The Big Ten

By Tom Zinn

Intrigued from a young age to unlock unanswered mysteries from ancient Middle Eastern history, Buddy Childers decides to search for the real Mount Sinai and the Red Sea crossing sites described in the pages of the book of Exodus in the Bible. His search is based on scripture in both the old and new testaments, ancient inscriptions in Saqqara, Av

• Language: English
• Publisher: Genesis Publishing
• Release date: Jan 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987220351

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Called to Lead, Called to Follow

Jubal Tyran, Southern Midian

11th of Adar I, 2314

(February 10, 1446 BC)

8:05 PM

M other, did you feel the earthquake? What is happening? The God of the mountain is angry tonight!

Gershom is fifteen and misses his father, Moshe. He has grown up as a shepherd, tending sheep for their family in an area north of the town of Jubal Tyran in southern Midian, a full day’s journey east of the Yam Suph, known to foreigners as the Red Sea. His baby brother Eliezer is only a few weeks old, and Gershom already loves him dearly. Moshe’s family owns 350 sheep, 75 goats, and a camel. Their business is selling wool blankets, cloth for tents and clothing, hemp rope, and fresh meat. Gershom’s grandfather on his mother’s side is Jethro, a well-known and highly respected priest. Jethro is the proud father of seven beautiful daughters. Jethro was heard to say one afternoon recently while sitting with the local elders drinking sweet, dark tea in one of his larger tents north of town,

Seven times my dear wife and I tried to have a son—seven times! But the God of our fathers saw fit to give me seven lovely daughters instead! May the Most High God be forever praised.

Gershom’s mother Zipporah is the oldest of Jethro’s daughters and the first to marry. She is the only one to marry a foreigner, the only to marry a Hebrew.

Moshe arrived in Jubal Tyran just over forty years ago. He was obviously an Egyptian nobleman, noted by his heavy Egyptian accent and a distinct cosmopolitan sophistication, a trait rarely seen in these parts. He quickly made friends with Jethro and his family by helping his daughters water their sheep at a local oasis named Elim the morning he arrived. A few young Amalekite shepherds had tried to force Jethro’s daughters to water their numerous sheep. Moshe quickly re-directed their efforts applying the working end of his shepherd’s staff in ways they’d never seen. The men quickly realized they were outgunned and not dealing with just any local farm hand and moved their herds along. Later that day he offered his services to Jethro, a considerably wealthy businessman in Midian owning more than a thousand sheep, 580 goats and roughly 60 camels at the time. Jethro was impressed with Moshe’s work ethic, his stature standing over six feet tall, and his clear-headed sense of responsibility. He was educated and well groomed, unlike many of the regional Bedouin who normally smelled of camel sweat, sheep skins, and dried blood. Over time Jethro noticed Moshe’s commitment to his family and his uncanny business sense. He also quickly observed that he had an eye for his oldest daughter Zipporah. In short, Moshe the Levite from Egypt quickly became the son Jethro the priest of Midian never had.

Yes, Gershom, I felt it. I’ve not felt the mountain tremble like this since…. Zipporah’s words stop cold as she looks north up the valley. Both watch as web-like fingers of lightning course through the clear skies overhead proceeding from the region of the mysterious split rock mount called Horeb a few days journey to the northeast.

…since your father went up to the mountain and heard from Him. She points toward the dark, chiseled ridgeline cutting across the northern horizon and lowers her head for a moment as the ground buffets beneath their feet, pounded by peals of thunder from the sky above. The sheep stop chewing their cuds for a moment and look toward the northeast. They each stand perfectly still cocking their heads slightly as if they hear something Zipporah and Gershom can’t.

Heard from Who, Mother? he asks pulling his pet goat closer to him with the hemp rope tied around the animal’s furry neck and looped through his curled horns.

From Jehovah, the God of his people, my son. Her words are heavy and laced with wonder, pain, and a sense of fear. He has never heard her speak this way before. Stelag, the family’s camel and only means of transportation, groans deeply and starts laying down—bending first his front legs, and then his back, finally plopping his heavy rump on the ground and pulling his legs up under him as best he can. He stops chewing his cud for a moment and looks along with the sheep northeast toward the mountain, pointing his ears forward also appearing to hear something.

No rain falls.

No wind blows.

A brief moment passes, and the earth emits an ominous growl shaking the ground beneath their feet. A few goats behind the house bray their concern, as if talking back while thunder rumbles far off in the distance. Gershom moves closer to his mother, putting his arm around her shoulder as they look toward Horeb at the base of the great range called the Sinai, the highest mountains in the land of Midian.

Zipporah collects herself. Ever since your father went up there a few months ago, he has been different—distant—as if he looks at something or Someone that only he can see. I love your father very much Gershom, but… She puts her head down again and then looks up a moment later with tears in her eyes.

I miss him too, Mother. I noticed the change in him as well after that day. He seems quiet and more serious. Gershom tries to comfort her, putting his arm around her shoulder. He has always been close to his mother, regularly doing chores around the house and helping her to keep the home running smoothly when his father is away. Zipporah’s sisters have all married local men, and each has her own large family. Other than her younger sister Atira, who named her firstborn son Musa after his uncle Moshe, she isn’t close to most of them. She is seen by them as being peculiar having married a foreigner, an Egyptian royal who for some strange reason moved to the Midian outback. No one says anything, but everyone knows Moshe is unique from the men her siblings have married. Zipporah is different, respected as the primogenitor, but odd, nonetheless.

I feel like I’ve lost him. Our life was so pleasant before. But after he went up on the mountain that day, he’s not been the same man I married. I love him so dearly, and I believe what he has told me, but it all seems impossible. Tears flow down her cheeks. She takes a deep breath and wipes them with a cloth.

What seems impossible, Mother? He never told me what happened, just that the God of our fathers has commissioned him for something special. What does he mean? What did God tell him? Gershom and his mother sit down at a small table on the patio behind their mud brick house where she and her handmaiden usually prepare the meals each day.

The God of his people, the Ivrim or Hebrews, appeared to your father that day on the mount called Horeb in what appeared to be a burning bush. He told your father that he was to go back to Egypt, the ancient land of Mizraim, and free the Hebrew people. They are slaves there and have built many of the large buildings and temples in Egypt. They have been in captivity for over 400 years… Zipporah puts her head down and continues to weep. Gershom puts his hand on her shoulder again.

What else, Mother? What else did he hear God say?

Lifting her head, she says, He said God told him that he is to bring the Hebrews back here to Midian. He is to take them to the mountain of Sinai, and then he would be told what to do next.

How many slaves are there, Mother?

He didn’t say, but there are probably very many, maybe a million. I don’t know what he is thinking. If he brought them here, where would they live? How will they find food? Where will they get water? What about their animals? It doesn’t make any sense, Son. Midian is a big, hot, dry wilderness. We will have no way to care for them.

Suddenly a peal of thunder blasts through the sky over their heads like an artillery round rattling the clay plates on the table and in the cupboard.

Have you ever heard thunder that loud, Mother?

No, I haven’t, Gershom. I think your Father’s God is angry. Maybe He’s planning something. Let’s get the animals in the barn, quickly! It looks like it is going to storm.

As Zipporah and her son gather some of their stock into the barn, Moshe comes in the front door of the house. He places his staff in the corner and calls for his wife and son.

There you are, Father! Gershom says as he steps in the back door and runs across the room and into his dad’s embrace.

Where have you been? We’ve missed you! he says pressing his head into his father’s chest. Zipporah enters the back door from the patio after putting Stelag and some of the other animals in the stock barn as the wind begins to blow outside.

Yes, dear husband, where have you been? Her words are laced with the pain she struggles to hide as she quickly wipes her eyes again with a cloth.

Zipporah, my dear wife, I am so sorry I’ve been gone for so long, Moshe says walking toward her with his arms open wide. Zipporah stops and stands still looking at the man who brings her such joy and such pain at times as he approaches her. Moshe hugs her, squeezing her tight. Her arms remain at her sides.

It’s been over a week! I…we have been worried about you. What, with no word, and the ominous sounds from the mountain increasing each day? Zipporah tries to hide her concern for him, for her safety and that of her sons. She finally wraps her arms around Moshe, and they hold each other for a moment. Gershom approaches the two, placing his arms around them in a big family hug. Lightning flashes outside and a peal of thunder follows. Rain begins to fall on the patio behind their house and can be heard on the thatched roof.

Both of you, listen to me. Please pack our things. We will be going away from here for some time, Moshe says pulling away and looking at the two of them. Eliezer the baby begins to fuss in his wicker basket in the other room.

I’ll get him, Mother, Gershom says leaving his parents to speak alone.

What? Going away? Where? For how long? Moses notices Zipporah’s beautiful dark eyes peering at him through long lashes under her perfect eyebrows, the lovely darker skin of her face framed by long curly black braided ponytails held together on both sides with small pieces of leather rope.

He smiles. It may be for a few months. We will take Stelag, two of the goats and a few sheep. Gershom and I will load supplies into the cart and your father will loan us one of his oxen for the trip. We are going to Egypt.

We are going with you? Gershom says with a smile on his face, almost jumping up and down with excitement as he steps back into the room with his little brother in his arms.

Yes! Moshe says glancing back at Zipporah, whose look of surprise is a welcome reprieve from the worry she has expressed up to now.

You’re taking us along on your journey to Egypt? she says, looking relieved but also a little incredulous.

Are you sure we won’t be a burden?

"My love, you are my family. I know that I’ve been gone a lot recently. I’ve spent a great many days up at the split rock of Mount Horeb and in the cave near the summit of the great Mount Sinai in the wilderness north of here, but Sweetheart, what I’ve seen there—the God of my people …the words He has spoken to me, the things He has shown me…" Moses looks north, in the direction of the ridgeline, his eyes blinking back tears as he remembers things no other man has ever seen, heard or even imagined.

I know He’s spoken to you, and He’s told you to go get your people in Egypt, but you want to take us along? Are you sure that we shouldn’t just remain here with my father and the rest of my family?

"Zipporah, my dear, I want us to do this together. Please, let’s pack our best tent and enough food for the two-week long journey to Pi-Rameses in the land of Goshen. God has some things He wants to show the Pharaoh and to speak to my brethren the Abiru there in the ancient land of Ham, the son of Noah. If it wasn’t for his obedience after hearing the voice of God, we wouldn’t be here. I have not been back for forty years, but I know I’m supposed to do this and want you and the boys to be with me. My brother Aaron, my sister Miriam and their families will be coming with us as well. Aaron will assist me as I share what I’ve seen with the Pharaoh and my people."

We’re taking the baby as well? He’s not been circumcised yet, and I know that is important to you and the God of your fathers.

We’ll get that done on the way. Please, let’s begin our preparations, Darling.

After hearing Moshe’s desire to be with her and their boys, Zipporah relents and says,

My dear husband. I do not understand how what you are saying will or ever could happen. Where are all of these people going to stay, and how they are going to be fed and watered should they actually get here to Midian, not to mention all of their livestock? How many Ivrim are there?

"I do not know. There could be a couple million of them. What I do know is that the Almighty God, the Lord of the Universe, the King of all kings, and the Lord of all lords, has told me to go and get them and to bring them here to Midian. I am to take them to the Mountain of Sinai. I know it doesn’t make any sense and that it seems impossible, but with God, all things are possible, my Love."

Zipporah replies, Moshe, I do believe you and I believe in you. You are my only love and I trust you. If you say that the God of creation is speaking to you and has made it clear that you are to go to Egypt, where you go, I will follow. Your people are my people, your God is my God. I love you, my dear husband. And Moses…

Yes, my love.

Thank you for wanting us to come with you, for wanting to do this as a family. Suddenly, the ground trembles again, and the sky cracks with thunder.

The God of your people is calling, my Love, she says as she smiles and takes his hand in hers, interlacing her fingers with his.

Thank you, my dearest and most beloved friend and my Love. Moses hugs her and kisses her face. Handing Eliezer to his mother, Gershom runs to his room and begins to pack for the long trip to Pi-Rameses and the land of Goshen.

I can’t wait to see a pyramid! he yells as his little brother giggles in his mother’s arms.

CHAPTER TWO

Look Her in the Eye

Norway, Michigan

Present Day

M om? Susan says, taking a deep breath.

Yes, Honey, what is it?

Bethany Childers knows something is deeply troubling her only daughter Susan. They’d been close until the accident but have slowly drifted apart since he passed. Susan misses her dad, and Bethany misses her husband, Buddy. Bethany is the only daughter of Megan Truffle. Known locally as Aunt Meg, she is, by all counts, the most delightful waitress in Dickenson County. The town of Norway is nestled in the rolling hills beneath great Lake Superior, southwest of Marquette on the shore and northeast of Chippewa Falls in northern Michigan. Buddy and Bethany married when she was young, nineteen to be precise. Mark Childers, or Buddy as he was known by friends and family, was the son of a well-known pastor and local farmer. He had become an archaeologist of sorts, regularly sharing stories of his unique travels throughout the Middle East with those he met. His conviction in matters of the Bible and relationship with the Divine was obvious when he spoke. He shared his faith with a matter-of-factness that drew listeners in leaving them wanting to hear more about something they usually knew nothing about—his living relationship with the living God of creation.

Gosh, I am just so nervous, Mom. I don’t know why.

Susan’s face is pale. She takes a deep sigh as she looks at the television. Bethany dries her hands on a checkered towel and picks up the remote.

"Here Honey, let me turn down the news. Holy Moses, all this talk about Russia, China, and the Middle East and now COVID—it’s enough to make a girl wonder what the heck’s going on in the world! It’s like Armageddon is right around the corner. But people have been saying that my whole life. And all these terrorist attacks! Who are these people anyway, and why do they keep killing everyone for not believing the way they do? And all this supposedly in the name of God!" Bethany turns off the television.

You look pale, Sweetheart. Are you feeling ok? She wets a light checkered cotton cloth and tries to wipe her daughter’s face.

I’m alright, Mom. Susan says, taking the cloth from her mother and pressing it to her forehead and then placing it behind her neck and rubbing back and forth gently.

I had a dream last night. Dad talked to me in it. I saw him as clear as I am seeing you. Her daughter’s words chill Bethany to her bones.

Susan Marie Childers was born in Norway, Michigan, at midnight on October 5, 1995, when her mother Bethany was twenty-four. Around her seventh birthday, the family moved to Brushy Creek, a fast-paced suburb of Austin, Texas, so Buddy, then a thirty-eight-year-old pediatric physician’s assistant, could make more money in order to fund his real passion which was archaeology. He loved the history of ancient Mesopotamia and had a desire to learn all he could about the Middle East, specifically the countries of Egypt, Israel, Syria, Turkey, Iraq and Saudi Arabia.

Images of Susan’s first seven years in Norway are sparse but still play in her mind each day. She’s most fond of one of her warmest memories while at Strawberry Lake Park out on the road to her great-grandfather’s farm where her dad first took her fishing when she was barely five. She remembers the day like it was yesterday: the deep blue of the sky, the amber-orange and yellowing leaves, cattails finishing their annual run shedding their puffy fur, and scores of Canadian Geese flying south overhead. Anytime things got rough at school, or the drama that comes along with being a teenager would catch up with her, she’d go on a walk and remember that wonderful day with her dad. It is her farthest-back memory of him, a single event that she treasures deep in her heart and keeps close where nothing can steal the innocence and excitement of that moment from her.

They had only been on the pier for a few minutes that morning when a tug on her line made her jump and squeal a giggly baby laugh. Her deep green eyes grew to practically twice their size. The sound of her laugh had come from deep inside, that realm within little girls that is unlike any place on earth, where all is light, happy, pristine, and carefree. A second tug produced the same delightful giggly giggle and a quick gasp for breath. She hadn’t noticed at the time, but there were some local folks sitting on benches close by who heard her unique outburst. She learned after moving back to Norway many years later that her laugh that day had become a bit of the talk of the town for a time. Not a lot happens in Norway, so word had spread quickly regarding Aunt Meg’s granddaughter Susie Childers’ giggly baby laugh.

When she finally pulled the hand-sized bluegill out of the water, her giggles instantly turned into frantic horror as she realized the poor fish couldn’t breathe, its gills and mouth opening and closing while looking her directly in the eye and flipping around obviously in the very throes of an agonizing and tortuous death at her hand, his entire body dangling from a hook pierced through is poor, sweet mouth.

Put him back in, Daddy! Oh, put him back. He’s dying! Holy God in heaven, please save him! Save Ricky, Susan said in a furious panic. Smiling at his precious daughter and chuckling at how quickly she’d named her first catch, Buddy grabbed the slimy little guy and after a bit of gentle pulling and twisting removed the small hook and tossed his stiff body back in the green water wiping his hands on his khaki pants. Poor Ricky just floated there on the surface completely lifeless and stiff while continuing to look her in the eye but now as if she wasn’t there. Susan’s heart sank to the darkest hole in the bottom of the lake, and big tears filled her beautiful green eyes realizing that he wasn’t looking at her but was looking beyond, toward the gates of fish heaven.

Daddy…I killed him. I killed him! Oh, how awful! I am so mean. Oh God, please forgive me! I want to name him Ricky Ricardo, Daddy, can I? Let’s scoop him up, and I’ll bury him behind the house next to Sandy. Sandy was the chocolate-colored Holland Lop bunny that had died a few months earlier from an unknown malady, and young Susan was still getting over the loss of her favorite pet rabbit.

Of course, you can, Sweetheart, but just wait a minute, Buddy said with an encouraging tone. Suddenly the little fish began to slowly wiggle and then with a flap and flurry swam quickly out of sight, deep to a hole in the bottom of the lake. Her tears turned to sheer joy, and she hugged her dad as tight as she could.

Thank you, Daddy, for saving him! I love you so much! You’re the best daddy ever!

Susan smiles and feels the relief and joy of that moment every time she remembers the whole giggly, slimy episode with her dad so many years ago.

Susan’s grandmother Megan works at Mick’s Diner. Mick’s is the only place in Michigan where venison jerky is served regularly as both an appetizer or an entrée. The Bud and Buck Combo includes a frosty pint of Budweiser draft, made right down the street in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and a heaping order of Big Al’s Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat deer jerky with a side of fritters. Al’s jerky is legendary, made in Fifield, Wisconsin, a couple hours southwest near the intersection of highways 13 and 70 just past Minocqua by a husband and wife whose son is a renowned taxidermist and bow hunter. This jerky is worth going out of one’s way for. The man who makes it, a Mr. Alan Bottolfson, is an avid deer hunter bagging his limit and the limit of more than a few dozen of his friends each season and then a few out of season as necessary to keep Big Al’s Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat Jerky moving north, up the pike to Mick’s Diner in Norway, his most profitable jerky patron.

The Bottolfsons and their kin are responsible for keeping the deer population around Fifield in check, but no one says anything. His jerky is known around the area as the best deer jerky ever made in the history of all humankind. A local folk artist, Rick Scabbard, aka the Folky Folkster from Copper Harbor up on Lake Superior, has written a song about Big Al’s Jerky and people from all over the area, especially bikers, motor to Mick’s for the Bud and Buck Combo. Al’s motto, posted above the serving window to the kitchen is Guaranteed: No Road-Kill Jerky.

Al Jessup is the barrel chested, gray-bearded cook who has run the kitchen at Mick’s since he was a junior in high school, more than 45 years ago. Al has been sporting an earring most recently, and a Harley Davidson tattoo peaks out from beneath the sleeve of the tee shirt on his left arm. Al has one gold crown that can only be seen when he smiles, which he seldom does. He doesn’t say much but feels things deeply and is quite intelligent. He doesn’t share his thoughts or dreams with anyone except Aunt Meg. They go way back the two of them.

Bethany Truffle liked Buddy Childers from the moment she met him.

What a hunk, she thought to herself when she first saw him while trying to hide her blushing cheeks. She worked nights and weekends at the local library. His curly brown hair, full beard, and youthful passion about his adventures to what he called the old country reminded her of the Jesus character she’d heard about in Sunday school when she was a little girl. Buddy had come to the library one afternoon to do research on something having to do with ancient Egypt and struck up a conversation with her. It went something like this.

Hi! I’m Mark Childers, he said with a big smile extending his hand.

Mark Childers of Childers Honey, Bethany asked trying as best she could to hide the fluster that was taking place inside her while giving him her hand to shake.

Yes, my family makes Childers Honey, or, rather, the local bees make the honey, and we take it away from them while trying not to get stung too badly. Do you like our honey? he asked, shaking her hand all the while looking at her with his enormous blue eyes, perfectly spaced under his bushy dark brown eyebrows and above his exquisitely chiseled cheekbones. She also noticed that he had great teeth and a strong chin. She could hear her pulse in her ears and felt her heart pumping wildly in her chest. She was afraid for a moment that he could hear her heartbeat.

Well, yes, but… she felt bad suddenly for being completely honest and letting it show.

Yes…? Buddy said raising his bushy eyebrows, releasing her hand finally. Before answering, she paused, noticing his blue eyes. Not just any blue, mind you. These eyes were that color of blue that poems are written about, and he sure knew how to use them. Time stood still for a moment as he looked deep into her eyes while he spoke about his family’s honey. His voice seemed to disappear while he continued to move his mouth. She noticed that his hands were worn but clean, no dirt under his nails. For some reason, that had always been important to her. Glancing down she also noticed that his shoes were well kept, something that she’d also liked in a man. She had heard that her dad polished his shoes every day. Deep down she was afraid that he would see her blush or think that she had a breathing issue or something more chronic like asthma. She feared that he would see her pulse coursing through the arteries in her neck as she tried to control her breathing and cool her blushing face.

My mom really likes Hanson’s, and she usually gets it instead, but we have both at home. She held her breath for a moment and then blurted out,

"I think your family’s honey is the best though…honestly speaking to you!" She reached out to shake his hand again. After her awkward gaff and while still shaking his hand for the second time, she smiled at him a smile he’d never forget. Her beauty and innocence walked right into his heart and sat down.

Without missing a beat, he smiled and said, I’m planning my next trip to Egypt. Are you interested in ancient Middle Eastern history? He raised one eyebrow and effortlessly changed the subject from a sweet condiment for toast and tea to an adventure Bethany couldn’t begin to imagine.

Yes actually, I am—I am indeed, she said, without batting an eye. She had never really thought about the ancient history of the Middle East or the Far East or of any eastern or western region for that matter. She was so taken by Buddy’s obvious passion for the subject and was suddenly interested in any other subject that he might want to talk about with her in this most flustery of moments. So began the relationship between Buddy Childers and Bethany Truffle.

Buddy had grown up helping his dad, Reverend Jeremiah Luke Childers, on their farm just northwest of town located halfway to Antoine on Upper Pine Creek Road, roughly a half mile past Fumee Lake. The Childers were fourth-generation hog farmers and always had a few dozen laying hens meandering around the property. At any time, there were no fewer than 700 beehives strategically placed near meadows and forest glens on their farm and scattered throughout Dickenson County. They sold eggs, homemade maple- and brown sugar-flavored pork sausage, seasonal vegetables, jams, jellies, and preserves along with Childers honey at a small stand on the road in front of the house usually employing one or two local high school-aged kids to help run the place. Folks would drive in from northern Wisconsin and from all over northern Michigan to Childers’ Fumee Lake Station, the name of their small store. There were always at least a few cars stopping in front as the word was long out that the Childers’ farm was the place for eggs, honey, jams, and fresh, local pork sausage.

Buddy’s family harvested the best honey money could buy according to most of the local town folk. Childers’ only competition was from Ned Hanson Jr. from across the Menominee River in Spread Eagle, Wisconsin. It was a toss-up honestly, given that bees know nothing of state lines and family feuds. Every year the two patriarchs of the Childers and Hanson clans would compete with one another at the Dickinson County Fair to determine who really had the best honey in northern Michigan. One year, Jerry Childers would win, the next, it was Old Man Hanson, and then Hanson, and then Childers. After their respective victories, both men would then spend the next eleven months respectfully trash-talking each other’s honey until the fair rolled around, and then it was on again. Truth be told, both men held a deep respect for one another, and the competition was all in good fun. Meanwhile local patrons couldn’t get enough of the sweet golden nectar, spreading it each morning on thousands of English muffins and hot toast with coffee at homes and diners throughout the tri-county area.

Reverend Jeremiah Childers was pastor of the local Anglican church. Built in the mid-1800s on their family’s property, it was called the Rockland Fellowship Church. He had a passion for the Scriptures, and his messages on salvation and repentance drew the faithful each Sunday who filled each of the sixteen pews that occupied the small sanctuary, eight on either side with an aisle up the middle. The women would typically sit on the right and the men on the left, as seen from the pulpit where Pastor Jerry would belt out his fiery sermons. Buddy grew up listening to his dad preach often about Jehovah, the God of the Hebrews and of Moses who had heard directly from God and through His inspiration had written the first five books of the Bible while wandering in the wilderness near the great Mountain called Sinai over thirty-five hundred years ago. He’d always been intrigued by his father’s devotion to passages from the Old Testament, something he regularly called the bedrock of any true Christian’s faith.

He spent many hours wondering if the stories were really true and began to study the history of the Hebrew people. Little proof had ever been found to support the presence of the children of Israel around the traditional site of Mount Sinai in Egypt, and most people thought the story of the Exodus was simply a myth cooked up by Moses who was probably nothing more than a good storyteller. Eventually, Cecil B. DeMille made an epic film called The Ten Commandments based on the biblical account which has thrilled audiences for almost seven decades. But most serious students of history dismissed the story as little more than a fairy tale, an inspirational one, but nonetheless a fabrication due to the lack of archaeological proof at the traditional Sinai site in Egypt. From an early age, Buddy wanted to prove the Sinai story was real. He noticed early on the simple fact that the Bible says dozens of times the Hebrews left Egypt and went to the land of Midian, modern-day Saudi Arabia, and yet the traditional site for Mount Sinai is and always has been in eastern Egypt west of the bay of Aqaba across from Saudi Arabia.

Buddy was deeply interested in biblical archaeology and was thrilled by stories in the Old Testament like Noah and the great flood, Abraham the patriarch who was buried in the cave of Machpelah in Hebron with his wife Sarah and some of their descendants, the writings of the prophet Jeremiah and the proverbs of wise King Solomon. When he heard his dad share the story of David, the beloved but skinny sixteen-year-old son of a man named Jesse standing before an enormous Philistine giant named Goliath defying the God of Israel, knocking him out with a stone and a sling, then lopping his head off before his horrified Philistine comrades, he was hooked. His father mentioned that legend has it that after severing his head, David brought it to Jerusalem and buried in a cave near an escarpment north of the village, later called Golgotha that looked like the face of a skull. This is also where Jesus of Nazareth was crucified for the sins of the world. The story of the Ark of the Covenant with its golden cherubim and mercy seat containing the original copies of the Ten Commandments also intrigued him.

I’ll find the real Mount Sinai and the Ark of the Covenant one of these days, one of his friends heard him say after church.

David and Goliath, color lithograph by Osmar Schindler (c. 1888). Credit: Public Domain

Bethany’s mother, formerly Megan Johansen, married Henry Truffle when she was twenty-three years old. They had their only child Bethany the very next year. She became a widow a few years later when her dear Henry died in a shipping accident. Meg still has a walk that turns heads, though she means nothing by it. Her heart went to the bottom of Lake Superior that night in November of 1975 and hasn’t been seen since. Everyone in Norway knows that Aunt Meg would give you her last penny if you needed it; her kindness knows no limits. Many locals come to Mick’s Diner just to meet the legendary waitress of Norway, Michigan.

Days before meeting Bethany at the library, Buddy had come into Mick’s one spring afternoon dumping his olive drab backpack in the number four booth and sliding in. As Meg approached the booth, before she could even ask, he looked right at her, smiled, and said, Hi, Ms. Meg. I’ll take the Bud and Buck Combo without the Bud. Got some sweet tea? She remembers Buddy’s voice was deep and clear. He sounded trustworthy, and she was impressed that he called her Meg, having obviously noticed it on her nametag or overhearing someone nearby ordering. Everyone likes the sound of their name, and Meg was no exception.

Sure Hon, you want that with fries or fritters? she asked as she set a glass of ice water and a fresh bottle of ketchup on the table in front of him next to the salt and pepper and napkin dispenser.

I’ll take the fritters, Ms. Meg, and thanks! he said lifting his eyebrows as he gulped down some ice water spilling a little on his shirt. Meg chuckled and handed him a napkin. Fritters at Mick’s are hard pretzel bits fried in butter and then lightly salted and sprinkled with oregano and thyme. They are a local favorite invented by Big Al, whose family owns a pretzel factory in Lititz, Pennsylvania. They send him three one-hundred-pound burlap bags of pretzel bits each month.

Aren’t you from around here? You look familiar. She asked him.

Well, yes. Actually, I’m Buddy Childers. I’ve been away at school and also have spent a lot of time in the Middle East over the past few years.

Meg thought, I want to introduce this fella to my daughter Bethany. They would have beautiful children.

Wait, Childers Honey Buddy Childers? Isn’t your name Mark?

Yes, it is! Mark Childers, Ms. Meg, at your service. Most people call me Buddy, he said with another warm smile.

Oh my, you have grown up. You’re Pastor Jerry’s son. I remember hearing about you when you were much younger. Didn’t you play football?

Yes, just my Senior year, but I wasn’t very good at it. I didn’t even like football very much. I just played to try to impress the girls. He said, a bit embarrassed at his own candor.

Well, I’m sure you did that. Have you ever met my daughter Bethany Truffle?

No, I don’t think that I have. Did she go to Kingsford?

Yes, but she’s only recently graduated.

No, I don’t know her. I graduated fourteen years ago this summer…my how time flies. I got a PA degree from Michigan State, but my real passion is biblical archaeology, which doesn’t pay enough to cover my bills each month, hence, the physician’s assistant degree. I’m working at the local hospital now, saving up for my next trip.

Meg liked that he was older and understood what paying the bills actually meant and that he had a job.

Bethany works over at the local library, Meg said, tilting her head to the right and grinning. A stronger hint had never been dropped on Buddy Childers. It wouldn’t be lost on him. After gulping down two full glasses of sweet tea, Meg served Buddy their famous jerky platter with a large handful of warm fritters. She noticed him take off his well-worn baseball cap, bow his head, and quietly say a prayer before digging in. She had seen a fair amount of that practice at Mick’s, especially when times were difficult, which they were at the time. It always warmed her heart to see families come in and sometimes hold hands and pray together. Meg considered it one of the things that made America something special. Having not done much traveling overseas or even outside of northern Michigan, she didn’t know for sure if it was true; it just blessed her to see folks pray.

Bethany Truffle grew up in the town of Norway. She has no memories of her father except seeing his polished shoes in the corner of her mother’s closet. She has always heard that he was a very special man and that her mother Meg deeply loved him. She now owns and operates a local bookstore called Brookhaven’s Nook and Cranny located on Chester Street in the center of town. Her passion is reading, especially books about gardening and landscaping. Her secret passion is reading the Bible which she does usually a couple times each day. She hosts a weekly book club called Books and Grannies attended by twenty local men and women, mostly in their sixties and seventies. COVID has not caused the group’s numbers to go down. On the contrary, attendance is up, but social distancing is practiced and masks are worn. As the government loosens restrictions, and more information about the mysterious virus makes it passed the main stream media and into the general population, people relax and masks are being worn less frequently.

Bethany’s daughter Susan has always been restless. Having recently graduated from Kingsford High School with a C average, ranking toward the less motivated kids her age, she is, in a word, directionless. She never dated while in high school and has attended the local St. Mark’s Dutch Orthodox church on and off most of her life, more out of habit than anything else. Susan is of average height and petit. Her thin lips, high cheek bones, and fair, radiant skin are complimented by long reddish blonde hair which she usually wears pulled back in a ponytail that goes halfway down her back. Tiny light brown freckles dot her small nose and slender cheeks. Her large hazel-green eyes remind one of a mill pond hidden deep in an enchanted forest. Norway has a population of almost three thousand, so work is hard to come by if you don’t know someone. After graduating from high school, she was able to land a part-time job working at the local sawmill as an administrative assistant. It took her about two minutes to figure out why her new boss Ben Colton hired her. A faded metal sign hangs above the double wide front door from two rusty chains which says Colton’s Millworks, est. 1946.

After arriving her first day on the job, Ben Colton walked into the office space she’d been assigned and asked, So, welcome aboard! What was your favorite class in school there, Susie? As he spoke, he plunked his rather large backside on the corner of her squeaky desk obviously assuming he could call her Susie.

PE and home economics, I think? she murmured, more nervous than anything else, fiddling with a couple papers on her desk while trying to look busy and not to look at his eyes. She suddenly realized that she was one of the only females at the mill and at first glance the youngest employee on the books and certainly the thinnest, blondest, and prettiest. She had noticed as she came in and walked up the creaky wooden stairs to the main offices on the second floor that the other two women who worked there, both easily in their fifties, had glanced at her and smiled and then looked away. She remembered feeling a little less than welcome.

She didn’t mention to Mr. Colton though that her real passion is the writings of Shakespeare, having gotten her only As in that class both her junior and senior years. She also didn’t mention that she delights in reading anything having to do with ancient Israel and the history of the children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Her and her mother share this unique passion.

That’s nice perfume, Susie. What is it called? Colton had a strange look in his eyes which she is unfamiliar with, and it makes her nervous.

Windsong, I think? My Mom, Bethany Childers, got it for me? She asks her answer in an uptalking tone popular with millennials and Canadians. She hopes that evoking her mother’s name will somehow protect her in this uncomfortable and seemingly vulnerable situation.

Oh, Bethany Childers is your mom? She runs that bookstore downtown—what is it, the…

The Nook and Cranny.

Oh yes, that’s it. Well it smells nice…

The bookstore? Susan asks.

No, your perfume.

Oh, yes, well, thank you, Mr. Colton.

Call me Ben. Colton smiles and glances at his feet and then around her office. She glances briefly at his mouth as he talks and notices two gold teeth. He smiles and then suddenly stands up, turns, bobbles out the door and into his very cluttered office.

Come into my office when you have a minute, Sue, he yells as he shimmies himself around his desk and plops into his squeaky chair. As she follows in his wake, at a safe distance, Susan isn’t sure if the odor that hits her in the face as she enters his office is a mixture of sawdust, motor oil, and body odor or maybe outdated hair gel, burnt coffee, and printer toner, but is pretty certain it is a combination of one or more of each. Eau du Coltòn, she whispers under her breath in a French accent giggling.

What’s that? He says smiling.

Oh nothing, she says, a little concerned that he may have heard her.

I’m gonna need some help in here to clean things up a bit, Susie…it’s a mess, he says chuckling slightly as he snorts and clears his throat, swallowing without thinking. Looking around, she notices three piles of folders, various books, a few magazines, and at least four half empty coffee cups on his desk. Two have furry mold growing on top and one is half-full of dry black goo. It looks like it has been stuck to his desktop for at least a couple years. Beside it is a figurine of Elvis. Viva Las Vegas is inscribed in chipped red paint on the base, and the king of rock and roll’s right arm is missing. By the look painted on his plastic face, he doesn´t seem to notice. The made-in-China clock in his stomach doesn’t seem to be working, the second hand twitching back and forth over the six on the dial.

She remembers Colton mentioning something about his lack of organizational skills and need for someone to tidy things up a bit during the very short interview she’d had with him the week prior. She noticed during the three-or-so minutes of hasty inquisition that he snorted a lot and then made a funny face, stuck his pinky in his ear and scratched wildly while clearing his throat, snorting and hacking. Susan tried to hide her alarm at this rather bizarre routine but wasn’t very successful.

His worn wooden desk chair squeaks when he moves even slightly while seated in it. The cushioned leather back is several colors of brown, and she notices that it is missing a number of the silver- and brass-colored tacks that run around the edges and along the top holding the cowhide to its creaky frame. One of the wheels is broken in half and has left deep, dusty scratches in the wooden floor over the years.

Three other younger girls have worked at the mill over the past six months, and all have quit for different, unknown reasons within a couple days of starting. Susan is beginning to see why and notices her mind subconsciously working on her own exit strategy when she catches herself.

Susan Childers! she thinks.

Don’t you dare think about bailing out on this job. You really need the money! Don’t worry about this Mr. Colton. Just watch yourself! Be strong! She has a habit of talking to herself but not too loudly, usually. She’s recently read an article about how people who talk to themselves typically have a higher IQ which makes her feel a little less weird about it.

She smiles and says firmly, My name is Susan, Mr. Colton, Sir.

Oh, ok, Susan. Can you help me straighten things up in here? Colton asks trying to smile to hide his embarrassment. She smiles confidently and then grabs a broom. Cobwebs stretch and break away as she moves it from where it has leaned obviously for a long time in the corner of his office behind the door. She begins to sweep and moves across the floor in a pattern, using the worn oak floorboards to guide her passes back and forth. After a moment a pile of sawdust, lint, bits of paper, sticky notes, and something she isn’t sure of is swept into a dustpan. She continues sweeping out his door and into her office which is quite small by comparison but adequate. It also serves as an unofficial break room during the day for some of the office staff and is the security office at night. Stewart Israel, an armed security guard who is also Colton’s second cousin and his dog Samson, a nervous and graying black shepherd mix, watch the mill each evening from dusk to dawn.

Ben took over Colton Millworks from his dad, Jesse Colton when he died. Corporal Colton had fought in World War II, what he always referred to as the only war that will ever matter—ever. He had been a bombardier in a B-17 Flying Fortress that flew missions over Germany, France and Poland out of a dusty Italian airfield called Sterparone with the 817th Bombardment Squadron of the 483rd Bomb Group of the US Army Air Corps. Sterparone was part of the Foggia Airfield Complex in Southern Italy. Ben hadn’t known his father well and would tire quickly when his dad shared what Colton called at the time boring, old war stories. Even when his father would recall the satisfaction of blowing up huge German fuel and oil depots in Bremen and Nienhagen, or munitions plants in Mainz and Stuttgart, young Ben would all but yawn while trying to stay awake. One afternoon a few years ago, Jesse Colton suddenly died of a heart attack. He was buried a week later at the Good Hope Cemetery across town. The mill passed to his only son that very same day. Rest in Peace, Dad is all his gray tombstone says beneath a cross and the words, World War II Veteran.

You know how to make coffee, Suzie-Q? Ben yells, squinting at her as best he can through the crack between his half-open door and the door jamb, trying to figure out just what kind of assistant she is going to be.

It’s Susan, Mr. Colton and yes, I’ll be right in, she says, taking a deep breath and sending up a quick prayer. His eyes follow her to the coffee pot.

Sir, do you like your coffee dark or lighter? she says, fixing her eyes on the seventies vintage off-white Mr. Coffee machine while picking out a dry, crusty-brown filter with moldy coffee grounds. She puts a fresh filter in after washing out the brownish-tan originally white plastic coffee grounds basket. Scrubbing out the pot as she starts running water in the sink she asks,

How many cups should I make, Mr. Colton?

I like it dark, four cups, six if you’d like some, and call me Ben, he says half smiling while hacking up something nasty and spitting it in his trash can and then setting it back down on the floor. Her stomach churns a little. She feels a bit uncomfortable being alone with him in his office, but there are other employees out on the work floor below, so she convinces herself she’ll be ok. The noise of various wood saws burring through lumber and employees talking in the admin office next door provide her a measure of distraction and an uneasy but reasonable comfort level. Once the basket and coffeepot are clean, she blows dust off the top of the coffee machine and wipes it with a wet napkin before filling it with fresh, cold water for the first time in probably months.

Ok, four it is! she says, turning and smiling at him as professionally as she can.

Should be ready in about five minutes. Anything else, Mr. Colton? Her eyes glance at his, and he suddenly looks down as if startled. He shuffles some papers nervously and says,

Uhm, no, thank you, Susie, or Susan…what do you like to be called again? Susan, right?

Susan is fine, she says, taking in a breath of self-assurance. She then does an about face, her ponytail flipping through the air and steps confidently toward the doorway.

And you can call me Ben, he says again.

Yes, understood, Mr. Colton, she says with a slight grin as she walks into her office, sits down, and starts to organize her desk. Susan gets through her first day without anything major going wrong. Colton grumbled something about the coffee being just the way he liked it, after clearing his throat and snorting loudly, which she had thought was most likely a good sign that she’d been well received. At least she passed the coffee test.

In the next couple hours, she cleans up her office and clocks out at seven. She rides her bike home and catches a rerun of Even Stevens on the TV in her room. She has a bit of a crush on Louis Stevens, the young Shia LaBeouf. She considers his older sister Ren her role model. Ren Stevens, played by Christy Carlson Romano, is curt, thin, in shape, sassy and really smart, always sure of herself. Susan wants to be like Ren when she gets older.

Ren and Louis Stevens seem a million miles away from Dickinson County Michigan and her new job at Ben Colton’s sawmill. She knows one day she’ll find a way to get out of Norway. Then she’ll do something great; she just knows she will. As the show ends, she suddenly realizes that she misses her dad. She closes her eyes and lets herself slip back to the pier at Strawberry Lake Park where all was peaceful that day. She hears herself giggle and sees her dad’s smile and his warm eyes again as she drifts to sleep watching the first fish she caught flit and then swim to the safety of the deep green waters beneath them.

Ricky Ricardo

CHAPTER THREE

Across the Sea

Nuweiba Beach, Mizraim

16th of Abib, 2314

(May 15, 1446 BC)

18th year of the reign of Pharaoh Thutmose III

6:30 P.M.

F ather, what were the soldiers talking about this afternoon outside the gate of the Migdol? I heard them mention a slave rebellion in Pi-Rameses? And plagues? Who are the Abiru, Papa?

Young Passer Sabu is very concerned about news he’s heard and wants answers now. Alarmed like everyone else in this small fishing village since a sudden wave of locusts ate many of the plants in town two days ago, he’s overheard some local Egyptian soldiers talking about other maladies that have struck villages along the lush Nile River delta a few days walk west of town. People have also begun reporting an infestation of lice that has invaded their homes affecting animals and especially their children. These are strange and troubling times indeed.

Nekure Sabu, his wife Dedyet, and his youngest son Passer live on the eastern border of Egypt, the ancient land of Mizraim. Their small beach town of Nuweiba is located east of the Desert of Paran in the peninsula formed by the two northern fingers of the Red Sea or Yam Suph as it is known regionally. The family moved here three months ago leaving their ancestral town of Haq in the land of Midian thirteen miles across the Yam Suph from Nuweiba as the crow flies. Passer’s only brother Idu decided to stay in Haq and lives with his Aunt Betrest, Nekure’s younger sister. Idu is fourteen and attends a few classes each day at the local school. He graduates from his academic studies in two years. He hopes to take over his father’s budding fishing business in Nuweiba someday, typical for a young man his age in these times. Along with the rest of his family, he has completed the requirements for gaining Egyptian citizenship although he doesn’t live there yet.

The Sabus left Midian because life had become difficult and at times dangerous as food became increasingly scarce. Many of the regional Bedouin merchants who travel the trade routes were becoming often unreasonable and sometimes aggressive when negotiating prices for goods. Nekure is the son of Banefre Sabu, an educated and well-known man of means in Haq. Nekure decided to take his family to Egypt where life was known to be easier and relatively more secure given the power of the Imperial Egyptian Army.

The Journey

From their home on the eastern outskirts of Haq, the Sabus headed north along the beach road to the port town of Ezion-Geber where Nekure’s grandmother Kasmut lived at the time. This town is at a crossroads of the northeastern Yam Suph and is a center for trade having a large central market where hundreds of merchants sell anything from seeds to leather goods and fresh fruit. From here travelers can proceed north toward Kadesh Barnea located in the harsh and arid land of Edom or southeast toward Haq or Jubal Tyran in southern Midian. Those heading into Egypt travel west toward Pi-Rameses and the fertile land of Goshen, the northern delta of the Nile River. Hundreds of years from now, Ezion-Geber will become the southern naval port of King Solomon, the wise son of the famous King David of the land of Israel.

After spending what would be the last few days he would ever see his dear Gidda sharing with her his dream to start a new life on the other side of the Yam Suph in Egypt, the Sabus departed. Nekure and his family crossed the Egyptian border and then headed south, down the coastal road for two days to the small beach town of Nuweiba. Here Nekure would start his new fishing business; they would begin a new life. They had no idea what astonishing event they would witness only a short time after arriving.

Entering Nuweiba from the north, the dry and lifeless mountains on the right shield travelers from the often-harsh desert winds blowing in from the west. This land mass is formed by the two fingers of the northern Red Sea and is known as the Desert of Paran. The region is mostly inhabited by Shasu nomads, descendants of the Hyksos who arrived hundreds of years earlier from east of the Jordan River in the land of Canaan. These tent-dwelling nomads are traders, purchasing fruits, vegetables, spices, and cured meats from vendors in Memphis, Saqqara, Pithom, and Thebes on the Nile and then distributing them to the dryer reaches of the kingdom, including the communities along the eastern coast of Egypt, Nuweiba being one of the larger ones. Nuweiba is a relatively unknown but thriving fishing village and enjoys the largest beach in eastern Egypt.

The first morning after arriving, the Sabus walked to the edge of the water and looked east across the Yam Suph toward the rising sun. Nekure and his family could easily see the reddish-brown mountains above Haq, their ancestral homeland in Midian.

That’s where we came from, Son. Our little town of Haq. It’s right there across the sea. Remember those hills? Nekure says, stretching out his arm and pointing east over the deep blue waters of the Suph while his son and wife Dedyet look on.

I’m glad we can still see it, Father, Passer says.

I’m sure the fishing will be even better here! Always optimistic, Passer Sabu knows his father is sad having left the land of his birth and having just received news of his grandmother’s passing. He is a great joy and encouragement to both of his parents.

It was good to visit your grandmother before she passed, my husband, Dedyet says as she takes Nekure’s hand, knowing he is nervous about having left everything and is taking