Shadow of the Storm Page 9

  “Now . . .” She curled a finger beneath my chin. “Do not misunderstand me. Yahweh gave you a special gift, I can see it in you. But you will waste it if you are not careful. You cannot be afraid of the truth, no matter the risk.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  The charm? Did she mean I should say something about the image of Tawaret?

  “Let me tell you about my brother.” She folded her arms and lifted her eyes to the mountain. “Never have you known a quieter man. When he was a child, it took an enormous amount of coaxing for him to even speak. But when it was time for him to stand strong, even in the face of complete destruction, he did it. It cost him everything, but he spoke the truth, even though it pained him to do so.” She pointed a knobby-jointed finger in my face. “And you, dear one, do not have that courage yet.”

  My mouth was a desert, my mind a blank wall. Tears formed at the corners of my eyes, and my face burned.

  She patted my hand. “Now, do not cry—it may come.” She unfolded her legs and stood with a graceful move that contradicted the myriad wrinkles on her face. “I just hope it does not take you forty years in the wilderness to find it, like it did for Mosheh.”

  She winked and left me sitting by the fire, attempting to hold together the shattered pieces of my heart and stunned that I had been unaware I was speaking to Miryam, Mosheh’s sister—the same woman who had ensured her brother’s safety in the little basket on the Nile, and who stood with courage before Pharaoh’s daughter as a young girl, and the woman who had taught Reva to be a midwife decades ago.

  Reva had always spoken truth to me. Even after that horrible day—the day I lost my childhood and my future all in the same afternoon.

  Reva spoke to me without condescension even as I lay curled in bed, burning with fever, broken to pieces, and abdomen still throbbing from the assault the Egyptian had unleashed on me many days before. She plied me with questions a thirteen-year-old girl should never have to be asked. The bruises he left on my body were nothing compared to the bleeding wounds in my heart. Although the heat of shame flamed time and time again, I answered every one with frankness. I trusted Reva and was grateful that it was from her lips such unsettling things were asked.

  She gently examined me and applied an herbal poultice to lessen the effects of the raging infection. Her dark eyes were full of wisdom gleaned by guiding countless women through the cycles of life, from birth to death.

  “Will I die?” I asked, peering at her through swollen eyes and tasting blood as the scab on my lip split anew.

  “No, my dear. You will survive.” She patted my shoulder, but her glance darted away. She was hiding something.

  “What is it? Tell me. Please, Reva. I want to know.”

  She studied me for a moment, as if gauging my resolve. “I will not dip my words in honey to nurture false hope in you. Your cuts and bruises will heal. But the infection you are suffering from . . . I have seen far too many women with the same symptoms—” A flash of pain crossed her face. “I cannot declare it with absolute certainty, Shira, but it is most likely that you will never have children.”

  Would I ever have Reva’s courage? Would I ever be able to deliver truth, no matter the cost, with such unflinching, brutal honesty? And would Ayal even want to marry someone whose body could never bear him a child?

  Dvorah

  22 TISHRI

  7TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  Wailing was futile. Pointless.

  I turned away from the shrieking woman and wrapped the bundle in a cloth, avoiding the still face and the too-tiny fingers and toes. Undeterred by my assurances that there was no way to save such an underdeveloped infant—that it was dead long before we even came to her tent—the woman shrieked for me to return it to her.

  Shira put her hand on my arm. “Please, can she not hold the baby? Only for a few minutes?”

  Death was reality. Almost as many women lost their babies as saw them weaned. Did she think she was more special than any another?

  Irritated by Shira’s pandering, I huffed out a sharp breath. “It won’t do any good.”

  “I think it would help her to see that he is really gone.” Although she spoke gently, the set of her hands on her hips told me she would not be dissuaded.

  Stupid girl. Shoving the bundle into her arms, I gathered my things, resisting the urge to flee. It was suffocating in here, and too dark. My chest constricted. Adjusting my neckline, I squeezed my eyes shut.

  A hand on my shoulder startled me. “Dvorah, are you well?”

  Shira’s curious expression flared my anger. I shrugged her away. “Is she done now? Go bury that thing.”

  She flinched, a sheen in her green-gray eyes.

  Good. Shira, too, must face reality as much as the woman who lay there, clutching a dead infant to her breast, talking to it as if it would come back to life at the sound of her voice. I had the urge to shake the stupid woman and scream, It is dead! Nothing will bring it back!

  Shira would likely have her own share of miscarriages. She’d be lucky if she even made it through labor with such a fragile build.

  Besides, she was one of those haughty Levites who had succumbed to the worship of only Yahweh—walking around with their noses grazing the clouds as if they were so far above the rest of the tribes—and all the while shamelessly murdering their own brothers. Disgust, like bile, coated my tongue.

  A male deity would have nothing to do with something so mundane as childbirth. It was the goddesses—Tawaret, Hathor, and Meskhanet—who guided a child along the journey to life, and Isis who guarded against evil spirits during labor. Yahweh was a god of war. A god of judgment. A thief. He may be the god of my forefathers, but he was certainly not mine.

  He and the Levites had stolen everything. The image of Tareq splayed blank-eyed in front of our tent jeered at me. I cinched my mouth tight against the inexplicable urge to call his name, just as I had the night he was murdered. I had moaned his name into my pillow, over and over, until my throat burned like fire—until everything inside me was a charred ruin, fit only to be cast out and placed in a shallow grave.

  I glanced around the tent again. There were no household gods here. No altars. No offerings. Foolish woman. No wonder she lost the child today. A set of large sandals lay on the ground next to me. I shoved them away with my foot, my anklet jingling.

  At least this woman had a man. She’d be with child again soon enough.

  16

  Shira

  10 CHESHVAN

  8TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  Dvorah and I snaked through camp, following a tall, ebony-haired woman named Aiyasha who had summoned us to a birth. We had both delivered babies under Reva’s guidance over the past couple of months, but neither of us was yet prepared to stand on our own, and none of the other Levite midwives were available. Reva had assured me she would join us after dealing with a frantic woman whose new infant refused to nurse.

  The woman led us to the very end of a row. The location, along the southwestern boundary of the Mishkan courtyard, signaled that the laboring woman’s family was directly related to Aharon. Ayal wandered through my thoughts, and I wondered for the hundredth time why I had not seen him for almost three weeks. Embarrassed to ask my brother about such a thing, I consoled myself—again—with the reminder that all the Levites were busy building the huge meeting tent at the center of camp and had time for little else.

  With a dismissive flash of her blue-green eyes, Aiyasha left us with no more than a silent gesture toward a tent as she ducked inside her own, escaping the torrent that had just released from the black sky.

  As we entered the dim room, I took in the ashes of a small cookfire, a thick sheepskin rug, and two narrow pallets, then groaned internally. I had been in this tent before, the day I met Dvorah. I had hoped my first encounter with Leisha would be my last.

  Aside from the unpredictable mother writhing on her pallet, there was only one woman present. Dv
orah introduced herself, ignoring me completely. Replying that her name was Marah, the woman said nothing of her relation to Leisha. The fading brown hair tucked beneath a gray turban indicated she was quite a bit older than Leisha. Her mother perhaps? Her husband’s mother? Yet Marah’s pursed mouth and the arms crossed over her ample chest gave the distinct impression that she was not thrilled about being by Leisha’s side.

  Dvorah swept her leather bag off her shoulder and handed it to me, as if my sole purpose was to hold it for her. “How long has she been having pains?”

  “Not long,” said Marah. “But her waters came at the same time, and her pains are one on top of the other.” With a none-too-gentle hand, she swiped a wet cloth across Leisha’s forehead. Leisha moaned and squirmed, shrinking from the touch.

  Dvorah examined Leisha, her movements brisk but efficient. Regardless of her disdain for me, Dvorah was skilled in midwifery. What she lacked in tact she made up for in knowledge and physical strength. She seemed to absorb Reva’s lessons like a sea sponge and could repeat any information word for word later. She reminded me of a scroll that could be opened at any point to deliver the correct answer on the spot. Should she ever stop seething at the very sight of me, perhaps Dvorah and I would complement each other well.

  “Are you experienced with childbirth?” I asked Marah.

  She shook her head and frowned toward the door of the tent. “Only that of my own children.” Her face contorted with frustration. “I tried to get the other women to help. But they refused.” I sensed she wished she could have refused as well. Why would anyone be so cruel as to abandon a laboring mother?

  Leisha gripped her belly as another contraction seized her. I rubbed her lower back in small circles. She moaned as Dvorah instructed her to start pushing. The baby’s head was already crowning.

  “No. No. I can’t.” Leisha cried out. “It hurts! It hurts!”

  Dvorah scowled. “Of course it hurts. Go ahead and yell. But push too. This baby needs to be delivered.”

  “I can’t do this again,” Leisha whimpered. “It took everything the first time.”

  I looked up in curiosity at Marah, but she turned away with a scowl. What a strange tension existed between these two women.

  I could not heal the rift in this family, but I could do my job. I put my mouth to Leisha’s ear. “Whatever happened last time, this sweet baby is ready to meet its mother. You must push now, bear down hard.”

  Leisha’s wild-eyed stare reminded me of Ziba, but she surprised me by nodding.

  “Here.” I grabbed her hand and gestured for Marah to grab the other. “We are with you. Use our strength to push.”

  She did. Leisha pushed and groaned and panted, but instead of emerging, the baby’s head slipped back. Dvorah commanded Leisha to stop and applied more warm oils. But even after a few more tries, the baby was nowhere near coming free.

  “The shoulder must be jammed up against the bone. I cannot even get a grasp on the head.” Dvorah sat back on her heels.

  I attempted to keep my voice even, hoping to avoid alarming Leisha. “Can you turn the baby?”

  Dvorah’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “I have never done such a thing. Reva has always handled any complications.”

  Again, Ziba flashed through my mind, along with the fleeting image of Ayal’s appreciative smile. “I have. I can do it.” It could not be so different, could it? And unless one of us did something quickly, the baby would die. It was worth a try.

  After a first unsuccessful attempt on the birthing bricks, I asked Leisha to get down on the floor, on hands and knees, hoping that the change in position might help my efforts. She did so, but only after many soothing words and reassurances that it would not hurt her or the baby.

  From the new angle, I was able to push the baby’s shoulder down. With much thanks to Yahweh for my small fingers, and with one final moaning push from Leisha, the infant came free and slid into my waiting hands.

  A baby girl squalled lustily from the first moment her skin hit the cool air. Once again, the rush of delight and joy knocked the breath out of me. A sob built in my throat, but for Leisha’s sake, I held it back.

  Black hair was thick on the baby girl’s head. I did not know what the father looked like, but she would emulate her mother, it was certain.

  After Marah and Dvorah helped Leisha settle onto her back, I laid the baby on her chest and watched as the two made their first acquaintance. It never failed to thrill me, watching a mother fall in love with her baby, even as a tiny sliver of jealousy vied for attention. But with as many births as I had witnessed now, I was much more skilled at pushing it aside and instead, as Reva had so wisely taught me, to revel in the wonder of new life.

  Leisha kissed the baby’s head as the infant suckled, but her body jerked when an afterbirth contraction startled her.

  “It’s all right, Leisha, it’s just the placenta coming free. It is natural.” I patted her thigh and gave her a reassuring smile.

  Leisha’s face went white as a linen sheet as the afterbirth came. Blood gushed from her body—an unnatural amount of blood. Her arms went slack. Marah grabbed the baby before the little girl tumbled to the floor.

  “What is happening?” Dvorah screeched. “What did you do?”

  I tried to apply pressure. Tried to sop up the blood with the bedclothes. Nothing staunched the crimson flow. My mind tried flipping through anything Reva had ever said about excessive bleeding but came up with only blank spaces.

  In response to the prayer that had not even made its way to my lips, hands pushed me aside. Reva was suddenly there, pressing down on Leisha’s abdomen, concentrated wisdom heavy on her brow.

  Marah was holding the baby, horror written into every line of her face, and Dvorah was calling Leisha’s name, shaking her shoulder and trying to revive her.

  Kneeling down beside Leisha, I placed my hands on either side of her face. “Leisha. Come back to us. Your daughter needs you.”

  Her eyelids flickered.

  I kissed her forehead, then spoke right into her ear. “Your baby needs her mother.”

  Leisha’s hazel eyes popped open and stared at me, looking for all the world as if she was seeing right through me. “You care for her.”

  “You will be fine,” I said, willing myself to believe it.

  “No!” With a sudden burst of strength, Leisha pulled herself upward. “Promise me! You will watch over my daughter.”

  I slid my arm around her back to support her. “But your family—”

  “They hate me, and they will be glad when I am dead.” The rancorous words spat from Leisha’s lips.

  I glanced at Marah, but she avoided my eyes.

  “Give me your word,” Leisha rasped. “Vow it.”

  I nodded my head, unable to say no to this woman whose life was slipping away by the second. Lying back, she sighed and turned her head toward the baby. Her eyes fluttered shut and did not open again.

  Reva did everything she could, pressing down on Leisha’s abdomen, massaging, but nothing stopped the bleeding. Although I did not know when Leisha breathed her last, emptiness suddenly filled the tent. The only sound was the fussing baby as she squirmed in Marah’s arms.

  I am covered in blood was my only thought. I must get clean. I stood, swaying slightly from the lightness of my head. Remembering a jug of water outside the entrance to the tent, I stumbled into the hazy drizzle.

  My dress was ruined. Nothing would remove the deep crimson that covered me, chest to knee. I pulled at the saturated fabric, plucking it away from my body, reminded of the red dye-pots and the bloody stains that had colored my hands for days. Tilting my head back, I let the rain run down my face, welcoming the numbing cold.

  A man’s quiet voice came from behind. “Is the baby born?”

  I stiffened, afraid to face him. “Yes, you have a daughter.”

  “And my wife?”

  My feet were like lead weights. Must I tell this man his wife’s fate? How could I even form the
words? I looked down at my crimson palms. It was my fault. I could only face the guilt head-on.

  He cleared his throat. “Shira?”

  Terror seized me, gripping my chest with sharp talons. Against my will I turned, desperate for the face to not match the voice I now recognized as all too familiar. The voice that had spoken hope into my dreams for weeks. The voice that had whispered my name by a stream.

  Ayal stood before me, eyes locked on the blood that stained my clothes.

  The necessary words refused to release their hold on my tongue. This man had betrayed me. Had betrayed the woman who had just died in my arms.

  Nevertheless, I could not deliver the striking blow. Miryam had spoken truth—I was a coward.

  I ran.

  17

  My mother’s eyes traveled over the blood on my tunic and the devastation on my face. A brief flicker of compassion crossed her own face but was quickly replaced by a knowing shake of her head.

  She had been right. She had known how this would end, and although loath to acknowledge that her prophecy had been correct, I bowed my head.

  “I told you no good would come of this,” she said.

  “I know, Ima.” I swallowed hard against the salty rush that threatened to overflow.

  “And yet you defied me.” When I did not respond, she huffed a sigh. “Let me help you wash.”

  Without a word, she fetched a pot of water. She washed my hands, arms, and face, then stripped me of my blood-soaked tunic and replaced it with a soft, gray woolen shift. Although her expression was stone, the gentleness of her hands drew forth the tears I had been so hesitant to shed in front of her. She drew me to her chest and let me sob until the well ran dry.

  “Now.” She wiped my face with the edge of her headscarf. “Tell me.”

  “Ayal’s wife died tonight. And it was my fault.” The revelation that Ayal was married only added to the whirlwind of guilt and grief that had taken up residence beneath my ribs. How did I not know?