“The Keeper of the Prison” by Isabelle Cook

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Spring

I remember the day they brought you in, lad.

Young, I remember thinking, so young. 

Your face was pale as the moon.

Not Egyptian, I knew at once.

I remember meeting your eyes as the officer’s servants pulled you into the dungeon, gripping your arm so tightly I could see indents forming.

“What’s your name, boy?” I asked.

Joseph, you replied. 

Your voice wobbled but I saw shimmering sureness in your eyes. Trick of the light, perhaps, but the dungeon was dark that night and it didn’t seem possible. 

He’s not from around here, I thought again. 

I later learned you were a Hebrew.

You went to your cell.

I didn’t think I’d see you beyond this day.

Summer

The two prisoners were fighting again. 

The man with the thick, coarse eyebrows and sour breath and the elder with the pinched face. 

“Quiet!” I yelled, hitting the palm of my hand against a cedarwood post.

I saw you then. Your cell was close to where I’d struck the wall.

Be at peace, you said. You knew the prisoners by name. 

Sour breath had a leg infection that caused him great distress.

Pinched face was missing the wedding of a beloved daughter.

I should treat the leg with oil and treat the mourning father with kindness, you told me.

“Prisoners don’t speak to me like that,” I said. 

I sent a physician to heal the leg and approved an extra visit. The fighting stopped.

I approached you in your cell the next week.

“I need a man who can learn names,” I told you.

Fall

Headache. 

Another set of Pharaoh’s servants, needing room and board in my prison.

This night, a glassy eyed former baker and a paunchy former butler. Perhaps tomorrow, a tailor, a scribe, or an artist. 

“Joseph, lad, find them proper lodging,” I told you wearily.

You led them away to their rooms as you’d been led that first night.

Soon, you flung open the door to my office. Your eyes shone as at first.

I might leave here, you breathed out.

“Be serious, lad,” I chastened.

You insisted. You told me of two dreams.

 A vine of ripe fruit. A basket of bake meats. 

“These things hold meaning?” I asked.

God has shown me that they do, you said.

And so, as before, you were right.

The baker was hung.

The butler was restored.

But no one came for you, lad. 

Winter

I recall the time the light almost left your eyes, my boy.

Before, so surefooted. 

I remember you made a defamed musician chuckle so hard he spilled a drink in his cell. 

Now, though, quiet. Lonely.

You carried out your duties, counting cell blocks and dividing rations. 

The work was admirable, as always.

But your heart was absent.

I saw you in your cell one night, eyes fixed upon the wall.

I wonder if my father yet lives, you said into the blackness.

I had no words then. 

They came to me as I left your room:

“Lad, I have never known your God. But you have shown me he is noble. I pray to him now to remember you.”

I turned away into the hallway. 

That night before bed, I prayed to Joseph’s god and begged him not to forget the boy with bright eyes. 

Spring

I must leave, you told me.

The butler had remembered his breathless promise at last.

Pharaoh summoned you that very morning.

Perhaps I shall return, you said.

We both knew the words were hollow.

“Joseph, my boy,” I began. My throat closed around the speech.

Be at peace, uncle, you said.

Your arms wrapped around me.

At last I looked you in the eyes.

“You are free, my son. Show them what your God can do.”

And I watched as they led you by the arm out of the prison and into the light of Egypt’s day.

This piece was published in 2025 as part of the 14th Annual Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future updates.