After Abel and Other Stories (7 page)

Of course, Amma and Baba got mad at him, but they also told me that little children act strangely when they can tell something's wrong but don't understand it. I did understand it, because I'm a lot smarter than he is. That's why I got so frightened.

I tried to keep it in, because Amma and Baba were upset enough on their own, but I couldn't do that forever. “What's going to happen?” I finally asked.

Amma looked even more tired than usual. Her skin had gotten kind of grey, like the dust of the rock quarry had been rubbed onto it and stayed there. By then, she was tottering from side to side when she walked, so I knew that the baby would be born soon.

“We'll figure something out,” she said.

“But what?”

“I don't know.” She sounded tired, too, but she must have done that thing where she read my mind, because she said, “If he's a boy, we'll hide him, just like all the others. But we'll hope for a girl.”

But he was a boy. We got lucky, because he was born at night, so the midwives could sneak in and out of the hut without anyone seeing, but Baba told me to go to sleep right after he was born, even though I wasn't tired at all. Amma was crying as she held the baby. Baba, too. I wanted to do something to help, but I couldn't,
so I cried too, only I turned my face to the wall so they wouldn't see me.

We did hide him, for a little while, but like I said, he cries a lot, which is bound to call attention to him sooner or later, and that is why there's this basket in my hands now. It's good that I'm so strong, because it's a pretty far walk to the river, and Amma sent me out really early this morning so no one would see me. The baby is staying quiet, probably from all the juggling around as I walk.

I didn't say anything to Amma, but I'm more scared now than ever. What if the basket doesn't float and I have to watch my baby brother drown? What if the tide turns it over and he slips out, or there's a crocodile nearby? Even running as fast as I can, I won't be able to do anything if any of those things happen.

I try to remember what Amma said and repeat it over and over to myself. “We have to have faith. It will turn out okay.” I don't know if I believe it, but I believe my Amma.

When I get to the river, I look for a spot along the bank where I can walk in. I think that somewhere with reeds to hide us but also a gentle slide where I won't have to climb down a steep ledge would be best.

The basket is getting even heavier. I don't understand why my arms are trembling. I'm not cold at all. Actually, I'm covered in sweat. By the time I find the perfect spot,
I almost can't hold it up anymore.

The water feels so good. It's cold, but I was so hot that it feels really nice to walk into it. I wade in a little bit, hugging the basket the whole time. I'm afraid it will float away before I'm ready, so I don't want to go too far away from the bank.

It really is too heavy for me, so I have to put it down. I hold onto it with my hand as I back up until the water only covers my ankles and then my feet. It's pretty uncomfortable to be bent over so far, my feet in the shallow end, my arm stretched all the way out so that the basket doesn't float away.

At the last minute, I pull it back in and unlatch the top to look at my brother. “I may never see you again,” I say. He just looks up at me. He has one foot in his mouth, which is what he likes to do when he's lying down. It's pretty funny-looking and usually makes me laugh, but not today. Then I get worried that he understood me and will get scared once I let him go, so I say, “Don't worry, I'll be next to you the whole time.” I hope that's the truth.

Eventually, I have to let go. At first, the basket doesn't move much. It just bobs up and down on the water and turns around in the reeds. I worry that I chose a bad spot, and that he'll just stay stuck there forever. I don't even know what to do. My chest feels tight and I'm not breathing quite right. But I can't walk into the
water to free the basket, because then I'll be stuck in the same situation I was afraid of to begin with.

I can't make up my mind. Now we're both stuck, the baby in the rushes and me just watching the little basket. It bumps into some reeds, which turns it so that it bumps into some more. Thankfully, the river makes a decision for me, because I see the basket start to edge out to where the current can take it.

Once it's past the rushes, I start to follow it. The current must be really comfortable, because the baby doesn't cry at all. That makes me mad, because he never stopped crying at home, which was the reason we're here in the first place.

“Were you trying to get put out here?” I say, even though I know he can't hear me, and that even if he could, he wouldn't be able to answer.

The water moves pretty slowly, so I walk along, not even needing to jog to keep up. It starts to get really boring. Nothing is happening. The basket doesn't even get pulled into the middle of the river. It just knocks along the banks. Some mud has started to stick to the bottom and sides, which is hard to see because of all the tar, but I can tell, because it looks bumpier than before. Amma had been really careful with it. She had smoothed the pitch out with a giant leaf over and over. At the time, I didn't understand why, but now I see that she must have thought the basket would float better
that way.

It doesn't seem to be making a difference. The basket keeps floating along. I walk beside it. It floats. I walk. The sun is out for real now. The baby is probably nice and cool in the basket, but I'm getting hot. Flies keep buzzing around my ears and hair, so I spend a lot of time swatting them away. Now I'm bored and irritated. I start kicking pebbles as I walk. I even bend down to pick a few bigger rocks up so that I can throw them.

I'm really good at throwing, and these rocks fit perfectly in my palm. I stop, point to where I want the rock to land in the water, pull my arm back, and fling it over my head. It lands far out in the river with a splash and sinks right away.

I'm about to throw another one when I look around and see that the basket has floated up ahead of me. My chest tightens up again. I lost track of why I was here. Amma and Baba would be so mad if they saw me. I feel terrible and sprint to catch up. The basket hasn't gone very far, but I drop the rest of the rocks out of my fist anyway. I can't throw them while I'm walking, and I'm afraid I'll fall behind again.

It's a good thing I do catch up, because the current starts to speed up a little. I can see bigger ripples on the surface of the water. The color changes, too. It's always brown and muddy, but it's darker now. The basket picks
up speed. I'm loping along beside it now, which is better. Not so boring.

That's when the basket moves away from the bank. I have to run to keep up now. The basket tips from side to side more in the water. I get scared that it will tip so far that the baby will fall out, and then all of my Amma's work will be for nothing. Worse than that, I'll have to go back and tell her what happened, and she'll get mad that I didn't save him even though she knows that I can't swim.

All the rocking must be scary for the baby because he starts to cry. I look around, afraid that someone will hear and figure out that this is a Hebrew baby. Then they'd find me and know for sure. I stand on my tiptoes to look around, but there's nothing to see. The river must have carried the basket, and me, along the shore far enough that we've reached a spot that's completely empty. No houses, no roads, no people. It's pretty here, with lots of trees. Their leaves hang over the ground and water, so I can walk in the shade.

This place doesn't look like it does where we live. It's pretty much always noisy there, because the Egyptians make us live so close together. Practically every hut touches another one. And there are lots of kids running around. That's in the morning and at night. I'm not usually there during the day. Since most people are out working in the fields or building sites, I suppose it gets
quiet then, but I've never really thought about it too much.

Here it's different. What's that word my Baba uses when he finally gets a chance to lie back and close his eyes? “Peaceful.” That's how it feels here. All I can hear is the water. The birds, too. They talk back and forth to each other from the treetops. Some of them are on branches so skinny I don't understand how they can balance up there.

They start to make a racket soon enough, though. It sounds like clack, clack, clack, and a lot more of them than I thought were around start flying from tree to tree. I'm not sure why they're so nervous and loud, until I hear voices up ahead of me.

Whoever they are, they'll see me really soon. To make matters worse, they're all Egyptians. I don't know what to do. If I keep walking, they'll see me for sure. They could do anything then. I could get a whipping, or be sent far away from my parents if one of them decides to keep me for herself, but the basket is still moving, and Amma told me not to lose sight of it. Even though it's shady, I start to sweat again. I wish my Amma was here with me. She'd know what to do.

I glance over at the basket and see that the current has slowed down again. Thank goodness for that, at least. The water bobs the basket along gently. It's headed for a marshy bit up ahead, which should slow it down
even more.

The only thing I can do now is hide and hope those people don't see me or the basket. I spot a clump of reeds a few steps away and I push right into the center of it and then crouch down as far as I can. From there, I can put my eye right up to a space between two green shafts and see what's happening, but no one will be able to see me.

The only problem is that I've lost sight of the basket. I just hope it's hidden, too. “What do I do now, Amma?” But I whisper so softly that she wouldn't be able to hear me even if she was right there beside me. Anyway, I'm old enough to know that she won't be able to answer. It's just that she'd know what to do, and I don't.

The voices get closer. They're laughing while they walk. Then I see them. Three girls, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. At least I think that's how old they are, but they look so different from anyone I've ever seen that it's hard to tell.

They're beautiful. One of them is tall, with long arms. I bet she runs fast, because her legs are long, too. Another one has the kind of rosy, round cheeks that I've never seen on a Hebrew child. It's like her face is trying to laugh even when her mouth isn't. The last is small. She's not much taller than I am, but she already has breasts, which is how I know she's older than I am.

All three of them are wearing gold necklaces that
reach from their necks down to the tops of their chests and wink back at the water. Their eyes look really long across their faces, almost as if they touch where the tops of their noses should be, but then I realize that they just have very dark paint around them. Their hair is blacker than any I've ever seen and perfectly straight, with beads woven into the ends and some kind of wrap around the tops of their heads. Those hairbands are the most amazing of all. They have beads of all different colors strung together to make patterns of fish and eyes and the symbol of the Pharaoh, which is one that all the Hebrews know well, since we have to carve it into so many of the buildings that get put up.

And their clothes. They wear skirts that open in the front to let them walk and shirts that look like they're attached to their necklaces. I want to go up to them and put my hand on the cloth because it looks so clean. It's all white. Really and truly white and not stained with sweat or ripped and sewn back up in places.

I almost don't believe that these girls are real. I'm so caught up in staring at them that I don't follow their eyes. So I jump in surprise when one of them points and says, “What's that over there?” It looks like she's pointing right at me, and the shivering in my arms starts up again, but then I see them walk down to the edge of the water and peer at another bunch of rushes.

They start to talk to each other, and even though I
know Egyptian, their words stumble out on top of each other so quickly that I don't understand what they're saying. What I can see is that they seem nervous. They may even be as scared as I am. It's like they've taken over for the birds and are chattering back and forth to each other in fright.

Someone else must have heard them, too, because I hear her ask, “What now, girls?” Whoever she is she sounds a little frustrated, as if this is how they always act and that it gets tiresome for her to listen to it.

The girls' heads jerk up at the sound of that voice, but they don't say anything. They look at each other, lift their shoulders, and gesture with their hands as if to ask each other what they should do. The voice comes again, “Well, what's there?”

One of the girls finally speaks up. “It's a basket, Mistress. Floating in the water. It sounds like it's crying.”

“Baskets don't cry,” the voice says. I can't see her, and it's probably true that a person doesn't have to grow up a slave to know that this lady is the boss, but I figure all Hebrew children would know for sure. In any case, I know she's the boss, and that the three girls answer to her and are a bit afraid of her, too.

“Yes, Mistress,” the tall girl says, but none of them move.

“Well, don't just stand there. Bring it over to me.”