Call me Avishai ben Bered, of the Tribe of Zevulun, but my name and tribe are not important. I am a recorder, who remembers the stories and chronicles of us Israelites in the Wilderness, to tell my sons and my son’s sons, so that these stories will not be lost, forever.
Here it is, another baking-hot, desert day, around 1440 BCE (Before the Christian Era). Poor Old Moses has asked his disciple—more like a son, really—Joshua, to blow the shofar and summon us people from our tents to the central square around the Mishkan, the desert shrine where, they say, the Spirit of our Invisible Desert God hovers, both inside and outside of the tent, and all at once—I cannot fathom how. Who can be in two places, all at once? It puzzles me; but then, I am a mere Rememberer, and do not have to worry if the Stories Make Sense; I merely have to re-tell them, the best way I can.
“You young people were born in this wilderness,” Moses calls at the top of his voice—
What voice? It’s old, and weak; it’s hard to hear him; the rooks cawing and the vultures circling are a distraction, as are the tumbling desert weeds which the hamseen, the dry wind, continually blows through the camp, and sand blasting into our faces, and so Joshua ends up repeating all that the Old Master speaks, as we bend our ears to him to listen—
“And I will not be with you much longer; the God-Most-High has declared that I shall be gathered unto Him, but on such a day as I do not know. And so it is important, most important….”
Here, the old man is seized by a fit of coughing, which does not cease until Pinchas, that zealot!—he who tip-toes ‘round the tents of us Israelites on Friday nights, making certain that no one is breaching any cohabitation laws—if he were in his own tent, minding his own business, we could all enjoy a peaceful evening—what’s he doing there? Ah! That’s charitable: he’s fetching the Old Man a goatskin of watered wine mixt with cinnamon and honey, to soothe his throat—
“That you hear what I have to say....”
Hearing that, we all squat down, for these discourses by the Old One can go on, even for hours, until we break camp—will that be soon? There’s no fruit left to pick off these skinny date-palms, and the creek’s gone bone-dry: it would serve El-Shaddai, the Mountain-God well (He goes by many Names, he does), to find us new digs, in these desert-lands, like he promised our Poppas and Mommas, long ago, in Egypt-land….
The sun beats down, and we shift from ham to ham, trying to avoid the stings of the desert bugs and the evil scorpions which are our constant companions; we joke that they are “Honorary Israelites” whom the Mysterious One has, like us, freed from Egypt, along with the Mixed Multitude of necromancers, harlots, and ne’er-do-wells who have gotten us into so much trouble: the Rebellion of Korach, the Golden Calf, the Temptations of Baal Peor, and so many more; so many have died, in this long, endless Wandering….
As the day’s heat builds, and Moses’s voice creaks on, many of us begin to dream, to remember, past speeches: he’s told us of the times before our births, and our tribal history, and about our God. Moses calls him “Lord,” and “Master God,” and other names; and why not? He speaks with Him, so he does, and Face-to-Face, at that—this God who freed us and our ancestors from Egyptian slavery, and how they rebelled, and wished to go back to that cursed land—he warns us, now, not to do so. But why should we? We have no memory of it, no indeed!
All we have ever wished for is some variety, some respite, from the manna, that “What-is-It?” bread, which falls daily, and which we gather never-endingly, that white, flakey stuff that we’ve been eating all of our lives: it is a curse. The one time, only once! That we—not we, but our parents—rebelled—a small rebellion—by asking for meat, some tiny bit of poultry, perhaps—how was Old Moses to fetch it for them? Was he to mount up to heaven, to beg the birds from the One Most High? But no: instead, the Mysterious One sent flocks, flocks of quail—at least, that is what my old mother and Uncle Ener told me, years before, when I was but a young lad—
and, so Uncle Ener said, “We had caught a covey of quail, Young Avishai, and were sitting down to eat, when you know what happened?”
“No, what, my Uncle?” I asked, though I had heard the tale, so many times told, many times repeated.
“Why, He-Who-Is smote us with a harsh smiting, kicked us in the guts! We all scattered for the bushes, quickly enough, and moaned and groaned the whole night long—no more meat for us, not for a while!”
And Uncle and Mother laughed about it, laughed until they cried, while I wondered at the thought: a God Who supplies His people with meat, but grudges them the eating of it—it doesn’t seem right, somehow—
What’s that? What’s Moses saying? Oh, the Land: the Land, again: a Land most fertile, most good and moist, a Land where we will eat a-plenty—a land of wheat, and barley, and oil; a land of honey, and oats—and are we to share this Land? I suppose there will be Other Tribes there—Moses? Moses? I am raising my hand—tell us about the Other Tribes! Moses, Please!
Too late—see there, Old Moses is done: he is leaning on Joshua’s shoulder, and going into his goatskin tent, the one with the brazen serpent at its door-flap; that’s how you can tell it, from afar. Old Serpent! Now, what was Serpent’s purpose? Can’t recall—
Poor Old Moses—and, now that I look at his back, Joshua is looking older, too, with some more gray hairs on his beard and the back of his sturdy, warrior's back—what remains, O’ Mysterious One? What remains for us to see and conquer, begging Your grudging help for Your rebellious children? The rest is silence....