“And this is what you stay for?” he asked.

  “We sing our hymns to God,” she said. “But on these nights, I hear him singing back to me.”

  She turned again to face the sky and when she spoke, her voice was different. Tender, loving. The voice she might be saving to speak to her children. Perhaps the voice she had used with her mother when she was dying. The voice she might be reserving for only her husband to hear. The voice with no hard edge to it, no wariness, just warmth and trust.

  “O Father, thank you for the sky tonight,” she said. “The way the sun is red and gold like fire, the silver in the clouds, the bursts of light and the shining rocks of the hills. And for my eyes so I could see it, and for love and peace that fill my life, so I can recognize the white that’s hiding in the dusty fleece. And thank you for the cool of the gathering night.” Then, more softly, she added the words that he had seen her murmuring at the end of every prayer in Jethro’s house, only this time he heard her, this time the words were clear. “In the name of the Son. Amen.”

  This was her ritual, then. What she stayed for, by herself. To pray. And she had let him keep this vigil with her, and had let him hear this most private prayer. She did love him, he saw that now; and he also saw what the barrier between them was. She could not wholly give herself to him until he wholly gave himself to God. He was a student of the scripture, but not yet a servant of the Lord. Before she could take him as her husband, she had to know that he could also pray.

  And it was not enough, he knew, for him to murmur an amen at the close of her prayer. She heard him, and she smiled a little, but it was not enough.

  If only he could pray. If only he could get the words out. But the fear and confusion that made him hesitate in his normal speech had become a terrifying, choking stammer when he tried to pray. Her words flowed so gracefully and naturally—how could she understand how much even the attempt to pray cost him? He knew it was his own unworthiness. He could not utter a word to God; his mouth was shut when he tried.

  She turned to him, reached out to him, touched his cheek with her gentle hand. “You haven’t stammered once today,” she said. Then she rose to her feet and walked away from him, along the meadow to the path leading down to Jethro’s tent.

  What did she mean by that? Perhaps it was true, perhaps he was confident enough that he no longer hesitated to choose his words when he was with Jethro’s daughters. But no, she meant more by it. It was as if she knew that he longed to pray, but that his stammering blocked the words. It was as if she had heard him struggle. She wanted him to pray. She wanted him to be worthy to marry her. She knew what he had only just realized, that it was the silence between him and God that stood between him and Zeforah.

  That was why she had shown him a prayer, and then left him alone to pray himself.

  For a moment he wanted to rebel against the assignment, to refuse to obey. But he recognized that as pure foolishness and put it aside. He wanted exactly what she wanted, and if she was trying to help he would have to be a dolt not to accept it gratefully.

  He knelt, as she had knelt. He looked at the sunset, as she had looked, though the color was waning fast as darkness came on.

  “Oh G-g-g-g . . .”

  He bowed over in despair. He could say the word God in conversation, but he could not say it when he tried to speak to God. Why? What was it? The evil in his own heart? Was it God himself who silenced him, forbidding him to speak? Or was it his own fear?

  She had used the word Father when she prayed. To her, the word had meaning, for she knew her father, was close to him. What did Father mean to Moses? Stories of Amram, but he never knew the man. Stories also of Tuthmose I, Hatshepsut’s father and first husband, before she took on her weakling half-brother, but all these fathers were only rumor to him.

  But he knew what Zeforah meant by saying “Father,” and loved the idea that God might be toward human beings as Jethro was toward his daughters. It was a clear and lovely image, to think of God that way, only even wiser, even more loving, even sterner when the occasion demanded it. That’s who he must speak to. A God who was like Jethro.

  “Oh F-f-f-f . . .”

  No. He would not be stopped. Not this time, not when he knew his hope of life with Zeforah was on the line. “O F-f-f-f-fa . . .”

  Not even his love of Zeforah could bring words to his mouth. Who had the power to open his mouth and let him speak? Only God himself could do that, and how could he ask God to help him ask God to help him?

  Why not? Just because his prayer was circular, why not?

  “O F-f-f-father give me s-s-s-s-speech!” he cried. “O Father, give me . . . give me . . .”

  And then he realized that in the process of asking, his prayer was answered. The realization rushed through his body like fire. When he prayed for the power to pray, it was given to him. God heard him. God was listening!

  But now that he was given speech, what should he say? There would be no meaning in repeating Zeforah’s prayer. There was only joy and gratitude in her heart. But Moses’ heart was filled with darker and more complicated things.

  “O Father, I didn’t kneel to thank you for the sky. Though I do thank you for it. The sky, the grass, the spring lambs. For these people, these good, kind people. Jethro. Zeforah. Zeforah.”

  So there was joy in him, after all. He could pray with gratitude, as she had.

  “And for the time to see the world clearly, I thank you for that,” he said. “I never saw anything in Egypt, I never knew anything . . .”

  But even as he spoke, he knew that he was pretending. Not lying to God, but to himself. For he did not hate Egypt, did not despise what he had learned there. God must not have despised it, either, if Jochabed and Hatshepsut were right and it was divine intervention that put him in Pharaoh’s house to begin with. So he would not pray his first prayer without speaking his mind; now that God was listening to him, he had some things to say.

  “Why did all this happen to me! What was it for, all this lifting me up and knocking me down! Was it you doing it? Or was it my own mistakes? Or was it chance? Bad luck?”

  The anger in his own voice surprised him.

  “Or maybe it was good luck,” he whispered. “There’s peace here. But I’m not at peace. There must be something more for me to do than sit on rocks and tend sheep! And yet there are times when I think there’s no more important labor in the world. Sometimes I feel that I’ve lost everything that mattered in my life. And then other times, all I want is here, all I want to do is lose myself in the love here. But you know all this. You know all my feelings and I have no choices that are in my power, so why do I bother even praying! Why did you loose my tongue when I have nothing to say! You’re the wind and I’m the grain of sand, you’re the mill and I’m the barleycorn. Well while you’re busy grinding me, you might at least give a hint of what I’m being ground up for!”

  His anger surprised him. He had hidden it from himself for so long that the dark power of it was frightening, and he forced himself to be calm. He didn’t know much about praying, but he knew that yelling at God was probably not the best approach.

  “I don’t even know if you’re there,” he said. “I’m probably talking to empty air.”

  But he did not believe it.

  “I hope you’re there,” he said. “I want you to be there, because then there’s a hope that my life and all the million lives before and around me have some purpose to them. If you aren’t real, then life is a cruel joke that’s played on us by a vicious child, and the only way to get the better of it is to die!”

  Again, the pent-up rage had found a way out, and again he calmed himself.

  “Help me to be patient, Father,” he said. “Whatever you’re doing with my life, I can wait. That’s a choice, isn’t it? To wait. To live in each good moment.”

  He wondered when the answers might come. And then realized that perhaps the answers were coming from his own lips. He spoke his rage, and then for some reason it occurred to him to speak of patience. Was that how God answered his prayer, by putting words into his own mouth?

  “I don’t know how this is done,” he said. “Is this the way to pray? Did I offend you? Help me not to feel like a fool tonight for having shouted at the sky like this.”

  He bowed his head. The sky was dark. The stars were out. He rose to his feet, but then had the nagging feeling that he wasn’t done. “Father,” he whispered, “I know the miracle that came tonight. My mouth, opened. The gift of speech. The gift of Zeforah’s example, her kindness. Thank you.”

  It was all he could think of to say, and yet he still didn’t feel that he was done. Then he remembered. Zeforah’s little ritual still waited for him.

  “In the name of the Son,” he said, not knowing what it meant, or why she said it. But now the prayer was finished. “Amen.”

  * * *

  Jethro was worried. Again Moses and Zeforah had lingered on the mountain, and again they came down separately. The only difference was that this time it was Zeforah who returned first. Did they think he wouldn’t notice that his daughter was alone with a man? He knew Zeforah well enough to know that nothing improper had happened. Indeed, he thought he knew Moses that well, too, and could trust him. But if all was so innocent, why did they return separately? Why did they act as if they hadn’t seen each other on the hill?

  Tonight in particular, Moses was almost giddy, garrulous through dinner, talking of nothing, everything, anything, and yet never quite listening to his own words, sometimes saying the same thing twice. Finally, fed up with whatever evasion was going on, Jethro asked him point blank. “What is it!”

  “What is what?” asked Moses. Oh, such calculated innocence.

  “The thing you’re not telling me. The reason you and Zeforah stayed up in the meadow tonight and neither of you got back till after dark!”

  Someone outside the tent dropped a dish. Well, that’s what the girls got for eavesdropping. Let them clean up the mess and pretend they weren’t listening.

  “We . . . she wanted to show me . . . the way she celebrates spring. The sunset on a warm day.”

  “And did she show you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Isn’t that for her to tell?” said Moses. “It was a private thing, and I don’t know that it’s my place to talk about it.”

  “I’m her father!”

  “And yet she never told you? Then who am I to presume?”

  Jethro leaned close to him, letting a little of his annoyance show. “So you, only six months in my household, are shown what I can’t see?”

  Zeforah was standing in the doorway, holding a platter. “I prayed, Father. I never thought to tell you because . . .”

  “Because why?”

  “Because you know I pray every day. I don’t tell you when I breathe, either. Will you let poor Moses alone? Nothing happened up the mountain today that’s worth making such a fuss over.” She looked at Moses in annoyance. “It was kind of you to be careful, Moses, but I don’t have any secrets from my father.”

  Jethro looked suspiciously at the plate of sliced sausages. “How many of these fell in the dirt when that dish broke outside?”

  “None of them,” said Zeforah. “It was Moses’ bowl of soup that broke, and we’re getting him another.”

  “Well, I’m glad Moses will get his soup, and I’m glad the sausages are clean, and I’m glad that you prayed up on the mountain, and I’m glad that Moses is so careful of your feelings. It’s astonishing how glad I am tonight.”

  Moses smiled. Zeforah did not. “I’m sorry you’re annoyed, Father.”

  “I’m not annoyed. I’m glad.”

  “Father, I didn’t ask Moses to stay with me, he was going to stay anyway to look at the sunset. We are not conspiring behind your back. We did not discuss marriage, and we didn’t talk about you. We talked about the sunset and then I said my evening prayer and I came home. I have done nothing to deserve your suspicions and so I resent it.”

  “I wasn’t suspicious.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” She stalked out of the tent.

  “Isn’t it nice everyone’s so glad tonight?” said Jethro.

  Moses smiled. “We didn’t discuss marriage, Jethro, because I know the custom here is for a man to discuss it with the father first.”

  “We’ve already discussed it. I already gave you permission to court her before you even thought of it yourself. I’m not suspicious.”

  “I do think of marrying her, Jethro. But until now I knew better than to talk of it with her, because I knew she wouldn’t have me.”

  “Wouldn’t have you?”

  “Wouldn’t have me.”

  “She never said any such thing to me.”

  “Why should she? I never asked her, so it didn’t come up.”

  “Oh, don’t be foolish, Moses. She likes you.”

  “Jethro, I know she likes me, and she knows I like her. We’re good friends. She’s my teacher, my fellow reader, we work together by day and study together by night. I never much liked my brother and my sister because they were always demanding something from me, but Zeforah is brother and sister, friend and teacher, all at once. But she wouldn’t marry me till now, and you know why.”

  For the life of him Jethro had no idea what Moses was talking about.

  “She won’t marry a man who doesn’t measure up to you, Jethro.”

  “But there’s not a man alive who can meet that high standard,” he retorted.

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “I was joking.”

  “A man jokes by telling the truth lightly. You’re a man of God, Jethro. Do you think Zeforah would consent to have the father of her children be anything less than that?”

  “So be a man of God,” said Jethro. “It isn’t hard, if your heart is good.”

  “I study, Jethro. I learn all that I can about the Lord and his dealings with his people. I believe that it’s true, all this scripture, at least as far as I haven’t misunderstood it. But that isn’t enough.”

  “No?”

  “I tried to pray, Jethro, and I couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t? What do you mean, couldn’t? Your tongue stopped working?”

  Moses answered cheerfully, “Yes. Exactly. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get a word out, if I was talking to the Lord.”

  “You mean you were shy about it?”

  “I mean I opened my mouth and nearly choked on my tongue. I could not speak. Until tonight. Until I heard her prayer, and I wanted so badly to be like her, to be able to pour out my heart to the Lord. So when she left, I tried again, and this time. . . .”

  “This time the Lord opened your mouth.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s obvious,” said Jethro. “I’ve been listening to you all through supper. Not once did you hesitate.”

  “Didn’t I?” said Moses.

  “So you prayed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What happened when you prayed?”

  Moses looked at him quizzically. “I spoke to God.”

  “And that was all?”

  “Yes,” said Moses. “I guess that was all.”

  “He didn’t answer?”

  “Jethro, I opened my mouth in prayer and words came out. That was the answer to my prayer. To pray at all was the answer to my prayer.”

  Jethro nodded. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. So now you’ll marry her?”

  “Now I’ve taken the first step on the road to becoming the sort of man that she might consider marrying.”

  “Come on now, Moses! Look at the plate she has to choose from! You’ve seen the village clowns! Even if you had a four-pound goiter you’d be at the top of the list.”

  “She doesn’t have a list, Jethro. She has a heart.”

  “So you’d be at the top of her heart. Or the center of it. Whatever.”

  “Just be patient with us, Jethro.”

  “I want grandchildren. Preferably including the occasional boy. I’m not a young man!”

  “Jethro, I’ll admit that part of the reason I wanted to pray was in order to begin to become the kind of man that Zeforah would be glad to marry. I don’t think the Lord holds that motive against me. Why shouldn’t a man turn to God in order to become worthy of the love of a godly woman? But even if Zeforah still refused me, I would stay on this road for its own sake. God waits for me at the end of the road. I would like to walk the whole way with Zeforah beside me, but I’ll walk the road for its own sake. For God’s sake. Even if I have to walk it alone.”

  Jethro smiled broadly and leaned back upon his pillows. “That’s what I needed to hear,” he said.

  “What was?”

  “That you seek God for his own sake.”

  “Well of course.”

  “There’s no of course about it. Until this moment, if you had actually asked me for Zeforah’s hand, I would have turned you down flat.”

  Moses looked at him in utter exasperation. “You’ve practically thrown us at each other!”

  “To see what kind of man you were. Never laid a hand on her, never took advantage, it was as if I had forbidden you even to think of marrying her. I like that trait in you—that you saw what Zeforah needed and knew it wasn’t you. Yet.”

  “What, you mean all your marriage talk was a test?”

  “Why not?” said Jethro. “Zeforah is the light of my life. You think I’d even consider letting her marry a man who might take the joy out of her?”

  “Were you tempting me?”

  “Of course not. I knew you had proper manners, and I knew she’d never encourage any liberties. I was tempting you to become your best self.”

  “Jethro, are all priests of the Most High God as devious as you?”

  “Moses, I’m not devious at all. I speak my feelings.”