14
HEBRON
The wind whistled in the trees above Judah’s tent as if a storm was headed toward the camp. A month had passed since they had left Dothan and returned home. A month of agony for him, and the looks he got now from his brothers were more than he could bear.
They blamed him. Their father was still inconsolable over Joseph’s loss, and when his brothers took the sheep and goats to the fields and hills nearby, they would barely speak to him except for Reuben. When he joined them for a meal, all conversation ceased.
“Do they think it’s my fault Joseph is gone?” he’d asked Reuben a few days ago. “They wanted to kill him! I saved the boy’s life.”
Reuben had looked at him with a somber expression. “I had planned to rescue the boy and return him to our father. If you had waited for me to return, we would not be living with this dark cloud of constant grief.”
So even Reuben hated him for selling Joseph to the Ishmaelite traders.
Judah folded a spare tunic and stuffed it into a goatskin sack, along with every other item of clothing he owned. In another sack, he added raisins, nuts of various kinds, and a great round of cheese wrapped in cloth on top.
He rolled up his mat and would take down his tent once he loaded his belongings onto the donkey. He couldn’t stay here. Not another moment. The atmosphere nearly strangled him, and the hatred and bitter blame seeping from his brothers was more than he could bear. How could he ever forget Joseph if they constantly reminded him with a single look? How could he ever feel welcome near his father, when the man still wore sackcloth and wept every day? Without a body to bury, there had been no closure for Jacob. Perhaps they would have been better off if Joseph was dead. Maybe he was. Who knew what had happened to him once he reached Egypt? The traders might have slain him along the way.
The thought brought a kick of guilt to his gut. He had to get away from this place. He retrieved a male donkey from the pen, grabbed a sack of feed, then covered the donkey’s back with a blanket and tossed his sacks over the side.
An hour later, the tent was dismantled, his belongings ready. His brothers had gone to the fields, thinking he would follow, and his father’s tent was some distance from his, so they would not immediately notice he was gone. It was just as well.
But as he turned and headed toward Adullam, where he planned to stay—far from his father’s house—Dinah approached him, holding Benjamin.
“You’re leaving us.” She looked from him to his belongings, her dark eyes somber.
Judah faced her. His one regret was leaving his mother and sister behind, for neither of them had ever treated him with disdain or unkindness. “Yes,” he said. “I cannot live in a house of grief.”
She tilted her head, giving him a curious look. “Father will not grieve forever. Where will you go? You cannot simply leave your family.” She patted Benjamin’s back in rubbing motions, and he rested his head on her shoulder, his eyelids drooping.
“I’m going to Canaan. I have a friend in Adullam that I met when we were tending the goats there. Don’t tell Father or our brothers. I don’t want to be followed. You can tell our mother, but only if she promises to keep my secret.” He tugged on his beard, feeling conflicted about having told her.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said, touching his arm in an affectionate gesture. “Please don’t stay away long, Judah. Whatever happened to Joseph was not your fault. You must learn to forgive yourself and forgive Father for such extended grieving. I know it troubles all of you that he favored Joseph, but Joseph never wanted the favor. He was a good brother and one we will all miss. But life will go on, and we cannot let the past destroy us.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I will miss you, Judah.”
Emotion rose up to clog his throat, but he swallowed it back. “Thank you. I will miss you as well.” In a moment of weakness, he pulled her into a half hug, careful not to disturb Benjamin. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. Please take care of Ima and yourself. I will try to send you word from time to time.”
“I would like that.” She pulled back, and he held her at arm’s length. “Be safe, my brother.”
He saw the sorrow in her gaze, but he could not let her pain talk him into staying. He must go. He must.
“I will,” he said, turning to take the donkey’s reins and head toward Adullam. He did not look back, lest he break down and tell her everything to relieve his terrible guilt. But he could not do that. If he did, she and his mother would never look on him with kindness again.
EGYPT
Joseph crouched beside the wheat, looking across it as he examined the field that stretched far beyond him. Hamid stood beside him, tanned and bare-chested, wearing the now familiar mid-waist skirt that all Egyptian servants wore. The clothing had felt strange at first, but the Egyptian sun was hotter than the air in Hebron, and the fewer clothes the better.
“What do you think?” Hamid asked. Joseph had pruned Potiphar’s vineyards, and Hamid had been so impressed with his work that he had moved him to examine the wheat, which was not doing as well as it had in years past.
“I see tares among this wheat,” Joseph said. “Someone has gotten into the fields, and when the first planting went in, they sowed the tares among the wheat.”
Hamid bent down to examine the short stalks. “It is very hard to tell the difference, but I see what you mean.” He stood, Joseph with him. “We must begin to pull out the tares immediately,” he said, authority in his tone.
Joseph shook his head. “I don’t think that is wise.” He rubbed a hand along his now bare chin.
Hamid lifted a dark brow. “And why not? The servants are used to keeping the weeds from the grain, though they usually clear the field before we plant. What harm can it do to weed as it grows? If we leave the tares in, they could weaken the wheat.”
Joseph glanced again at the wheat, which was about knee-high and blowing slowly in the breeze. “The tares are too similar to the wheat.” He bent down again and pointed out the difference. “Do you think the servants will be able to tell them apart? At this stage of growth, they are too similar, but let the wheat grow to its full height and it will become apparent then which is wheat and what is not.”
Hamid stared at the stalks, squinting against the glare of the sun. He pulled a few apart, then plucked a few from the ground to examine them more closely. He held out his hand to show Joseph the stalks. “You are right. I could not tell while they remained in the ground, but now I can see. The wheat would be destroyed along with the tares.” He tucked the grain in a pouch at his side. “I will show this to the master. He will make the final decision.”
Joseph nodded, then looked out over the sprawling field. “How did the tares become sown among the wheat in the first place?” His mind whirled with possibilities, but it made no sense unless an enemy of Potiphar had done this.
“Our master is lord over many men,” Hamid said. “He is captain of the pharaoh’s guard and is in charge of the king’s prison. I suppose he has made enemies over the years.” His voice trailed off. “Though . . .” He stopped and glanced at the grand house.
“Do you think someone who works for the master did this?” Joseph could not imagine someone wanting to risk the wrath of the captain of the guard. Something like this could cost the enemy his life.