Shadow of the Storm Page 22

  “You do?”

  “Why would such a heinous act mar my opinion of you? No matter what that . . . that devil said, you did nothing to encourage him.”

  I closed my eyes. “I wanted his attention.”

  “You were thirteen, my sweet. You were not out to entice him. Any more than you were out to seduce me when I—”

  I put my fingers to his lips. “It is not the same. It was wrong, yes. But not the same. And it is forgiven.”

  He grasped my hand in his, kissed my palm and then the inside of my wrist. The sensation rippled like a cool breeze up the skin of my arm. “Here you want me to let go of the past, stop beating myself up over my sins, and yet you flog yourself over someone else’s?”

  Was that what I had done? Taken on the weight of Akharem’s sins? Telling the story to Ayal had already seemed to lighten that burden. Reva was right, I needed to stretch the scar, even if it hurt, so that it did not hold me captive anymore.

  He trailed his thumb across my lips. “Hear me, my sweet songbird. You cannot blame yourself anymore. From this moment on, I want you to see yourself as I see you—your true self. You are no longer powerless, no longer a slave. You are the woman I love.”

  “And you,” I said. “You are no longer who you were before Yahweh brought us out of Egypt. You are not a slave anymore either. What you did before is washed away. I hold none of it against you.”

  I glanced up at his head, now shaved clean. “You are no less worthy to be consecrated to Yahweh than any other man. He has chosen you. Accept the gift.” I sank into the depths of his eyes. “We both need to see ourselves more clearly.”

  His lips tipped up into a smile. “Perhaps we do. But if I could see myself right now, I would see half a beard.”

  I shook my head, laughing. “If Eben and Jumo come back and find you like this, they will never let you live it down.”

  “Then you had better finish shaving me.” His brows wiggled with mischief. “Besides, I am quite ready to have your hands all over my face again.”

  38

  1 NISSAN

  13TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  A song exploded into being—the voices of thousands of Levite men merged into a joyous anthem of praise toward Yahweh. Every hair on the back of my neck and all up and down my arms prickled at the strange, awe-inspiring sound. Today the Mishkan and the tribe of Levi would begin the process of being consecrated unto Yahweh, both set apart to be used in sacred service for the God who had brought us out of Egypt.

  As twilight began to creep over the eastern ridges, I pictured Ayal among the mass, dressed in pristine white, shaved clean by my hand, and his low voice joining with his brethren in worship. Oh! To be beside him and see the polished silver trumpets raised to musicians’ lips. Or to sit among the string players—some trained by my own brother—and be enveloped by the music dedicated to the One out of whose own imagination music itself was conceived—what I would not give for such pleasures.

  Although our tents were near enough to the center of camp that the top of the completed Mishkan was in full sight, the tall, white fence around it obstructed our view of the proceedings. Even so, I found myself raising to my tiptoes, gripping my brother’s shoulder to boost myself higher in a futile gesture to see something, anything.

  Being Ayal’s betrothed allowed me the privilege of bringing him meals while he was working in the courtyard over the last few days. Passing by the richly woven gates filled me with extraordinary pride in the part my family had played in their construction. My mother’s hands, along with Kiya’s, had woven one of the scarlet, blue, and purple panels that spanned one half of the entrance. Even my few hours stirring the red dye-pots had contributed to the effort.

  I had been present to see the bronze laver as it was being set into place, marveled over the refraction of sunlight shattering into a thousand colors across its polished surfaces, and watched as many men worked together to unfurl and secure the blood-red inner covering and the rainproof outer layer.

  Even before the last strains of that first song had faded, a second began, slower and more pensive. Although I could not hear the words, the dips and swells of the composition seemed familiar. When I found myself humming along and able to anticipate the harmonies, my hand flew to my mouth to stifle a gasp.

  My brother’s arm slipped around my shoulder, and he pulled me to his side.

  Tears of delight flowing, I looked up and saw the same emotion displayed on his face. “Is it—?”

  He cleared his throat, and his lips twitched with pride. “Yes. It is the song composed by Abba. I taught it to some of the musicians during our lessons. They must have passed it along to the others.”

  A song created by my own father when I was a tiny girl was now lifted in praise by hundreds of voices. Oh, Abba, I wish you were here. Although Eben’s wounded hand prevented him from playing music with the same dexterity, he was still able to pass his knowledge on to others. In doing so, he achieved a greater purpose than if he had nurtured his gift alone. In spite of the pain and heartbreak, Eben had honored his father and Yahweh. Perhaps if he had not been injured Eben would have kept my father’s song to himself instead of teaching it to others.

  I clasped my hands together in front of my chest and closed my eyes, savoring every note like the most succulent fruit. If only to capture each one in my memory—to taste their sweetness again and again.

  Too soon, the echoes of the precious tones faded against the cliffs, only to be replaced by the blast of many silver trumpets. Talia, who was strapped to my back, wailed at the strange sound. With my mother’s help, I transferred her to my arms, whispering reassurances into the curl of her ear until she relaxed against me. I rubbed circles into her back until her eyes drifted closed.

  A voice floated on the breeze, broken into unintelligible syllables. It was more than likely Aharon, whose translations from Mosheh usually resounded so well off the rocks when he spoke from the ledge above the crowd. However, today his speech from the center of the courtyard was swallowed up by distance and the linen fence.

  Looking around at our well-ordered tents, organized by tribe, clan, and family, I marveled at the change in us. A chaotic multitude had limped out of Egypt, broken and bedraggled. Bound in covenant to Yahweh, we now had a code of laws, a priesthood, an army, and a judicial system.

  We were no longer a ragged group of slaves, but a nation.

  The sun melted into the horizon, and the longer the garbled speech by Aharon dragged on, the more fidgety the children became. More than once my mother was forced to issue stern looks at Zayna, who chattered with Dov and Ari. My sister had appointed herself mother hen over the two boys and was drawing pictures in the dirt to entertain them, a trick she’d learned from Jumo.

  Someone behind our tent called out, “Look at the Cloud!”

  All heads swiveled away from the Mishkan and toward the mountain. The Cloud was on the move. As darkness descended on the valley, so too did the swirling column of light. It hovered over the congregation and soundlessly moved into position over the Mishkan, then slowly, as if it were an eagle landing in its nest, lowered itself just above the covering, illuminating the landscape around us as if it were the middle of the day.

  We all dropped to our knees, compelled there by the nearness of such brilliance and the fearsomeness of the roiling storm contained within the Cloud. Even Zayna and the boys cowered on the ground with their hands over their eyes. Yet the thick veil of smoke obscured its true intensity—the radiance of which, my instincts told me, would probably kill us all in an instant if revealed in its fullness.

  Why would Yahweh choose to do such a thing? Bring his glorious shekinah presence among us? Especially after the horrors of the Golden Apis we flaunted before him?

  An image surged into my mind. A few days ago, Ayal had come to share a meal with us after taking his turn with his brothers among the sheep. After greeting me with a chaste kiss to my cheek and a whisper that bloomed heat into my face, Ayal had folded his
long legs onto the ground next to Dov and Ari, asking about their day and participating in a game involving a few stones, two twigs, and an overturned basket—the rules of which I was still at a loss to understand. But he laughed with them, indulged their imaginative play, and they responded by fighting for supremacy over his lap and chattering with the father who showed such an interest in their childish games.

  Just as Ayal desired to be with his children and find pleasure in their presence, so Yahweh had come down to the valley floor, exposing his greatness in more detail and showing great mercy in overlooking our fickle hearts. Yahweh wanted to be close to us—just like an abba with his precious children.

  39

  2 NISSAN

  13TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  Ari stood on his toes, peering through cupped hands toward the Mishkan. “The sun is almost gone. Where is Abba?”

  “He will be here soon.” I mussed his dark curls. “Why don’t you and Dov go ask my mother what you can do to help with the meal?”

  His small shoulders dropped. “All right, Shira.” He turned to go, but then twisted back around, his face puckered in thought. “Are you my ima now, Shira?”

  I knelt down to look directly into his face. “Do you want me to be?”

  He tilted his head. “My other ima is gone forever.”

  A howling fissure split wide open in my chest. “Yes. She is gone. But she asked me to take care of you.” A small stretch of truth, but a necessary one.

  “Then I am glad you are my ima.” He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to my lips, and with an impish grin headed off to find his brother. Standing, I watched him trot away completely unaware that his simple gesture had assuaged the razor-edged memories of Leisha’s death.

  “I really should not be so jealous of a little boy.” The husky voice from behind me caused a smile to curl my lips.

  I smothered my humor with mock censure before turning to face Ayal. “Then perhaps you, too, should go find my mother and offer your help.”

  He lifted a teasing brow. “I may do just that.” He stepped close and dropped his gaze to my lips. “And then I will be back for a reward.”

  Inhaling the tantalizing combination of Ayal’s masculine scent and the incense from his tunic, I nearly groaned at the effort it took to step backward. How much longer? It seemed that this betrothal had lasted a thousand years instead of four weeks.

  “I think my mother has enough help.” I cast a glance over my shoulder at the giggling boys as they swung the hanging goatskin bag back and forth between them. Sloshing the milk until it fermented into smooth curdled yogurt was a task they eagerly embraced.

  “Besides . . .” I swept my gaze over the long, white tunic that had been spotless this morning and now bore the marks of his first full day of priestly service. “I would rather you stay and tell me about the Mishkan.”

  He smiled. “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Kiya emerged from the tent across the way with Talia in her arms and leveled a sly smirk at me before walking off. At times, I practically had to wrestle her, and sometimes my mother, for a turn at holding the baby. She doted on the precious little one. It wouldn’t be long before she held her own child; her stomach protruded more every day. I found myself constantly holding back the midwifery questions that bubbled to my lips the closer she came to the fullness of her pregnancy. She even begged me to come with her to visit with Reva, but I refused. The temptation to give in to Reva’s repeated efforts to talk me into returning was too torturous.

  “I’ve never seen anything so magnificent, Shira.” Ayal looked back at the enormous tent at the center of camp. The Cloud hovered above it, shimmering blue against the backdrop of the purpling twilight. He closed his eyes as if reentering the Mishkan in his mind.

  He told me how the gold-plated walls reflected the constant flicker of the enormous golden menorah and the floor-to-ceiling curtains, woven from red, blue, and purple and embroidered with strange beings with outstretched wings. He spoke of the bronze altar, the rich smell of the sacrifices, and the spicy incense that wafted past the curtains.

  “Only Mosheh and Aharon are allowed to pass into the Kodesh Hadashim,” said Ayal with quiet reverence. “If anyone else passes the curtains into that holiest place, they will die. In fact, we have been warned that to take lightly any of the instructions for worship will result in death as well.” He turned to me, determination in the planes of his face. “I stood there today, with my Levite brothers around me, worshipping the One True God as his presence hovered nearby—I cannot begin to describe the honor. I love being a shepherd. It is in my blood. But I am called to serve Yahweh as a priest.”

  Hushed, we watched the last of the sunlight relinquish its grasp on the horizon. Contentedness stole over me and I breathed deeply, relishing the quiet strength of the man who would soon be my husband.

  “I know that Leisha’s death was hard on you, Shira. But why haven’t you returned to midwifery?” Ayal’s soft question nearly knocked me sideways.

  “I don’t know that I will. I have plenty to keep me occupied with the children.”

  He leaned closer. “But it is your calling.”

  “I used to think so too, but I was wrong.”

  He shook his head. “No, Shira. I was there the day you guided Ziba’s lamb, you were absolutely serene. And then, again, when the leopard attacked our flock—I had never seen anyone handle trauma with such clear-headed grace.”

  “But those were animals, Ayal. When Leisha died in my care—”

  “Her death was in no way your fault.”

  “My head may understand this, but my heart does not agree.”

  Facing me, he grasped my shoulders and pulled me close. “Sweet songbird. I know you are wounded. Believe me, I understand what it is like for something to cut so deeply that it seems it will never heal. But Shira, you are just like that frightened ewe after the cat attack. Quit fighting the hands that are trying to heal you.”

  With a sigh, I succumbed to his embrace, not caring who was watching. The linen of his priest’s garment was soft against my cheek, and the unique scent of the Mishkan enveloped me in peace.

  “That reminds me.” I slipped away. “I have something for you.”

  He followed me to our family tent. Warmer days had convinced us to roll up its sides to invite the fresh air to take up residence. Folded on the end of my sleeping pallet was his gift. I placed it in his outstretched hands with a nervous laugh. “I am in no way a gifted weaver. Even Kiya, who has been weaving for mere months, puts my paltry skills to shame. But I made this for you because of the new mitzvot.”

  He held out the tunic I had woven for him, and it unfurled to his knees. He glanced at me, appreciation in his eyes, then placed it against his body and ran a hand down the multicolor-striped fabric. With his fingers, he explored the embroidered hem and the knotted, fringed tzitzit, which served as a constant visual reminder of the Covenant and the laws we had agreed to obey.

  “Do not look too closely.” I dropped my eyes. “Or you will find all the places where I dropped threads and spoiled the pattern.”

  “But those are the best parts.” Ayal’s lips twitched with humor.

  I furrowed my brow, thinking he was mocking me.

  “I am quite serious.” He tossed the tunic over his shoulder, then grasped both of my hands. “Those little mistakes will remind me that this was made by these very hands.” He turned them over and gently, with his eyes locked on mine, kissed the center of each of my palms. “It is not the perfection that matters, sweet Shira, it is the love of the one who created it.”

  40

  Dvorah

  3 NISSAN

  13TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  If this woman does not stop shrieking in my ear, I will shake her by the shoulders until that baby comes out.

  I bit my tongue against ordering the laboring mother to quiet down—but only because Reva was here. Working with the old midwife made me nervous.
I always had the feeling she loomed over me, watching every move I made, trying to trap me into making a mistake—like that terrifying fire-cloud that had hovered over the Mishkan since the ceremony three days ago, not too far from this very tent.

  Reva’s dark, beady eyes missed nothing, and she was quick to criticize my missteps. More than likely, Reva blamed me for Shira’s refusal to return to midwifery.

  As if this wasn’t her fourth birth, the fool woman screamed again, eyes rolling back in her head, a profanity flying past her lips, followed by an order for Reva to “get the thing out of her.” She gripped my arm as I steadied her on the birthing bricks, digging her fingertips so deep into my skin I nearly cursed along with her.

  Reva scowled. “The baby is not coming easily, Dvorah. We need to change Gameliah’s position.”

  I helped Gameliah kneel on her sleeping mat as Reva directed, a position that never failed to remind me of Shira and the night Leisha died. The night Talia was born.

  It had been weeks since I had walked away from Ayal’s camp, but I could still feel her little hands kneading my skin, hear her coos, see her wide eyes watching me like a hawk as I nursed her—

  Gameliah howled, interrupting my fruitless thoughts, as Reva checked the baby’s progress. The woman kicked back like a braying donkey, slamming Reva in the shoulder. I grabbed the woman around her waist, using my weight and strength to prevent her from flipping over. Unruffled, Reva continued her examination, obviously used to flailing arms and legs and verbal abuse by crazed mothers.

  The midwife was always so calm, her voice strong and steady as she dealt with the women. I envied her ability to keep her emotions in balance, even in the most dire of circumstances. I had been so terrified the night Leisha bled out that my body had gone paralyzed. I could not have helped Shira even if I had wanted to. And although Shira had fled later, her calm reflected Reva’s; her hands never trembled.