“The Nile flows to the sea!” cried Amram. “Is that where our baby should go?”

  “What have you done to provide for him!” demanded Jochabed. “You say that God has made you promises—but what have you done to keep them?”

  “God does not need the help of man!”

  “Whether he needs it or not, he’s obviously not going to get it,” said Jochabed sharply.

  One of the old men piped up. “Is this how your wife talks to you, Amram?”

  “Only when she’s giving birth,” Amram replied. “Women can’t be blamed for how they talk then.”

  “My son is not going to be handed over to the Egyptians,” said Jochabed. Already another pain was beginning. Had the pain before even ended?

  “Come,” said Puah. “You have no time for this.”

  Jochabed shook off the midwife’s arm. “It was the midwives who saved our babies a month ago! And I’m the one today who’ll save this son of ours.”

  “Careful how you take credit to yourself!” cried Amram.

  “I take nothing for myself.” Jochabed was stung by his accusation. She had only said “I’m the one” because Amram had been talking as if she were nothing. God does not need the help of man! Women can’t be blamed for how they talk during childbirth! And yet that was no excuse for her trying to make him feel like nothing in return. Still, he should remember what was at stake here. She was a woman, yes, but in this case she was not just some bystander to serve the food and leave the room while the men conversed. “I’m giving my baby to the Lord,” she said softly.

  And he understood, because he was the kind of man who listens even through his anger. “If the baby lives,” he said, “it is because the Lord has chosen to let him live. What do we care who hears the word of the Lord?”

  “I believe the Lord has chosen to let him live by being floated on the Nile in this basket,” said Jochabed. “And Miriam will follow along in the reeds, keeping out of sight, to watch where the basket fetches up.”

  “What’s to stop the Egyptian mob from rushing out and filling the basket with stones?” demanded another old man.

  “Why not go out and suggest it to them?” said Jochabed snidely. “As long as you’re thinking up clever ways to kill Israelite babies.”

  The old man recoiled as if slapped. “A man could bleed to death from this woman’s words!”

  “Go, Miriam!” demanded Jochabed.

  Amram’s hand shot out and caught the girl by her shoulder. Miriam looked up into his face. “Don’t you want the baby to live, Papa?” she asked.

  Amram hesitated only a moment longer. “Who am I to stand in the way of the Lord?” he said.

  Miriam was out the door in a moment. Little Aaron immediately began to cry. Amram picked him up and held him; the boy fell still as he began to tangle his fingers in his father’s beard.

  Now, at last, Jochabed let Puah draw her away into the back room of the house. She could feel the baby pushing down between her legs even before she got into place. “He’s already here,” she said.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Puah caustically. “Keep talking that way to your husband, and this will be your last baby.”

  “The mother of this baby needs no others,” said Jochabed. And then marveled at the words God had put into her mouth.

  * * *

  Miriam didn’t like the river. Other children played there all the time, of course, no matter how the adults forbade it. And she knew that as long as you stayed close to the village and watched all the time, the crocodiles didn’t pose much danger. They only got hungry now and then, and they preferred the much larger, less troublesome prey they could get when the flocks and herds came down to the river to drink. It was the river itself that Miriam didn’t like, the way it moved invisibly among the reeds, tugging at her dress, first this way, then that, trying to pull her out, pull her down, drag her away. She didn’t like the way the bottom disappeared sometimes, though the reeds were all the same level at the top. The river was pure treachery, so smooth on top, the water so cool on a hot day, and yet there was death in it, murder in its heart. Like the Egyptians. Such a darling child, they would say, and pat her head. And Miriam would answer in her heart: You made my father a slave. You want us all dead. You are the river, you and all of Egypt. You are the river and as long as we stay beside you we are in danger of drowning.

  She said this once to her mother, but somehow the words of her mouth were never as sharp as the words of her heart. Or perhaps it was simply that Mother refused to understand her, or could not believe that Miriam, as young as she was, could see such dark truth. So Mother patted her head and said, “Don’t fret about what you can’t change,” though Miriam had not been fretting and didn’t expect to change anything. Didn’t Mother understand? The Israelite people had to leave this land. The famine in Canaan was over. It had been over for generations. Miriam had listened to all the stories her father told, the tales of Joseph and Jacob, the promises made to Abraham and Isaac. She knew the truth: The Israelites had stayed in Egypt out of greed, because Joseph’s accomplishments had lifted them to a lofty place. For generations they had played at magistrate and overlord, and they disdained the simple life of their ancestors. Father had said as much, hadn’t he? And yet somehow he had never reached the obvious conclusion: That Egypt was not the land of Israel’s inheritance. All these terrible things that were happening to Israel, they were God’s way of waking up his people and telling them they must go home! If the Egyptians had not revolted, driven out the Pharaohs who knew Joseph, made slaves of the Israelites, and now started killing their children, would Israel ever have longed to leave?

  I am only a child and I see this, thought Miriam. Why can’t the adults see it, too?

  But they didn’t, or didn’t speak about it in front of her, anyway. And when Miriam let them see how she hated the river, they all assumed she was afraid of crocodiles and teased her about it, when the truth was that it was Egypt she hated. Egypt that had made Israel forget God.

  Well, I remember God, I remember the land of our inheritance, I have learned the lessons God is trying to teach us, and I will teach them to Aaron—and to the new baby, too, if I have a chance. I will tell all my friends to hate Egypt, I will tell them to long for the land of our inheritance in Canaan.

  In the meantime, though, she waded out among the reeds. Up to her ankles, the water still warm here in the shallows. Up to her knees, with the mud sucking at her feet, trying to lock her in place. Up to her hips, as fish and eels slithered among the reeds and brushed against her. Up to her waist, and now the currents began to reach for her, pull her this way and that, and all she had to hold onto was a handful of reeds. Here she waited, turning slowly in the water, watching for Mother to come with the basket, watching for crocodiles to come up behind her unaware. Watching the birds that came out of the sky, landed on the water, stood on tall legs, dipped sharply to catch fish and eels, rocked their heads back to swallow the wriggling captive, then took off again, flying home to their nest. We should have come to Egypt like a waterbird, to stand in the water, eat, and go away full, instead of letting the river have us.

  There was a tumult from the village. As anyone could have predicted, the Egyptian villagers were shouting, “To the river! To the river!” And there in the midst of them were Mother and Father. Mother could scarcely walk from the pain of childbearing, yet she held the basket in her own hands. “I give the baby to the river myself!” she cried.

  Some of the Egyptians shouted No, No!—not out of mercy, but because they wanted to drown the child with their own hands. But Father spoke now, his voice booming out over the water. “The law from Pharaoh is that Israelite boychildren must be given to the Nile. We obey Pharaoh! But if any one of you lays a hand on this basket, you are trying to take what belongs to the river, and the law will have you then!”

  “It’s a trick!” shouted someone. But no one else took up the cry. Father and Mother waded out a little way; Mother set the basket on the water. Father pushed it, farther, farther, until it was beyond the reeds, out into the slow but inexorable current. The afternoon sun beat down on the basket. It rocked from the movement of the baby inside, but only for a moment. The Egyptians shouted in anger, knowing that somehow they were being cheated. But Miriam cared nothing for them. She kept her eyes on the basket. It was moving slowly, but she could only move slowly herself. She pulled herself along among the reeds.

  On the shore, the Egyptian mob walked along parallel to the ark. Miriam stayed low, so they wouldn’t see her and suspect a trick—for of course they would assume that Miriam was there to bring the ark back to shore. The mob grew smaller and smaller as people lost interest and returned, grumbling, to their homes. But still a handful, a few, and then a pair of hate-driven Egyptians walked on, watching, watching. What kind of people are you, Miriam wanted to scream at them, to seek to kill babies because you hate the parents? But she said nothing. She had more important work to do than screaming at Egyptians.

  The bottom disappeared from under her feet; she held to the reeds, floating, and even though her head went under the water twice she struggled through to where the bottom was there under her feet again. On and on, following the ark among the bulrushes. It drew even with her, passed her, went on ahead of her. O Lord, whispered Miriam in her heart, if I’m to do anything for this baby, let it happen soon, because I’m getting very cold, and the ark is farther ahead of me, and soon I’ll lose sight of it, and it’ll be night, and I’m moving too quickly to watch for crocodiles, and I’ll die here in the river. Not that it matters in thy great universe of creation whether one little girl lives or dies, but if you let me live I promise you I’ll do all in my power to bring your people home to the land thou gavest them. I also promise not to pinch Aaron and make him cry when I’m angry at Mother. That’s mean of me and I’ll never do it again so if thou wert thinking of punishing me for it by having a crocodile catch me and pinch me to death between its great jaws here in the water, please don’t.

  * * *

  Hatshepsut walked down the stairs toward the water. Her maidservants fluttered around her like moths, each with some task of great importance, such as draping Hatshepsut’s gown properly on the stairs, or arranging a stray wisp of her hair. Annoyances, really, but she couldn’t tell them off for doing their work too well, could she? If they took pride in it, then one must endure the annoyance of work too thoroughly done.

  She held up a foot; at once her sandal was drawn off and carried away. The other foot; and she was ready for the water. O gods, she prayed again. O gods, show me the way to preserve my father’s kingdom and keep it out of the hands of evil.

  Was it the cry of some waterbird that caused her to look up? She did not know what she was looking for, only that she looked, and saw, out on the water, something bobbing along, like a tiny boat, with a flash of red cloth catching the evening sun. Was this something the gods were showing her? She had to know.

  She turned to the nearest of her servants. “Tawaret,” she said, “do you see what’s out there on the water? There, near the bulrushes.”

  Tawaret looked but saw nothing. “Forgive me for being stupid.”

  “You simply haven’t seen it, that’s all,” said Hatshepsut. “Go fetch it.”

  The girl looked horrified. “Out in the water? So far?”

  “It’s only there, by the edge of the bulrushes.”

  “But the water is deep there and I can’t swim.”

  Hatshepsut was annoyed. “Don’t you know that the river will bear you up, when you go on my errand? Remember who I am, girl.”

  Thus encouraged, Tawaret splashed her way down the steps into deeper and deeper water. But when it was up to her waist, it got no deeper. “Oh!” cried Tawaret. “There’s a smooth road under the water!”

  Hatshepsut couldn’t remember how far out the huge paving stones had been laid. She did know they were at a downward slope, so that no matter how high or low the water was, a boat could be drawn up to the steps. So the girl was not likely to fall off and drown. That would indeed be an annoyance if she did—Tawaret had a gentle touch with a comb, even when Hatshepsut’s hair was most tangled.

  The girl went toward the floating thing, as the river carried the floating thing to her. “It’s a basket!” cried Tawaret.

  “Bring it here!”

  Tawaret drew it along behind her as she came closer and closer. A basket, yes. But there was something in it, something moving. A baby. A squalling baby. And the blanket that lined the basket was of Israelite weave.

  At once it became clear to Hatshepsut what the gods were saying to her. She had asked for the river to show her what to do; instead, the river had boldly taken action and given her precisely what she most needed. Father’s plan was good, but it did not begin to do what the river had set in motion.

  “Look what the river has brought me!” Hatshepsut cried. “A son!”

  Moses. The word rang out over the water.

  “In fact that is his name,” Hatshepsut said. “My father is Tuthmose, which means the son of Thoth. But this child is my son. I lift him up out of the water and place him in the royal lineage of Pharaoh!” The baby wriggled in her arms; it was all she could do not to drop it. She had never held a baby before. She had no idea they were so awkward and uncooperative.

  The women listened, awestruck and—the smarter ones at least—aghast. “O Lady Hatshepsut,” the oldest one finally said, “can’t you see that this baby is an Israelite?”

  “Of course!” cried Hatshepsut. “On this day you can see the law of Pharaoh is fulfilled! No more will Israelite boys be cast into the river, for the gods have chosen the best of them and brought him here to me!” There, thought Hatshepsut. I’ve ended that bloody blot on my father’s record.

  “But he’s hungry,” said Tawaret. “That’s why he’s crying so loudly.”

  “He’s crying loudly because it is so painful to be born, and this is the moment of his birth,” said Hatshepsut coldly. “He was born when I drew him out of the Nile the way a mother draws her baby out of the waters of her own body.”

  No one dared mention to her that women generally pushed their babies out. Hatshepsut knew, of course, how it was really done. But she was the one composing this song to be sung through the ages. She would decide how it went.

  The oldest servant insisted on substance as well as style, however. “No matter why the baby cries now, neither you nor any of us has milk to give it, and I doubt it has the teeth for bread.”

  “Then we’ll find a nurse,” said Hatshepsut.

  At that moment, a voice cried out from the bulrushes—the voice of a child. “O great lady!” cried the child. “I know a woman who would be the perfect nurse for the baby!”

  Everyone turned to look at the reeds where the voice was coming from. A wet and shivering girl in peasant garb emerged and slowly made her way through the water toward the stone steps. “Look what else the river has produced for us,” said the old servant.

  “Quiet,” said Hatshepsut. “This woman you know—could she begin service immediately as the baby’s nurse?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the girl.

  “Then bring her to me—not by the river, by the road.” She turned to Tawaret. “You go with her, and take soldiers, so no one will dare to interfere with your errand. Tell no one where you are going—let this girl run ahead and lead you.”

  “Yes, Lady Hatshepsut,” said Tawaret. “But the girl is wet—may we dry her first?”

  “No!” cried the girl. “I mean, thank you, it’s very kind of you, but the wind will dry me off as I run, and Mother—the woman I know—the nurse—she wouldn’t want any delay.”

  “Then go,” said Hatshepsut.

  The Israelite girl took Tawaret’s hand, and together they walked up the stairs to the palace. Hatshepsut handed the baby to the old servant.

  “What do you want to bet that the nurse she’s fetching just happened to give birth to a boy today?” said the old servant.

  “If the gods have arranged things so kindly, so be it, and we are grateful,” said Hatshepsut. “But if anyone ever says that I am not the true mother of this child, which was given to me by the river, that will be the last thing they ever say. You might mention this to anyone you know who might be disposed to idle gossip.”

  Abashed, the old servant fell silent and carried the baby up the stairs.

  “Don’t drop him,” said Hatshepsut. “He’ll be Pharaoh someday, so it would be just as well if we didn’t break open his head on the first day of his life.”

  * * *

  Jochabed sat in the midst of the women, refusing to grieve. “My son is not dead,” she said. “I have not lost him—God has him.” But the other women chided her. “You should keen for him, silly woman. It’s unnatural to be so calm.”

  And in the front room, surrounded by elders, Amram bore their criticism calmly. “The people are furious that you tricked them,” said one. “You shamed yourself by letting your wife rule you in this,” said another. “You’re guilty of the baby’s murder now, since you put him on the water yourselves,” said a third. To all of them, Amram said nothing; and when he did speak, it was not to them, but to God. “O Great Lord of Israel, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, O Lord who preserved Joseph and raised him out of the pit and out of prison, from the hands of his brothers, from the hands of a lying woman, and from the hands of the executioners of Pharaoh, O Lord be with my son!”

  This is what they were doing when the noise began in the village, first among the Egyptians, then in the streets of the Israelite quarter.

  The elders leapt to their feet. “The mob is coming to kill us all! Quick, hide!”

  The women clutched at Jochabed. “Oh, see what God will do now, to make you grieve!”

  All were at the door in a moment. And instead of a mob, they saw a procession of Egyptian soldiers, with a finely dressed woman at their head. Behind them, Egyptian peasants came like an invading army. It took a moment to realize that running before this troop was a small Israelite girl.