“Levi,” said the woman.

  “Then I can take you to Aaron, he knows everyone in Levi.”

  “No,” said the woman, “I think you should take us directly to my husband.”

  Joshua was about to protest that he couldn’t be expected to know every member of every tribe, when it finally dawned on him whose family would have been waiting here in the desert for him to return from Egypt.

  “Are you Zeforah?” he asked her. “Are these the children of the prophet?”

  “I am Zeforah,” she answered, “but these are merely the children of shepherds.”

  The oldest boy spoke up. “My father is the prophet!”

  But a stern look from his mother silenced him. “What he means is that his father, a shepherd, was given a message by the Lord, which he took to Egypt several months ago. Will you take us to him?”

  And as Joshua led the way back along the trail to the camp, he heard Zeforah, with gentleness but great firmness also, tell her children that while their father was doing important work in the camp, this did not make his children more important than any other children. “You are the most important children in the world to your father and to me,” she said, “but to other people, you’re simply the children of shepherds.”

  “Father’s a shepherd and a prophet,” the boy said. “Aren’t we just as much his children?”

  “But a shepherd, just like a king, can pass his possessions on to his children. A prophet, on the other hand, teaches what he knows of the Lord to everyone, for it doesn’t belong to him or his family, and those who are faithful become the heirs of God, not of the prophet.”

  “So Father doesn’t love us any more than any other child?”

  “Father loves you more than life itself,” said Zeforah. “But if you are ever to join him in his great work, it has to be because of your own faithfulness in serving the Lord. It’s between you and God, not between you and your father.”

  “But if somebody asks us, Is the prophet Moses your father, are we supposed to lie?”

  “Gershom,” she said sharply, “you understand me perfectly. You’re just being contrary.”

  Sheepishly the boy said, “Oh, I know. You don’t want us strutting around acting important.”

  A younger brother piped up. “Gershom doesn’t know how to do anything else.”

  “See how I’m not hitting him, Mother?”

  “Let me not hear of you punishing him later, either. As for you, Eliezer, I’m ashamed that I heard you speak ill of your own brother in front of a stranger.”

  Joshua realized, with amusement, that he was the stranger.

  “Sorry, Mother,” said Eliezer. “Sorry, Gershom.”

  “I forgive you,” said Gershom, but in deep round tones that made it a joke. “I forgive, I forgive, I forgive you.”

  Zeforah only sighed, while Jethro chuckled. “How much farther?” he asked Joshua quietly. “I’ve already spent two days hearing the conversation of children.”

  Despite old Jethro’s wry comment, Joshua had heard enough to know what the prophet’s children were being taught, and what kind of woman Moses had married. He resolved then and there that if he could not do as well, he would not marry, for he would never be happy with a woman who lacked such wisdom and patience.

  * * *

  In front of Aaron’s tent, in the scant shade of the awning, three women sat together, carding wool and gossiping. “I was embarrassed for her, the poor thing.”

  “I suppose it’s the way all the shepherd women dress, but—such coarse cloth!”

  “Not that we’ll have fine looms to work with this wool.”

  “The children were dirty.”

  “I saw that.”

  “Of course, out here in the desert all the children are dirty, since there’s not enough water for bathing.”

  “But I’ll bet those children have never bathed in their lives. They must have dirt on them that’s as old as they are!”

  “Well, if we didn’t know it already, seeing his wife and children made it plain as day that Moses is just a man like anybody else. He was in the desert, he had his needs, and so he married what was available. I’ll bet it isn’t long before he takes other wives, much more educated and sophisticated women, out of Israel.”

  “Aaron says that Moses told him his wife is educated. That she taught him to read Hebrew.”

  “Reading Hebrew isn’t reading. Hebrew’s just the language we speak. All the books are in Egyptian.”

  “Well, do you read?”

  “No, but I know the manners of Egypt. I know how to speak Egyptian, and very high-class Egyptian, too. I’ll bet she doesn’t know a word of it.”

  “I know you have to defend her, Elisheba, because she’s your husband’s sister-in-law, but we’ll just take it for granted that you said all the nice things. It’ll save time.”

  They laughed.

  “I’m sure she’s a sweet girl,” said Elisheba. “I haven’t had much chance to talk with her yet. Her children are modest enough, though the oldest boy is a talker, speaking right up in adult company as if he expected his opinions to be heard.”

  “Well there you are, no discipline.”

  “I suppose it’s natural for the son of the prophet to be full of himself.”

  “Well, just because somebody’s related to the prophet doesn’t mean he should lord it over other people.”

  There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then the woman realized her mistake. “But you can’t think I was referring in any way to your husband Aaron! Why, he earned his own place in Israel long before Moses came back from the desert—in fact, before Moses even left the palace.”

  “I think Aaron would have been important in Israel even if his brother hadn’t been a prince of Egypt and then the prophet of God. He earned his place.”

  “Now, please, don’t worry that you’ve offended me,” said Elisheba. “I know my husband’s true worth.”

  “And so do we. So does everyone! In fact, some of us have been saying it’s quite shameful the way Moses has to do everything and Aaron is just there to run errands for him.”

  “I never thought of it as errand-running,” said Elisheba.

  “Well, no, I was only repeating what others have said, who don’t understand how important Aaron’s work is . . .”

  “In fact, many of us feel that Aaron has been shamefully neglected. Does Moses think he’s the only one the Lord has ever spoken to? Didn’t Aaron’s own staff turn to a snake?”

  “Aaron doesn’t care about who gets the credit,” said Elisheba. “All the glory belongs to the Lord.”

  “Well of course he’d feel that way.”

  “Not everyone does. Some think Moses takes too much upon himself.”

  “Setting himself up as a judge. As if just because he grew up in the house of Pharaoh he has some special wisdom.”

  “Or pretending that God gives him every judgment he makes! Why, it’s well known that he plays favorites. If you just talk piously enough and bow down then he’ll decide your way—”

  “Honestly, Elisheba, we don’t know how Aaron keeps his patience. Aaron’s the one who shared Israel’s burden all those years while Moses was getting flies fanned away from his face. And while Moses was out in the wilderness herding sheep and making babies with his little shepherd girl, Aaron was there in the brickyards, bearing the burden of slavery. It just makes my blood boil sometimes, to see Aaron put in second place—”

  “It was all well and good for Moses to lead us while we were escaping from Egypt. But now it’s just Israel, and we should be led by a real Israelite who understands us.”

  “And the way Moses puts the tribe of Levi last all the time. When a man has some authority, he’s supposed to use it to help his kinfolk, isn’t he? He simply has no sense of how things are done in Israel.”

  “I tell you, Elisheba, Israel would be better off if Aaron were the one in charge of things.”

  “Now, please, I don’t think I should hear things like that,” said Elisheba.

  A fourth woman emerged from the tent. It was Miriam.

  “Oh,” said Elisheba. “Miriam. Did you have a nice sleep?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Miriam.

  “I didn’t know you were inside the tent,” said one of the women.

  “Clearly,” said Miriam. “But you did know that the bright cloud of the Lord’s presence stands almost directly overhead.”

  The women glanced up. “Well, if a person can’t speak her mind . . .”

  “Perhaps a person should clean up her mind before inviting others in to see it,” said Miriam.

  “I’m not going to apologize for a thing I said.”

  “Certainly not to me,” said Miriam. “I’m not the one you were stabbing in the back.”

  “I think you’re a fine one to talk. It’s not as if you haven’t said some pretty nasty things about people. Everyone knows that the reason Miriam hasn’t married is because she has a tongue that leaves bloody wounds.”

  “If my tongue is a knife, it makes its wounds on a man’s face, not on his back,” said Miriam. “And you have never heard me speak against the Lord’s anointed.”

  “Oh, pay no attention to her. Everyone knows she’s besotted with Moses every since he was a baby. He can do no wrong.”

  “Moses knows that I don’t always agree with his decisions,” said Miriam. “And Aaron is my brother as much as Moses is.”

  “That’s not how it looks to anybody else. Is it, Elisheba.”

  Elisheba put up her hands. “I’ve hardly said a thing in this whole conversation and I’m not starting now.”

  Miriam turned on her sister-in-law. “Yes, that’s right, you haven’t said a thing. For instance, you might have said, ‘I won’t hear such disloyalty against the one the Lord God of heaven chose to be his prophet.’ Or you might have said, ‘My husband serves the Lord exactly as the Lord has asked of him, and desires nothing more.’ Or you might simply have said, ‘It’s not appropriate for me to hear opinions like these.’”

  “I did say that!” protested Elisheba.

  “Not until after you had sat quietly and listened to everything they had to say, which gave them the clear impression that you agreed with their envious backbiting.”

  “We didn’t get any such impression.”

  “You certainly seem malevolent toward your own sister-in-law, Miriam. It’s a wonder she still lets you in her tent.”

  “But she’ll always want you to visit,” said Miriam, “because you save her the trouble of finding her own words to express the disloyalty in her heart.”

  “I am loyal to my husband,” said Elisheba icily.

  “If you were loyal to your husband,” said Miriam, “you wouldn’t encourage the envy and resentment and ambition that have been his weakness all his life.”

  “I should think,” said Elisheba, “that you would be the last to criticize envy in others.”

  Now that the quarrel had shifted to Elisheba and Miriam, the others were quick to make their simpering apologies. “I think we should let you two have this conversation privately.”

  “Next time let us know when you have a listener in your tent, Elisheba.”

  “I didn’t know she was there,” said Elisheba sweetly.

  “Of course she didn’t,” said Miriam. “Or hypocrisy would have required a very different sort of pretense than she was giving you before.”

  “I see that you truly are loyal,” said Elisheba. “For instance, you would never dream of speaking ill of your brother’s wife.”

  The women, wide-eyed and full of the best gossip of the week, quickly headed off to begin spreading it, knowing they could end their tale with the truthful claim that “Of course I left right away, so I don’t know what they said when they really got into the fray.”

  They couldn’t guess that as soon as the audience was gone, silence settled between Miriam and Elisheba. And when the silence was broken, it was with a very different tone. “I hope you won’t tell Moses what was said today,” said Elisheba.

  “Shouldn’t he know?” asked Miriam.

  “I really don’t agree with what these women said. You don’t understand how it is, Miriam. Most people avoid me because they think I’m too proud to want to speak to them, since I’m Aaron’s wife. I feel as though I’ve lost all my real friends.”

  “These aren’t real friends either, Elisheba. You know that if I hadn’t spoken, they would have gone to their friends and told them, ‘I was talking to Aaron’s wife Elisheba, and I really think she’s upset at how badly treated Aaron is.’”

  “But I never said that,” said Elisheba.

  “You don’t have to say it. It was said in your presence.”

  “And I denied it. You heard me.”

  “Elisheba. You know. You know that’s not the story they intended to tell.”

  “Well, now they have a better one. You and me fighting like cats.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” said Miriam, “I’m the one who’ll come out looking like a demon, while you’re the sainted suffering loyal wife.”

  Elisheba burst into tears. “Miriam, Aaron really is unhappy, and I don’t know why. He won’t talk to me.”

  “Maybe he’s ashamed of what’s making him unhappy.”

  “He has the thing he always said he wanted,” said Elisheba. “Israel is out of Egypt. God dwells among us. And yet instead of facing every day with joy, he gets up as if he were already weary and comes home as if his life were nothing but grief. He hardly speaks to me or the children.”

  “I don’t know,” said Miriam. “I don’t know what passes between a husband and wife.”

  “Please don’t say that,” said Elisheba. “You say that and it makes it impossible for me to talk to you because I feel like everything I say about Aaron will hurt you because you’re unmarried. I know perfectly well that you had your chances to marry and you made your choice. And I also know that God speaks to you and you’re very wise and Miriam, I need wisdom.”

  The tears flowing down her face belied any notion of hypocrisy now. Miriam put a hand on her shoulder. “Elisheba, all I know is this. You can’t make a man happy by comforting him. He’ll only be happy when he feels right with the Lord. So maybe all you can do is treat him like the prophet in your own home. Don’t sympathize with him, because your sympathy will only diminish him in his own eyes.”

  “Don’t sympathize with him?” asked Elisheba. “But if I don’t, who will?”

  “No one should,” said Miriam. “What he needs is your high expectations, to help him become the kind of man who is filled with joy. Your sympathy only encourages him in his belief that he’s somehow being mistreated.”

  “Are you sure he isn’t?”

  “If he is, it’s the Lord doing it, not Moses. And that’s the real reason why he’s unhappy, Elisheba—because he knows, deep in his heart, that for some reason the Lord is not fully satisfied with him. Only when he’s right with the Lord will he be happy.”

  “Then there’s nothing I can do at all.”

  “I’ve told you what you can do,” said Miriam.

  “But I think you’re wrong,” said Elisheba. “I think a man should have a place where someone loves him even if he’s not perfect yet. I know that’s what I need sometimes, and he gives that to me.”

  Miriam chuckled dryly. “Well, it’s certainly helped you be a better person.”

  Elisheba recoiled as if she had been slapped. Her back straight, she spoke to Miriam coldly. “Forgive me, Miriam. I forgot, for a moment, that I was speaking to a judge.”

  “You weren’t, Elisheba. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  But Elisheba was on her feet and disappeared at once into her tent, drawing the flap closed behind her.

  Miriam was left alone in the shade of the awning. She looked around at the camp of Israel, tent after tent. Some of the gold they carried had gone to buy more tents from the traders who now flocked to them; nearly every family had a tent of their own now. They were adapting to the pastoral life, to the rhythms of the camp. They were also adjusting to a life surrounded by miracles. They gathered their bread like dew every morning, a direct gift from God, and yet because it happened every day they forgot what a miracle it was. Human beings are too adaptable, Miriam concluded. We lose too quickly our ability to be surprised. We forget too quickly that everything we have is a gift, and who gave it to us.

  And I need to learn how to speak the truth to people in a way that doesn’t make them see me as their enemy.

  * * *

  It was well after dark when Moses returned to his tent, and even then, there were two more conversations at the tent door. When he came inside, Zeforah was just putting the youngest back to sleep.

  “Did I wake her?” he whispered.

  “Does it matter?” she said with a smile. “You do your work, and I do mine.”

  Moses knelt before her and kissed her. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back wholeheartedly. “Talk to me,” she whispered in his ear.

  “We’re both tired,” he said. “And we shouldn’t wake the children.”

  “Walk with me outside. Just for a few minutes.”

  So they walked among the tents, his arm across her shoulder, their heads bowed so their soft voices wouldn’t carry to other ears. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Nothing,” said Zeforah. “I just wanted the sound of your voice, talking to me. We used to talk all the time, about everything. About scriptures, about the children, about Egypt, about the whole world. Now . . . everything I know about what happened in Egypt has been told to me by others and I’m not even sure which parts of it are true. I miss you, Moses.”

  “And I miss you. You have no idea how frustrating it is, day after day, but they give me no peace. It’s maddening to know you and the children are here in the camp and then I never see you and when I get home I’m so tired I just . . .”

  “You need to sleep. It was selfish of me to . . .”

  “No, Zeforah, no, really. It feels so good just to be alone with you.”

  Then they both looked up, glanced around at the thousands of tents spreading as far as the eye could see in every direction, then up at the pillar of fire only a little way off, and they both dissolved in silent laughter at their own predicament. “Zeforah,” Moses finally said, “the best I can say is, in my heart I’m with you all the time. When I sit in judgment, I hear your wise voice in the back of my mind, telling me the sensible, fair thing to do. Reminding me of this scripture or that.”