Zeforah was astonished when even now, having just been saved by what could only be divine intervention, Hamar found something to grumble about. “Father says we’re supposed to solve our differences by talking.”

  Before Zeforah could answer her, the stranger himself spoke up. “That’s what I did,” he said. “But I had to . . . try several . . . languages before they understood.”

  Sarah giggled, and Hamar smiled in spite of her surly mood. Still, Zeforah could not leave this man with the impression that they were ungrateful. “Sir,” she said, “decency says we may not speak to you, for you are not known to our father. But gratitude has the better claim on all of us, and we thank you.”

  Emboldened by the fact that Zeforah had spoken, Keturah bounded right up to the man. “You speak very high Hebrew,” she said. “Like Father, not like the villagers. But why do you keep . . . pausing . . . like . . . that?” Her own pauses were a perfect mockery of the stranger’s speech, and the younger girls laughed; this time, though, Hamar and Sarah seemed to recognize that this might be taken as a grave insult.

  “Hebrew is not my . . . native tongue,” said the man. “I . . . search for words.”

  But Zeforah knew enough to guess that this was, at best, only partly true. This man’s speech was blocked by something other than foreignness. Yet she did not begrudge him the untruth, if such it was, for might a man not have a small story to save his pride from the shame of halting speech, or any other such lameness?

  The sheep were gathered now, and had their fill of water. “Sir,” said Zeforah. “Let us cover the well, and then come with us to our father’s house, where he will know how to thank you most graciously.”

  “What I did was not for the sake of thanks,” said the man.

  “You’re a traveler in need of a roof and a meal, from the look of you,” said Zeforah. “Why not accept them from those who are most eager to give them to you?”

  He smiled. His dust-caked face seemed to crack at the unaccustomed expression. “I’ll accept your . . . kind offer. Let me make another. I’ll move the . . . stone over the well for you, if you’ll . . . let me have a . . . drink first.”

  “A drink!” cried Zeforah. “Of course you’re thirsty!”

  Immediately she lowered the waterbag into the well, then drew it up and dipped her own cup into it to serve him. He drank carefully, spilling nothing, and without slurping. But he also did it boldly, not turning away, so he clearly thought of himself as her equal. Or her better.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” he said, returning the cup, “any debt you owed me is . . . satisfied.”

  “By a cup of water?” she laughed. “Water has great value, but life still means more.”

  “But for me, water is . . . life.”

  Keturah piped up. “Father could make a whole sermon out of that.”

  “Then your . . . father must be a wise man.”

  “He’s a priest of the most high God,” said Zeforah. “He serves the Midianites in the valley.”

  “The most high . . . God has . . . blessed him . . . with six beautiful daughters.”

  Hamar hooted. “I wonder which one is the ugly one!”

  “There are seven of us,” said Zeforah. “But Rachel is at home, preparing supper.”

  “She’s the prettiest,” said Keturah. “All the men in the village think so.”

  “And that’s enough now,” said Zeforah. “Let’s cover the well and take this stranger home to meet Father.”

  “No, that’s for me to do,” he insisted, but now his weariness seemed too much for him, for the lid of the well didn’t yield to his will the way the ruffians had. Zeforah wordlessly joined in beside him, and then Keturah and Asa, before the stone budged.

  “I’m weak,” said the man when the stone was in place.

  “Only weary,” said Zeforah. “Please, follow me.” She set out on the path down the canyon. He put one foot before the other so ploddingly that she wanted to offer to let him lean on her. But she knew that his pride had already been injured by his inability to cover the well by himself. So she would let him do his own walking, and only lead the way.

  * * *

  Jethro heard them calling, the younger girls, and felt relief and annoyance, both. Annoyance, because he had done so little today, despite all his hours of work on copying the book of Abraham. Relief, because his eyes were bleary and his back ached. He was getting old, no doubt of it, and that was not a happy thought. What if he died before he had made a complete copy of all the holy books he had? Some were getting old indeed. Worse yet, what if he died before one of his daughters married and had a son to whom he could give the scriptures? A son whom he could ordain a priest? Sometimes he despaired of that desire, for unless God wrought a miracle, his daughters would end up marrying one of the ignorant clods from the village, or, worse yet, from one of the other villages that didn’t even bother to bring their sacrifices to a priest, they had fallen so far from Father Abraham’s religion. Uncircumcised, unlettered—even if one of his daughters, in desperation no doubt, took such a one as husband, their sons would be hard-pressed to grow up to be anything other than oafs.

  No, no, no. Everyone is teachable. Or if they’re not, then God in his wisdom wishes for all my life’s labor to be for nought.

  “Father!” It was Keturah who burst into his tent, and right on through the veil into the inner room.

  “Keturah!” he said sternly.

  “Oh! I forgot!” She scooted back out into the outer room. “Father, forgive me, did I get dust into the room?”

  “No, no.” He laid his pen aside, and, leaving the precious papyrus scroll open for the ink to dry, he emerged from the inner room. “What brings you scampering home like a rabbit? Are boys with stones chasing you?”

  “You should have seen what was chasing us! Four big men, trying to steal the sheep! Trying to run them off, and they threatened to do terrible things, but the stranger broke them into pieces like crackers and he’s so thirsty and Zeforah spoke to him and offered him hospitality here but she told me not to tell you that because she wasn’t supposed to speak to him so now she’ll be mad at me.”

  Keturah looked so dismayed that Jethro had to laugh. “Keturah, of course I won’t be angry with Zeforah, and she won’t be angry with you. If a stranger saved my daughters and my sheep, do you think I’d deny him the hospitality of my home, or be offended because my daughter spoke to him? If I know Zeforah, she spoke to him only to thank him.”

  “That’s right!” said Keturah.

  “Then she did well. Let’s go meet this stranger.”

  Keturah ran out of the tent, then ran back to clutch at his robe, at his hand. “Come on, he’s so tired he’s almost falling down.”

  “Did he have a long journey, then? Or was he injured in the confrontation with those four big men?”

  “They didn’t lay a hand on him,” said Keturah. “He must be a soldier. Or a hero!”

  “Heros are all myths,” said Jethro. “There are only men, and God, and men of God.”

  “Then he’s a man of God!”

  Keturah was jumping around him. “Am I a sacred calf, and you a pagan to dance around me?” asked Jethro.

  At once she calmed down. “I’m no pagan, Papa,” she said. “I’m just . . . exuberant.”

  “I should never have taught Zeforah to read, if she’s going to teach you words that the village boys don’t understand.”

  “The stranger talks funny,” said Keturah. “Bookish. But he . . . pauses . . . all . . . the . . . time.”

  “Interesting,” said Jethro. Clearly this stranger was the most interesting thing that had happened to Keturah in her entire life.

  Keturah went on, telling about the stranger over and over again, until at last the running commentary could end for there he was in the flesh. He did look weary. And the other girls seemed almost as insane with curiosity about him as Keturah. They could hardly walk without stumbling, their eyes were so focused on his every movement. And yet none of them was speaking to him; Jethro was pleased that their training in modesty had managed to hold even in the face of such temptation. Their mother would be proud.

  “Sir!” cried Jethro. “My name is Jethro! Welcome to my tent! This is your home!”

  The stranger looked at him blankly. “Sir, I owe it to you to . . . give you my . . . name in return. But if I say that . . . name, I bring . . . danger to you and your house.”

  “You can trust the discretion of my daughters,” said Jethro. “Think of how much they clearly want to ask, and haven’t.”

  The stranger looked away, embarrassed, because he still did not intend to comply, but was also reluctant to make up a name.

  “I’ll spare you the effort of lying. Your name is Moses, you are no longer Hatshepsut’s heir, and you fear that the mighty arm of Egypt will seek you out in these miserable Midianite villages here in the Sinai.”

  The stranger—Moses—looked stricken. “How could word of this arrive . . . before me?”

  Jethro laughed. “No word has reached me. I looked at your clothing. Egyptian. Very high-born Egyptian. And yet you speak Hebrew fluently, with the accents of an educated man. Keturah told me you defeated four men easily, breaking bones. Yet you didn’t have the strength to move the capstone over the well, so you were trained as a soldier but aren’t used to manual labor. There’s only one Israelite in Egypt who could fit that description. Yet here you are, alone, filthy from crossing the desert on foot, without supplies, and hiding your name. So clearly you’ve fallen from power and fear retribution from Egypt. All this is obvious. Is there something I’ve missed?”

  Still not looking at him, Moses replied, “I . . . killed a man.”

  “You’re a soldier. You’ve killed many men, or had them killed.”

  “I . . . killed an Egyptian innkeeper who was . . . beating an Israelite servant.”

  Jethro laughed. “And this is what you tell me when you want me to take you into my tent?”

  “I . . . might as well. If I . . . didn’t, you’d . . . guess it anyway.”

  “Rachel has kept things baking and boiling all day. As long as you don’t have a habit of killing cooks, you’re welcome to dine with us.”

  “I started smelling the food halfway down the . . . canyon.”

  “And you kept coming! This is a compliment that I’m sure my little Rachel will cherish.”

  It took a moment, but the stranger finally understood the layers of irony and affection in Jethro’s remark, and smiled. Indulgently, perhaps, but Jethro was willing to be indulged. From all reports, this Moses was a great man, a commander whose men generally lived through his campaigns, a governor whose people rejoiced in their government. But then, this might be merely the legend that would accrete to any prominent son of Abraham, risen to such a lofty place. Even Midianites, who were only sons of Abraham by adoption—more like great-nephews of Abraham, if one wished to be precise—took pride in the stories of Moses, so it was unlikely that if he were an arrogant oaf the word of it would have reached the nether regions of Sinai.

  The girls outdid themselves at dinner, falling all over each other in their eagerness to serve the stranger. It seemed that every dish required at least two girls to bring it in, and two more to carry it away, while others hovered nearby with towels and finger bowls, wine flagons and fresh cups. Every dish they owned had surely been used and scrubbed twice before the meal was half done. And it seemed to Jethro that twice the normal amount of seasoning had been dumped into every food at the last moment, so that everything was spicy. More than once his eyes widened at the first taste of a dish . . . but his guest seemed not to notice, and ate with perfect manners and self-restraint, despite the fact that he must be famished.

  The only daughter who seemed not to come in at all during the meal was Zeforah. Of course, the perverse child. Here was the most marriageable Hebrew in the known world, and Zeforah insisted on hanging back. Well, her modesty was commendable. It would recommend her to this man of manners and subtlety. Because this Moses was not leaving here without a daughter of Jethro as his wife. One of his girls, at least, had to be married to something other than a village clown, and there was no other conceivable reason that God would have led such a man to Jethro’s home. No, God had led him direct to Jethro’s daughters! The Lord’s intentions could not be clearer, and who was Jethro to attempt to thwart the will of the Lord?

  Jethro beckoned to Sarah, who at once rushed over with the wine flagon. He whispered to her, “From now on I expect this level of service when I dine alone.”

  She gave him a thin little smile, which brightened to a toothy grin as soon as she remembered that Moses might be watching. Her teeth were fine and white, her best asset.

  “Tell Zeforah that I want her to bring in the fig cakes herself,” he whispered.

  “She won’t,” said Sarah softly. “We’ve tried.”

  “Tell her if she doesn’t, I’ll send him outside to fetch the cakes himself.”

  Sarah’s expression at first was doubtful—would Father do such a horrible thing? Such a breach of all decorum? And then she realized that, yes, he would. She rushed outside to the kitchen.

  A few moments later, Zeforah came in with a tray of cakes. She shot an evil glance at her father, which he answered with a smile. Then she knelt before Moses and presented the cakes.

  Jethro saw, with satisfaction, that it took a moment for Moses to notice the cakes at all, because he was busy greeting Zeforah with a grin.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” said Jethro.

  A blush leapt to Zeforah’s face. Modestly she looked down at the cakes.

  “Trouble is, she thinks she should have been my eldest son. God gave me gems, and she thinks I want a stone.”

  “I’ve wished for soldiers with her . . . courage,” said Moses. “She struck one and nearly . . . broke his back.”

  “Zeforah struck the first blow? Why am I not surprised?”

  “I suspect they would have won the battle without my help,” said Moses, “but I hope I spared them a bruise or two.”

  “It’s hard to imagine what’s happening in the modern world, when a man’s flocks aren’t safe from mountain bandits.” Jethro sighed, long and mournfully.

  Zeforah made a move as if to set down the tray of cakes.

  “You haven’t tasted the fig cakes yet,” said Jethro.

  Moses reached down to take the smallest one.

  “Not that one! Not that measly rat-sized bite! Not that deformed half-cousin of a fig cake! You are my guest, and you must take the best my humble household has to offer.”

  Laughing, Moses took the biggest of the cakes. Zeforah at once came to offer the tray to her father.

  “I suppose that now I’ll have to go myself to tend the flocks, which will put an end to my real labor. Oh, if only I had a man in my household, who could be guardian of my herds and protector of my daughters!” Jethro sighed again.

  Zeforah glared again at her father. Apparently she thought his hint was too broad.

  It hardly mattered. Moses seemed oblivious. “What’s your real work, then? If not shepherding?”

  “My real work is to serve God.”

  “Oh, yes, your daughters mentioned that you served the villages here as a priest of . . . God.”

  “Of the only true and living God,” said Jethro. “But these bumpkins can’t tell a real God from the carven pretenders. They pray to an idol for the sun to shine, and then it shines, and they think it proves something—they live in a dry land, what should the sun do if not to shine? And then they come to me to offer sacrifice to the true God when their child has fallen down the well and drowned, and they think it proves I’m a bad priest that their baby doesn’t get raised from the dead! A perverse and ignorant people who try the patience of God.”

  “Did they really think a god could raise the dead?”

  “Because I teach them that God will resurrect the dead, when the last trumpet sounds over the Earth, they think it means that God will also do it now, at their convenience. In vain do I try to explain that God means this life to be a trial, of our faithfulness, our obedience, and so things must happen which are hard to bear.”

  “Theological subtleties are always wasted on the ignorant.”

  “Now that, my friend, is a foolish thing to say,” said Jethro.

  Moses raised his eyebrows. Apparently no one had called a statement of his foolish for a long time.

  “The ignorant,” explained Jethro, “are the only people who can be taught. You, for instance, fancy yourself an educated man. That means that you would never dream of learning anything from a desert herdsman who calls himself a priest. You’ll eat my food, you’ll sleep in my tent, you’ll contemplate my daughters, but as for actually learning anything from me, the thought would not cross your mind.”

  It amused Jethro to see the horror in Zeforah’s eyes. She could pretend that she didn’t want him to tout her charms to this man, but when she thought he was insulting Moses, that he might be driving the man away, she was just as annoyed as any of the other girls would be.

  “You’re mistaken, sir,” said Moses. “I saw your household as an island of . . . peace, and I wanted very much to learn how you . . . created such a place.”

  “An island of peace! What, did my girls actually refrain from quarreling among themselves while you were with them? Then you are indeed a miracle worker.”

  “I had all the education that Egypt has to offer. I learned of war from the warriors, of . . . gods from the priests, and of . . . government from my mother. I learned of the Israelite God from my Israelite . . . mother, and on my own I learned all I could about . . . farming, architecture, astronomy. . . . But in the end, what was any of it worth? I let my . . . temper throw me from the . . . pinnacle of power.”

  “This man you killed, was he defenseless?”

  “No. If he hadn’t fought me, I wouldn’t have . . . killed him.”

  “So you didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “No, of course not. But that doesn’t . . . change the fact that if I had . . . kept my temper, that man would be alive, and I would still . . . be the son of Pharaoh.”