Heart of Stone
With each refusal to let the Hebrews go, stone consumed Rameses' heart and flesh.
Neither Moses nor Rameses knew it had begun with the first refusal, for the initial blooming of stone was invisible, inconsequential, unseen except by God. Standing on the banks of the blood-engorged river, Moses didn't hear the brief scrape of stone, so quiet even Rameses didn't hear what had happened to his heart. Only God knew what had happened. Only He heard that inaudible little crack, so inconsequential, yet consequential in its creeping, consuming nature. Only He knew that if Rameses did not let His people leave Egypt, his heart would literally turn into stone.
When Moses returned after two more refusals, not even he could miss the strange stone-like texture of Rameses' fingers and toes. Rameses' grey fingers and thumbs splayed on the armrests of his throne, immovable. On the footrest of his throne, grey toes rested without moving.
"What's that?" Moses asked, gesturing to one of Rameses' hands.
"I'm seeing a physician about it tomorrow morning." Rameses brushed off the question, "Will be fixed no problem."
"Can you move your fingers at all?"
"That's why I'm seeing my royal physician tomorrow," Rameses repeated, "And no, I still won't let your people go."
Scrape-scrape.
Moses hesitated, shifting his head this way and that in search of the noise.
Scrape-scrape, scrape-scrape.
Three times that scrape-scrape sounded before it stopped, Rameses wincing as he rubbed his chest over where the heart lay.
"What was that?" Moses asked, noting Rameses' hand over his heart.
"How would I know?" Rameses sighed. "Someone just moving things around the palace."
It didn't sound like it, Moses mused as he wandered back to the Hebrews, It had the rhythm closer to…a heartbeat.
Whatever strange condition afflicted Rameses yesterday had worsened, to Moses' disturbance as he stood before his brother's throne the next evening. He could only stare at the way the skin of Rameses' legs and arms had taken the texture of hard stone, like that of the many statues in and outside of the palace. The stone texture had crawled up the pharaoh's legs, continuing up under his kilt. His arms were more grey than brown.
Still he did not let the people go.
Scrape-scrape. Scrape-scrape. Scrape-scrape.
The sound started again, stone against stone, in the melody of a heartbeat. The hair on the back of Moses' neck stood on end.
That is a heartbeat…isn't it?
"You hear that?" Moses asked, shoulder muscles tense in the eeriness of the regular, rapid scrape-scrape noise.
"Probably more people moving things around," Rameses dismissed, "Wouldn't know why they'd want to."
Moses hesitated, glancing around as though he might spot people moving furniture and monuments around.
"I don't know," he admitted, a prickle of apprehension at the nape of his neck, "It sounds a little like a heartbeat."
The scraping noise did not stop, louder than it had been yesterday.
"It'll go away." Rameses insisted. "Physician's befuddled though. It's like I'm turning into stone."
Rameses tapped his immovable hand—which still refined delicate detail down to the last nail—against his knee. The sound of stone on stone knocked into Moses' ears.
"Your people shall not go."
Scrape-scrape.
Rameses was still on his throne when Moses returned after the lice plague had run its course. He balked at the entrance to the throne room. He observed, stunned into silence, that the grey had consumed more of Rameses' body, thickening and spreading out to his torso, now tinged with the dull colour. And there—that scraping two-beat rhythm.
That is definitely a heart.
Moses strode through the throne room, a strange mix of determination and concern warring in his own heart. On one hand, he determined to command the pharaoh to let the Hebrews go, whilst on the other, he was concerned for his brother. During the paces toward Rameses' throne, he felt something click in his mind.
His disease or whatever it is worsens with each refusal. Surely it is not a coincidence? God has not said anything about it.
"Oh there you are, Moses. I've been sitting here all day and night," Rameses quipped, "And I'll be here all tonight too."
"What are you talking about?"
Rameses nodded his head down at one of his arms. "That."
Moses glanced over the extent of the mysterious malady afflicting Rameses. His breath caught as he saw that it had not gotten any better after all. His legs were completely stone, as were his arms, right up to his shoulders.
"You mean…"
"It's impossible to move your limbs when they're turning into heavy stone, Moses," Rameses said, "I can only just stand up with the help of my assistants."
Moses' staff trembled imperceptibly, trying his best to ignore the regular two-note scraping rhythm that surely came from the pharaoh's heart, beyond his ribcage.
It is no coincidence, is it?
Despite the stone's rapid consumption of flesh, the pharaoh still refused to relent and let the Hebrews free.
Flies, death of livestock, hail, and boils did not deter the pharaoh. The stone rapidly transformed the flesh of Rameses' torso into stone, so that, except for his head, he looked just like one of his many statues. He had to remain standing up after the plague of flies, for he could not bend his knees anymore. The night of the Plague of Hail saw Moses confront a pharaoh encased in stone up to his neck. He could not even move his own head, permanently facing forward. The scrape-scrape of his desperately beating heart seemed to fill the entire room, even palace, with its two-step rhythm. Again, Moses felt the hairs of the back of his neck stand up, a chill prickling his spine.
I didn't want this. Please just…just let my people go, Rameses.
Moses didn't hold out much hope that he had changed his mind, but who knew? Miracles might happen.
He's dying before my eyes.
Nor had he wanted to witness his own brother's impending death. Moses was positive that if Rameses refused one more time, he would become a solid stone statue, as deaf, mute, and blind as any of the numerous monuments peppering Egypt. Moses shuddered to imagine.
What would happen if he did let my people go? Would he return to normal or…stay as he is now?
What would be worse? Surely the latter would be worse. But nor did he want Rameses to become a statue forever.
Will I come back tomorrow to a statue?
He saw that Rameses was mouthing something, but all that came out was silence.
"I didn't catch that." Moses told him as he stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne, in front of which Rameses now stood twenty-four-seven.
Rameses' mouth stopped moving, trying to make speech now impossible to construct, for his larynx, too, had become stone.
Moses sighed, despairing that Rameses would allow the Hebrews to leave. But a certain desperation gripped him, refusing to allow him to give up.
Perhaps now I can get through to him.
"Rameses," Moses began, feeling like his own larynx had turned into stone, "I want you to know—I never wished this upon Egypt. It is my God who speaks through me and brings down the plagues." Moses increased his volume over the horrible scraping of Rameses' heart. "For the greater good of Egypt and for yourself, I want you to let my people go. We will not bother you again, if you should do this." Moses swallowed, trying to ignore the lump threatening to swell in his throat. "I ask this as both your brother and a saviour of my people."
Moses wasn't sure he even believed his own words. Sure that Rameses had refused again, the shepherd left the throne room, praying desperately to be proved wrong.
Maybe he will free my people now.
The thick, black swarm of locusts encrusting Egypt's sky the next day proved Moses wrong.
He has refused again.
Moses had the rest of the day to steel himself, to accept that Rameses had sealed his fate. He had to be a statue by now—there was no way he wasn't otherwise.
There is no going back for him.
Then another thought struck him.
How can he refuse or allow the people to go if he cannot speak?
Was that why this plague happened? Did it come to pass because Rameses could no longer vocalise his refusal or—in the tiniest of possibilities—his permission?
Surely God would know. Surely He could read Rameses' mind and know?
And what if he couldn't? What if God couldn't or wouldn't read the pharaoh's mind?
Any faith Moses had now in Rameses' permission evaporated like mist in the heat of the morning sun. All he could do now was wait. Wait and wait until the horrible swarms of locusts finished their scourge on Egypt.
Somehow, even in the light of day, the palace seemed darker now, the rooms appearing inky black. Husks of dead locusts, bodies brown and rotting, lined the floors in a hideous mimicry of autumn leaves on a garden pathway. A dead frog stared out at him from a statue's foundation, its eyeballs half-rotten out of its head. Its tongue lolled out, blue-black with rot and death. The fuzzy balls of dead flies littered every surface, their spindly legs stiff in death.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Dried-out husks of dead locusts crunched sickeningly against Moses' soles as he padded his way to the throne room. Dead-eyed locust corpses blew around as the wind swirled its fingers in the stew of death. Wings and legs poked between his toes, only to be shaken out by the shepherd's next few steps.
Now he found himself before the dark double doors of the throne room. One door was ajar—either opened by a breeze or left alone by a guard no longer there. The shepherd pushed the door open, hearing it scrape against the carpet of locust corpses.
"Oh no…"
All the breath left Moses' chest as he stared at the scene before him. At Rameses…now completely turned into stone. He could neither refuse nor grant permission. No one attended to him; even the servants, seeing their chance, had absconded, seeking better employment elsewhere. Not even his own son was near Rameses. It was as if no one in the palace had cared about their pharaoh, even as his heart and body turned into stone.
Nobody cares, except me.
"Rameses?" he called out, his voice echoing off every pillar, wall, step, and the throne itself.
I'm talking to a statue. I'm just talking to a statue. No, he's not just a statue. He's my brother. Rameses.
The statue didn't move, didn't react. Nothing—not even the flash of an annoyed eye.
Under Moses' feet, the earth shook on its foundations. Alarmed, the shepherd looked up, preparing to run to avoid falling stonework. Just as abruptly as it had started, the earthquake passed like nothing happened.
The whisper of moving stone scraped from the top of the steps to Rameses' throne. Forehead furrowed in consternation, Moses turned toward the sound, his breath catching as he saw the statue's feet now halfway off the top step.
Would he shatter if he fell?
The quake had passed, but the statue continued to edge forward.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The scrape-scrape of a heartbeat, still beating even as stone encased it.
Scrape-scrape, scrape-scrape, scrape, scrape.
Moses' heart pounded, his feet frozen in place as Rameses—even made of stone—shifted its feet over halfway off the top step.
The inevitable begun to happen as the statue tipped over to its inevitable fate.
Moses couldn't stop it.
He wanted to, but couldn't move.
Helpless but to watch his brother's statue succumb to gravity.
His heart pounded in his ears, his chest constricted, and sweat dampened his palms. Eyes wide with horror, he tried to force his head to turn to the side, so he didn't have to watch.
Look away, look away! Why can't I look away!
His body refused to obey him, eyes staring unblinking at the falling statue. He might not be able to move his head but he could clench his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable.
He's going to shatter.
His fingers clenched around his staff, digging crescents into his palms. His breathing shallow, muscles tensed, waiting for the crash, the skittering of shattered stone.
He waited—heart pounding in his chest.
Waited.
Breath abated, he dared to open one eye a fraction, just in time to see the statue crash to the floor, Moses staring in helpless horror as Rameses succumbed to gravity's cruel pull.
Scrape-scrape, scrape-scr—
The pharaoh shattered on impact, stone fragments skittering and bouncing off the steps leading to the throne. Moses flinched, crying out in horror, stumbling backwards. One of his feet caught the hem of his cloak, pulling him onto his back on the floor. His head smacked against the carpet of locusts, feeling some of them crawl down the back of his cloak, scratching dead legs and bodies against his living flesh. A few stuck in his curly locks of hair, prickly legs scratching against his scalp. He pressed palms against the husks of locusts as he pushed himself to a sitting position.
Moses gasped, eyes white with shock. "No…"
Rameses lay in countless fragments that had shattered into the carpet of death. Moses flinched as one stone fragment tumbled to rest near his hand.
Don't look, don't look.
He looked anyway, and when he did, he scrambled away, his legs too shaky now to help him stand up. His whole body shuddered, his hand shaking as he reached out to pick it up, cradling it on his palm. He could tell just by its shape what it was, even though it was now forever encased in stone. Unlike the rest of the pharaoh, it had remained in one piece.
It was Rameses' heart.