Dreamers
Praise for t
P
he novels of
he novels of
“Prolific novelist Hunt knows how to hold a reader’s
interest, and her latest yarn is no exception…Hunt packs
the maximum amount of drama into her story, and the
pages turn quickly. The present tense narration lends
urgency as the perspective switches among various
characters. Readers may decide to take the stairs after
finishing this thriller.”
—
Publishers Weekly
on
The Elevator
“Christy Award and Holt Medallion winner Hunt
skillfully builds tension and keeps the plot well paced and
not overly melodramatic.”
—
Library Journal
on
The Elevator
“Angela Hunt has over three million copies of her
award-winning novels in print today, and this poignant
tale about breast cancer will only help to make the
number rise. Jonah and Jacquelyn are both strong
characters, and the medical terminology is well-written
without confusing the reader. Both must learn to trust
in a God they weren’t sure really cared about them
anymore, and ultimately find that God’s grace
will see them through.”
—
Romance Junkies
on
A Time to Mend
“Only a skillful novelist could create such a multilayered,
captivating portrait of Mary Magdalene…Hunt’s attention
to detail in her historical research, combined with her
bright imagination, fills in the sketchy biographical facts
and creates a fascinating and convincing Magdalene.
First-rate biblical fiction.”
—
Library Journal
on
Magdalene
Also by
A Time to Mend
The Elevator
The Face
Refreshed version, newly revised by author
Published by Steeple Hill Books™
CONTENTS
For Gary
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
—
“He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven”
William Butler Yeats
TUYA
And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer
cometh. Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and
cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil
beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will
become of his dreams.
Genesis 37:19–20
Prologue
Dothan
The collision of bones and rock stopped his fall.
He did not immediately lose consciousness, but gasped in
the depths of the narrow cistern, his limbs and tongue and vision
paralyzed by shock and a wave of unspeakable horror. Murder
had gleamed in their eyes. Did they truly hate him so much?
Pinpricks of pain ripped along every nerve of his body, and
after a moment of senseless suppression Yosef released the
scream clawing in his throat. The sound echoed through the
rock-walled cistern and grew into a chorus of agonized cries.
From somewhere above him, his brothers heard. And laughed.
Familiar voices, crackling sharply in hostility, came spiral-
ing down from the mouth of the cavern. “Hear that? The dreamer
is not hurt badly enough. We should have found a deeper pit.”
“The brat isn’t so high and mighty now. Yet just last month
he had visions of authority and power!”
“They were but the dreams of a seventeen-year-old, for all
youths think themselves invincible and immortal. Even you,
Dan, were of such a mind when you were his age.”
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Dreamers
“Dan never had the gall to predict that even our father
would bow down to him. Yet our father scrapes before the boy
already, he gives Yosef everything—”
“We should kill him, I tell you. If he survives, this tale-
bearer will run to our father. He’ll take even our birthrights,
for he is the pampered favorite—”
“Yehuda is right, our father sides with the would-be king
in every argument. Have you noticed how the old man smiles
at him? My stomach churns when I think of it. My own son
is older, stronger and better-favored, and yet—”
“I despise his pride, as do you.” Re’uven’s voice quieted
the others and echoed in the pit. Listening below, the boy bit
his lip in an effort to quiet his involuntary moaning as Re’uven
continued: “I, too, have reason to hate him. I should receive
the first-born’s inheritance, but I know our father will honor
this stripling with the largest share of his goods. But we are
of the same flesh. I cannot kill him, and neither can you.”
“Then we will have someone else do it.” Dan’s voice
brimmed with eagerness. “If you are hesitant, Re’uven, I
will hire someone to spill his precious blood over this
cursed coat—”
“We will say a lion caught him,” Levi interrupted. “Our father
will believe it, and we will forever be rid of the troublemaker.”
Re’uven’s stentorian voice hushed the others. “Would you
have our father die of grief? We will not kill him. We shall
leave him here, and let him ponder his own fate. Let him who
aspires to rise a king pass the night in the depths of the earth.”
The brothers mumbled and murmured, but most of them
moved away. “I’d still like to spill his guts,” Asher grumbled,
his voice overriding the fading voices. “Look at him whim-
pering there! If he rises from this pit, our father will never
forgive us for his injuries. But if we cut out his tongue, he will
never boast again.”
Angela Hunt
11
“We’ll shed no blood before dinner,” Re’uven answered.
“Come, Asher, our meal is waiting.”
Yosef remained still until he was certain the last of his
brothers had gone, then he struggled to focus his blurred
vision on the walls around him. Re’uven would not let them
kill him. Re’uven was respected; he would be obeyed, but for
how long? Murderous intent might bring any of the brothers
back during the night with a dagger thirsting for blood.
He had to escape. He pulled his heavy head from the rock
and steeled himself to ignore the white-hot pain that shot
along his limbs as he fumbled against the stone beneath him.
His left arm would not cooperate, and when he glanced down
at his side he saw why: above his elbow, where there had once
been smooth skin and healthy muscle, a white shard of jagged
bone protruded from an oozing red wound.
A hoarse cry escaped his lips as unconsciousness
claimed him.
Chapter One
Thebes, Egypt
A high-pitched giggle broke the stillness of the garden.
From between the branches of the bush where she hid, Tuya
saw her mistress pause in mid-step on the path. “Tuya, I
command you to speak,” Sagira called, peering around the
slender trunk of an acacia tree. “You must make more noise,
or how am I to find you?”
Tuya deliberately rustled the ivy on the wall behind her,
but the noise was slight and Sagira did not turn toward the
sound. Finally Tuya took a deep breath and spoke: “Life,
prosperity and health to you, my lady!”
“Aha!” Sagira turned and sprinted toward Tuya’s hiding
place as the slave girl darted from the bush. “I found you!”
“But you haven’t caught me!” Tuya cried, arching away
from Sagira’s grasping hands.
The two girls ran, laughing, through the garden, until Sagira
tripped over a rock at the edge of the pond. Pinwheeling, she
struggled to keep her balance, then surrendered to the pull of
the earth and fell with a splash into the shallow water.
Angela Hunt
13
Tuya’s heart leapt into her throat, but after a moment Sagira
sat up and howled with a twelve-year-old’s unrestrained glee.
Tuya laughed, too, then stopped. The lady Kahent might be
watching. Would she have Tuya whipped for this mishap? She
glanced toward the house. “I am sorry, mistress, truly I am.”
Sagira pulled dark ribbons of wet hair from her face and
stood in the knee-deep water, then took a deep, happy breath.
“It wasn’t your fault, Tuya,” she said, moving to the edge of
the pool. Her thin linen sheath clung to her wet body and
accented her budding figure. A trace of mud lay across her
delicate face and her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “Would
you like me to pull you in? The water is wonderfully cool.”
“No, my lady.” Tuya looked toward the house again. “I should
not like to muss my dress. Your mother would not approve.”
“Then I command you to keep still.” The floating lotus
plants jostled each other as Sagira climbed out of the pool.
“Our little game is not done.”
Tuya stood as still as a post, her arms hanging rigid until her
mistress dripped in front of her. “There!” Sagira clapped wet
hands on the slave’s bare shoulders. “I caught you! I win again!”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I must win.” Sagira grinned wickedly as she flung water
from her hands into Tuya’s face. “It is only fitting that
Pharaoh’s niece should win in everything she undertakes.”
Tuya said nothing, but smiled as Sagira pirouetted in front
of the long reflecting pool. She paused and studied her watery
image. “Do you think me beautiful, Tuya?”
Tuya lowered her gaze as she pondered her answer. Should
she speak as a friend and tease Sagira about the small gap
between her front teeth? Or should she reply as a dutiful ser-
vant and assure her mistress that no girl in the two kingdoms
could rival her beauty and charm?
Not an easy decision, for Tuya had lately been reminded
14
Dreamers
of the solid line between friendship and servanthood. She
had been only six years old when presented as a gift for
Sagira’s third birthday, and as children they had shared ev-
erything. But though she often felt like Sagira’s older sister,
when her mistress’s red moon had begun to flow, Sagira’s
mother, the lady Kahent, had urged her daughter to put aside
her baby name and assume a mantle of dignity. Her new
name, Sagira, or ‘little one,’ referred to her petite frame.
Tuya had never been called anything but Tuya, for slaves
were not permitted the luxury of adult names, and of late
Sagira’s mother had been quick to emphasize the gulf existing
between masters and their slaves. Certain attitudes and actions
were proper while others were not. Twice Tuya had been
whipped for overstepping the bounds of propriety, but Sagira
seemed not to have noticed the newfound care with which
Tuya formulated her answers, attitudes and comments.
Diplomacy won out. “You are beautiful, mistress,” Tuya
whispered, lowering her head in an attitude of deference.
“Lucky is the man who will be your husband.”
“And you, Tuya? Do you never dream of marriage?” Sagira
cocked her head and gave her slave an engaging smile. “Do
you wonder what it is like to kiss a man? To sleep with him
as my mother sleeps with my father?”
