by T. K. Thorne
“Many.” I watch in amusement as his eyes widen.
My cousin, Lot, who is almost my father’s age and nephew to Abram, takes his place beside my father. “Zakiti, how is the life of a rich merchant?” he bellows.
My father grunts. “Rich? Have you ever seen my gold-trimmed robes, Lot? Abram is the one with wealth.” He nods at the finely worked hangings along the tent walls, “I have not the stomach to acquire it as he did.”
He speaks of Abram’s journey into Egypt in the days of famine before I was born. The king gave Abram sheep, oxen, donkeys, camels, and servants in exchange for Sarai, whom he took into his harem, thinking she was Abram’s sister.
The story is that El struck the king and his household with illness whenever he tried to touch Sarai, until he begged her to explain what was happening. She told him she was Abram’s wife, and her husband was beloved by El. Then the king let Abram go, laden with riches. If I were the king of Egypt, Abram’s trick would have angered me. But I suspect Sarai talked him into releasing them with their possessions. She is as smart as she is beautiful. She runs the household and all the business of the flocks—even Abram’s steward answers to her—while Abram goes off to his high place to talk with El.
With another hearty laugh, Lot slaps my father’s back. “You should come to the Vale and give up all this traveling back and forth across deserts and mountains. The grass is plentiful and yields rich crops of barley. The sheep graze and fatten. A much more peaceful life than dodging bandits and herding donkeys.”
“Ah yes,” Father says with a twist of irony in his voice. “I hear you are fond of the peace of your lands.”
“Such a tongue you have, Zakiti! All right, you have caught me. It is no secret I prefer the city walls. It is peaceful out in the fields, true, but sometimes a man needs more than peace to keep life spiced.”
Before my father can respond, sudden quiet descends. All heads turn toward the draping cloth parted by two young boys as Abram steps through, flanked on his right by his first wife, Sarai. Abram’s head is gray, but his back is straight. He is tall, though not as tall as the northmen, and other than the color of his eyes, his features are like mine, perhaps my legacy from the blood of his line. Except, of course, his nose has no knot. When I was five, I broke mine in a fall from a rocky incline my father forbade me to climb. My fingers stroke the bridge of my nose, finding the familiar coin-sized place where it knitted together without grace.
As Abram comes closer and takes a seat on a wooden bench, my regretful thoughts about my nose fade, captured by the burning intensity in his eyes. They are the color of a deep pool reflecting a night sky, and I find I cannot look away from them. Why do I not remember this? Our previous visit was three summers ago, when I was twelve. I only remember playing with Ishmael, studying with Sarai, and sitting in agitation as the men talked on and on … and, of course, Hagar’s honey cakes.
Abram spreads his hands, palms out, over the crowd. “My friends, my tribe, I thank you for gathering in my humble tent. You are a special people under the eye of El, your god.”
“Tell us the story!” one man shouts from a corner.
“Yes,” Lot adds roughly. “The story; let us hear it again.”
I know he will tell of how a storm and shifting of the earth broke all his father’s idols except one, the statue of El, and how El spoke to him and said, “I am your god, Abram. From your loins will come my tribe, and I will be their god.” And then El told Abram to break the remaining idol because he was not to be contained or managed by human hands. El said, “I am without boundaries, beyond the limitations of clay or stone.”
To follow a god that refuses to inhabit a statue or belong to one place is an idea even some of Abram’s tribe still struggle to hold. Abram has embraced it, and he offers it to us at every gathering. Many have accepted, including Mamre the Amorite, who lives on this land, and his brothers and families who had ridden in battle with Abram. This was my teaching since I was young, so I too worship El-without-a-form, though he has never spoken to me.
Ishmael’s elbow finds my ribs. His eyes glaze over with boredom. We do not need to speak. The attention of everyone is fastened on Abram. Being the youngest allowed in the tent, we sit in the very back. Ishmael carefully works the edge of the woven camel-hair fabric just enough for us to crawl under it. Nami belly-crawls after us.
Outside, the sun bears down on us, but we don’t care. “You have grown a foot length, cousin!” I say, as soon as we have run beyond hearing range.
Ishmael beams. “Mother says I eat enough honey cakes to grow tall as a mountain.” He shakes his head. “But I will never grow as tall as those giants.” His eyes shine with admiration. “What do they eat?”
I grin. “If I told you they eat grass, would you go join the sheep and graze?”
“Yes!”
I follow Ishmael to a hillside overlooking the sheep and donkeys.
“I remember the last time you came,” Ishmael says, his dark eyes gleaming. “My father told the same stories, and I was so bored. Then, when everyone was hushed and intent on his words, you suddenly squealed, and a gosling poked its head out of your robe.” He sighs. “It was wonderful!”
Ishmael was the only one who thought it “wonderful.” I believe this is a story he will repeat as many times as Abram tells his. “How could I forget?” I say with a wry grin. “The little beast woke up and bit my nipple!”
We both laugh. I definitely had been in trouble that day. My father forbade me to ride Dune for a moon-cycle as punishment. My cousin continues to laugh, holding his side, and I realize how much I miss him. Seeing him often would be the only good thing about staying here with Sarai. I wonder, however, what Ishmael’s reaction would be if he discovered I was not the boy he thought, but a girl. Having no siblings, he looks up to me as an older brother. The other boys in the tribe shun him because his mother is an Egyptian.
As if he heard my thought, a heavyset boy appears over the ridge. He is about my age, but much larger. “So,” he taunts, his hands on his hips, “why aren’t you in the tent with the other high-ranking men, special boy?”
Ishmael stiffens. “What I do is no concern of yours, Talmet. Go away.”
“Perhaps I should tell Eliezer that you are shirking your duties.”
I feel Ishmael twitch at that name. Eliezer is Abram’s steward and not a man to be displeased. “Leave him be,” I say, as another boy, a head taller than Talmet, appears.
“Oh, it is the Egyptian boy,” the newcomer says with a sneer at Ishmael.
I feel my cheeks flush with anger. “He is not Egyptian. He is Abram’s son!”
“His mother is an Egyptian concubine. How many men did she know before she lay with Abram?”
Ishmael throws himself at the taller boy, catching him by the knees and toppling him. Talmet jumps on Ishmael and begins to pummel him. Nami whines. I snatch up a rock and strike Talmet’s shoulder. Nami dances around us, whine-singing her anxiety. I don’t see Talmet’s back-swing, which catches me in the mouth and knocks me onto my bottom. I taste blood, and a sharp pain lances through my still-bruised ribs. In a flash, Nami is between me and Talmet, all the hair on her back stiffened. At that moment, I would have been happy to see her tear into Talmet, as she had the wolf. But I grab her, afraid that her teeth might slash Ishmael in the tangle of bodies. “No, Nami!”
At that moment, Danel appears. I am happy to see someone from the caravan, even though he does not care for me as much as I do not care for his father. He is the cook’s son, and all we have in common is the loss of our mothers at a young age. He is two years older and a size that will soon match his father’s. I can tell by the danger in his eyes that he saw Talmet strike me, and he grabs Talmet by the throat, throwing him aside. The other boys leave Ishmael and attack Danel. My hands are full with Nami.
“What is this?” The sharp bark of Abram’s steward halts the fighting as though a bolt of El’s lightning stabbed the ground before us.
The bo
ys separate. Eliezer’s glare travels the group and stops on Danel. “Who are you?”
Danel straightens his shoulders. “I am Danel, son of Chiram.”
“Why are you fighting?”
Danel glances at me. “To defend the caravan’s honor.”
I sigh. Now I owe him.
And Father will not be happy.
CHAPTER
8
Terah took his son Abram, his daughter-in-law Sarai (his son Abram’s wife), and his grandson Lot (his son Haran’s child) and moved away from Ur of the Chaldeans. He was headed for the land of Canaan, but they stopped at Haran and settled there.
—Book of Genesis 11:31
TO MY RELIEF, ELIEZER DOES not relate the incident to my father. I suppose a little fight among children is not worthy of bothering him or Abram and, in fact, Eliezer lectured the boys about the duties of hospitality. “These are our guests,” he said to Talmut and the others. “If you were older, your punishment would be severe.”
I asked, as a guest, that the episode be forgotten. Of course, I must explain my swollen lip and the red splotch on my face from Talmet’s hand. Fortunately, my shrug and mumble about being clumsy come at a moment when Lot appears, insisting that we travel with him to Sodom and stay at his home. I do not care for that stinking city, but I am grateful for the distraction.
That night Abram has two lambs butchered, and we feast on the tender meat, along with plenty of milk, cheese curds, and dates. Ishmael and I try to see who can eat the most. I win. Father often laughs at my ability to eat and not put on fat, but my belly hurts most of the night.
In the morning, when I make my sleepy way to the cooking area, I can see that Ishmael’s mother has been awake a long time. Hagar eyes my robe, as if wondering what creature might be hidden there. At my outburst on our previous visit, I was banished to the women’s tent. When the gosling again stuck his tiny head out from my robe, Hagar only laughed and helped feed and water. She does not disappoint me this morning. Honey cakes appear for breakfast! I forget my recent vow to stop eating.
As I stuff yet another in my mouth, Nami watches attentively, but does not beg for scraps.
Hagar throws her long dark braid over her shoulder and frowns at me. “Adir, how did your lip get bloodied?”
“I … fell and hit a rock.”
She skeptically tilts her head. “Well, it has not affected your appetite. You shouldn’t eat so many cakes; you’ll be sick.”
I answer her in the language of her homeland, where some say she was a slave and some say a princess. “I will stop eating your honey cakes when you prepare them right. But for now—you must keep trying.” I sigh in mock dissatisfaction.
An old joke between us. She laughs and waves me out. “Go find Ishmael!”
I go, but not before grabbing the last flat cake for later and leaving a small bundle. It is a colorful scarf from the Black Land to cover her head. Father allowed me to trade in the market there, and I did well, so he gave me leave to purchase it. I have a fine eye for cloth.
Outside, dawn paints the sky, not in the bold colors of sunset but with pale rose. Only the moon and the morning star are still visible. Abram’s tent sits on the highest edge of the hills above the valley where his flocks graze. The sides are rolled open on the east and west to catch the sunrise and allow a breeze in the heat of the afternoon. Ishmael sits with his father. Spread before us are spectacular views—to the south across a wilderness of cinnamon-brown boulders and to the east, down into the great rift in the earth that cradles the Dead Sea. I lift my face to the morning sun and the wind’s caress.
Nami and I sit with them until Sarai calls us to lessons. Women are the keepers of history, but all children must learn it. This is what makes us a tribe, tracing our lineages and our past back to First Man and First Woman. As cousin to Abram, I am descendant of Noah and Na’amah through their first son, Shem.
“Begin with Enoch,” Sarai says, pointing at me.
I take a breath and recite the first part of the Telling of Enoch.
Ishmael scowls when I finish. “How do you remember it all? You have no mother to prod you.”
“No mother,” I say, “but a father who thinks he should be a mother.”
Taking that as a complaint, Ishmael is somewhat mollified, until Sarai points at him. “Now, you—the lineage from First Man.”
I notice she never calls Ishmael by name, but always “you” or “that boy.” Father says her heart is broken because she has been barren. Her duty to the tribe is to produce heirs, and so she gave her handmaiden, Hagar, to lie with Abram, as is the custom in Babylonia. As soon as Ishmael was born, that elevated Hagar to the position of second wife. I do not understand why that infuriated Sarai since it was her idea in the first place.
Ishmael stumbles.
“Start again,” Sarai snaps.
I am almost guilty that I learn with ease. Perhaps it is a result of all the languages I have learned. Like a bladder bag, my mind has expanded. Now, it is not much trouble to put more in there.
Ishmael focuses his gaze on the weaving behind Sarai, so her stern glare does not undo him and, on this attempt, he correctly names the entire list. Through Abram, he also descends from Noah’s son, Shem. I wonder if Hagar makes him recite the Egyptian side of his lineage.
And so the entire morning passes.
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, when we leave the tents of Abram, only Raph and Mika join us. Anan, who is the oldest of the three tall men, travels north with a small group of herders. Without being obvious, I watch Raph and Mika working their packs onto two donkeys, balancing the object wrapped in black fur on the largest. I have never seen a live bear. Such fur is rare. They could get a good trade for it.
I pat my bags, pleased they bulge with honey cakes. Hagar made extra for me.
Lot travels with us to Sodom. He brings six sheep to add to his own herd and a string of young black donkeys from Harran that we will sell for Abram. The finest donkeys are bred in Harran, and they will bring enough to make his journey worthwhile.
Almost fifteen summers older than I, Lot is coarsely bearded, with skin the color of a walnut and large thumbs. Every time I see him, I must fight to keep from staring at his thumbs. They seem too large for his hands, and I cannot help but wonder if the giggling tales of young girls as to the significance of a man’s thumb size bear any truth.
I have seen plenty of male organs. The boys of the caravan consider me one of them, and they don’t hesitate to fountain their water in front of me. That I manage to avoid suspicion is due to my reputation as a strange boy who keeps to himself.
Eliezer counts the donkeys, and has Lot press his seal into a clay tablet to account for them. This is also a practice taken from Babylonia. In Canaan, only the wealthy carry personal seals. I touch the form of my seal, hidden under my clothing. It makes my mother real, if only for a moment. She too would have worn it next to her heart.
“A safe journey to us, Zakiti!” Lot bellows to my father, though he is not a donkey’s length from us. “I will hold you to your promise to sleep beneath my roof when we arrive in Sodom.”
Philot, my donkey, flicks his long ears in agitation at Lot’s strident voice, but he is a sturdy, dependable animal and does not move while Father checks the straps of my packing. I scratch his forehead, and he closes his eyes in pleasure.
“Thank you, cousin,” Father says. “We would be foolish not to accept. Your graciousness to guests is famous.”
A smile craters Lot’s cheeks, deepening the scarred pits that make a rough landscape of his face. A man’s honor is judged by his hospitality to guests. That is a law of the desert, and my people abide by it as strongly as any nomad tribe.
Father smiles and gives Philot a pat, satisfied with my efforts. I sigh in exasperation that he still checks behind me, as if I were a child who would leave a strap loose.
Lot moves closer, his voice lowering. He runs a thick thumb along the coarse hair of his chin and gives a furtive nod toward the tall
strangers. “Watch your words around those two.” Lot’s words are for my father’s ear, but I have sharp hearing. “Abram says El sent them.”
“Yes, so the rumors have been and so Abram told me, as well.”
Disappointment floods Lot’s features. Clearly, he had wished to bear such interesting news. He tries again. “The third man—the one who returned to their lands in the north—is a priest, a shaman, maybe even a king.”
I smell an embellishment.
Father waits.
Lot chuckles. “Word among the tents is Abram asked them to make Sarai’s womb fertile.”
Both my father’s brows rise at this. “Sarai is still a beautiful woman, but is she not past the age of bearing children?”
Satisfied his gossip had induced a reaction, Lot chuckles and spreads his thick hands. “Not for me to say. If they are truly El’s men, what is not possible?”
At that moment, Lot spies Abram emerging from his tent and hurries to his uncle’s side. Abram has come to escort Raph, Mika, and Anan as far as the last oak tree, showing them honor. I consider the men who walk beside my tribe’s patriarch. They have not confirmed they are messengers of El, at least not to me, but I may not be of sufficient importance to confide such a thing. I think through the strange list of words they wish to know in the southern dialect of Akkadian, but I am unable to parse a meaning from them. If they are angels, they keep their mission to themselves.
The call to move out distracts me from such questions. My job is to guide the newly acquired donkeys, which are not inclined to leave. I cannot blame them. My life, since I was three summers, has consisted of moving from place to place, but these young animals have never left their mothers’ sides.
At the braying of one of the donkeys, my mind returns to my task, and I circle around to stand between the new ones we are taking and the lure of the familiar, positioning myself at the herd’s back flank to discourage them from making a quick reversal around me. Animals attend primarily to body movements. I raise my staff. “Hiya!”
