energy he possessed. His body cried
out for rest, water and peace.
He walked, dimly aware of the hot sun, whining wind and
the rushing Nile at his right, then the sound of the river re-
treated into the gray fog around him. He slumped to the
ground, surrendering to the cloud of pain that had threatened
him since Dothan.
He thought he slept for a long time, perhaps days. When
he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a narrow bed in a
darkened chamber. A rushlight burned in a corner of the room,
and in the flickering light he could see walls covered with a
patina of dirt. The air felt as if it had been breathed too many
times, and he gasped for breath. He had passed his life in tents
and open fields; the confining atmosphere of the small space
was almost unbearable.
At the sound of his gasp, a dark shape on the floor stirred.
Yosef blinked in surprise when a blanket lifted and a pale face
peered out at him. A spirit? He stared in astonishment as the
pale face spoke, but Yosef could not understand the words.
“Have I died?” he whispered, struggling to sit up. For a
moment he dared hope that he was at home in his father’s tents
and the memories of the past few days were only a lingering
nightmare. But then the creature murmured something and
pressed a hand to his chest, gently forcing him back onto the
58
Dreamers
bed. He realized then that his guardian was no ghost, but a
flesh-and-blood creation. Slowly, the memory of his last con-
scious day returned. The girl beside him was the slave who
had journeyed with him to this place.
“You are—?” he asked in Hebrew, pointing to her.
The girl lifted her brows, then the light of understanding
lit her dark eyes. “Tuya,” she whispered, resting her delicate
hand on her chest. She pointed to him. “Paneah.”
“No.” He shook his head as an inexplicable surge of anger
rose within his breast. Had his brothers stolen even his name?
“I am Yosef.”
“Yosef?” She shook her head and pointed toward the
doorway. “Potiphar.” Her hand fell on his head. “Paneah.”
Yosef sighed and let his head fall back to the bed’s curious
headrest. Anger and denial were of no use. He had a new
name. A new position—because of his brothers’ treachery he
who had been the favored son was now a slave.
What had God done with his dreams of power and au-
thority? Who would bow to him in this foreign place—cattle?
As the girl settled beside him, Yosef closed his eyes in frus-
trated grief. At least a measure of his strength had returned.
His arm no longer throbbed, and the fever-fog that had
clouded his thoughts had lifted. He lay still, helpless in his
ignorance and weakness, lost in the lonely silence of the night.
He would never see his father again. Nor his brothers, nor
the two bright-eyed daughters of the camel-trader he had
teased with promises of marriage. Grief blossomed in his
chest, crushing his lungs, stealing the air he needed to breathe.
Like a drowning man he gasped aloud, trying to lift his head,
reaching out for the family he would never see again—
The girl caught his hands, then stroked his brow and
murmured gentle sounds. As if she sensed his thoughts, she
began to hum, and the room warmed to the odd melody.
Angela Hunt
59
Someone had tended him—probably this slave. Yosef lifted
his head to look at the fine shape of her mouth and the slender
column of her throat. A blush colored her cheeks when her
dark gaze caught his, but she didn’t look away. A half-hearted
smile tugged at his lips and she returned it, her face shimmer-
ing like sunbeams on the surface of the ribbon of river that
ruled this land.
Perhaps, Yosef thought, steeling his heart against grief and
despair, God had shown mercy by bringing him to a girl who
could be a well of understanding and hope in this heathen
wilderness.
After her arrival at Potiphar’s house, Tuya was spared from
her new master’s attention because the sick
out for rest, water and peace.
He walked, dimly aware of the hot sun, whining wind and
the rushing Nile at his right, then the sound of the river re-
treated into the gray fog around him. He slumped to the
ground, surrendering to the cloud of pain that had threatened
him since Dothan.
He thought he slept for a long time, perhaps days. When
he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a narrow bed in a
darkened chamber. A rushlight burned in a corner of the room,
and in the flickering light he could see walls covered with a
patina of dirt. The air felt as if it had been breathed too many
times, and he gasped for breath. He had passed his life in tents
and open fields; the confining atmosphere of the small space
was almost unbearable.
At the sound of his gasp, a dark shape on the floor stirred.
Yosef blinked in surprise when a blanket lifted and a pale face
peered out at him. A spirit? He stared in astonishment as the
pale face spoke, but Yosef could not understand the words.
“Have I died?” he whispered, struggling to sit up. For a
moment he dared hope that he was at home in his father’s tents
and the memories of the past few days were only a lingering
nightmare. But then the creature murmured something and
pressed a hand to his chest, gently forcing him back onto the
58
Dreamers
bed. He realized then that his guardian was no ghost, but a
flesh-and-blood creation. Slowly, the memory of his last con-
scious day returned. The girl beside him was the slave who
had journeyed with him to this place.
“You are—?” he asked in Hebrew, pointing to her.
The girl lifted her brows, then the light of understanding
lit her dark eyes. “Tuya,” she whispered, resting her delicate
hand on her chest. She pointed to him. “Paneah.”
“No.” He shook his head as an inexplicable surge of anger
rose within his breast. Had his brothers stolen even his name?
“I am Yosef.”
“Yosef?” She shook her head and pointed toward the
doorway. “Potiphar.” Her hand fell on his head. “Paneah.”
Yosef sighed and let his head fall back to the bed’s curious
headrest. Anger and denial were of no use. He had a new
name. A new position—because of his brothers’ treachery he
who had been the favored son was now a slave.
What had God done with his dreams of power and au-
thority? Who would bow to him in this foreign place—cattle?
As the girl settled beside him, Yosef closed his eyes in frus-
trated grief. At least a measure of his strength had returned.
His arm no longer throbbed, and the fever-fog that had
clouded his thoughts had lifted. He lay still, helpless in his
ignorance and weakness, lost in the lonely silence of the night.
He would never see his father again. Nor his brothers, nor
the two bright-eyed daughters of the camel-trader he had
teased with promises of marriage. Grief blossomed in his
chest, crushing his lungs, stealing the air he needed to breathe.
Like a drowning man he gasped aloud, trying to lift his head,
reaching out for the family he would never see again—
The girl caught his hands, then stroked his brow and
murmured gentle sounds. As if she sensed his thoughts, she
began to hum, and the room warmed to the odd melody.
Angela Hunt
59
Someone had tended him—probably this slave. Yosef lifted
his head to look at the fine shape of her mouth and the slender
column of her throat. A blush colored her cheeks when her
dark gaze caught his, but she didn’t look away. A half-hearted
smile tugged at his lips and she returned it, her face shimmer-
ing like sunbeams on the surface of the ribbon of river that
ruled this land.
Perhaps, Yosef thought, steeling his heart against grief and
despair, God had shown mercy by bringing him to a girl who
could be a well of understanding and hope in this heathen
wilderness.
After her arrival at Potiphar’s house, Tuya was spared from
her new master’s attention because the sick
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