Stone tables, p.29
Stone Tables, page 29
“Jannes,” said Moses kindly, “I know that you counseled against this.”
Jannes held his tongue, neither affirming nor denying.
“Pharaoh is like a blind man,” said Moses. “So let the world be as dark as his own vision. For three days, no light will be seen in the land, not of sun or moon, not of stars or any fire made by man.”
Tears flowed down Jannes’s face. “Moses, why doesn’t your god soften Pharaoh’s heart? If he has such power, why doesn’t he make Tuthmose feel compassion for Egypt?”
Moses shook his head. “The Lord God treats no human being as a slave. We are all his children. He would see all his creation brought to ruin before he would take free will away from even the most rebellious of men. Men must bear the consequences of their choices, and they can choose only what is within their power. But choose they may, now and always. This world was created for humankind to dwell in it; if humans lose the freedom of choice that separates them from the animals, then this world has no purpose.”
“Let God have mercy upon the innocent,” said Jambres, catching Moses by the hand and gripping it in supplication. “Let the punishment fall only on those who rebel.”
“It was the people of Egypt who goaded Pharaoh into mistreating the Israelites. Should they now be spared the consequences of their choices?”
“Darkness!” said Jannes. “Who will care for the sick and dying? What if a child wanders from its parents in the dark?”
“Give warning, then,” said Aaron. “Let the people block their doors to keep their little ones inside. Let them gather food and water for three days, as quickly as they can. Tomorrow the sun will not appear in the sky, and no light will be seen in all of Egypt.”
“Except,” said Moses, “in the land of Goshen where the people of the Lord are waiting for Pharaoh to let them go offer sacrifice.”
Jannes’s voice fell to a whisper. “Then go in the dark of night. Sweep the soldiers away before you.”
“No Israelite will raise a hand of violence against any Egyptian. When we have our freedom, it will be because Pharaoh bent to the will of God and gave that freedom to us.”
“Tuthmose does not bend,” said Jambres. “Especially he doesn’t bend to you.”
“Let him bow to God,” said Moses. “I never asked a soul to bend to me.”
“Or let him break,” said Aaron.
“You’ve made new Pharaohs before,” said Moses quietly, “and swept away old ones.”
“Do you think I don’t repent of my part in that?” said Jambres. “Do you think all of Egypt hasn’t wished that Hatshepsut were still alive? She would have let your people go, simply because it was you, her beloved son, asking.”
“Did she still love me, even after I went into exile?” asked Moses.
“She never spoke of you again,” said Jannes. “But I believe she thought of you all the time. Whenever she got a sour look on her face, watching Tuthmose, we knew she was thinking: If Moses were here, it would all be different.”
“I’m here now,” said Moses, “too late for Hatshepsut, but not too late for Egypt. God is my only parent now, and I obey him like a son.”
“Do you want us to overthrow Tuthmose? Because you know we can’t. Look how young his son is. Who would be regent? All the obvious candidates are dead.”
“Let Pharaoh serve God, and all that you have lost will be restored.”
Jannes and Jambres looked at each other. “It’s cheap to make a promise that you know you’ll never have to keep,” said Jambres. “You might eventually bend him to your will, but he will never serve God.”
* * *
The next morning there was no dawn. People awoke in dark houses. No fire would light, no lamp, no spark. Farmers heard the cattle complaining in the barns, and had to go out and feed them and milk them by feel, as their wives and children cowered in their pitchblack houses.
In Goshen, though, while the sky was dark, lamps could be lit, and fires; food was cooked, chores were done, all by the flickering light of burning oil.
When the three days were nearly up, Moses and Aaron made their way out of Goshen, carrying lamps. As the road led them past Egyptian villages, their light drew the attention of the villagers, who came out of their houses weeping for joy at the sight of even such a feeble light. A multitude jostled along behind them, all of them blind as before, except for the few near the front who were close enough to see by the light of Moses’ and Aaron’s lamps.
In the house of Pharaoh, Tuthmose saw the light and cried out. “Moses! Lamps will light for you!”
Moses laughed. “A lighted lamp? After all you’ve seen, and this is what amazes you?”
“I’m ready to keep my word,” said Pharaoh. “Go, all of you, every Israelite. But leave your cattle behind, as an assurance that you’ll return.”
“We’re going to feast and offer sacrifices,” said Moses. “We will take our flocks and herds.”
“Why do you still lie to me?” said Pharaoh. “You complain that I don’t keep my word, but what about you? Saying that you just want to go out and sacrifice, when you know that your plan is and always has been to leave Egypt and never come back. My informers have told me everything—the promises about Canaan, the land flowing with milk and honey! Shame on you for a liar!”
“I never promised that we’d come back,” said Moses. “All I promised was that one way or another, the Lord God will send his people out of Egypt into the wilderness, and we’ll offer sacrifices when we get there.”
“You’re the same man as me,” said Tuthmose. “I learned everything you taught!”
“You don’t have the slightest inkling of the things I learned while I was gone. The knowledge I taught you was of another time and place.”
“I have the blood of Pharaohs in my veins! I will not have it said that the kingdom of Egypt was diminished during my reign!”
“These plagues have diminished Egypt far more than the departure of the Israelites ever would. Keeping a nation bound in slavery diminishes Egypt, also. What I ask you for is largeness of soul, greatness of heart. God will forgive you even now, if you turn to him. You can be a great Pharaoh, if you submit yourself to the Lord God of heaven.”
“My greatness does not depend on your god,” said Tuthmose coldly. “My greatness depends on what I do.”
“That’s true enough,” said Moses. “As long as you understand that how you respond to the Lord is the most important of your choices.”
“Here is how I respond. I will never let Israel go. There is nothing you or your god can do to me to make Pharaoh bow down before a sheep-herding slave. Now get out, and trouble me no more. The day you see my face again, you’ll die.”
“You’re right,” said Moses. “You’ll never see my face again, though you spend your whole life searching. What God does now will close the door on your heart forever, even as it opens the door to set Israel free.”
“Your god can do nothing!” shouted Pharaoh. “He has no power over me! Your people are my slaves forever!”
His cries echoed through the palace. Servants and courtiers, officers and priests all peered from doorways or knelt in the corridors, eager and fearful to see Moses and Aaron with their lighted lamps. Pharaoh’s desperate cries were plainly audible to all; more affecting, however, were the tears that streamed down Moses’ face. They knew then that after nine plagues, the Lord had lost patience. To the people that they passed, Aaron spoke softly. “Ask for the news of what you must do to save yourselves. When we tell Israel, ask for word of what to do. God will spare all those who obey him.”
* * *
“From now on,” Moses told the elders, “this month will be the first month of the year, and on the tenth day of this month, let every man take a lamb without blemish, and kill it on the eve of that day. Take the blood of the lamb and smear it on the doorpost of your house, to show the angel of the Lord that here is a household of faith.”
Miriam listened beyond the firelight, where none could see her, or if they saw, they tolerantly said nothing. She knew what Moses was telling them, knew it because she had seen it again and again in dreams.
“Then roast the lamb, and eat it with bread. But the lamb must be roasted quickly with fire, not boiled and not raw. And the bread cannot be given a chance to rise, but must be made in haste. Eat everything; leave nothing for the morning, and anything that remains uneaten, burn it in the fire. And eat it with your traveling clothes on, your sandals on your feet, your staff in your hand, and eat in a hurry, for you are about to begin your journey.”
This was Miriam’s dream: Everyone in traveling clothes, eating in haste. She knew that it was important every time she saw it. But not until tonight did she understand. This is how Israel will eat on the night before they leave Egypt.
“On this night,” said Moses, “the angel of the Lord will pass through the land of Egypt, and will take the life of every firstborn in the land of Egypt, both man and beast. But where the angel sees the blood of the lamb, he will pass over that house, and spare the firstborn who are inside.”
The elders murmured. The Lord was taking terrible vengeance on Egypt for the slavery of the chosen people. But if they had let Israel go, this last plague would not have come upon them.
“Not only this night, but from now on, forever, Israel will keep the feast of the Passover. For seven days you will eat unleavened bread, and on the first and the seventh day Israel will meet in holiness. For you must never forget that for the sake of the blood of the lamb your lives are saved, and that God had mercy on his people and brought them out of bondage into the land of promise.”
So this is what began when Mother labored to bear her son, and had me follow the ark she made, to see where God took the boy. This is what God planned: A night of dire judgment; a morning of bright deliverance.
It was Aaron’s turn to speak. “Let no household go unwarned. In every tribe, let no man or woman say that they didn’t know what God expected of them. Nor will you keep it a secret from any Egyptian. For now is the day for anyone who will serve the Lord to join with Israel.”
Moses spoke again. “Generations from now, in the land of promise, as you kill the lamb and mark the door with blood, as you stay indoors all night, as you feast on the unleavened bread, wearing traveling clothes, your children will say, ‘What does this mean?’ And you’ll say to them, ‘It’s the sacrifice of the Lord’s Passover, for the Lord passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt, when he took the lives of the firstborn of the Egyptians and set Israel free from bondage.’”
The elders rose to their feet, then, and obeyed Moses and Aaron, and spread the word of the Lord’s commandment throughout the land of Goshen. Word of the warning spread also among the villages of the Egyptians. But Pharaoh warned that anyone marking his house with blood would be considered a slave, and would be forced to serve with the Israelite slaves in making bricks.
As the day of preparation began, Miriam heard the chatter of the women, hushed at first, in awe of what had already happened, at what was about to happen. But soon the familiar task of grinding the grain and making the dough brought back familiar conversations, and she heard their light laughter, the meaningless jokes that passed the time.
For a moment Miriam was resentful. Couldn’t they remain solemn on this holiest day in the history of the people of Israel? Didn’t they know that tomorrow all dreams and prophecies would be fulfilled, and Israel would be led out of bondage by the power of God?
But of course they laughed. Of course they were giddy. Everything was going to change, and in strange ways. Yes, they had endured change before—from freedom to slavery, from homes scattered throughout Egypt to confinement in the land of Goshen, and from labor at every honorable task to the backbreaking work of making bricks. But with all these changes, they had remained in Egypt. Now they would be going out into the desert, a forbidding place where no Egyptian willingly went. The only life they knew was life within reach of the Nile, and now they would leave the river behind and go into the country of sand and stone and sun, of brutal wind and killing heat and permanent drought. Yes, the Lord would be with them, but they were afraid; and also they were delighted that their long period of enslavement was over; and so they joked with each other to cover their fear and contain their happiness.
Didn’t Miriam’s own hands tremble at the kneading trough?
The afternoon waned into evening. Lambs were butchered. Blood was smeared on the doorposts. Every Israelite was indoors and would not come out through all the hours of darkness. For the destroying angel was coming to Egypt, and all that was in anyone’s power now was to save himself and his family, by obeying the Lord. Those who refused to take part in the feast, out of fear or unbelief or stubborn rebellion against God, had made their own choice.
* * *
Tuthmose found Sakhmet with the cooks, watching as they butchered a lamb.
“What are you doing?” he asked coldly.
“Preparing supper,” said Sakhmet.
“A lamb?” asked Tuthmose.
“That was the meat I fancied tonight,” said Sakhmet.
“And was it without blemish?” asked Tuthmose.
“I would hardly choose less than the best for our supper.”
Tuthmose raised his hand and struck her across the face, struck so brutally that she fell to the ground and hit her head. She lay there, moaning and writhing, curling herself into a ball.
To the terrified cooks, Tuthmose’s orders were brief and clear. “Burn this lamb. Pour its blood on the fire. If one drop of blood is seen on any doorway in the palace, I’ll have you and your families killed.”
By now, Sakhmet had struggled to rise to her knees. “Tuthmose,” she groaned, “it’s the life of our son!”
“I forbid this to happen!” cried Tuthmose. “I forbid you to speak of it!”
“Kill me then!” cried his wife. “Kill me now so I don’t have to watch our sweet Ptahmose die because you were too proud and stubborn to bow before the power of the Lord God of Israel!”
“This isn’t a god we’re dealing with!” shouted Tuthmose. “It’s Moses! I know Moses! He was always weak and merciful. Making and keeping promises to people so weak that it didn’t matter whether he kept his word or not. All these other plagues, they killed no one who was careful.”
“I was being careful,” murmured Sakhmet. “I was trying to be careful for our boy.”
“Power comes from the willingness to kill,” said Tuthmose, “and that’s why Moses lost his power, and that’s why he still has no power in Egypt.”
“No power! When he can blot out the light of the sun! Make the river run with blood!”
“Moses is no killer,” said Tuthmose. “Our son will not die. His people will not go free. He has reached too far this time.”
“No, you have! You have gone too far!” She was frantic now, screaming, her face dark with rage, tears flying from her eyes as she flung her head back to look her husband in the face. “When our son dies, I will say nothing to you,” she said. “But every time you see me looking at you, you’ll remember this: I tried to save our son’s life, and you stopped me. You are the one who decided he would die. You are the one who killed. And that is what you call power.” The contempt in her voice was like an iron blade.
“You’re no queen,” said Tuthmose. “You are not a queen!”
“I don’t care about queen or wife or any other name you can give me. At this moment all I am is Ptahmose’s mother. But you are not his father. A father keeps his child safe, a father does whatever it takes to save his child’s life. You are not a father! You are nothing to me!”
The cowering cooks, trying to be invisible against the walls of the kitchen, thought for a moment that Tuthmose would take one of their bone-cutting hatchets and kill her on the spot. They saw him get control of himself. Instead of violence, he turned to the cooks. “Remember. Burn it all. Pour the blood on the fire.”
* * *
Moses and Miriam ate their small feast together in her hut—there was no room for them in Aaron’s tiny, crowded house. So no one but Miriam saw how Moses spent the night. He tried to sleep, and so did she, but as the night wore on, she awoke often, hearing some distant cry, some far-off wailing, and whenever she woke up she saw Moses, kneeling beside his pallet, praying, or lying on his bed sobbing quietly. Once she heard the words he prayed, though he whispered very quietly, trying not to waken her. “O God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, take me instead, leave my children fatherless, but let me die in place of all these others. It’s too hard a punishment for them to bear.”
Miriam heard him, but knew that the Lord would not grant any such prayer. If God were to take Moses’ life, it would be for his own sins and mistakes, and not for the crimes of others.
Would some firstborns die innocently tonight? Of course, and Miriam didn’t have a heart of stone, she knew that such losses were unbearable. But why did this bother Moses so much, and so personally? He knew that this was ordained by the Lord. Wouldn’t the innocent ones be caught up joyfully to the beautiful heaven Jacob saw in the vision that came to him when he was fleeing the anger of his brother? While those who died with no such joyful hope had decreed their own end, and what difference did it make whether it was tonight or later?
She even thought of saying all this to Moses, but as she rehearsed the word in her mind, she knew that he already knew these things. It wasn’t for the dying that he grieved, anyway. It was for the living. He grieved because he was a father and had children; she had none. So he could easily imagine the agony of a parent whose firstborn was taken from him, while for Miriam it remained a mystery. She had seen how parents became frantic when they didn’t know where their little children were; how they worried, how they thought of nothing but their children, how unhappy it made them; and how they rejoiced unreasonably over even the slightest achievement of their children until Miriam was unutterably bored. And whatever the bond parents felt for children, it wasn’t reciprocated. Children were an ungrateful, careless lot, Miriam believed. In the end, there was no rational way to comprehend what parents felt. You had to be one.
