Read Online After Abel and Other Stories by Michal Lemberger - Free Book Online

like this. It’s dangerous to be a pretty slave. That’s mostly true for the women, but sometimes for boys, too. We’ve all known someone who takes a knife to her own face so that she can save herself. Afterward, we tell her the scars are more beautiful than the smooth skin that was there before. I think the grown-ups really mean it, but the Egyptians don’t agree, which is what Amma calls a blessing.
    I’m so caught up in looking at her that I barely hear what they’re all talking about.
    â€œBring it over,” the woman in the water says as she walks closer to the other girls.
    Unlike before, they don’t try to stay dry when they approach her. They don’t even take off their clothes or jewelry before stepping into the water.
    â€œOpen it,” she says when they’re finally in front of her. It’s the smallest girl who reaches over and pulls the top off the basket. All three girls step back from it, as if it had a poisonous snake inside, but the one they call Mistress reaches in and picks the baby up. She holds him out in front of her and looks at him for a long time. Even her stare must have something special in it, because he stops crying and looks back at her, as if he’s curious to see who this person is. Babies can’t really dothat, but that’s what it looks like.
    â€œWe’ll take him home with us,” she says at last, and then lays him back down in the basket.
    The girls look scared. “But Mistress,” the one with the pink face says, and then stops as if something was shoved into her mouth.
    The tall one just stands there looking at everything but her mistress. It’s the small one who finally says, “Surely, Mistress, this must be a—” and then she stops.
    â€œA what?” her mistress says. My Amma has done that to me, almost like she’s daring and expecting me to answer at the same time. These girls can’t just say “nothing” or “forget it” to her, like I do sometimes when Amma’s voice gets all gravelly like that and I know I’m about to get punished for something.
    The small girl looks down and then up at her mistress. She must think she has to be very brave to do it, because she blurts, “Surely this is a Hebrew child.”
    Her mistress just looks at her, waiting to hear more.
    The tall girl steps in. I think she must be a good friend, even if she is an Egyptian, because it looks like she’s trying to help the other girl. “Won’t your father, the blessed Pharaoh, be very angry if you bring this boy home?”
    I jump back. It’s lucky I’m in the reeds where they can’t see or hear me. The daughter of the Pharaoh, I tell myself. The Egyptians say he’s the son of a god. Ammaalways spits when someone mentions that and says, “Nonsense.” None of the Hebrews believe it, but here’s this golden lady standing right in front of me, every bit of her body uncovered for me to see, and I wonder if there’s more to the story than I know. It seems to me that only a god could make someone like this.
    I don’t realize it, but I’ve stood up. I’ll be ashamed to tell Amma this later, because it’s not on account of the baby. I don’t know how I’ll tell her that I just about forgot the baby. It’s as if that woman, the Pharaoh’s daughter, has told me to rise without even looking at me. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know I’m there, and yet it’s like she commanded my body anyway.
    They’re all walking through the water to the bank now. One of the girls is carrying the basket with my baby brother in it. All three girls struggle to get out of the water. They had to walk in a lot further to get to where their mistress was standing than they did to pick up the basket. They’re weighed down by their wet clothes and jewelry, but the Pharaoh’s daughter keeps rising, all of her shimmering and