“Then why do you copy it?” she asked. “If no one can read it?”
“Because the words of God can be written in any language, and he will give his servants the power to read it,” said Abram.
“So you can read any language?”
“When the words are from God,” said Abram. “And when God wants me to read.”
“Why don’t you write it down in Akkadian? Or Sumerian? Or Egyptian, so many could read it?”
“I will if God commands it,” said Abram. “And not, if not.”
It made Sarai feel like an illiterate after all, because she could read common messages, the tallies of the shepherds, the laws of the temple, the tales of great deeds that must be remembered. But she could not read the words of God, and Abram only sometimes read to her what was written there. “The hand of Noah wrote this,” said Abram once, and then read her something that did not sound like the words of a man who had watched the world destroyed around him. When she said so, Abram answered impatiently, “This was written before the flood. When he was still trying to save the people from destruction.”
“When he still had hope,” she said.
“When he still had hope for them,” said Abram. “He never lost hope for himself and his family.”
Sarai laid out the tiles of Qira’s letter. As usual, Qira took no thought for the quality of the clay on which she wrote. Or perhaps water was so scarce that they used less of it for clay-making. Three of the six tiles had cracked, and one had crumbled. It was hard to figure out in some places what she had written. Large pieces could still hold syllables, but once the clay became dust, the syllables vanished. It was a good thing that she never said anything that mattered. Sarai murmured her sister’s words, uttering them in the same pitch and at the same speed that Qira herself would use.
Beloved sister, I write in a rush because the girls are such hungry birds, and even though I refuse to give them the breast the moment they have teeth they still will take nothing except from my hand. The burden of motherhood is a heavy one. There’s never time to yourself.
Sarai’s eyes stung at this. Qira had no thought of how her words might affect the one who read them. And it would only get worse.
Your messenger says you still have no baby in you, but I think they have no business calling a woman barren when for all you know your husband is casting dead seed into fertile ground, why should the woman get all the blame?
The disloyalty of this was unspeakable. Did Qira blame Lot, then, for the fact that they had only daughters?
After all, Lot’s the one who planted girl seeds in me.
Apparently yes.
And the way people look at you in Sodom, I sometimes think it’s better to be barren than to have only girls to show for all that fattening up and screaming and bleeding and stink. It’s a lot of trouble to go to, and I don’t know how Father put up with the comments people make. You wouldn’t believe how insensitive people can be.
Yes I would.
Of course Father is a king and people don’t speak to him the way they speak to women. I swear in Sodom you’d think women were made of sticks the way we get ignored. There are festivals for men every night of the year, while the women sit home and spin. And the fine fabrics from the east and the bright colors from the north, those end up on the men’s backs, like peacocks they strut. I understand it though because the women really are dull. I miss my dear sister because you were never dull. Well, you were often dull but not as dull as they are, I can’t even make them angry by saying outrageous things, they just look at each other as if I were a silly child who doesn’t understand a thing that’s happening, when it seems to me I’m the only one who even notices the world around me; they just stay indoors and take care of their babies. Those that have babies, because you’d fit right in here in Sodom, so many women are barren, only nobody ever mentions it, even though it’s as obvious as can be, not a baby in the house, and these women aren’t even ashamed of it, can you imagine? Not that there’s any shame, but you know what I mean.
How many times can barrenness be mentioned in one letter?
Lot says you shouldn’t come to Sodom after all even though I think you would get along just fine here, it’s Abram who’d get in trouble, he can’t ever seem to keep from pointing out sins even though everybody knows about them anyway so why point them out? Lot is finally getting used to city life though I think. He doesn’t make trouble by accusing people, he just gets along with everybody. They all like him. I think I got the better bargain in husbands, thank you very much. I am the most sought-after woman in Sodom already, can you imagine? I call on a dozen women a day, and they’re all at home! How can they bear it? What is a city for, if not to go out and see the faces of a hundred people every day? Visit me visit me visit me, the messenger gets here from your camp in only two days, so why has it been years and you never found your way here? Is Abram so poor at navigating by the stars? Lot knows the name of every star. Visit me!
Sarai picked up the tiles, dumped them back into the bag, and crumbled them. There was nothing in that letter that she would want to read again. She loved her sister, but when she imagined spending hours in her company, it made her too tired and sad.
She waited outside the tent door for another half hour, spinning and spinning, while the life of the camp went on around her. Now and then someone would approach Abram’s tent, wanting to speak to him, but Sarai, keeping watch just across the way, would hold up a hand and smile. Some would smile, nod, and go away. Most came to her and told her what they wanted.
At first it was only in an emergency that they would tell her their business, so she could decide whether to interrupt her husband. Sometimes, though, she simply decided what to do, knowing that her decision was exactly what Abram would have done. Only rarely had he contradicted her later, and then only because he knew of circumstances she didn’t know—and he made it a point to explain this, so that she would not lose authority. Now Abram was able to spend many hours undisturbed in his tent, while Sarai’s tent gradually became the center of the camp. She enjoyed this, partly because it was a kingly role, to govern and judge, so she felt she was living out the role she was born for. But mostly she was glad that she could free Abram to do the work he cared most about—to study and copy out the holy writing, to pray, to listen to the voice of God in his heart.
She had spun a sheepsworth of wool, it seemed to her, and dealt with a dozen minor questions, by the time Abram emerged. His face had that curious shine to it—not light, really, but it seemed like light from his eyes, drawing her like a moth to the fire.
“What does the Lord say?” asked Sarai.
“Years ago,” said Abram, “the Lord told me to get out of my father’s house and go to Canaan. He said he would make a great nation out of me, and make my children a blessing to the world.”
After Qira’s letter, these words stung doubly. “You’re getting a slow start,” said Sarai.
He waved off her words, a little annoyed with her for hearing only the implicit reference to her barrenness. She couldn’t help it—he never complained about it and someone had to.
“I’m explaining to you why I’ve refused to go far from Canaan,” he said. “Why I don’t go dwell in a city, why even when I have to range far beyond Jordan, I always return within a year. This is the land God has given me.”
“Does he plan to let anyone else know this?” asked Sarai. “Or will they take your word for it?”
“With the Lord, things don’t happen all at once,” said Abram. “It might be my children or my children’s children who inherit the land—I’m content having the Lord’s promise.” He put his fingers to her lips to stop her from mentioning that his grandchildren could not inherit anything unless she first bore him a child or two to get things started. “Sarai, I’m explaining something.”
“And I’m listening.”
“For just a moment, my love, listen with your ears, and leave your lips out of it.”
His grin almost ke
pt his words from stinging.
“Sarai, the Lord today affirmed his promise. He said that he would bless those that bless me, and curse those that curse me.”
“Did he mention rain?”
Abram looked heavenward in supplication.
“Sorry,” said Sarai.
“The Lord mentioned,” said Abram, “a journey.”
“Your life is a journey,” said Sarai. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth and between her fingers mumbled, “Sorry.”
“To Egypt.”
She sat in silence.
“Well, don’t you have anything to say to that?” he demanded.
She rolled her eyes and made a great show of trying, and failing, to pry her mouth open.
“Egypt!” said Abram. “So much wisdom there, I’ve heard.”
She made a face and rocked her head back and forth derisively.
“Just because you didn’t like the Egyptians who came to Ur-of-the-North doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with Egypt itself,” said Abram. “Only lowborn and ambitious Egyptians, or the highborn without ambition, end up so far from the Nile. The best of them remain in Egypt, because it’s not just the oldest kingdom in the world, to them it’s the only kingdom.”
Sarai mimed falling asleep.
“They have water in Egypt, Sarai,” said Abram. “The Nile is low, but it still flows, and the flood comes every spring.”
“Why would they give any to us?” she said.
“Ha! I knew you couldn’t keep that silence going forever!”
“Why should I bother to speak, when you don’t answer my words?” asked Sarai.
“They will give us water and food and fodder because they value knowledge. They will tell me what they know, and I will tell them what I know.”
“Or they’ll kill you and steal your books and read for themselves.”
Abram laughed. “That would be silly. They can’t read it!”
“Make sure to tell them that very quickly,” said Sarai, “because they might be disappointed to discover it later, but you’ll be dead.”
“What kinds of stories do they tell about Egypt, there in Ur-of-the-North?” asked Abram. “They don’t kill every stranger who comes.”
“But strangers who come from the desert with vast herds and a mighty host—how will they know, from the look of us, whether we’re supplicants or invaders?”
“When I explain who I am—”
“The last time you explained to an Egyptian who you were,” said Sarai, “he tried to sacrifice you.”
Abram shrugged. “If the Lord chooses to let them kill me in Egypt, then that’s where I’ll die.”
“That’s well for you,” said Sarai. “God knows your name, you’re old friends. What happens to the rest of us?”
“He knows your name, too,” said Abram.
She smiled. But inwardly she argued: Does he? Does he know that I exist? I’d rather think he didn’t, that he simply hasn’t noticed me, and when he does he’ll say, Oh, Sarai! How could I forget a good woman like that! She needs some babies! Who was supposed to remind me of that? While if he does remember me, then my barrenness is not by chance. He must hate me.
A little voice, deep inside, said, It isn’t the God of Abram who hates you. It’s Asherah who tends to the wombs of women, who remembers that you belong to her.
To silence that voice, Sarai laughed. “Then let’s go to Egypt, Abram. I ask only this—that you share a few crumbs of your learning with me.”
“Learning is the only bread that you can share without lessening your own meal,” said Abram.
“If that isn’t already in your books, I hope you’ll write it down,” said Sarai. “It sounded very poetic and wise.”
He touched her nose, then kissed her lightly. “You shouldn’t mock me, you know.”
“Someone has to,” said Sarai, “and no one else would dare.”
He sighed, but smiled too. “That’s you, Sarai. Always willing to bear the heaviest burden.”
Chapter 5
For years, Abram had made his camp in the best lands—the deepest wells, the everflowing springs, where grass grew, where trees gave shade. Sarai thought she had seen the worst of the drought, seeing how many of those trees were scant-leafed now, and how many bare-limbed; hearing the hollow echo of stones thrown down empty wells; tasting the soupy water of a dying spring.
But in truth she had been sheltered from the worst destruction of this endless dry season. For now they moved through lands that had once been farmed, through villages that once had known the voices of children shouting in the streets, women chattering at the well, men grunting as they practiced the skills of war in a field outside the wall. Now the only sound was the echoing footfalls of the flocks and herds, the bleating and mooing of beasts, the murmurs and occasional shouts of herdsmen. These were sounds she had lived with for years, but now they came in the wrong place, which made them desperately sad.
At first she would succumb to the impulse to go into one of the houses, but it was always the same. Old spider webs near the ceiling, rooms half-filled with dust swept in by wind, but no sign of human habitation. It was not a hasty departure, not the ruins of war or plague. These people had lingered until there was no more hope, and then they had moved out, taking all that they could, leaving nothing of value to them. And then their neighbors had scavenged even the valueless things, and burned what could be burned to roast the last scrawny animals or boil the last weedy soup.
The last time she entered a house, Abram came in after her. “Why do you do this?” he asked. “It only makes you morose.”
“I can’t decide,” said Sarai, “if I should feel despair for those who left this place, or hope that someday it will be occupied again.”
“Someday this village will be peopled by our grandsons and granddaughters, and the land will be full from the river to the sea.”
He looked so happy and hopeful that it was all she could do to keep from screaming. She had been feeling pity for the losses of strangers; he turned it into a prophecy to be fulfilled by her drought-stricken womb. Today the time of women had come upon her, five days late. Those past five days she had allowed herself some hope, but today she had none. It will rain first, Abram, there’ll be water rushing down these streets before you hold my baby in your arms.
Still, she said nothing, because his words came from God, and hers from grief. To him, it was as if what the Lord had promised were already fulfilled; he thought of himself as a man with many children, and it didn’t occur to him that she did not live in that world. From then on she went into no more houses. She passed through each village without looking to left or right, for now it was her sons’ voices that had fallen silent in the streets, her daughters’ hands that spun no distaff in the houses. What a miserable life, she thought, to spend it mourning for the unconceived.
At last they left Canaan behind, and proceeded through the desert lands again. This time Abram had to consult old writings to get his bearings, for he had not come this way in many years, and the blowing dust had hidden or transformed many a landmark. Still, where there was a well to be found, he found it. But more and more of them were dry.
After a week of losing a dozen animals a day, they topped a rise and saw, in the distance, the shimmering of water. Not a mirage above burning sand this time. There was marsh grass growing in patches, then reeds, tall and topped with seeds. The beasts could not be held back—they ran, those that could, or shambled, the neediest arriving last, but there was water enough for all. Not from the marsh itself—that water was brackish, too salty to drink. Near it, though, the men hurried to dig shallow depressions into which water quickly seeped. There the animals drank greedily, the men watching to make sure all got a chance at the water, and to keep them from fouling it.
Abram did not need to watch them drink. He stood looking westward, across the water, toward Egypt. “They call this marsh the Sea of Reeds,” said Abram. “We have to go around it, and the water we get thi
s way isn’t very good. But it’s fresh enough for the animals, and reliable even when springs and wells fail.”
“This is the boundary of Egypt?”
“Oh, I suppose we’ve been in Egypt for days. But off the main road.”
“Why? Are we hiding?”
“Egypt is in the midst of its own troubles,” said Abram. “Too many people coming because of the food and water here. They might try to keep us out.”
“Compared to the herds we once had, these are only a bedraggled few,” said Sarai.
Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) Page 6
