slave.”
His nod was barely perceptible. “I was betrayed and aban-
doned by my brothers,” he said, his voice somber and flat. “I
once dreamed of greatness, and now I am a slave on an in-
valid’s bed.” In his eyes Tuya caught a glimpse of some internal
struggle, but he did not weep or grow angry. “All I have seen
teaches me to trust El Shaddai for all I have not seen.”
Bitter tears stung her eyes. “I was abandoned by one who
called herself my sister,” she whispered, tearing her gaze
from his face. She stared into the darkness, reliving those
terrible hours. “During the one night I spent in Pharaoh’s
house I dreamed that I stood on a round disk while the sun-
god threw his arms around me. In that moment I felt pro-
tected, safe and loved.”
She looked up at Yosef again. “I don’t believe in dreams,
because we slaves always wake up to a new fear. There is no
escape, because a slave cannot know what lies ahead.”
64
Dreamers
“God knows,” Yosef answered, his hand reaching for hers.
Stung by the unexpected gesture, Tuya withdrew her arm, then
relented and placed her fingers in his strong grip. She did not
want to become attached to this youth, for Potiphar might sell
him once his health had been restored.
But for now, she felt blessed to have a friend.
Chapter Seven
Tuya had entered Potiphar’s household at the beginning of
the inundation, the four winter months of the year. Within two
weeks the fever had left Yosef’s body, but since he could not
work in the house or the fields with a broken arm, Tuya began
to teach him the written language of the Egyptians. She had
learned the seven hundred signs of the hieroglyphic language
along with Sagira, and though her rendering of the pictorial
elements would never be as perfect or as elegant as those of
a professional scribe, Yosef had no trouble understanding the
meaning of her scratchings.
As the Nile receded and the fertile silt-laden land reap-
peared, his mind became occupied with learning. Tuya found
that Potiphar did not care what his slaves did; his concerns
centered on Pharaoh, the prison and his guards. So each morn-
ing after bringing Yosef his breakfast of bread and parched
corn, she spread before him several shards of broken pottery
and a basket filled with flakes of limestone. A papyrus reed
made a fine pen, and Yosef often detained her, asking ques-
tions as he practiced his writing and honed his understand-
ing. His brain was like a sponge, always absorbing, always
66
Dreamers
demanding more. In a few months he would master what the
royal scribes took years to learn.
“What is the sign for ‘captive’?” Yosef asked one day,
looking up from the shards he had covered with scrawlings.
Tuya peered over his shoulder. “It is the sign of a kneeling
man that you have drawn, but the hands extend behind him
and are bound,” she said. “The sign can also mean ‘enemy’
or ‘rebel.’”
Yosef chewed on the end of his pen. “What is the sign for
‘Pharaoh’? And how may I show it with other signs?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Tuya took a step back. “Pharaoh’s
name is sacred. To write it is almost a sacrilege. If it is abso-
lutely necessary to write his name, you must enclose it in a
circle, the sign of the sun.”
Yosef turned back to his writing, and Tuya hurried out the
door with the breakfast tray. Distracted by her thoughts, she
nearly stepped into a pile of dung in the courtyard. She gritted
her teeth, annoyed that someone had left the cattle pen open.
She’d have to speak to the stockyard boys.
Donkor’s prosperous household and Potiphar’s estate were
like a tree and its reflection on the Nile, Tuya decided. The
former thrived in prosperity, the latter, being insubstantial,
only appeared to flourish. Though Potiphar’s large estate was
well-situated, his slaves were a disjointed mass of workers, a
hive without a queen. After a week of trying to
His nod was barely perceptible. “I was betrayed and aban-
doned by my brothers,” he said, his voice somber and flat. “I
once dreamed of greatness, and now I am a slave on an in-
valid’s bed.” In his eyes Tuya caught a glimpse of some internal
struggle, but he did not weep or grow angry. “All I have seen
teaches me to trust El Shaddai for all I have not seen.”
Bitter tears stung her eyes. “I was abandoned by one who
called herself my sister,” she whispered, tearing her gaze
from his face. She stared into the darkness, reliving those
terrible hours. “During the one night I spent in Pharaoh’s
house I dreamed that I stood on a round disk while the sun-
god threw his arms around me. In that moment I felt pro-
tected, safe and loved.”
She looked up at Yosef again. “I don’t believe in dreams,
because we slaves always wake up to a new fear. There is no
escape, because a slave cannot know what lies ahead.”
64
Dreamers
“God knows,” Yosef answered, his hand reaching for hers.
Stung by the unexpected gesture, Tuya withdrew her arm, then
relented and placed her fingers in his strong grip. She did not
want to become attached to this youth, for Potiphar might sell
him once his health had been restored.
But for now, she felt blessed to have a friend.
Chapter Seven
Tuya had entered Potiphar’s household at the beginning of
the inundation, the four winter months of the year. Within two
weeks the fever had left Yosef’s body, but since he could not
work in the house or the fields with a broken arm, Tuya began
to teach him the written language of the Egyptians. She had
learned the seven hundred signs of the hieroglyphic language
along with Sagira, and though her rendering of the pictorial
elements would never be as perfect or as elegant as those of
a professional scribe, Yosef had no trouble understanding the
meaning of her scratchings.
As the Nile receded and the fertile silt-laden land reap-
peared, his mind became occupied with learning. Tuya found
that Potiphar did not care what his slaves did; his concerns
centered on Pharaoh, the prison and his guards. So each morn-
ing after bringing Yosef his breakfast of bread and parched
corn, she spread before him several shards of broken pottery
and a basket filled with flakes of limestone. A papyrus reed
made a fine pen, and Yosef often detained her, asking ques-
tions as he practiced his writing and honed his understand-
ing. His brain was like a sponge, always absorbing, always
66
Dreamers
demanding more. In a few months he would master what the
royal scribes took years to learn.
“What is the sign for ‘captive’?” Yosef asked one day,
looking up from the shards he had covered with scrawlings.
Tuya peered over his shoulder. “It is the sign of a kneeling
man that you have drawn, but the hands extend behind him
and are bound,” she said. “The sign can also mean ‘enemy’
or ‘rebel.’”
Yosef chewed on the end of his pen. “What is the sign for
‘Pharaoh’? And how may I show it with other signs?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Tuya took a step back. “Pharaoh’s
name is sacred. To write it is almost a sacrilege. If it is abso-
lutely necessary to write his name, you must enclose it in a
circle, the sign of the sun.”
Yosef turned back to his writing, and Tuya hurried out the
door with the breakfast tray. Distracted by her thoughts, she
nearly stepped into a pile of dung in the courtyard. She gritted
her teeth, annoyed that someone had left the cattle pen open.
She’d have to speak to the stockyard boys.
Donkor’s prosperous household and Potiphar’s estate were
like a tree and its reflection on the Nile, Tuya decided. The
former thrived in prosperity, the latter, being insubstantial,
only appeared to flourish. Though Potiphar’s large estate was
well-situated, his slaves were a disjointed mass of workers, a
hive without a queen. After a week of trying to
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