A Man Called Moses (Part One)

The desert proves a rough place. Bandits might cut your throat while you sleep. Slavers might kidnap and sell you. Some religious, nut-job might slice you open to make the moon happy. Scorpions. Snakes. Heat. Thirst. Illness. Sandstorms.

I used to change my name every couple of days. Best way for a conman to avoid crucifixion.

I had a pet snake named Stiffy, which I trained to stretch out and hold perfectly still. I used him to trick people into thinking that I could turn a walking stick into a snake.

I could slip some powder into your water and let you believe I turned it into blood.

I studied the sky enough to forecast an eclipse.

I could convince you that I possessed all sorts of evil powers, provided that I didn’t give you time to think too hard about it.

I could trick any village into handing over its gold. I settled for a few meals, though. I couldn’t eat gold, which attracted robbers, anyway.

Those villagers often hired bounty hunters to collect my head. Seemed they didn’t appreciate my trickster’s tactics.

Rumor had it that the Calves accepted a contract on my head. The Calves served as the three nastiest bounty hunters in the dunes.

These guys would’ve killed their own daughters for the right price. They loved their gold. They hammered it into armor—useless armor, given gold’s pliability. They just liked to look shiny, I suppose.

I came across a stranger out in the dunes, about a week ago. His robe looked filthy. Sunburns and blisters covered him. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer, but I couldn’t let him die out there, alone.

He resembled me quite a bit, once I subtracted his bug-infested beard.

I carried him into the nearest town (where no one kept a price on my head), rented a tent, and tried to get the doomed man comfortable. He mumbled a lot, even for a delirious wanderer.

I couldn’t believe what he told me. Not at first. His details seemed too knowledgeable for forgeries, though. A conman knows a conman. This guy felt honest.

He called himself Moses.

Yeah, that Moses, the Prince of Egypt, who recently got himself expelled by his pharaoh father because he tried to free the Hebrew slaves.

Rumor had it that the pharaoh died recently. His oldest son, Ramses, inherited the crown.

How could my opportunistic side not feel aroused?

A scam grew in my head, one that might set me for life. If I went about it properly. One lousy misstep would damn me.

If I successfully presented myself as Moses, perhaps Ramses would permit me into his kingdom.

I wanted to live like a prince (Not a king. Too much responsibility, and I never would make a decent leader).

Moses died before dawn. I rehearsed, in my head, my game plan while I buried him.

I would travel to Egypt to plead for the Jews' freedom. Ramses would not (of course) grant me my wish. He would (I hoped) allow me to return home if I never again mentioned the Hebrews. I would (with mock averseness) agree.

I set out on my journey

My cracked feet burned and itched by the time I arrived at Ramses’s kingdom.

I heard the cruel crack of the slave masters’ whips and the screams that followed. I witnessed the short-lived, crimson clouds that sprayed from the slaves’ tortured backs whenever leather snapped through flesh.

The Hebrews saw me, and my lingering concerns regarding my resemblance to Moses vanished. Their eyes widened. Those not already on their knees fell upon them. They cupped their hands and praised God for the return of their champion.

The slaver masters didn’t know how to react. Egypt’s prior king had expelled Moses. However, Ramses ran the kingdom now. Not a single slaver driver dared to raise a whip against Ramses's brother, but they sounded the alarm of my arrival.

Countless men opened the mammoth, stone doors that served as the kingdom’s front gate. Ramses, decked out in the gaudiest wardrobe imaginable, stood on the other side of that gate.

He stood within a chariot, just to look impressive, I suspect.

I swallowed my sudden fear. I could only imagine the unspeakable death that awaited anyone who dared to imitate Moses.

Ramses and I stared at each other for what felt a century.

Ramses spoke. “What fate dared to return you to my door?”

I straightened. “Ramses. I spoke with the Hebrews’ God. He demands that you let His people go.”

Ramses laughed. “You mean your people? You are one of them, after all.”

I stifled my surprise. I had not heard this bit of information.

I recovered quickly. “Yes! Let. My. People. Go!”

Silence followed.

Ramses removed his crown, exposed the single, long, black braid that decorated his otherwise bald, black head.

“Moses,” he said, “our father passed into the next world. I will not set free his slaves only to dishonor his memory. However, I will dare to defy your expulsion and welcome you home . . . if you abandon your love of the lowly Jews.”

The Jews in question held their breaths.

Sorry, guys. I’m not your savior.

I pretended to consider Ramses’s offer. Then, I agreed.

Misery swelled from the slaves, but what more could I have done for them?

Ramses stepped from his chariot. His gold chains jingled while he clapped my shoulders and kissed both my cheeks. “Welcome home, Moses.”

He led me onto his chariot. His gorgeous steeds steered us towards his palace. We passed rows of fruit merchants and potters. Soldiers practiced their drills upon a courtyard. Priests performed extravagant admirations to Ra.

I entered the palace, and, within moments, four beautiful, painted women stripped and bathed me. They dressed me in a soft robe and sprinkled me with sweet perfumes.

The women led me to Ramses’s dinning hall, where a wonderful feast awaited me. I ate in a manner far beneath a prince of Egypt, but I couldn’t contain my stomach’s savage wants. I stuffed myself with dates, meats, and cheeses.

Ramses gave me leave to return to my old bedroom. My throat closed in response. How could I explain that I didn’t know where my bedroom sat? Such a confession would expose me for a fraud.

“Please, brother,” said I, “accompany me to my chambers.”

Ramses refused. “I’ve a kingdom to rule. Crucial decisions await my words even at this late hour.”

I didn’t even know which doorway led towards my room. If I selected the wrong one . . .

“If it pleases you,” I said, “I will enjoy a stroll through the cool, night air.”

Ramses nodded. I retreated outside the palace.

Choruses of crickets filled the darkness. Mosquitoes buzzed. I still heard the cracks of the slave drivers’ whips.

I, with my snake, Stiffy, in hand (he, still in the falsehood of a staff), climbed one of the smaller buildings. I strolled across its roof, watched the Hebrews suffer.

It seemed little wonder that Moses wanted to free them, but what had the foolish prince hoped to accomplish? A man could not rescue these people. It would take the strength of . . .

The flicker of fire commanded my attention. It glowed just beyond the slaves’ quarters, within the fields of scattered, dry bushes.

Fire should spread quickly in such settings. Yet this fire seemed uninterested in travel.

I climbed down from the building and approached the fields. The mysterious fire, I realized, remained on a single bush, which didn’t appear to burn.

“What is this?” I whispered, enchanted.

I noticed a lazy, buzzing sound, as if the bush snored.

“Um, hello?” I said (I felt remarkably foolish for it).

The bush’s snores broke with a start. “Huh! Who's there?”

“I’m, ah, Moses.”

“Bully you are,” said the bush. It slurred its words. “You’re just pretending to be Moses. Moses is dead. I would know. He and I just shared a few beers and a bucket of chicken wings up in Heaven.”

“Watch your volume, bush,” I said in a hushed tone. “I would rather not have my true identity discovered.”

The bush snorted. “You haven't yet discovered it, yourself. In any case, My divine Will—” <hiccup> “—led you here. This is all—” <burped> “—part of the program.”

I suspected that this bush and Moses shared more than just “a few” beers.

“What program?” I asked.

I awaited an answer. None came.

The bush began to snore again.

I clapped my hands to wake it. “Hey! I’m talking to you. What program?”

The bush awoke with an even greater start than before. “What! Oh. Right. The program where you lead the Jews out of Egypt.”

My eyes widened. “Lead the Jews out of Egypt? Are you crazy?”

The bush shrugged. “Everyone asked me that exact question when I designed the platypus. That duck-billed beaver’s doing just fine, though, I’ll have you know.”

Words failed me.

“I’m God,” said the bush. “Perhaps you’re familiar with my work.”

“Then why not free the Jews, Yourself," I asked, "with Your godly powers and so forth?”

“Um . . . actually,” said the bush, “I might’ve overstated My abilities a bit in certain autobiographies. Now everyone thinks I can go around doing whatever I please. If that were true, wouldn't I have put tits on everything?”

“But if You can’t free the Jews,” I asked, “how could I?”

“I have faith in you people,” said the bush. “I build you out of strong stuff. None of that cheap, Chinese crap. Do as I command. Save the Jews and whatnot.”

I stared at the bush, which once again snored.

How could I save anyone?

If I did, though, God would owe me a free pass. He would have to look the other way if I wandered into any sort of damnation.

I could think of many damnations into which I’d care to wander.

I considered the enormity of the task set before me.

I might’ve felt further fear, had I known that a certain trio of bounty hunters called the Calves had followed my trial.

. . . To be continued.