“Would you? Would he? Are you a prophet, then?”

  “I don’t understand your . . . question.”

  “How can you know what would have happened? All we ever know is what did happen. Even then, we scarcely know why. What plan is God working out in the world? Tell me the truth, Moses. Did you really think that you would ever inherit the double crown of Egypt?”

  “It would have been hard.”

  “It would have meant civil war. It would have meant the rampant slaughter of the Israelite people if you had even tried.”

  Moses’ eyes flashed. “You seem oddly expert on the affairs of Egypt, especially for a man who says that one can’t know what would have happened.” Jethro noticed, too, that when he was angry, Moses didn’t stammer.

  “You see?” said Jethro. “You won’t let me get away with pretending to such knowledge, but you are willing to consume yourself with guilt about things you understand even less. How did you know that God didn’t arrange all of this in answer to my prayers that he bring a suitable husband for my brilliant eldest daughter?”

  Zeforah gasped and dropped the tray of cakes.

  “My brilliant, beautiful, clumsy eldest daughter,” Jethro corrected himself. “Fortunately, fig cakes taste even better with a bit of carpet fiber in them.”

  “Sir, you are . . . generous indeed,” said Moses. “But I’m not a . . . fit man to be any woman’s husband. If I’m . . . found, I will be . . . killed.”

  “You’ll be found when God wants you found, and you’ll die when God wants you dead. Not before, not after.”

  “Why do you even think that a . . . god would notice me?”

  “Not a god. God. The Lord. The one whose name we do not speak. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”

  “In Egypt, we know who the one . . . god is, the first god, . . . Ptah, the maker of heaven and earth, the . . . creator of all the gods. Is this the one you will not . . . name?”

  “What the Egyptians know of God is the rumor of a memory of a legend of a dream.” Jethro grinned his best grin. “I have the words of Abraham himself. Of Enoch. Of Adam, when he first prayed to the Lord God at the altar he built in the dreary world, after he was cast out of the garden.”

  Moses cocked his head. “You have such things memorized?”

  “Written down. Did you think that only Egyptians knew how to write? That only papyrus could hold words? Abraham had writing, too. On the parched skin of lambs we write, and copy it again, generation after generation. And not in the inconvenient elaborate temple writing of the Egyptians that takes forever to copy out. But . . . what do you care? You’re an educated man. What could you learn from a priest in the desert?”

  Moses grimaced. “How did I . . . give you offense? I hope I haven’t been . . . proud in such a . . . generous house.”

  “You’ve been the soul of modesty,” said Jethro. “I’m the rude one.”

  Zeforah’s quick, nasty smile showed that she agreed.

  “Have another fig cake now that my beautiful eldest daughter has gathered them up like rose petals from the carpet.”

  She rolled her eyes and carried the tray back to Moses. This time he didn’t hesitate to take the best of them, and Jethro saw with pleasure that he gave Zeforah a little smile, as if to say, I’m sorry your father is being so embarrassingly open about his ambition for you, but I like you anyway. Or was he reading too much into his glance? Give him time, the boy would come around.

  “Would you imagine learning a whole new way of writing?” said Jethro. “So that you could read the very words that Abraham wrote?”

  “If you . . . kept me here, I’d have to labor to earn my . . . keep,” said Moses. “What I was . . . doesn’t matter. What I am now is a man of no . . . property and no . . . prospects. And no experience or useful skill. All I’m . . . good for is . . . plain labor. The lowest servant in your house.”

  “That’s what we’ll call you,” said Jethro. “So people don’t start guessing who you really are. A desert wanderer that I took in because God told me to.”

  “Did he?” asked Moses.

  “He didn’t have to send an angel, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Jethro. “The fact that you’re here at all made the message clear enough.”

  “What message?”

  “Think, man! What is your name, if not the Egyptian word for ‘son.’”

  Moses blushed. “Do I get . . . claimed again?”

  “No, no, I’m not saying son-in-law—that’s for you and my daughter to work out—whichever daughter you fancy, if any at all, but you’d be a fool to look at any of them as long as Zeforah’s available, the rest are either children or shameless scolds, God bless their hearts—I’m saying you are named son, which is the name of the anointed one.”

  “Who is that?” Moses looked sick. “I know of a . . . son who was anointed—he . . . conspired with his mother to . . . kill his own father and take his place.”

  “Then he’s no son at all, is he?” said Jethro. “The true Son is the one anointed by God. He will come to deliver Israel from bondage.”

  “If you think that . . . just because Hatshepsut named me . . .”

  “Not you! Not the bondage of mere slavery. A man can be a slave and still serve God. It’s the bondage of sin I’m talking about, and you’re already too impure to be that Son. Oh, to have a year in which to relieve your ignorance. Better yet, five years!”

  “If you can . . . teach me what . . . God is doing to me, if you can make me understand why I was raised up only to be thrown down . . .”

  “Oh, that’s the most important thing you can learn? The meaning of your own life? When I can unfold the universe of God’s creations to you, all you wonder about is why you aren’t still wearing fine linens in a stone house in Egypt?”

  Moses looked stricken. “I must have offended you, sir, but I don’t know how. I beg your forgiveness, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “What! You think I’m angry? This isn’t angry! This is excited! I have someone who knows all that the wisest nation in the world can teach, and now you’re here and ready to learn something true for a change. Leave here? I’d like to see you try! And go where? God gave you the name Moses because that’s what you are supposed to be. Not a king, but a child of God, always following him your whole life. Only when you are a true son to God will you be fit to lead, and then it will not be you that people follow, it will be God.”

  “Are you that kind of son of God?”

  “As best I can. Which is why I’m not afraid to speak bold truth to you. Because a true heart does not run from the truth, or fear it, or become angry.”

  “But I am angry. And a- . . . a- . . . fraid.”

  “But you’re not going to run, are you?”

  “I’ve already made my run. Across the desert. To this . . . place.”

  “Stay with me, Moses. Let me make a true son of you. Learn my learning. Labor at my labors.”

  “I know . . . nothing about being a . . . shepherd.”

  “What’s to know? You sit and watch the sheep! Moses, be a brother to my daughters.”

  “All this you offer me,” said Moses, “and the . . . sun has not yet risen on me in your house?”

  “I already know who you are,” said Jethro. “Not your legend—what is that worth? I know your heart.”

  “I don’t, and you do?”

  “Of course,” said Jethro. “I’m an old man. I’ve seen everything. It’s all familiar to me now.” Jethro rose up from his seat. “Stand up and let’s make this place over into a bedroom. Half the pillows are yours.”

  “If I’m to be a . . . servant in your house,” said Moses, “it’s not right for me to share your . . . bed.”

  “I told you,” said Jethro. “You’re to sleep where my son would sleep—at my side.”

  “You do me . . . too much honor.”

  “It is God who honors me,” said Jethro. “By entrusting you to my care.” Impulsively he strode to Moses and embraced him. “Sleep and be at peace, Moses. You may not know it yet, but God has rescued you from Egypt, and you come to this place like a shipwrecked sailor cast upon a friendly shore.”

  “I do know that much, sir,” said Moses. “And if it’s . . . God who made you such a . . . kind man, then I thank God for you.”

  “There. That was almost a prayer. You’re already waking up.” And with that, Jethro began tossing pillows around. The girls scurried out of the tent, off to find their own beds in the other tent.

  But Moses simply stood there, looking embarrassed.

  “What is it?” asked Jethro.

  “I’m filthy from traveling, sir,” said Moses. “Before I sleep on your pillows, shouldn’t I bathe?”

  Jethro laughed. “This isn’t Egypt,” he said. “We don’t have a huge river of water flowing past our houses. Fresh water is for drinking. As for bathing, well, it’s a long hike down to the sea, and you’re only filthy and sweaty again by the time you get home. We’re not offended by dirt and a little bit of stink here.”

  “But I offend myself,” said Moses.

  “Live with it,” said Jethro. “Until the sheep object, we haven’t water enough to waste it on baths.” He stretched himself out on half the accustomed number of pillows. “I’m an old man. I probably snore hideously, so you’d better get to sleep fast before I start in and keep you awake all night.”

  Moses lay down on his own pillows, but in a few moments tossed them aside and lay directly on the carpet. “I’m not used to soft sleeping,” he said.

  “I am,” said Jethro, gathering the discarded pillows and making up his bed the way he usually did. “When you get old, you’ll see.”

  Moses was asleep before Jethro could lie down again. He blew out the lamps and in the darkness listened to the man’s breathing. “O God, blessed be thy name,” Jethro murmured. “O God, thou hast given me a son.”

  Chapter 7: Words

  Moses did not take well to the numbing routine of the pastoral life. Every day the sheep needed water. Every day one of Jethro’s daughters led him on the search for new pasture, or taught him how to herd the stupid animals—couldn’t they train a dog for this?—or tried to teach him the silly country songs that they used to pass the time. All the while, Moses could not drive Egypt from his thoughts. Mother—Hatshepsut—what was she going through? How was she dealing with the crippling blow that his exile caused her? Was she able to keep the boy Tuthmose from combining with the priests to oust her? No doubt by giving him exactly what he wanted, his own throne. She would be able to rule over and around and even through him for a time, because he was still young. But he would work at soldiering—he had a gift for it, Moses knew that from his own days teaching the boy—and in due time he would have his own following among the soldiers, who would long for him to lead them instead of a woman.

  As for the priests, well, that was Tuthmose’s deepest weakness, that he was already beholden to them. Was he stupid enough to use them again? Didn’t he understand the constant danger that the priests posed to Pharaoh? Why else did Pharaoh have to become a god? It was so he could outrank the priests in their own hierarchy. Priests had meddled in government before, and it was always extremely difficult to get them out again, because any action taken against a priest was immediately portrayed by them as an attack on the gods. If Tuthmose went to them again, if he admitted them to the inner ring of government, there would be no expelling them. Maybe he would have the strength to keep them under his control during his own lifetime, but sooner or later there would be a weak pharaoh and the priests would seize power for themselves.

  The worst thing was that Tuthmose was not the sort of man who would take the long view, who would care even a bit about the rulers who would come after him. Let them solve the problems of their own time. Tuthmose would do what was needful now. That kind of pharaoh was the reason Egypt had fallen under the sway of the Hyksos invaders from Canaan. Weak without knowing he was weak. Weak because he inherited weakness from his father and never suspected it. Tuthmose would be ambitious, bold, triumphant no doubt, but he would leave Egypt weaker than he found it. That’s why he was unfit to rule, and now he would rule, and it was Moses’ fault. Because he couldn’t control himself, because he had to help one slave, and now a whole kingdom would pay.

  And what was happening to the Israelites now? Because he killed an Egyptian to save a single Israelite, what punishment was being visited upon them all? What was Jochabed suffering now? How were Miriam and Aaron cursing him? Or were they—yes, certainly they were—gloating, knowing they had driven him to a commitment to them and their people. Though they would insist that it was their God that had driven him. . . .

  “What were you thinking?” Keturah demanded. Small as she was, her voice penetrated, echoed from the cliffs. A few of the other girls were near enough to hear and look up.

  Moses looked around, tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing. Oh, yes. A simple job. Watching the nursing ewes and their lambs. But where were they? Oh, only a few yards off. “There they are,” said Moses.

  “Look at what you’re letting them eat!” Keturah grabbed him by the hand and dragged him over to where the ewes were gathered. As they walked, Moses could see that the ewes were unsteady on their feet. One of them took a couple of steps and fell over.

  “Oh no,” said Moses. “Is it dead?”

  “Drunk. Drunk as one of the village men at a festival. This plant makes them dizzy. Now we won’t be able to get them to do anything for hours.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I told you there was a patch nearby and you had to watch to keep them out of it!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Moses.

  She pulled up one of the plants and waved it right in Moses’ face. “There it is! It doesn’t look like anything else. I pointed it out to you before!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Moses again.

  “Well what’s the matter with you anyway?” demanded Keturah. “It’s not like this is hard! I’ve been doing it since I was four!”

  Moses was beginning to get annoyed. “I said, I’m sorry.”

  Keturah might have launched into yet another diatribe—certainly she was ready for one—but Zeforah arrived right then and cut her off. “That’s enough, Keturah. He gets the point.”

  “But he doesn’t listen!”

  “We were patient with you when you were starting out, Keturah.”

  “I was four!”

  “Keturah, teach with patience, not with anger.”

  Disgusted, Keturah stalked away. “You can get the ewes away from here, then.”

  “I’m truly sorry,” said Moses. “My mind wandered. She was right to reprimand me.”

  “She’s good at starting reprimands,” said Zeforah. “She has plenty of teachers to help her learn that. The hard thing is knowing when to stop.”

  “Many a junior officer has the same problem,” said Moses. “He keeps ragging at the offender, waiting until he feels satisfied. But anger only feeds on itself, so the more you rag, the less satisfied you are. It leads to deadly insult, or to blows, or both.”

  “Fortunately,” said Zeforah, “my sisters aren’t soldiers. The insults may be deadly, but the blows are light.”

  He tried to mimic her deft way of helping the drunken ewes stagger away from the plant, but no matter what he did, he kept knocking them over, sending their lambs away bleating, while Zeforah’s ewes never fell at all. She ended up herding five for every one he managed to get back to the safe pasture.

  “I’ll never be good at this,” he said.

  “God will give you the skills you need,” said Zeforah.

  “It’s God’s fault that I need these skills in the first place.”

  “But at least you’re not hesitating,” said Zeforah.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you speak. You don’t take those little . . . pauses.”

  He looked at her in mortified surprise. “No one has ever . . . spoken to me about that . . . before.”

  “Oh, no. There you’re doing it again. I never should have mentioned it.”

  “I just . . . you don’t . . .” and he gave up, speechless. Had he really stopped hesitating for a while?

  “Father said that you hesitate because Hebrew isn’t your first language,” said Zeforah.

  “That’s how it . . . began.”

  “And because you spend your life balanced between two nations, two mothers, two languages, two roles.”

  “An interesting analysis.”

  “But I think it’s because you’re proud and don’t want to get caught making a mistake.”

  Did she dislike him? Was that why she delighted in striking right at the heart of his vanity? The other girls seemed to be on their best behavior around him—except Keturah, who spoke her mind no matter what. Zeforah, however, seemed to go out of her way to be completely oblivious to the fact that her father had as much as offered her to him. But of course—she didn’t want to marry him, and so she was as unsubservient, as self-willed as possible.

  “No doubt you’re right,” said Moses.

  “Which means that when you don’t hesitate, it’s because you’re not being proud. And that’s a good thing.”

  “I’m . . . capable of a . . . good thing?” said Moses. “What a . . . surprise.”

  She seemed to recoil as if slapped. “What did I do to deserve that?”

  “What?”

  “Sarcasm. Nastiness.”

  “I assure you I was . . . mocking only . . . myself.”

  “You were putting me in my place,” she said. “Only I was in my place. I’m your teacher here.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Moses.

  “I didn’t ask for the job, you know,” she said.

  “True.”

  “And you’re not trying very hard.”

  “I do everything I’m told,” he said. He couldn’t quite keep all the bitterness out of his voice.

  “No, you don’t. Shepherding is boring work, but you have to remain alert all the time. Imagine if you left a soldier on watch and he did as badly as you did today!”