And the flame the flame of a bush burning, its leaves
Burning but not consumed, and sound from the flame
As of the noise of some element striving with little skill
To become a voice, then finding more skill and becoming the
Voice of his sister Miriam. ‘Miriam!’ And, in Miriam’s voice:
‘Come no closer. Put off your shoes from your feet.
For the place whereon you are standing is holy ground.’
He was slow to obey. ‘Miriam? How is it possible?
Miriam?’ And the voice: ‘I speak through the voices
Of those who are near and yet far. The voice of your father.’
And the voice was of his father. ‘Put off your shoes.
For this is holy ground.’ And Moses, not without trembling,
His fingers clumsy, clumsily obeyed. ‘I speak also
With your own voice, but a voice no longer
Slow and unassured.’ And so it was, his own voice,
Saying: ‘I am the God of your father,
The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac,
The God of Jacob. And also the God of Moses.
Listen. I have surely seen the affliction
Of my people in Egypt, and have heard their cry
By reason of their taskmasters. For I know their sorrows.
And I am come to deliver them out of the hands
Of the Egyptians, and to bring them out of that land
Unto a good land and a large, a land that
Flows with milk and with honey. Now therefore behold:
The cry of the children of Israel is come unto me.
Therefore I will send unto Pharaoh
You, Moses, charged with the task of
Bringing forth my people, the children of Israel,
Out of the land of Egypt.’ But Moses, hesitant,
Stumbling, in his own voice, what there was of his voice,
Said: ‘Who am I. That I should. Go to Pharaoh.
And should should. Bring the children. Of Israel.
Out of.’ But the voice said: ‘I will be with you,
I. And when you have brought them out of Egypt,
You shall serve God upon this mountain.’ God.
‘It is God who sends you. God. The God of your fathers.’
But Moses: ‘And if I say. The God of your fathers
Has sent me to you. And they say. What is his name?
What shall I. Say to them?’ And the voice replied:
‘You shall say to the children of Israel that he is called,
For what he is called he is: I am that I am.
And say too: the Lord God of your fathers,
The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac,
The God of Jacob has sent me unto you. And I am sure
That the king of Egypt will not let you go,
No, not by a mighty hand. But I will stretch out
My hand, my, and smite Egypt with all my wonders.’
Moses said: ‘But they will. Not believe me. They will
Say: the Lord has. Not appeared unto you.’
But the voice: ‘What is that in your hand?’ And Moses:
‘My shepherd’s staff.’ – ‘Cast it to the ground.’
And Moses, bewildered, did so, and the staff,
Touching the ground, writhed, hissed, a snake.
A snake. He started back, afraid. And the voice said:
‘Put out your hand. Take it by the tail.’
And Moses did so, still afraid, and what he took
Was his own shepherd’s staff, no snake. Then the voice said:
‘Through this power they will believe. And through this, too:
Put your hand into your bosom.’ Moses slowly did so,
Doubtful still. ‘Now remove it.’ Did so, and his hand
Was white as leprosy. ‘Return it your bosom,
Then remove it.’ Did so, and the hand was of its
Former colour. ‘If’, said the voice, ‘they will not
Believe one sign, then let them believe the other.’
Moses, now near weeping, said: ‘O Lord. I am not
Eloquent. Not before. Not now. I am
Slow of speech. I am of a. Slow tongue.’
The voice was thunder, crying in fire and thunder:
‘Who has made man’s mouth?
Who makes the dumb or deaf of the seeing or the blind?
Am I not the Lord? For a time, for a time,
Your brother Aaron shall speak for you, and you
Shall put the staff in his hand. But with you, with you
Shall be the power of the Lord.’ And the bush burned
But was silent. Burned still, the leaves and branches
Still unconsumed. He believed, he had to believe,
Believed, had to believe, descending to his sheep,
To the evening fire, the meat roasting, to Jethro saying:
‘You believe what you saw what you saw, heard what you heard?’
Believed, had to believe. ‘And thus a heavy burden
Is placed upon you. So.’ Seeing it all. ‘It is true.
The one. The great simplicity. The is what he is.
Well, at least I can die in the truth, knowing it the truth.
But for you a heavy burden.’ Moses, sighing:
‘My shoulders are too narrow. My voice is not the. Voice.
Of a deliverer. Easier to believe. It was a dream.
It was a whiff of magic. Delivered out of Egypt.’
His head fell to his bosom in a sudden sleep.
Zipporah started but Jethro shook his head, saying:
‘He does not wish the belief. The belief is a burden
His very flesh rejects. But we must believe, even though
It means we must lose him for a while and, in a sense,
For ever. He was not, as I always knew,
Meant to be this kind of shepherd.’ But Zipporah wept.
‘It must be with our blessing’, Jethro said. ‘We must all
Not merely bow but bless, we must will our loss,
For think what we stand to gain.’ And he repeated: ‘True.
The one. The great simplicity.’ But Zipporah wept.
And when Moses woke, bewildered, he sought his tent
Shivering, as though belief were an ague. Sleep now
Would not come, but a storm came, and he went to the tent-flap
To secure it against the rain. In lightning he saw Horeb
And cried in agony to it: ‘Who am I?
I am. No judge in Israel. Let the task be given.
To one of the wise. One of the strong. Do not
Place the burden on me. I refuse the burden.’
Wife and son, awake, heard, then they saw in terror
The naked body of the husband, father, hurled,
In another flash, as though taken and thrown
And lie writhing, groaning, then still. The wife cried
Aloud to Horeb: ‘Whoever you are, what do you want of him?
Is it his life? For you shall not have his life.’
Lightning showed metal, a blade. In this dark she groped,
Her fingers finding, as though told to find,
A shepherd’s knife, his. Over thunder: ‘Take the child’s
Life, if you must have a life’, and raised it.
But with fresh lightning came the right words:
‘Not a life. But a token of life. Not the body.
But flesh of the body that the body will not miss.
Will that satisfy you?’ And, in an impulse, drew
Taut the child’s foreskin and, with the sharp blade,
Cut. The child, maimed, screamed, clutched where blood
Flowed on to the flesh of the father, the loins and his father,
And the father stirred, groaning in air,
While blood dripped on the father. Then the father arose
And the child was in his arms, then in the mother’s
arms,
Kissed, soothed, while the storm travelled on
And dark hid Horeb. So morning came,
Fresh after rain, with birdsong, and the child was sleeping.
They lay in love awhile, and after, in sad calm,
Zipporah said: ‘Today?’ Kissing her eyelids, he:
‘It has to be today. It has to be. Alone.’ She wept,
He comforted, and they rose as the day warmed.
At least it was a known way. Staff in hand, he
Blessed, awkwardly, a family that had done with weeping;
‘The blessing of the God of Abraham.
The God of Isaac. The God of Jacob. The God whom
Jethro has long sought. My love. My blessing.
The blessing of Moses. For what it is worth.’
And then: ‘We shall be together. In the
Time of the setting free.’ He turned and strode
Uphill to the solitary palm, blessing that too,
Then engaged the desert. But he already knew the desert.
It was Moses he did not know.
4
RETURN INTO EGYPT
Aaron dreamed of an eagle made of fire,
Consuming, unconsumed, swooping out of the sun,
Yet this time now, as in the other dreams, in the desert,
But here, in Pithom. And as it swooped, men ran
To hide their own long shadows. He awoke
To a relay of distant cock-crows. His wife Eliseba,
Eleazar his son, slept on. He lay, loving and troubled,
As the light advanced, dreading action, longing for action.
(Alive, at least they were alive, they could live out their lives.
No man could have everything.) Sighing, he arose,
And he took his dream to Miriam’s house, but she
Had left her pallet, earlier than he, her children
Undisturbed, happy in sleep. At least the children
Knew no other life. Was it right then to impose
The promise of long agony on them? Troubled, he walked
Down the street of the workers’ dwellings, open doors,
Bodies obscenely huddled, flies, ordure.
(Better the long agony, but still agony,
Still long, perhaps endless.) Where the slave town ended,
Miriam the widow cleaned out the bulrush cages
She had woven for doves, and the white doves throbbed around her.
Miriam the prophetess, as some called her, prophesying
The long agony, but then freedom, whatever that was,
Vigorous, laughing often, smiling now at her brother,
A question in her smile. ‘I saw him again’,
Aaron said, sighing. ‘This time as an eagle,
Flying almost above us here. No longer in the desert.
I knows what it means. It means he is close to us.
It means I must go to meet him. I know, I know.’
She said: ‘You still have too much doubt, like the others.
But for the others there is excuse. None remembers him.
Or, if he is remembered, it is in the wrong way –
A far-off hero who could tame snakes, who could
Strike men dead with a glance. Here once and hence,
They accept or half-accept, may come again.
But again is a future so far off as to be a
Sort of past. A past like the beginning of the world.
For us it is different. For our mother and father
It was different, though they had to die with the hope
Not yet bursting into dreams. Your dream is clear.
I have silver hidden in the house. We need to bribe,
Our overseer is bribable enough. You need to go
Over the river.’ He said: ‘Silver? Where from?’
And she, laughing: ‘Theft is too much virtue in you,
Virtue meaning timidity.’ Laughing, launching a dove
Into the light. He nodded, troubled, knowing it true:
Why was the long agony reserved for him
Who would have been content with quietness, or with words,
The action left to his son, or his son’s son?
So, when the work-day started, he trudged to the river,
The ferry just arriving, loaded with farmers,
A bull-calf snorting at a flutter of squawking hens,
The boat emptied, the ferryman, black, from the south,
His carven face swimming with light, swigged from a jug,
Sour-faced on a mouthful of sour wine. Aaron said:
‘Will you take me to the other side?’ – ‘Double fare.
A lot come into Egypt. Not a lot
Go out, as you see. It’s always double fare.’
Aaron said: ‘But you have to go back there anyway.’ –
‘Always double fare. Some are very glad
To be paying double fare.’ So it was double fare.
The ferryman was curious: why the journey? And then,
Incredulous: ‘A dream? You say a dream? You
Seek somebody because of a dream? Paying double fare too.
A dream?’ Aaron said: ‘There was a time
When dreams were considered important in Egypt.’
The boatman spat. ‘That was Joseph. The old days.
My grandfather told me about him. This is today.
All science today. Nobody follows dreams, not any more.’
Aaron said: ‘I do. There was a time
When I did not. But I follow this dream. I have to.’
The ferryman said: ‘Then you’re mad.’ Aaron spoke angrily:
‘I see. And the rest of the world bursts with sanity,
Is that it? Mad because I dreamed of the coming of
Salvation? The others sane because they are slaves –
Is that it?’ The boatman earnestly said (and would have
Laid a hand on Aaron’s arm had not his hands
Been engaged in rowing): ‘Never be taken in by
Words is what I say. Say that word slavery
And it sounds bad. Say instead a mouthful of bread
And fish and palm-wine for a day’s work and it sounds
A great deal better. Who is this one you’re going to meet then?’
He’s going to meet his brother and his brother
Is going to save the world. Look.’ (Earnestly,
Squinting at Aaron across the blinding river light.)
‘If you’re going to have salvation, as you call it,
It won’t be through your brother or my brother or
Through anybody else’s brother. Forget all about it.
You’re wasting your time. Nobody’s coming from over there.
This Lord God you talk about has forgotten.
He has other things on his mind. Let me take you back.’
But Aaron smiled. ‘You seem,’ said the ferryman, ‘to be a
Decent sort of a man. Touched, a bit, but that may be the sun.
I’ll take you back. I’ll return your fare to you.
Half of it anyway.’ But Aaron smiled. The fight, he saw,
Was a fight against a man who, ferrying from bank to bank,
Believed they were travelling. Good men, no doubt of it.
Given time, they could be fought with words. Words:
Words were a comfort as well as a weapon. So he landed,
Sketched a blessing, smiling, and the ferryman
Offered a swig of sour wine. Then, head-shaking,
He waited for a boatload of the sane, seeking the world,
Egypt. Aaron now left the freedom of slavery
And sought the prison of the desert. Solitary, terrified,
When night fell, of the geometry of the stars,
He spoke to himself, or to someone: ‘There is, you see,
The question of convincing them. So set,
All of th
em, in their ways. Made soft by slavery.
Who is he? Who? Never heard of him. Show us a
Sign. Give us a sign. What signs does he have?
Does he have any signs? Signs are what we need. Signs.
You know what we mean? Signs. Signs. Signs.
Something out of nothing. Miracles,
Miracles is the word. You know the word. Miracles.’
A star shot. The sky swung like a pendulum.
Then day, a mirage of green, mirage of a caravan,
Vultures gyrated, swooped. The corpse of a dog
In the rocks. Vultures swooped. ‘Listen, Moses.
Listen, brother. Brother. You know that word?
You know these words I speak now? The joys of
Slavery. The relief at not having to be
Free any more. A terrible word, freedom.
We are degraded, yes. But it is hardly our fault,
Is it, hardly our fault. Only slaves.
We are only slaves. You see, Moses? Do you
Understand the words I speak to you, Moses?’
A black sky, starless, with a dying moon.
‘Signs. You know, signs. You know what we mean?
Signs, signs.’ Day and a fierce wind and he lay then
Talking talking, half-buried in a sand-drift.
Sand in the furrows of his face, till a hand came
Gently to clear the sand, and he saw the hand,
The arm. It was the eyes, he knew the eyes then,
And the mouth quiet in the beard of one who, he saw
With shock, was no longer young. Said to himself: No word.
And no word. It is the first sign. No word.
For though the word is in him it is I I I
Who must speak the word. And so, together,
With few words, words unneeded, they
Stumbled back into Egypt. And, in black night,
Unseen to Miriam’s house in Pithom. Unseen
But heard of, guessed at. There was a morning
When the whip was hardly felt: Came two days ago
Over the river. And the children talked: ‘Gave signs.
Turned his stick into a snake.’ – ‘But signs of what?’
‘Signs that he is a god. They’re always saying
That we’re going to have a god. Well, here he is.’ –
‘But what is a god for?’ And the old men talked:
‘Something about his arm having leprosy on it.
Then he puts his arm on his robe and pulls it out
And the leprosy’s gone.’ – ‘That’s an Egyptian trick.
He sounds like an Egyptian to me. Somebody coming
To make us all work harder.’ But Dathan, plumper now,
His linen bright, his fingers flashing in the sun,
Spoke of the newcomer not to fellow-slaves