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The baby becomes a bedtime story whispered between them, like the angels Ima says Saba-Raba Jacob used to talk about. They came to me in dreams, Ima says he used to say. Found me when I was afraid. Reminded me of who I was when I’d forgotten myself.
They have no such angels, here in Egypt. Only calloused hands and sunburns, the taste of sand under their tongues and coarse grains under their fingernails. Whip-marks on their backs. Though Aaron collects more of the latter than Miriam—Miriam, who needn’t even be doing this sort of labor at all any more now that she’s old enough to join the women working indoors. But she elects to join her brother under the hot sun, rather than be separated from him. And when she earns herself beatings, as she inevitably does by mouthing-off to an Egyptian foreman or by carrying one fewer brick than that foreman decides on a whim she ought to be, Aaron stands in front of her, offers his back in place of hers, takes the whip.
(It’s what Abba would have done.)
And it’s not so bad. After the day’s work, Ima runs cool water over the gashes and rubs soothing herbs on them, and Miriam sings him songs of comfort to distract him, and then they huddle together as Miriam weaves stories, fanciful tales of their little brother.
Like that the Queen found him there floating in the Nile, brought him into the palace.
(“Wow,” says Aaron, hardly feeling the sting on his back.)
Like that Pharaoh himself took a liking to the baby. Adopted him. Decided to raise him as a prince of Egypt.
(“No way!” Aaron giggles. It’s an absurd notion, a subversive one, that a Hebrew slave baby—their brother—would be raised as a prince. It's an idea that’s simply amazing to imagine, perfect for the escapist story the moment demands.)
(“It’s true,” Miriam hums. “And one day, he’ll come back to redeem us.”)
Aaron’s eyes shine.
“That’s him,” Miriam murmurs, one day, at the worksite. Her grip on the water she’s hauling slackens as she turns to stare.
“Careful!” Aaron just hardly manages to catch her arm before she drops it entirely. A whole jug of water wasted, spilled on the sand, would have meant a beating for her—which really would have meant a beating for him—and that’s something he’s eager to avoid.
“But it’s him, Aaron!”
He follows her gaze to where Pharaoh paces, followed by a handsome entourage.
“Seti?” It’s unusual, but certainly not unheard of that Pharaoh would visit his construction sites, and it’s hardly the first time they’ve seen him in the flesh, if admittedly from a distance.
“No, him! Moses!”
“Mm.” Aaron squints to see, and sure enough, the two princes—young boys of five and six, respectively—pace at their father’s heels. Then, he eyes the foreman, quite a distance closer, whip dangling at his side. “We should get back to work.”
“It won’t be long now. He’ll come back for us.”
“Who?”
“Moses."
"Why would Prince Moses—"
"Because he's our brother!”
Aaron grits his teeth. To say these things alone, in their own home, under the cover of night, is one thing. But here? In broad daylight, in public?! And to associate the mythical ghost of their brother with one of the actual sons of Pharaoh is unconscionable, dangerous. Doesn’t Miriam know that?
(Besides, they’re both of them getting a little old for this fantasy, these far-fetched dreams of liberation. And that’s all they’d ever been. Dreams. Fantasies. Had Miriam forgotten?)
But to ask her now would distract her more, would create more of a scene, would probably earn him the whip, so Aaron drops the subject, focuses only on bearing the bricks on his back.
They both sag after they bury their mother. Eyes wet, they lean on each other to stay upright as they pace back from the gravesite to their dwelling.
(When Abba died, Ima had carried him in her arms, despite the fact that she was pregnant, she’d carried him all the way home…)
“We’re all alone now,” Aaron croaks when they get there. “Just the two of us.”
Miriam sits down on the ground beside him. “Three.”
“What?”
“There’s three of us. You, me, and Moses.”
It’s too much. “Prince Moses isn’t one of us, Miriam!’
“He is, he’s our bro—”
“That’s just a story! Don’t you realize that?”
“No, it’s not—”
“It is! It’s a story we told each other to deal with the fact that our father was dead, and the fact that our mother let our baby brother float away in the Nile to starve or drown so that she wouldn’t have to watch him die—”
“I saw him, Aaron! I saw the Queen find him, and pick him up, and take him in—”
“You’ve convinced yourself of a fantasy!”
“That’s not—”
“And even if it is true, even if, by some miracle the Queen found him and Pharaoh adopted him…If he really is Moses, then he’s being raised as a Prince of Egypt! He’s not going to care about the fate of some slaves! And he’s sure not going to come free us!”
“Aaron…”
“Wake up, Miriam! We’re slaves! And we’re always going to be slaves, and nothing or no one is ever going to change that! There’s no one to protect us! Not God, not Prince Moses, not Abba, and” his voice cracks. “not Ima. We’re all alone.”
When he finally brings himself to look up, he sees that Miriam’s features are altogether changed, softer.
“We’re not,” she insists, wrapping her arms around him. “We have each other.”
Something in him parts, opens. The sobs explode out of him—tears cascade down his cheeks.
“It’s alright,” Miriam says, stroking his head.
Aaron doesn’t know whether he’s convinced her—knowing his sister, he probably hasn’t. But in this moment, he can’t bring himself to care.
“I’m here,” Miriam says.
She sings.