Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The Cupbearer: Deep Powers

Some people think that the magicians have no power, that they simply invent prophecies and dream interpretations out of the misty depths of their own imaginations. I don't believe this; I know that their power comes from deep and terrifying forces beyond the realm of man. I've seen the look of panic on the faces of those magicians when the deep powers refuse to - or are unable to - give them answers to the questions they ask. I've seen a magician stand before Pharaoh and with trembling fear insist that he doesn't know the interpretation of a dream - even though he knows the wrath of Pharaoh is seething under the surface, waiting for an excuse to explode.

Consider this most recent nightmare that awoke the king in the middle of the night. If I were a mage trying to invent a meaning for a dream, I would have no difficulty. After all, seven is a mystical number, tied to perfection and completeness; no matter where you look you could find a way to explain the dream. The seven scorpions of Isis. The two sevens of Osiris' body hewn. The seventy cubit tower, and the seventy windows.

Yet the mages stood there trembling before the king, insisting there was no interpretation for his dream. I waited, holding the king's cup and listening to these frightened men babble on about how the secrets of the dreams had been hidden from them by forces too great for them to comprehend. I realized that I - of all the people who attended to the Pharaoh - might have the solution to the king's problem - a Hebrew slave named Joseph.

Joseph! The man who had explained my dream, and made me promise to tell Pharaoh about him. I had so eagerly agreed to everything he asked, but in the excitement and celebration of my return to favor, I had shoved the dark memory of those evil days in the prison into the recesses of my mind. For two years I had served in the court of Pharaoh without a single thought of the man who had interpreted my dream and brought me hope. While I stood in the presence of the king, he languished helplessly in the king's prison. I felt the sudden rush of blood to my cheeks and I was ashamed at my selfish forgetfulness.

Now I began to see that I was a pawn in the game of the gods; it was no accident that I had been sent to that prison, and it was no accident that Joseph had interpreted my dream. No wonder the deep powers refused to speak to the mage about the dream. They (or perhaps even deeper powers) would use this situation to bring young Joseph from prison, into the court of Pharaoh.

That evening as I served the king, I drank deeply of my weak reserves of courage and leaned close to Pharaoh. I did not want anyone else to hear what I said to him.

"My lord," I said, "I believe I know of a man who can interpret your dream. He is a man who speaks directly with the gods."

Pharaoh looked at me with doubtful gaze, and I knew I would have to tell the whole story. There were so many levels on which I did not want to tell that story; I did not want to remind the king of the days when I was out of his favor. I did not want to admit that I had left this wise and powerful man to suffer in prison for two years when I had the power to speak on his behalf. And, most of all, I did not want to tell the king that the man was a Hebrew barbarian - and not just that, but a Hebrew barbarian accused of molesting the wife of his chief bodyguard.

In so many ways I was entering a realm of great personal hazard, yet the deep powers of the universe required me to speak, so I spoke.

And Pharaoh listened.

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