Joseph took the box. “My lord has already given me more than I deserve.”
“Nonsense. You deserve much more. You have preserved my life as well and that of my sons.”
Joseph saw the gratitude in Pharaoh’s eyes. “Thank you, my lord.” He lifted the lid, peered inside, and pulled out an intricately carved silver chalice.
“Use it to drink wine or to divine the future. It is good for both,” Pharaoh said.
Joseph turned the chalice to look at it from all angles. The cup was exquisite. He lowered his head in respect. “I thank you again. I will treasure this and keep it in a place of prominence in my house.”
“And use it, I hope.” Pharaoh offered Joseph a rare smile.
“And use it too,” Joseph said, placing the cup back into the box.
“If there is nothing else,” the pharaoh said, pointing toward the doors, “you may return to your duties.”
“There is nothing else.” Joseph stood, bowed low, and backed away from the throne.
Once outside, he ordered his driver to return home. He would put the cup in his rooms and then meet Hamid to begin his travels throughout the next city on their itinerary. They’d made the rounds from the Nile Delta to the south of Egypt and were starting over again.
As he rode home, his mind was not on counting grain or building new storage cities but on Pharaoh’s words. Would people come from other lands to purchase grain from Egypt? Would his brothers be forced to do the same?
What would he do if he saw them again, this time in need of his aid?
35
HEBRON
Dinah picked up the clay bowl and walked toward her father’s tent, her gait slower than usual. Memories flooded her mind every year on this day. The day her brothers had returned to their father with Joseph’s cloak, ripped and bloodied. The day her father went into mourning and despite everything had never come out. Most of the camp kept their distance from him on this day, but the man had to eat, so Dinah took him food.
How she wished she was able to bring the light into his eyes again.
She had pleaded every year, surprising even herself at how fast the years had passed. Joseph had been seventeen when he left to find their brothers, and he’d been dead as many years.
A sob lifted her chest, and she stopped, forcing it down. She could not give in to the grief again like her father did. She could not. Hadn’t life dealt her enough difficult blows? She’d done her best to care for Benjamin and serve her father, but Jacob’s grief only grew with every passing year.
A deep sigh escaped, wavering as she struggled with emotions that should be long past. She lifted her head and continued walking to Jacob’s tent. The flap was down, and the sides had not been rolled up to let in the light of day.
Dinah lifted the flap and stepped into the dark interior. “Abba?” She moved into the familiar room and set the bowl near where he normally ate when he wasn’t with the family. But he wasn’t there. Instead, she found him standing near the center pole, staring into space, unseeing.
“Abba?” she said again. She touched his arm, and he slowly met her gaze. “Are you all right, Abba?” She looked him up and down, suddenly worried that the grief was becoming too hard to bear. She already felt that way and often wondered if he would die of a broken heart. Please, God, help him. Her silent prayer came often.
Her father at last turned to face her. “I am well, my daughter.” He walked to the cushions and sat. “You brought food. I am not hungry, but I thank you.”
“You must eat, Abba. You need your strength.” She knelt beside him and touched his knee. “I know this day is hard for you. It is for me as well. But if you will come into the light of day, walk in the fruitful fields, and see how good God has been to us these past few years, surely you will feel better. Joseph would want you to be glad, Abba.”
Jacob looked at the food, then at Dinah. His brows drew down, and the telltale signs of sadness filled his dark eyes. “Yes, Joseph would encourage me as you have done.” But he did not look encouraged. He picked up the clay bowl and dipped the bread into the porridge.
When he finished eating, Dinah took the bowl and stood. “Won’t you come with me to see the fields?” She extended a hand.
He nodded, using his staff instead to help him rise. “We can take a short walk to see the wheat. Bring Benjamin. The boy will enjoy seeing the abundance. If we have as good a crop as we did the past few years, we can sell it for a goodly profit.” He walked with her into the main part of the camp, where Leah greeted him.
“Jacob. You are looking well today.” Leah took the bowl from Dinah’s hands while Dinah went to fetch Benjamin. When she returned with him, she found her parents deep in conversation.
“You are sure you do not wish to go with us?” Jacob asked.
Leah shook her head. “If not for this headache, I would surely come. I thank you for asking me. But I fear I do not feel well. Forgive me, my lord. Another time, perhaps.”
Dinah watched her mother move toward her tent and caught the look of concern on her father’s face. “What did she say to you?” she asked him.
Jacob stared after Leah, his grief seeming worse after he watched her enter her tent. Her gait had slowed, and her shoulders hunched forward as if her body was too heavy to hold upright.
“She has not been well,” he said as if speaking to the wind. He couldn’t or wouldn’t look at Dinah. She studied him and saw the fear in his gaze. “She should have told me sooner.”
Why had her mother chosen this day to tell him? Why had she kept her illness or whatever malady had come over her to herself? Dinah should have been more aware. Should have noticed when they wove together.
But she had noticed. She had seen the taut lines along her mother’s mouth and her almost shriveled expression when her head brought her pain. She had shown Dinah that expression often, and Dinah had not seen the significance. How ill was she?
Dinah stood torn between going with her father to the fields and following her mother into the tent to check on her.
“When we return, you should check on Ima Leah,” Benjamin said, answering her unspoken question for her. “She might need some herbs or whatever it is you give us when we are not well.”
Jacob turned at Benjamin’s words and looked at his son, his face smoothing into a compassionate smile. “Yes, Dinah, you must see that Leah is well. I cannot bear to lose her too.”
Dinah walked beside her father and brother to the fields, but her mind was no longer on Joseph or the plentiful harvest to come. How could she have been so blind to what was so plainly in front of her? Her mother was sick. Just how sick, Dinah chafed to hurry home and find out.
CANAAN, 1823 BC
Judah looked about his tent, the silence of the room causing him to dress quickly and leave the place as soon as he could. Though Kaella had been gone now for nearly a year, he could not get used to her absence. Shelah had already left to gather the sheep, and Judah pushed his staff into the earth to hurry himself along. The air was warm, the sun kissing his face. A sense of relief to be free of the tent filled him, and he wondered not for the first time if he should have one of the servant girls who cooked and wove and baked pottery for him make him a new tent as well. He could not imagine marrying again. Though he could not deny that he still battled manly desires.