Zipporah, Wife of Moses Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Map

  Prologue

  Part 1

  The Fugitive

  The Gold Bracelets

  Orma’s Anger

  The Handmaid

  Part 2

  News from Egypt

  The She-Pharaoh’s Son

  The Wrath of Horeb

  The Firstborn

  The Bride of Blood

  Part 3

  Miriam and Aaron

  Two Mothers

  The Scar

  Part 4

  The Return

  The Days of Blood and Turmoil

  Epilogue

  Reader’s Guide

  About the Author

  Also by Marek Halter

  Copyright

  I am dark but beautiful,

  Daughters of Jerusalem,

  Dark as the tents of Kedar,

  As the tent curtains of Solomon.

  Do not stare at me because I am dark,

  It is the sun that made me so.

  —SONG OF SOLOMON 1:5–6

  If a stranger lives with you in your land, do not ill-treat him. Treat him as you would your native-born, and love him as you love yourselves, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt . . .

  —LEVITICUS 19:33–34

  Moses failed to enter Canaan, not because his life was too short, but because it was a human life.

  —THE DIARIES OF FRANZ KAFKA, October 19, 1921

  Are you not for me like the children of Cush, children of Israel? says the Lord. Did I not bring Israel up from Egypt, just as I brought the Philistines from Caphtor and the Arameans from Kir?

  —AMOS 9:7

  PROLOGUE

  Horeb, god of my father Jethro, accept my offerings.

  At the north corner, I place the barley cakes I have baked with my own hands. At the south corner, I pour the wine, made from grapes I picked myself.

  Horeb, god of glory, you who make the thunder rumble, hear me! I am Zipporah the Black, the Cushite, who came here from beyond the Sea of Reeds, and I have had a dream.

  In the night, a bird appeared to me, a bird with pale plumage flying high in the sky. I laughed as I watched it fly. It flew above me and cried out as if calling me. I understood then that this bird was me. My skin is as black as burned wood, but in my dream I was a white bird.

  I flew over my father’s domain. I saw his houses of whitewashed brick, his tall fig trees, his flowering tamarisks and the canopy of vines beneath which he gives his judgments. I saw, over toward the gardens, the servants’ tents in the shade of the terebinths, the palm trees, the flocks, the paths of red dust, and the great sycamore on the road to Epha. On the path that leads to your mountain, oh Horeb, I saw the village of the armorers with its circle of rough brick houses, its furnaces, and its pits of fire. I flew far enough to see the well of Irmna and the roads that lead to the five kingdoms of Midian.

  And I flew toward the sea.

  Its surface was like a sheet of gold, so bright I found it impossible to rest my gaze on it. Everything was blinding: the sky, the water, and the sand. The air through which I flew had lost its coolness, and I wanted to stop being a bird and be myself again. I touched the ground with my feet and my shadow was restored to me. I shaded my eyes with my shawl, and it was then that I saw it.

  A canoe was swaying on the water, among the rushes. A beautiful, solidly built canoe. I had no difficulty in recognizing it. It was the canoe that had carried my mother and me from the land of Cush to the land of Midian, from one shore to another, keeping us alive despite the sun, despite our thirst and fear. And there, in my dream, it was waiting to take us back to the land where I was born.

  I called to my mother to make haste.

  She was nowhere to be seen, either on the beach or on the cliff.

  I waded into the water. The sharp rushes cut my arms and palms. I lay down in the canoe. It was exactly the right size for me. The canoe set off, the rushes parted, and the sea opened before me. The canoe advanced between two huge walls of water. Walls so close, I could have touched the hard green water with my fingertips.

  My stomach was tight with fear. I huddled in the canoe. Terror made me cry out.

  Soon, I knew, the cliffs of water above me would come together like the edges of a wound and swallow me up.

  I was screaming, but I couldn’t hear my own scream, only the lament of the sea, like something broken and suffering.

  I closed my eyes, sure I was about to drown. Just as the canoe was about to crash against the seabed, there, on the seaweed, wearing the pleated loincloth of the princes of Egypt, his arms laden with gold bracelets from the wrists to the elbows, a man stood waiting. His skin was white and his brow was covered with brown curls. With one hand, he stopped the canoe. Then, lifting me in his arms, he walked across the Sea of Reeds. On the opposite shore, he clasped me to him and put his mouth on mine, giving me back the breath the sea had tried to take from me.

  I opened my eyes. It was night.

  The real night, the night of the earth.

  I was on my bed. I had been dreaming.

  “Oh Horeb,” I asked, “why send me this dream?”

  Was it a dream of death or a dream of life?

  Is my place here, beside my father Jethro, the high priest of Midian, or is it in the land of Cush, where I was born? Is my place among my white-skinned sisters who love me, or there, beyond the sea, among the Nubians, who are under the yoke of Pharaoh?

  Oh Horeb, listen to me! In your hands I place my breath. I will dance with joy if you decide to answer me, you who know my distress.

  Why was the Egyptian waiting for me at the bottom of the sea?

  Why erase my mother’s name, and even her face, from my memory?

  What path was the dream you interrupted indicating to me?

  Oh Horeb, may my call to you be answered. Why do you remain silent?

  What is to become of me, Zipporah the stranger?

  No man here will take me as his wife because my skin is black. But my father loves me. In his eyes, I am a woman worthy of respect. Among the peoples of Cush, what would I be? I do not speak their language, do not eat their food. How would I live there? Only the color of my skin would make me similar to my fellows.

  Oh Horeb! You are the god of my father Jethro. Who will be my god if not you?

  PART ONE

  Jethro’s Daughters

  The Fugitive

  That day, and all the days that followed, Horeb remained silent.

  The dream lingered for a long time in Zipporah’s body, like the poison left by an illness.

  For several moons, she dreaded the night. She lay on her bed without moving, without closing her eyes, without even daring to touch her lips with her tongue for fear of finding the taste of the stranger’s mouth on them.

  She thought for a moment of confiding in her father Jethro. Who better to counsel her than the sage of the kings of Midian? Who loved her more than he did? Who better understood her torments?

  But she said nothing. She did not want to seem too weak, too childish, too much like other women, who were always ready to believe their hearts rather than their eyes. He was so proud of her, and she wanted to show him that she was strong and sensible and held firm to all the things he had taught her.

  With time, the images of the dream faded. The Egyptian’s face became blurred. A season went by without her thinking of it once. Then, one morning, Jethro announced to his daughters that young Reba, the son of the king of Sheba, one of the five kings of Midian, would be their guest the next day.

  “He has come to ask counsel of me. He will be here before the end of the day. We shall welcome him as he deser
ves.”

  The news provoked a great deal of mirth among the women of the house. All of them—Jethro’s daughters, the handmaids—knew what was going on. For more than a year, barely a moon had passed without Reba coming to seek Jethro’s counsel.

  While everyone bustled to prepare the next day’s banquet, some preparing the food, others the reception tent and the carpets and cushions that had to be laid out in the courtyard, it was Sefoba, the eldest of Jethro’s daughters still living in their father’s house, who, with her usual directness, said out loud what everyone was thinking:

  “Reba has had more counsel by now than anyone needs in a lifetime—unless, behind that handsome little face of his, he’s the stupidest man Horeb has ever created. What he really wants to know is if he still appeals to our dear Orma. He’s hoping Father will think his patience a sign of wisdom and agree to make him his son-in-law!”

  Orma shrugged. “We all know why he’s coming,” she admitted. “But what’s the point of these visits? They bore me. They’re always the same. Reba sits down with our father, spends half the night chatting and drinking wine, and then goes home again, without ever making his mind up to say the necessary words.”

  “Yes, I wonder why,” Sefoba said, pretending to be thinking deeply. “Perhaps he doesn’t find you beautiful enough?”

  Orma glared at her sister, unsure whether she was joking. Sefoba laughed, pleased with her teasing. Zipporah sensed that they might be building up to one of their customary quarrels. She stroked the back of Orma’s neck to calm her, and received a slap on the hand by way of thanks.

  Although they had the same mother, Sefoba and Orma could not have been more dissimilar. Sefoba was short and round, sensual and tender, with nothing dazzling about her. Her smile revealed her lack of guile, the honesty of her thoughts and feelings. She was completely trustworthy and, more than once, Zipporah had confided to her what she did not dare tell anyone else. Orma, on the other hand, was like one of those stars that keep their brilliance even when the sky is already flooded with sunlight. There was no woman more beautiful in Jethro’s house, perhaps in the whole of Midian. And certainly no woman prouder of this gift of Horeb.

  Suitors had written long poems about the splendor of her eyes, the grace of her mouth, the elegance of her neck. In their songs, the shepherds, although they did not dare mention her by name, vaunted her breasts and her hips, comparing them to fabulous fruits, strange animals, and magic spells cast by goddesses. Orma savored this fame, never tired of it. But she seemed perfectly content to inflame others, without herself being inflamed. No man had yet been able to arouse in her an interest greater than the interest she had in herself. She was the despair of Jethro, who saw her fussing over her robes, her cosmetics, and her jewels as if they were the most precious things in the world. He had had no success in making her a wife and mother. Although she was the youngest daughter of his blood and he loved her dearly, there were times when even he, who rarely lost his composure, could not restrain his harsh judgment of her.

  “Orma is like the desert wind,” he would rage, in Zipporah’s presence. “She blows first one way then the other. She’s like a bladder that fills with air and then bursts. Her mind is an empty chest. Even the dust of memory won’t settle in it! She’s a jewel, of course, and she grows more beautiful every day, but I sometimes wonder if Horeb is angry with me and is using her to test me.”

  “You’re too hard on her,” Zipporah would gently protest. “Orma knows very well what she wants and has a strong will, but she’s young.”

  “She’s three years older than you,” Jethro would reply. “It’s high time she thought less about making hay and more about making babies!”

  In fact, there had been no lack of suitors. But Jethro, having promised Orma that he would never choose a husband for her without her consent, was still waiting, just like the suitors. Now new songs were being sung across the land of Midian, saying that the beautiful Orma, daughter of Jethro the sage, had been born to break the hardest of hearts and that Horeb would soon transform her, as virgin as the day she was born, into a superb rock on his mountain, caressed only by the wind. But now Reba had decided to take up the challenge, and was endlessly coming to pay his respects to Jethro with the impatience of a warlord before a battle. Nobody doubted that his persistence deserved its reward.

  “This time, little sister,” Sefoba resumed, “you really must make up your mind.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because Reba deserves it!”

  “No more than anyone else.”

  “Oh, come on!” Sefoba said, warming to the argument. “What other man would you prefer? Everything about him is pleasing.”

  “To an ordinary woman!”

  “To you, Princess. Do you want a man worthy of your beauty? Ask any of the women here, young or old. Reba is the handsomest of men—tall and slim, skin the color of fresh dates, firm buttocks! Who wouldn’t want to give him a cuddle?”

  “That’s true,” Orma chuckled.

  “Do you want a rich man, a man of power?” Sefoba went on. “He’ll soon be succeeding his father as king, and then he’ll own the most fertile pastureland and caravans so richly laden they stretch from sunrise to sunset. You’ll have gold and fabrics from the East, and as many handmaids as there are days in the year!”

  “What do you take me for? To become a man’s wife just because his caravans are so impressive—how boring!”

  “They say Reba can sit on a camel’s hump for a week without getting tired. Do you know what that means?”

  “I’m not a camel, I don’t need to be straddled every night—unlike you, squealing loud enough to stop other people sleeping!”

  Sefoba’s purple cheeks turned crimson. “How do you know that?” she cried, which merely increased the general laughter. “Well, all right, it’s true,” she admitted. “When my husband isn’t running after his flocks, he comes to me every night and eats me up! My heart isn’t dry like Orma’s, I enjoy giving it nourishment. And doing it every night,” she concluded, now joining in the laughter, “isn’t as easy as lighting a fire to bake cakes!”

  “The fact is, the seasons are passing,” Zipporah said softly, when calm had returned. “You’ve already rejected every other suitor, my dear Orma. If you send Reba away, who else will dare to want you?”

  Orma looked at her with a touch of surprise, a stubborn grimace creasing her pretty nose. “If Reba is only coming here to talk to Father, without declaring himself, then I shall stay in my room tomorrow. He won’t even see me.”

  “You know perfectly well why Reba doesn’t ask Father for your hand! He’s afraid you’ll refuse. He has his pride, too. Your very silence has become an affront. This may be the last time—”

  “Tell them I’m ill,” Orma interrupted. “Just look sad and worried, and they’ll believe you . . .”

  “I shan’t say anything!” Zipporah protested. “I certainly shan’t tell a lie.”

  “It won’t be a lie! I will be ill. You’ll see.”

  “Nonsense!” Sefoba exclaimed. “We know exactly what we’ll see! You’ll paint your face until you glow and, as usual, you’ll be more beautiful than a goddess. Reba will only have eyes for you. He won’t even touch the excellent food we serve him. That’s really the saddest thing about being your sister. The proudest, handsomest men come here, and always end up looking stupid!”

  The handmaids, who had been all ears, burst out laughing, and Orma laughed with them.

  Zipporah got to her feet. “Let’s take the sheep to the well,” she said, decisively. “It’s our day and we’re already late. Forget about husbands for the moment—real or imagined.”

  THE well of Irmna was a good hour’s walk from Jethro’s domain. In the distance rose the great mountain of the god Horeb, its covering of petrified lava sparkling in the evening sun. Below it, between the folds of red rock, plains of short grass, sometimes green in winter, stretched as far as the sea. Such was the land of Midian, vast, harsh, and ten
der, a land of burning sand and volcanic dust where scattered oases shimmered like oil in the desert heat. The wells of abundant, miraculous water found at the oases were both sources of life and gathering places.

  Every seven days, those who had pitched their tents less than two or three hours away by road, or who, like Jethro, owned gardens, flocks, and brick houses, were entitled to fill their goatskins at the well of Irmna. They were also allowed to let their flocks drink there, whatever the size of the flock, provided they finished in the time it took the shadow of the sun to move six cubits.

  It was late summer, and the men had already left Jethro’s domain with the livestock to sell it in the markets of the land of Moab, along with the iron weapons produced by the armorers. They would not return until the dead of winter. In the meantime, it was the women’s job to lead the remaining animals to the well. This was where Zipporah and her sisters, with the casualness of habit, were taking their sheep. As they tramped along in their clogs, the dust rose off the road like flour.

  The tall shaft of the shadoof was already in sight when Jethro’s daughters noticed a herd of long-horned cows pressing around the adjoining drinking troughs.

  Sefoba frowned. “Look, they’re drinking our water! Whose animals are those?”

  Four men appeared, pushing the cows aside with their staffs. They all had thick beards, and were dressed in old, patched tunics white with dust. They positioned themselves at the top of the track, and planted their staffs in the ground.

  Orma and Sefoba came to a standstill, while their sheep went on by themselves. Zipporah, who had been walking behind, now joined them and shaded her eyes from the sun to get a better look at the men.

  “They’re Houssenek’s sons,” she said. “I recognize the eldest, the one with the leather necklace.”

  “Well, this isn’t their day,” Orma said, setting off again. “They’ll just have to go.”

  “They don’t look as if they want to,” Sefoba observed.

  “Whether they want to or not, this isn’t their day, and they’re going to leave!” Orma said, angry now.