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A Flame in Goshen

By R. K. Livingston

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Chapter One
1553 BC (142 years after the death of Joseph)
Hoshea straightened his back and squinted into the late afternoon sun. He avoided looking at the Egyptian guards stationed at intervals along the far edge of the fields. They were a constant reminder that whatever freedom he and his people had once known, it was nothing more than a dim memory. He snorted softly. Who was he trying to deceive? After generations under the heel of their Egyptian overlords, even the memory was gone.
He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair before bending back to his task. The barley wouldn’t harvest itself and he was determined to do his part while he still could. Besides, he couldn’t let a girl get ahead of him. Serah worked alongside him in the field, and he stole a glance at her as she wielded her knife in deft strokes. The hem of her dress was gathered up and tucked into the sash at her waist so her bare legs flashed in the sun. Her thick midnight hair was gathered in a loose braid that hung down her back and brushed her hips as she moved. She was small and slender, and not nearly as fragile as she looked. The loose fabric of her dress couldn’t hide the softly rounded shape of her.
Hoshea gave himself a mental shake and took a firm grasp on a handful of the stalks in front of him. One quick slice at their base with his own curved knife, and they came loose. He tossed them onto the pile behind him before reaching for the next handful. Several of the younger children followed along to gather up the stalks and bind them into sheaves with a twist of straw. The murmur of women’s voices rose above the incessant droning of the cicadas.
His eyes strayed once more to the girl beside him. At that moment, she turned her head and caught him looking. She gave him a saucy wink, her dimples flashing, and heat rushed into his cheeks as he fumbled with the knife, narrowly missing his ankle.
“You had best pay better attention to what you do with that blade,” Tirzah scolded from his other side, “and a little less attention on my daughter if you please. A fine Deliverer you will make if you manage to cut off your foot in a moment of carelessness.”
“I wasn’t. I didn’t,” he stammered, scowling fiercely. “And I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he muttered under his breath. Not for the first time, Hoshea rued the name he had been given at birth. He was no Deliverer. He’d never be able to live up to that name, even with two intact feet. People still spoke in whispers about Joseph’s long-ago promise of one who would lead them to freedom. Perhaps it was even true. All he knew for sure was that it wasn’t him. He took a vicious swipe at the barley stalks he held, hacking at them furiously before his innate common sense took hold. Serah was probably laughing at him, and he was making a fool of himself. He took a couple of calming breaths, and once again began to work in the steady rhythm he knew he could sustain for the rest of the day.
They were nearing the irrigation ditch at the farthest edge of the small barley field when Hoshea thought he heard his name being called from the direction of the village. He turned to search for the source of that elusive cry, shading his eyes with one hand. Tirzah and Serah also paused to look. A young boy of about seven was standing at the edge of the field, waving his arms above his head and shouting Hoshea’s name in a shrill, piping voice.
Tirzah stepped closer and laid a hand on Hoshea’s shoulder. “That is Rebecca’s son, Lemuel,” she said. “Something must be wrong.”
Hoshea recognized him then. He waved to get Lemuel’s attention and started in the boy’s direction. When they met in the centre of the field, both Tirzah and Serah had followed him. A feeling of unease grew in his chest, and he was glad they were with him. Lemuel clutched Hoshea’s tunic and tried to pull him toward the village.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Hoshea had to take the child by the shoulders and give him a little shake to get him to stop pulling at him and speak. Lemuel’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes huge in his pinched face as he stammered out his message.
“Mama says you must come,” he cried. He took a few gulps of air before he continued. “Narmer, the Chief Tax Assessor, is at your house.”
“Lemuel, he comes every year. You know that. He comes to speak to my father about the assessment. When the harvest is done, we must send Pharaoh his portion. I didn’t think he was coming today, but my father will deal with him.”
Lemuel shook his head vigorously. “Nun wasn’t there,” he insisted. “They banged and banged on the door and then they kicked it open and went inside. Narmer looked angry, Hoshea. Mama says Egyptians don’t like to be kept waiting. He shouted at his guards and then they started shouting at the rest of us, saying we must find Nun and bring him to the square. Mama sent me to find you. She says there will be trouble, and your father will need you.”
Hoshea stiffened and shot a desperate look at Tirzah. He didn’t know what to do.
“Your father is not a fool, Hoshea,” she said. “He has dealt with the Chief Tax Assessor for many years now, and he will know how to handle him. You know he would not want you to draw attention to yourself. I don’t know what Rebecca could have been thinking to send for you.”
Serah stared up at him, her soft brown eyes pleading. “Don’t go, Hoshea. What can you do anyway?”
He contemplated the two of them, his forehead creased with worry, and then glanced over his shoulder at the village. Lemuel was still pulling at him, and finally he shrugged helplessly. “I have to go. Please understand.”
Tirzah pursed her lips and nodded. “The day is nearly done anyway,” she said. “We’ll all go.”
Hoshea didn’t try to hide his relief. “Thank you,” he said as they all headed to the edge of the field to relinquish their knives to the Egyptian guards stationed there. It would not do to be seen carrying anything that might be construed as a weapon.
“Hoshea,” Tirzah warned as they approached the village. “Let’s not be foolish about this. If we do go to the square, we should remain hidden. We are only there to observe. Nun would not want you to endanger yourself needlessly.”
Hoshea gave her a wordless nod and kept walking, his eyes searching everywhere for hidden dangers as they pushed ahead through the narrow streets toward the square. Serah followed at his heels, but he could spare her no thought now. It took everything he had to keep from running.
When they reached the open square in the heart of the village, his father was there. The old man stood before the Chief Tax Assessor in a posture of humble submission. Did Narmer have more guards with him than usual? Hoshea started forward, but a firm hand tugged him back into the shadows.
“Careful,” Tirzah hissed in his ear. She turned to the child who was still with them. “Go back to your mother, Lemuel.”
The boy scampered off while Hoshea kept his eyes on what was happening in the square.
“Why are there so many guards? He knows all the men are at the brickyards. No one is here at this time of day except women and children and those too old for the work crews.”
He strained to hear what his father was saying to the Egyptian official. The distance was too great. Whatever it was made no difference to the scowl on Narmer’s swarthy face. A few people peered out from doorways around the square, clearly too frightened to venture out. His attention was caught when the Egyptian flapped an impatient hand at the Field Scribe who accompanied him. The man stepped forward and handed him a scroll. Narmer held it out to Nun.
Nun limped forward a few steps and took it with a bow. He was a scribe and the Keeper of the Records for their tribe, an Israelite who could both read and write. When he completed his years of service in the brickyards, he was left with more than a crippled foot. Somehow, his skills as a scribe had become known to their Egyptian masters, and the moment he was released from hard labor he was given the responsibility of dealing with the Tax Assessor on behalf of the handful of villages whose fields lay between the river and the Great Road. He had to see to it that the tax assessed was fully paid at the end of the harvest each year, or he would be personally accountable. Hoshea watched as his father unrolled the scroll and scanned its contents. The old man’s face was pale when he looked up from what he was reading.
Nun reached a pleading hand out to the official. His voice rising with the intensity of his passion, he pointed to the mud brick buildings around the square and waved the scroll in the air, shaking his head in vigorous denial.
“What is he doing?” Hoshea’s heart hammered against his ribs as Narmer’s face turned almost purple with rage.
The Egyptian shouted something, and two of the guards stepped forward, pulling their rods from their belts. Used for discipline, the rods had a long shaft with a weighted ball on one end. They could break bones if wielded with enough force. Hoshea gave a strangled cry as the first blow struck the back of Nun’s head, knocking him to the ground. The rods continued to rise and fall, and Hoshea struggled wildly as Tirzah tried desperately to hold him back.
He was tall for his age and possessed a wiry strength heightened now by terror for his father. She couldn’t stop him when he twisted free and darted into the square. A few of the guards saw him coming and grabbed for him. He skipped to one side to elude their grasp and wormed his way through to where his father lay bleeding in the dust while blows rained down on him. Nun lay there unmoving, not even trying to protect himself. With a wild cry, Hoshea threw himself down to cover his father with his own body, screaming in agony as the rod came down across his shoulders. The weapon splintered with a loud crack, and the guard threw it to one side, calling for another. Hoshea’s back burned with a fiery intensity, and he barely heard Narmer shout, “Enough!” through a haze of pain.
Two guards yanked him roughly to his feet and held him upright between them. Hoshea ground his teeth in an effort to keep from crying out. Narmer strode close and the scent of garlic wafted over the boy as the Egyptian scrutinized him.
“Who are you, and why are you not at work with the other men at the brickyards?” he demanded.
Tirzah stepped forward. She was visibly shaking, and her face was a chalky white. “He is Hoshea, son of Nun, my Lord Narmer,” she said, keeping her head bowed.
Narmer glanced down at the old man lying a few steps away in a pool of his own blood. “Ah.” He nodded. “But what is he doing here in the village? He looks old enough for the work crews. You are his mother?”
“No, my lord. His mother died when he was born. He has not yet reached his fourteenth name day. He was not slated to join the work crews for another twenty days.”
At an imperious gesture from Narmer, the Field Scribe retrieved the scroll from where it had fallen and held it out to the woman.
“Take it,” Narmer growled. “Your scribe appears to be… indisposed. See to it that the scroll gets to someone who can read it, and whoever passes for a leader among you had better be certain that the full levy is delivered in good time.”
Tirzah took the scroll in trembling fingers and nodded. She looked over at Hoshea, still pinned between the two guards. He blinked back tears of frustration and rage, forcing himself to stand quietly. Narmer stared at him intently for the space of a few heartbeats, and Hoshea did his best to meet that gaze without flinching.
“Make a note to the overseer in charge of this village,” the Chief Tax Assessor told the Field Scribe. “This boy is certainly big enough to be useful in the brickyards. He is to report to begin his years of service tomorrow morning. Twenty days will make little difference. I see no reason to wait.”
The guards did not release their hold on Hoshea until Narmer was seated in his sedan chair and the bearers had lifted the carrying poles to their shoulders. The whole procession was leaving the square before they let him go with a warning shake and turned to follow the others.
The moment he was free, Hoshea dropped to his knees beside Nun and gently turned him over. Tirzah pushed Hoshea to one side and pressed her ear to the old man’s chest.
“He lives,” she told him.
Serah rested a hand on Hoshea’s shoulder. Tears streaked her cheeks, and she looked like she wanted to throw up, but instead she asked what she could do to help.
Tirzah waved a hand through the air. “Go find some of the women, and tell them we need a litter and a few strong backs.”
Serah set off at a run and started banging on the nearest doors.
“We have to get him home,” Tirzah muttered.
Hoshea slid his arms beneath his father’s legs. “I can carry him.”
She pushed him upright with a gentle hand to his chest. “We could do more harm if we’re not careful. We’ll wait for the litter.” She ran her hands over Nun’s body, likely checking for broken bones.
Hoshea could do nothing but sit there and hold his father’s gnarled hand in his own, whispering, “Abba, Abba,” through his tears.

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