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Plagues and Papyrus - Egyptians

By Christine Dillon

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Goshen, Nile Delta, Ancient Egypt

“Grab it!” Kheti squeaked in excitement, ankle deep in the squishy mud on the edge of the Nile River.
Just as he was about to capture it, the frog gave a mighty leap out of his encircling hands.
Kheti stood up and swung his head around. His older brother, Pentu, was nowhere to be seen. As usual.
Kheti scanned the riverbank. There was his slippery target, trying to hide behind a clump of papyrus. Kheti splashed through the refreshing water.
“I’ll help,” said a nearby voice.
Kheti turned as another little boy came running over.
Kheti focused back on the frog and crept forward. Mud squished through his toes. He beckoned to the other boy to approach the grass clump from the other side.
“Slowly,” he commanded in a whisper. Together they should be able to trap the frog.
The wet frog was motionless, gleaming like a dark green jewel.
Kheti squatted and the other boy copied him, moving cautiously at half speed. Kheti grinned. It was good to have a friend. Pentu said he didn’t have time to play with Kheti.
Slowly, slowly they both reached toward the frog.
“Come away from there,” a sharp voice said. “Mother wouldn’t want you playing with a slave.”
The frog gave a mighty leap and disappeared under the water with a splash.
Slave? Kheti looked over at the boy. The boy plunged his hands into the river, not seeming to notice Pentu. With a shout of glee, he raised hands cupped around what must have been the frog they had pursued.
As if sensing Kheti’s desire to continue his game, Pentu grabbed him by the shoulder, fingers digging in.
“If you ever come near my brother again,” he snarled at the boy, “I’ll get my father to have you and your father whipped.”
Kheti had never seen his Papa whip anyone, boy or beast.
The delight that had recently been on the boy’s face was replaced by fear. Trembling, the boy bent and released the frog from the cage of his hands. It used its powerful legs to escape into the reeds.
A woman scurried down the slope toward them. “I need your help, Yosef,” she said, voice thin and not looking at Pentu. She gently tugged the boy’s arm.
Kheti watched sorrowfully as Yosef was led away, his heart pounding as if Pentu had threatened him too. Pentu gave him a sharp prod to direct him toward the house, forcing him to turn his back on Yosef, who walked hand in hand with his mother up over the rise of the riverbank. Why shouldn’t they play together? It wasn’t as if Yosef was dirty or diseased. Kheti’s mother never let him talk with the Hebrew slaves, but Yosef had seemed like an ordinary boy before Pentu said he was a slave. Well, Mother and Pentu must know best. Kheti turned his eyes to the river, blinking at the brightness of the reflections off the water.
“The river is life, Kheti,” Papa had often told him as he dug two hands into the soft wet earth and offered Kheti the rich black soil to consider. “See the river’s gift. See how our great gods make us rich.” Kheti saw mud, not riches, but there was much he did not know about the world, so much he had yet to learn about the river, its frogs and gods, and why some boys were slaves and others were not.
* * *

Several days later

Near Kheti’s home
Kheti had been left to play on his own because Pentu was off helping their father. Kheti sighed as he thought of the boy he’d played with down at the river. If only Yosef had been allowed to stay. There was no one else of similar age around. He leaned against a stone wall, his mother and grandmother with their backs towards him, were seated on the wall above his head and hadn’t noticed him.
“They breed like sandflies,” his mother said.
Who did? Kheti slid down the wall. He risked a stinging pinch to the ear if his mother caught him eavesdropping, but Papa always said he needed to pay attention to learn about the world.
“Pharaoh had the right idea—kill the lot of them,” his grandmother said.
Kheti blinked at the spite in her voice. He’d gladly see annoying sandflies exterminated, but he didn’t think his mother and grandmother were talking about sandflies.
“Didn’t work,” his mother said, matching his grandmother’s tone. “Those Hebrews are a plague in our lands, even after Pharaoh commanded that all boys be killed at birth.”
Kheti’s heart pounded so loudly in his own ears that he was afraid they could hear it too. Kill the boys? He was a boy. He sucked in a mouthful of hot air.
“The midwives were ordered to kill all the boys. Any babies found hidden, the soldiers threw in the river,” added his grandmother with an air of satisfaction. “But they’re like those wretched flies. There’s always more.”
Vomit rose in Kheti’s throat. His mother had always warned him not to swim in the river because it was full of crocodiles as big as horses that loved to feast on the unwary. There were angry hippos too, although they were easier to see and avoid. He trembled.
Why did his mother and grandmother and Pharaoh hate the Hebrews? There didn’t seem to be anything particularly nasty about them. There was a family of them living over the river. Kheti had never been allowed near their hut, but he’d seen the children playing together at a distance, heard their laughter, and wished Pentu would play and laugh with him.
“And to think it was one of our own pharaohs who invited them here. Let them settle on our land. Let them farm our delta. The best land in Egypt!” Grandmother slapped her leg. “Our land. Our water. Our crops. Our fruit.”
“Why didn’t they put them out in the desert?”
“That would have kept their numbers down.” His grandmother cracked her knuckles. “Only the sandflies can breed out there.”
In stories, the desert was described as an empty expanse that couldn’t have been more different to the lush green of the delta, planted with wheat and barley, beans and peas, spices, and watermelons. Kheti’s mouth watered at the thought of sinking his teeth into a slice of sweet, juicy melon.
“They don’t belong here anyway,” Grandmother continued. “They should have gone back to Canaan after the famine, not stayed here and stolen the best of our lands. Fat and happy, taking what was ours for generation after generation.”
Silence fell between the two women. Kheti held his breath so they wouldn’t notice his presence.
His mother spoke again. “How long have they been a curse on our lands?”
“For a long, long time. They were around even when my grandmother was a child.”
Kheti tried to imagine how long ago his grandmother’s grandmother had lived and gave up. His grandmother was one of the oldest people he knew. Old and wrinkled and with a tongue that cut like a knife.
“Well, why haven’t they gone back?” his mother asked.
“They’re wanderers. I’m not sure they even have their own land.”
“Well, this is not their land, and their welcome expired long ago,” his mother said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Once guests, now pests,” his grandmother added in a singsong voice.
His mother chuckled. “Yes. And what a mistake it was to treat them well when they are vermin.”
“Mmm,” his grandmother said. “But still we must feed them.”
“Just enough to keep them fit for work.” His mother sniggered.
“But not enough for them to have energy to plot mischief.”
It made Kheti sad to see how little food their house slaves were given. He’d been sneaking extra to them since he’d first been unable to resist their hungry eyes as they watched him eat. He’d seen Papa do the same when his mother wasn’t looking.
His grandmother shifted her seat. “We’d be fools to feed them too much. That would risk their raising an army to overrun us.”
Kheti widened his eyes.
“I doubt they have the wit to work together,” his mother said.
There was a pause, and Kheti held his breath again.
“They breed like flies, but they work like ants,” his grandmother muttered. “That’s why Pharaoh made them slaves in the first place. Didn’t want them supporting our enemies to get rid of us.”
His mother gave a little whimper. “Don’t scare me.”
“Don’t you worry, honey. We have the wit and the whip. They have empty heads and empty bellies. Like ants, they can’t stop working, or they won’t get fed.”
Kheti shivered. The slaves might be ants, but he’d seen ants lift a dead beetle many times their weight.
“Although there might be trouble if that fellow Mosheh comes back,” his grandmother said.
Mosheh? Kheti pricked up his ears. A name he didn’t know.
“Raised in the palace. Given airs unfitting for a slave. The previous Pharaoh was a fool to let his daughter keep a Hebrew child, and a greater fool to let Mosheh escape.”
“But they tried to find him, didn’t they?” his mother said, her voice tight. “Surely he died somewhere out in the desert.”
“They didn’t look hard enough, I say. You don’t risk leaving a fellow like that alive. Not if you know what’s good for you.”
What had the man done, and why did Grandmother’s voice shake?
“But nothing has been heard of him during my lifetime.”
“Maybe not, but as I said to your aunt when he fled, ‘That one will cause trouble, you’ll see.’” Grandmother would be wagging her finger.
“Come on,” Kheti’s mother said, her knees creaking as they always did when she stood. “That’s enough of a rest for now. Can you make it home?”
Kheti made himself as small and silent as a mouse hiding from a falcon hoping they wouldn’t glance over to his side of the wall.
The shuffle of their footsteps and the murmur of their voices faded. He waited to make sure they were well away before scuttling off on the shortcut home. Who was Mosheh? How could he find out more about the man? Even his name sounded mysterious, but a Hebrew raised in the palace sounded even more intriguing. Why had Pharaoh’s daughter kept him if everyone hated the Hebrews so much? Why had Mosheh fled? Was he still alive? And if he was alive, where was he now? Would Yosef and his family know? Thinking of Yosef’s smile when he’d caught their frog, Kheti was hit with a sudden flood of sadness. It was no use thinking about Yosef. He’d never be allowed to talk to him again.

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