks.

When Jacob saw his sons, he said: “Where is Joseph?”

“He did not come to us,” said Judah. “But we found this in the plain before Dothan.”

Jacob uttered a terrible shriek and clawed at his own face. “It is the coat, the coat of many colors I made for him. A wild beast has torn him. He is dead.…”

He fell to the floor, sobbing and rending his clothes. Leah came to him, and the other women of the house, and tried to comfort him. And Jacob’s sons gathered about him and wept with him, but he was not comforted.

“Be merciful, God,” he said. “Take this life that has become an empty thing and let me go where Rachel waits. For Joseph is there, also.…”

The Slave

Each collar had a ring in it. Every night a chain was passed through the rings, linking the slaves to one another, and making it impossible to escape. But the collars galled the necks. The galls became sores, which became abscesses, and these were attacked by sand flies and putrified. Slaves dropped as they walked, and died where they dropped. Their collars were removed, and they were left for the vultures that followed the caravan.

Joseph moved in a tunnel of despair. Its darkness shut off thought and, he was dimly aware, spared him the final suffering. Worse than bodily pain, worse than fatigue or nausea, was the idea of himself as cattle. And he knew that it was this idea that must finally kill him. One night he resolved to die. A wind had sprung up, and the linked slaves shuddered and clanked in their stinking rags. Joseph lay on his back, looking straight up. There above him blazed the great chandelier of stars, God’s own crystal handiwork, which, in the old tales, had scorched his great grandfather Abraham to the overwhelming recognition that there was but one God, the Almighty One, maker of heaven and earth, and that all idols had to be smashed. And Joseph, looking at the high jewelry of the desert night, was stricken by an agony worse than any that had come before. These were the stars that had looked upon his enchanted boyhood. Now, indifferently, they looked upon his ordeal. “Yes,” he whispered. “God has forgotten me. And I know what to do.”

He planned how to do it. In the first hours of the march, he thought, I shall drop as I walk and lie still. They will kick me for a while, and when I do not arise they will leave me for the vultures. And I shall continue to lie there and submit to the death birds, who will make my feigning real.

Now all the stars were running together in one huge blur of light, and he thought he must be seeing them through his tears. But his eyes were dry. Now the sky was one great star, unbearably bright, but the night kept its darkness. Now the sky spoke: “Joseph …”

“I am here.”

“Know this: Who pities himself leaves no space for my pity.”

Joseph sprang to his feet. There was a loud clanking as the slaves on each side of him were pulled to their knees. They snarled and groaned and flung themselves down again, dragging him to his knees. He turned and looked up into the sky. The huge light was gone; it had divided into its many stars. But an arrow of it had pierced the boy’s heart, flooding him with unearthly light, muting pain, easing fatigue, filling him with a burning mandate—to live.

“Thank you, Lord,” he whispered. “Give me the wit to understand and the strength to obey.”

There were always slaves who could not arise in the morning. If they could not be flogged to their feet, they were left to the vultures. The caravan chief himself took charge of this morning round. If he did not, the drovers would take the food for the dead slaves and eat it themselves. This morning the caravan chief was hailed by Joseph. “I would speak to you, Master.”

The man gaped in astonishment and lifted the butt of his whip to strike the boy down.

“Gently, good sir,” said Joseph. “Do you not notice that I speak your tongue?”

The man said nothing, but lowered his whip.

“My God taught me your language in the watches of the night. He wishes me to speak to you on a matter of importance.”

“Speak, but quickly! I am not in the habit of conversing with my stock.”

“You are unthrifty, Master.”

“What?”

“Before I came into your hands, I was a shepherd. My father was master of vast herds. Our animals multiplied, our wealth multiplied; we did not let our cattle sicken and die. Now we slaves are your stock, as you say. Your flocks and herds, your wealth. By killing us on this march you filch money from your own pocket.”

The man spoke: “I have been driving slaves to market for twenty years. There is no way to prevent loss.”

“You have already lost three out of every ten slaves you have taken. By the time you get to Egypt, you will have lost seven out of ten, at least. Put me in charge of them, and I shall keep them all alive. Not only alive, but in such fettle as to fetch a large price at the market. Look at them, skin and bones, ulcerated, unfit for labor. Under my care they will grow sleek and fine. You have nothing to lose but loss. Let me try.”

“Did that god of yours tell you all this?”

“He gave me eyes to see, wit to understand.”

“You Hebrews are always prating about this god of yours that nobody sees. If he is so great, why did he let you fall into our hands?”

“He moves in mysterious ways. Perhaps He has decided to make you wealthy, O Syrian, and has sent me to guard you from your own wastefulness. The first thing you must do is remove these collars.”

“Are you mad?”

“The collars are madness. Their weight exhausts us. Their metal galls us. They are the chief killer. They rob you of your merchandise.”

“I see your idea. You want to escape.”

“Where to? Without water we would drop in an hour, and an hour later would be vulture bait.”

“So be it. The collars come off. But hearken to me. If this is some plan to cheat me of what is mine, you had better keep praying to your god. For I will pull out your clever tongue with hot pincers.”

Joseph bowed. The man bellowed orders. The collars were taken off. That day, during the march, Joseph searched about, picking certain herbs. They work on cattle, he said to himself. They should work on men who have become cattle. That night he boiled his herbs into a broth and dipped clean rags into it, making poultices. And he passed among the slaves, bandaging their sores.

When the Syrian saw that the men were gaining strength and that their sores were healing, he accepted more and more of Joseph’s advice. He shortened the hours of the march. He allowed the slaves more food and water. He bade his men ease up on the routine floggings. By the time the camel train had crossed into Egypt, he was driving the sleekest string of slaves he had ever taken to market. Not one had died under Joseph’s care, and none had fled.

He did not put Joseph on the block and auction him off with the others, but took him to Potiphar, who was Pharaoh’s chief officer in that part of Egypt. Joseph saw a tall, bald, hawk-faced man clad in a brocade skirt and wearing armlets of beaten gold—a very courteous man, who listened quietly to what the merchant had to say. But Joseph saw that Potiphar’s eyes gleamed like a falcon’s from under hooded lids, and knew that for all his smoothness he could be a cruel and dangerous man.

“Prime stock, O Potency,” said the merchant. “His physique speaks for itself, but it is his intellect that is the true marvel.”

“Intellect? What can you possibly mean?”

“Knows every variety of medicinal herb. Sets bones, cuts out tumors. And picks up languages overnight. His god sends an angel to tutor him.”

“He has a pleasing appearance. Have you enjoyed him on the journey?”

“You must be jesting, Master. Don’t you know what they say about Hebrews?”

“I am not in
their
confidence, whoever
they
may be. What is said?”

“It is worth one’s life to molest a Hebrew in that way. Their god carves his initials on their private parts, and the molester is struck by lightning or blasted by the plague.”

“Interesting,” murmured Potiphar. “There is an old tale about one of our Pharaohs, who suffered misadventure with a Hebrew girl. How much do you want for him?”

“I pray you, Excellency, accept him as a gift.”

“I thank you, Syrian, but accepting gifts can get very expensive. Put a fair price on him.”

And so Joseph was sold to Potiphar, who put him in charge of the household slaves. Now, Egypt was the most powerful country in the world at that time and very prosperous. Merchants from every land drove their camel trains to Egyptian markets and sold slaves and gold and ivory, amber, musk, and gems. The great wood and papyrus ships put out from both coasts of Egypt and sailed to every port on every known sea. And ships from every port visited the Egyptian coast cities to unload their rich cargoes.

Potiphar was Pharaoh’s chief officer in the western part of the realm. Much business passed through his hands, and he was always on the lookout for bright young men to help him. And the brightest and the most capable was the young Hebrew in his own household. By this time Joseph had picked up many languages, could do large sums in his head faster than any abacus, and was an expert healer of man and beast. Five years after his purchase Joseph was handling all Potiphar’s affairs and had become a man of power in the western realm.

Potiphar’s Wife

The Syrian had praised Joseph’s brains and beauty, and for once had spoken no more than the truth. But it was a double-edged truth, Joseph’s brains brought him prosperity among the Egyptians; his beauty brought disaster.

For Potiphar had a wife. She was much younger than her husband, and the men who came to the house looked upon her with lust. But they feared Potiphar and did not declare themselves. And she was quick with the whip, and the servants of the household walked in terror. Joseph had always avoided her, and few words had passed between them.

Now, the Egyptian gods were honored by great festivals at which the ancient legends were acted out. In these dramas, Pharaoh always played the chief god, Horus. Princes and captains and noblemen and their wives impersonated lesser gods and goddesses. In the fifth year of Joseph’s sojourn in Egypt, Potiphar’s wife was chosen to impersonate Edju, the cobra goddess, at the midwinter festival.

She summoned Joseph and appeared to him as Edju. A live cobra was about her waist as a belt, and another cobra twined up her leg. And the heads of the two cobras shuttled close, as if they were conversing. Her garment was mottled black and green with full sleeves, and when she locked her hands behind her head she was undulant, with a taut silken hood like a great cobra.

He heard her speak. “Do not cast your eyes upon the ground, young man. Look at me.”

He looked at her and said nothing. “Well,” she said, “do I resemble Edju?”

“I am not acquainted with anyone of that name, my lady.”

“Edju, the cobra goddess. Very beautiful, very deadly.”

“I am a Hebrew, my lady. We recognize only one God, and acknowledge no others.”

“I did not ask for a lecture on theology.”

Her voice rose in anger and she stepped toward him, clenching her hands. The snakes swerved their heads and looked at him out of lidless eyes.

Joseph did not flinch. He spoke to them in soft, hissing tones; the snakes lowered their heads and slept.

“How did you do that?” cried Potiphar’s wife.

“I know about animals, my lady. It is my particular skill.”

“Pity you don’t know anything about women.”

“I was about to say, before you lost patience, that if the Edju of your fables is described as beautiful, then it is most fitting for you to impersonate her.”

“So you are capable of pretty speeches?”

“I speak but the truth, my lady. And let me say this. Those cobras are dangerous. They should be curled in a ball under the earth, sleeping the braided sleep of winter serpents. If handled out of season and made to do strange things in strange places, they may strike at you. And their bite is fatal.”

She smiled and stretched her long arms. “They will not attack their goddess.”

“They are only snakes. They may not know your fables.”

“Then you shall simply have to cure me of snakebite, shall you not?” She smiled and moved closer to him.

“The best cure for snakebite,” he said, “is to render the bite harmless.”

“That would not please me.”

“I can remove their venom. It is not difficult.”

“The cobras are Edju’s living girdle. They are the very sinews of peril. Who can worship something that is harmless? … But we will speak of this again, little Hebrew.”

She turned away. The snakes stirred. And Joseph was very uneasy.

Potiphar summoned him and said: “My wife impersonates Edju at the winter festival.”

“I have seen her in costume,” said Joseph.

“Have you? Impressive, isn’t it? A bit too realistic for my taste. Some years ago a woman was stung to death by her ceremonial serpents. I shouldn’t like that to happen this time. Can’t you drug them so that they sleep during the ritual?”

“They may not awake,” said Joseph. “Such creatures do not take kindly to drugs.”

“They must not die!” cried Potiphar. “It would be regarded as a sign of high disfavor and the worst omen possible.”

“The only way is to remove their venom.”

“Very well, do it.”

“I suggested this to your wife, sire, and she said no.”

“I don’t like to cross her in these matters,” said Potiphar. “She is a priestess of that cult, after all. I may be tampering with matters beyond my ken.”

“If I may comment,” said Joseph, “there is no possible way she could know that they were rendered harmless—unless they bit her. And if they do and she lives, she will not quarrel with the result.”

“As usual, you are full of sense,” said Potiphar. “Disarm the serpents. Do it yourself and do not let the matter be known.”

Joseph went to the cobras’ cage that night and milked them of their venom, handling them so deftly that they did not comprehend their loss. And husband and wife departed for the palace of Pharaoh, where the midwinter festival was to be held.