Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge))

by Orson Scott Card

  “What if she comes back?” asked Eliezer.

  “Then welcome her kindly,” said Abram, “and escort her to the tent I assigned to her.” He turned to face Sarai, and stroked her hair possessively as he said to Eliezer, “This is my wife. This is her tent. Whoever shows disrespect to her is not mine, and has no claim on me. But whoever shows honor to my wife, then I will be his friend and protector.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Sarai.

  Then she sat down in the door of her tent. “Sit with me, husband,” she said. “In the door of my tent, please sit with me today.”

  Abram sat down beside her, and for the rest of the day, whoever came to him saw how he included her in every discussion and every decision, and how he heard her advice with great respect and did whatever she suggested and granted her whatever she asked. By nightfall there was no doubt in the camp that whatever struggle had gone on between Hagar and Sarai, it was over now, and Sarai was more firmly than ever in the good graces of the master of the household.

  At the end of the day, Abram came inside her tent with her. They prayed together, Abram first, then Sarai. Abram did not mention Hagar. Sarai did, though, begging the Lord to watch over her and keep her and the baby safe. “Bring her home to us, O Lord, so we can show her that we forgive her and love her and that she does not need to lie to anyone in order to have a sure place in this household.”

  When the prayer was over, Abram said to her, “You are more virtuous than I am.”

  “That is not true at all,” said Sarai.

  “To pray so generously for Hagar, after what she tried to do to you?”

  “Of course I can be forgiving,” said Sarai. “Because she failed.”

  The next morning Hagar returned to camp and was ushered into the guest tent. Abram spoke with her for a little while. Sarai did not ask what was said, and Abram did not tell her. Every day, Sarai visited Hagar and told her the news of the camp. Hagar always seemed glad to see her, and chatted away as if nothing had ever been wrong between them.

  Sarai did not believe in her for a moment. But there was peace in the camp, Abram’s baby was thriving in the womb, and for now, that was enough.

  Part VII

  Fire from Heaven

  Chapter 19

  The boy Ishmael was born in Hagar’s tent. All the camp rejoiced, and Sarai led the rejoicing. Hagar reared the boy, but Sarai also watched over him, and delighted in him. And the boy’s father saw that he was strong and clever, and when Abram taught him of God, the boy learned and obeyed. He took no pleasure in learning to read, so Abram waited, hoping that as he grew older he would grow curious about the ancient books. And the boy seemed to pray only when Abram bade him, but Sarai had seen that few boys were quick to pray, and reassured her husband.

  Between Hagar and Sarai, there was a strange kind of peace, each giving place to the other. Sarai was careful never to intrude on the rearing of Ishmael, and not just because she wanted never to have to imagine another person thinking, Who are you to give advice about children? No, she recognized that even though Hagar’s pregnancy began as a gift to Abram from Sarai, it was still Hagar who lay with Abram, and Hagar who bore the boy, and Hagar whose eyes could be seen looking out of Ishmael’s face. The child was Sarai’s gift, but Hagar’s son. So Sarai never intruded.

  Nor did Sarai ever treat Hagar as a servant, after that night Hagar spent alone in the desert. For she realized that even though Hagar had lied and betrayed her and tried to take her place, it was partly because slavery had taught her to lie and scrabble for advantage and feel loyalty to no one. Sarai had never questioned the practice of slavery, believing, as most people believed, that if God did not want people to be slaves, he would not allow them to be captured in battle. But, having known Hagar, having seen how slavery poisoned a girl who had such quickness and beauty, such a gift for laughter and such understanding of other people, Sarai saw all the servants of Abram’s house differently.

  She had admired Abram from the beginning for the way he treated his servants with courtesy. Gradually she had realized that Abram really believed that his servants were also children of God, worthy of dignity, and so Sarai had followed her own natural inclination to be gentle and courteous even with the lowliest and least reliable of the servants. She did this believing that it was good to be kind to those who already bore the heavy punishment of God’s disfavor.

  Hagar had taught her, however, that every slave longs for mastery and resents having to submit. All of Sarai’s kindness and gentleness was no replacement for freedom and respect. It was in the nature of their relationship that despite all the friendship that Sarai believed they shared, Sarai had never forgotten who was slave and who was master. Neither had Hagar. There was not and could never be friendship between them as long as Hagar was a slave.

  That is why Sarai insisted to Abram that the tent where Hagar slept should no longer be called the guest tent, but should be called Hagar’s tent. “As if she were a wife?” asked Abram.

  “Will her son inherit?”

  “Sarai, I will not raise up Hagar as my wife. I lay with your handmaiden, under the law that made her a substitute for your body.”

  “And if I free her?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I won’t marry her,” said Abram. “I won’t lie with her again. You are my wife.”

  “I will free her,” said Sarai, “and you will call that tent Hagar’s, not because she is your wife, but because she is the mother of your son, and your son will not be reared in a slave’s tent.”

  “Are you commanding me?” said Abram.

  “I’m predicting the wise course that you will choose because of your wisdom.”

  He didn’t like it, but he agreed because she was, in fact, right. Whether Abram told Hagar that it was Sarai’s idea or not didn’t matter. Neither of them ever mentioned it. But in the camp each woman had her sphere. No one came to Hagar to settle any business of the camp—Sarai was the judge who ruled under Abram. But Hagar was the mother of Ishmael, and all the fussing and flattery that came to the baby and, as he grew, to the boy, was done under Hagar’s watchful eyes. All delighted in the boy, but only Hagar and Abram had the right to be proud of him, for he was theirs.

  Of course this did nothing to ease Sarai’s grief that her age of bearing had passed without her womb ever quickening with the life of a child. But at least she was eased of the burden of guilt for never having borne a son to Abram. He had his son as a gift from Sarai, and so she might still have the pity of others, but not their resentment or scorn. And when she felt envy for Hagar stir within her, she channeled it into the envy she felt for every mother, instead of allowing it to fester as resentment that Sarai’s husband had known Hagar’s body in order to make the boy Ishmael.

  And so, because Sarai willed it, there was peace in the camp.

  Only one question remained in Sarai’s heart concerning Hagar. That night when Hagar fled from the camp and spent the night in the desert, something had happened that sent the girl home transformed. It was more than just having spent a night alone, because Hagar did not seem to have been broken by the experience. She was not docile—far from it. She took command of her tent and later took command of the raising of Ishmael, without the slightest sign of deference to Sarai. She did not leave Sarai in peace out of fear. It was something else. A transformation that had happened that night.

  Sarai asked Abram once, and Abram said, “It’s not for me to tell what she saw and heard that night.” With that he dropped the matter and made it clear he was never going to say more than that.

  But what he had said was perhaps more than he realized. What Hagar saw and heard? Not for him to tell? Well, he wouldn’t have said that if Hagar saw a scorpion or a serpent or a bramble bush or sand or rock—the ordinary things one sees in the desert. He would only have said such a thing if what she saw and heard was miraculous. A sign from God.

  That explained everything, of course. Especially it explained why Hagar no longer prayed only when the who
le camp prayed. Now she prayed on her own, without prompting, and sometimes even when she thought no one could see. Sarai could only conclude that Hagar prayed because she believed in God. And, to Sarai, this meant that now, despite what had happened between them, Hagar could be trusted. She was no longer lawless, seizing advantage wherever she could. She knew that God lived, that Abram was not just pretending to know God the way that Sehtepibre had faked the signs of divine favor. That’s what had humbled her and given her courage, both at once.

  God can make of anyone what he wishes, thought Sarai.

  She even said this to Abram once, but Abram disagreed. “God can make of anyone exactly what they are willing to become, and nothing better, just as the Enemy can make of us only as wicked a creature as we are willing to become.”

  “Then Hagar has a good heart,” said Sarai, “because look what she has allowed God to make of her.”

  Abram smiled at that, and embraced her. But said nothing. And sometimes Sarai wondered what he meant by that silence.

  No matter. There was peace in the camp.

  For thirteen years, peace. Sarai thought she could see the end of her life. She would watch as Ishmael grew to manhood. She would continue helping in the camp as long as she had strength. She would live in the light of Abram’s love, as part of him, and with him as part of her. If God willed, she would die before Abram, and she would consider herself the most fortunate of women.

  Every now and then she wondered what would happen if Abram died first. Especially if he died before Ishmael came of age. The boy did not know Sarai very well. He knew only his mother. Sarai would be at Hagar’s mercy then. If Hagar was truly converted to God and his law, then Sarai would be allowed to spend the rest of her life in Qira’s household; if Qira died first, then surely Lot would take her in. But one thing was certain—if Abram died, Sarai would have no future here. The servants might wish to serve her well, but they would belong to Ishmael, and Ishmael would obey Hagar. Sarai could not believe that Hagar had changed so deeply that she would keep Sarai here to grow old. And even if she did, it would be a useless life for her. Lonely without her husband, her days meaningless, she would pray for death.

  Indeed, she prayed for death already. Not immediate death. Just for priority. Let me die first, O Lord, if thou lovest me. My life has been good. Let my life end well, asleep in the arms of my husband. And then let my body be lowered into a deep cave and laid out with respect, whole and unbroken, to await his coming to join me.

  It was all she had to look forward to. But it was enough. Her life had been interesting in her youth, but in her old age she did not want it to be interesting. She wanted it to drift on, day after day, unchanging.

  Excitement was much overrated by the young.

  Abram went one day into his tent to work with his books and to pray. It made her feel good to see him go there, for on days when he prayed he often came and spoke to her, not about the business of the camp, but about God or the stars or the history of tribes and nations or the words of ancient prophets. He was happiest then, and spoke to her of things he spoke of to no one else. That was when Sarai was happiest. Even happier than when Abram so joyfully worked with his son beside him, teaching him the ways of a herdmaster—for despite her pleasure at how glad he was to have a son, there was always just that little twinge of sadness. There was no sadness when Abram sat and talked with her, filled with understanding and peace and the love of God.

  But today, as she worked the distaff, waiting for him to emerge, she felt something strange. She kept looking to see if someone was coming. Several times she arose—not as easy a task as it used to be, though she was still hale for her age—and walked out beyond the tents, to scan the horizon in all directions.

  “What does my mistress look for?” Eliezer asked her.

  “I feel as though someone is coming,” she said. “Or as if someone just arrived.”

  “No one but runners from the distant camps,” said Eliezer. “And a wagon with a load of melons from Hebron.”

  “It isn’t melons I’m looking for,” said Sarai. She laughed as if it were nothing, but she was still uneasy. She could see that Eliezer was worried by her words, and seemed extra vigilant, as if he feared some enemy might be presaged by her warning. She wanted to tell him, No, Eliezer, you need fear no enemy. It’s a friend that I’m looking for, or a kinsman. But since she couldn’t be sure that her feeling meant anything at all, how could she be sure that it meant something good? No, she was just growing feeble-minded. She’d seen it happen to many a woman who had outlived her mind.

  Only she knew she was not feeble-minded. Something was happening, and she wanted to run into Abram’s tent and beg him to ask the Lord what it was.

  Instead, not long after noon, the door of Abram’s tent parted. But he did not emerge. He stood there, in the darkness inside, only his hand protruding from the gap in the cloth. As if he were reaching for something, or someone.

  Sarai arose and walked across the yard between the tents and, not knowing why she did it, or what he would think when she did it, she reached out and took hold of his hand. “Abram,” she said. “Abram, are you all right?”

  “I’m not Abram,” he said.

  But she knew his hand. She knew his voice. What could he mean?

  “I am not Abram,” he said again. “God has visited me, and he gave me another name.”

  “Come out, then,” she said, “and tell me who you are.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then let me come in,” she said. “Let me see you.”

  “First,” he said, “I must tell you the name that God has given you.”

  She felt a thrill run through her. God had spoken to Abram and mentioned her? God knows me? God has given me a new name?

  “You are no longer Sarai,” said Abram. “God has named you in Hebrew this time. Sarah.”

  She was vaguely disappointed. The word sarah, “princess,” was close enough to her Sumerian name that more than one Hebrew had thought Sarai was a title and not a name. And why princess instead of queen? It was a name for a daughter, not for a wife. Yet . . . she did not know what this new name might mean. And Abram also had a new name.

  “May I come in?” asked Sarai.

  “What is your name?” asked Abram.

  She understood. He wanted her to call herself by the new name, to show that she accepted it.

  “Sarah,” she said.

  “The Lord has been in this tent today,” said Abram. “Enter the place where the Lord has been.” He drew her inside.

  She came in and saw nothing changed about the tent. But Abram was changed, she could see that. His face glowed, or so it seemed. She could not take her eyes from his face.

  “My name,” he said to her, “is no longer Abram.” Abram meant “exalted father.” What new name could the Lord have given him?

  “My name is Abraham,” he said.

  Father of multitudes.

  Another disappointment, though Sarai—no, Sarah—tried to stifle the feeling. Still, it hurt that God named her princess—a daughter, albeit of a king—and named her husband father of multitudes. The difference between them could not have been plainer.

  It was as if he saw into her heart. “No, Sarah, you don’t understand. You are named princess because you are the beloved daughter of the king of heaven. And I am named father of multitudes because Ishmael and his children will not be my only descendants.”

  She closed her eyes. He was going to take Hagar as a wife after all. He was going to have more children by her.

  “The Lord came to me and made a covenant with me. Not just a prophecy, but a solemn vow. A covenant, not just with me, but with all my seed after me. Giving us this land as an everlasting inheritance as long as we keep our part of the covenant. And you, Sarah, you will also be the mother of nations.”

  “Me!” She couldn’t keep a derisive laugh from escaping with the word.

  “Yes, I laughed too,” said Abraham. “It was such a strange th
ought, at our age.”

  My age, you mean.

  “And I prayed to him that Ishmael would live righteously before God, for obviously he is the only one through whom the covenant can be fulfilled. But the Lord said, Sarah thy wife shall bear thee a son indeed, and thou shalt call his name Isaac. And I will establish my covenant with him for an everlasting covenant, and with his seed after him.”

  “God came to you?” said Sarah. “To promise you that I would bear a son?” Immediately she thought of what such a thing would mean to Hagar. “But what about Ishmael?”

  “He confirmed great blessings on Ishmael. That he would be the father of twelve kings. But Sarah, he said that you would be a mother of nations, that great kings would be your descendants. This very covenant will be passed down through your son, Isaac, and he’ll be born at this time next year.”