by Marek Halter
“Terah isn’t here anymore,” she said. “He and all his people have gone.”
“Gone?” Sarai’s surprise was so great, she nearly cried out.
“They’ve been gone two moons already,” the old mar.Tu went on. “It’s winter. They’ve taken the flocks of the lords of Ur to be counted for the tax.”
SHE had been prepared for anything, but never for a moment had she imagined that Abram and his family would not be there.
She had thought of how angry Abram might be when he saw her. Or how happy she would be to see him smile at the sight of her.
She had thought of the words she would say to him: “I’ve come to you so that you can place your mouth on mine. My father is going to find me a new husband. This time, I shan’t be able to refuse. If he asked me what I wanted, I’d choose you, though I know that no lord of the royal city has ever given his daughter to a mar.Tu. But for for the past three moons, not a day has passed that I haven’t thought about you. I’ve thought about your lips and the kiss I wanted from them the night you protected me. I’ve thought long and hard. I’ve prayed to holy Inanna, made offerings to Nintu and the statues of our ancestors in my father’s temple. I waited for them to speak to me, to tell me if these thoughts of mine were bad. They said nothing. They let me leave the city without showing their anger. Now I’m here before you, for I know that your kiss will purify me, just as well as the icy water in the chamber of blood, and better than a basin full of scent or a sacrifice of ewes. Give me that kiss, Abram, and I’ll return to my father’s house and become the wife of the man he’s chosen for me. I’ll accept him. When he comes to my bed, the breath of your kiss will be on my lips to protect me.”
She had thought he would laugh. Or get angry. She had thought that perhaps he would not be satisfied with just a kiss. She was ready for that. Nothing that came from him could soil her. Nothing that he took from her—denying it to her future husband—could diminish her.
But perhaps he would say, “No! I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want a stranger to come to your bed. Come, let me introduce you to my brothers and my father. You will be my chosen wife. We’ll go far away from Ur.”
For that, too, she was ready.
She had imagined so many things!
But never had she thought that he might have left the riverbank and be far away, unattainable.
Now she was running, far from the tents of the mar.Tu, running until she was out of breath in order not to cry, and wondering what to do next.
Sililli must be looking for her in every corner of the house, heart pounding with terror. Hiding from everyone the fact that Sarai was gone, for fear of Ichbi Sum-Usur’s rage. Begging the gods for Sarai’s return.
Sarai could do what Sililli and her father wanted. She could return and say, “I went to pray in the great temple to purify myself.” Sililli, in her relief, would believe her. Everyone would be delighted with how sensible she was being.
The next time she emerged from the chamber of blood, her father would announce that he had finally convinced a man from the royal city to take her as his wife. A lord of Ur, not as rich or as handsome as the man she had humiliated, but whose fault was that?
Sarai would bow her head, go to the temple, listen to the soothsayer. There would be no guests this time, no chanting, no dancing, no banquets. But the groom would still come impatiently to her chamber and her bed.
He would touch her, and Abram’s kiss would not protect her. Abram’s lips, words, and caresses would not be with her through her married life.
It was then that she heard the words. Words that no lips uttered, as if a god or a demon had breathed them.
“Do you need something, goddess? Kani Alk-Nàa will sell it to you!”
Sarai stopped running, her chest on fire, tears stinging her eyes.
“Do you need something, goddess?” she heard again.
The old witch! The kassaptu who had shouted at her the day she met Abram! It was her voice Sarai was hearing in her head. And, as if in echo, she remembered the stories her aunts had told in the chamber of blood: “There’s one woman who drank the herb of infertility. She didn’t bleed for three whole moons. Her husband didn’t want to touch her anymore, or even hear anyone speak her name. Her husband or any other man. Who’d want a woman capable of stopping her own blood?”
Sarai caught her breath. A smile as gray as the sky clouded her features. The gods were not abandoning her. They wouldn’t let her spoil like dead meat in the arms of a husband.
“THE herb of infertility?” the kassaptu muttered. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Sarai merely nodded. Her heart was pounding. It had been less difficult to find the witch’s lair again than to go inside. Everyone in the lower city seemed to know Kani Alk-Nàa. But before she could find the courage to cross the threshold of the one room that served as her lair, Sarai had walked up and down the street a dozen times.
“You’re quite young to want the herb of infertility,” Kani Alk-Nàa went on. “It can be dangerous at your age.”
Sarai resisted the desire to reply. She clasped her hands together; she didn’t want the witch to see them shaking.
“Are you at least a wife?”
Once again Sarai did not reply. She stared at the dozens of baskets piled up in every corner of the room, giving off a smell of dust and rotting fruit. A thin chuckle made her turn her head. The old woman was laughing, her little pink tongue wriggling between her bare gums like a snake’s tail.
“Afraid, are you? Afraid that Kani Alk-Nàa will cast a spell on you, lord’s daughter?”
Without a word, Sarai took off the purse that hung around her neck and emptied the contents in front of the witch.
“Three shekels,” the old woman calculated, gathering the copper and silver rings avidly; she was not laughing now. “I don’t care if you’re a wife or not. But I need to know if it’s already happened.”
Sarai hesitated, uncertain if she had understood correctly.
The old woman sighed. “Has the bull been between your thighs?” she asked, with irritation. “Are you an opened woman? If not, come back and see me after the man has parted your thighs.”
“I am an opened woman,” Sarai lied, in a hoarse voice.
The kassaptu’s eyes, barely visible between the folds of her eyelids, remained fixed for a moment. Sarai was afraid she would guess the truth.
“Good. And how long has the man’s milk been inside you?”
“Almost . . . almost one moon.”
“Hmmm. You should have come earlier.” The old woman stretched her puny hand toward the baskets. She took out five little packets of herbs wrapped in dried reeds and handed them to Sarai. “Here’s your herb of infertility.”
“How many times is it for?” asked Sarai, without daring to look up.
“How many times will your bleeding stop? That depends on the woman. Two moons, maybe three, as you’re young. You’ll see. Put each of these packets in a silà of boiling water, without opening them, and leave them to soak for half a day. Then take the packets out and drink the infusion three times between the zenith and twilight. Do as I tell you, lord’s daughter, and everything will be fine.”
SARAI had guessed right. She found Sililli hiding in her bedchamber, her face bathed in tears, her voice shrill with reproach, relief, anger, and tenderness. She had been so afraid that she had said nothing. Nobody in the house knew that Sarai had been gone since morning.
“I said you were sick, you had a bad stomach, and I’d given you herbs to help you sleep. You weren’t to be disturbed, in order to let the herbs do their work. May all the Lords of Heaven forgive me, I’ve been telling lies all day!”
“No, no. Your herbs always do me good! I’ll be up tomorrow, and they’ll see me and say that Sililli knows more about herbs than any other handmaid in the city!”
The compliment, and Sarai’s promise to show herself to the whole household the next day, made Sililli smile through her tears. But her mo
aning soon resumed.
“You’ll be the death of me, my girl, the death of me! Either your father will kill me with his scorpions, or the gods will tear my heart out for my lies!”
“It’s only a little lie,” Sarai jested bitterly. “Almost the truth.”
“Don’t blaspheme, I beg you! Not on a day like today.” She lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper to ask the question that was tormenting her. “Were you with him? With the mar.Tu?”
Sarai thought of telling the truth. But then she thought of the kassaptu’s little packets rubbing against her skin under the belt of her tunic, and she lied again. After all, what was one lie more or less?
“No, I went to the great temple of Inanna. I wanted to make offerings and ask the protection of the Almighty One so that my father should make a good choice for the man I am to marry.”
“The great temple? Is that where you were?”
“I need to be prepared. I don’t want to be afraid again.”
“Without telling me—even though you know your father has forbidden you to leave the house?”
“The idea came to me while you were still asleep. Everyone was asleep, even my father. And I wanted to be alone before holy Inanna.”
Sililli shook her head. “You’ll be the death of me, my girl,” she said again, “the death of me!”
Sarai summoned the strength to smile and to hug her, pressing her cheek against hers, until Sililli abandoned her questions with a sigh of resignation.
“Anyway, you’re here. And we all have to die one day.”
But she never again let Sarai out of her sight. She would wake her in the night to make sure she had not run away. Because of this, Sarai was unable to prepare the herb of infertility until just before it was time for her to go back to the chamber of blood. Nor was she able to follow Kani Alk-Nàa’s instructions to the letter.
She stole a pitcher of boiling water from the kitchen, put the five packets of herbs in it to soak, and hid it in the garden. But thanks to Sililli’s vigilance, she could not drink the infusion as quickly as she wanted. It was not until the next day that she managed to escape her handmaid’s eyes, slip out into the garden, and take the infused packets of herbs from the pitcher. They had become white and shriveled. Did it really matter that they had soaked for so long? Sarai doubted it. The important thing was to hide them until she had an opportunity to destroy them!
Recalling the disgusting stench of the witch’s lair, she dreaded the taste of the potion, but she was pleasantly surprised: The infusion was sweet, almost as sweet as honey, with a slightly acid but refreshing aftertaste. It was far from unpleasant, and she would even have drunk it for pleasure. Fearing that she would have little free time in the hours to come, Sarai decided unhesitatingly to swallow the entire pitcher.
When she returned to the women’s quarters, she felt calm for the first time in days. At last, it was done. At last, the herb of infertility was inside her. The blood wasn’t coming to flow between her thighs.
She knew what would happen. After two, or three, or five days with no blood on her linen, Sililli, her aunts, and her father would think she was ill; it would not occur to any of them that she had been brave enough to enter the lair of a kassaptu. They would make a large number of offerings to Nintu, but the blood still would not flow. Two moons would pass, perhaps three.
Long enough for her father to postpone the bridegroom’s arrival, perhaps even to renounce the idea of offering his daughter to anyone at all.
Long enough for the mar.Tu Abram to return.
That night, taking advantage of Sililli’s brief absence, Sarai quickly hid the five packets of the herb of infertility under her bed. Then she stood before the red silhouette of the goddess Nintu at the foot of her bed, opened her arms and the palms of her hands, and turned her face up to heaven. Without her lips moving, without anyone hearing her, she implored Nintu’s mercy.
O Nintu, patroness of childbirth, you who received the brick of childbearing from the hands of almighty Enki, you who hold the scissors of the birth cord,
Consider your daughter Sarai, be patient with her,
Look down on my weakness,
Look at the blood that is in my heart:
It is cold for the husband I have not chosen.
The herb of infertility is like a cloud in the sky,
It does not long stop the sun from shining.
O Nintu, forgive Sarai, daughter of Ichbi Sum-Usur.
IT was toward morning, while she was fast asleep, that hell entered Sarai’s belly.
She saw it first in her dream. Dancing flames penetrated her body like a man. She tried to ward them off, but her hands went right through the fire without lessening it. She saw her own body become red and swollen, while the kassaptu’s face creased with pleasure and she shouted in a loud voice: “You see, now it’s true: You are an opened woman.” Sarai’s body cracked open, her entrails split and burned. She saw them fall to the ground, black and shriveled. She twisted in pain. Her belly, like an emptied gourd, made her weep and cry out. The cries became her name and woke her.
“Sarai! Sarai! Why are you shouting like that?”
Sililli was leaning over her, holding her hands, her face distorted with fear in the dim light of the oil lamp.
“Are you sick?” Sililli was asking. “Where does it hurt?”
Sarai could not answer. The fire in her belly was sucking the air from her lungs. She could hardly breathe.
“It’s only a nightmare,” Sililli said, imploringly. “You must wake up.”
The fire made her limbs ice cold. She could feel them becoming hard and brittle. She opened her mouth wide, trying desperately to breathe. Sililli seized Sarai around the waist and supported her back, which was arching as if it would break. Suddenly, everything inside her became soft, dusty, like something rotten reduced to ashes. The air finally entered her lungs, sweeping away the ash and what remained of the fire. She saw blackness coming. An immense, welcoming darkness. She was happy to vanish into it.
She did not hear Sililli’s screams, which woke the whole of Ichbi Sum-Usur’s household.
UNTIL daybreak, they thought she was dead.
Sililli filled the women’s courtyard with weeping. Ichbi Sum-Usur ordered all the fires to be extinguished. Shutting himself away in the temple of the house, he prostrated himself before the statues of his ancestors with a fervor that astonished his eldest son. Kiddin watched the tears streaming down his father’s cheeks with a mixture of disappointment and disgust. When he saw him lie down on the floor and empty a goblet of cold ashes over his noble head, the thought occurred to him that the gods were infinitely wise: They had taken his sister from the world. A sister incapable of abiding by the laws and duties of women. An ill-fated sister who attracted demons but could still melt the heart of an overfond father. Had she lived a few more years, he and his father would both have become the laughingstocks of Ur.
Just before dawn, Egime let out a cry.
“Sarai’s alive! She’s alive, she’s breathing!”
She repeated it until Ichbi Sum-Usur rushed to the women’s quarters and a stunned silence ensued.
Replacing Sililli, who could not bear to approach the corpse of the girl she considered her own child, Egime had been about to wash, purify, and dress Sarai for her journey to the underworld. But doubt had stayed her hand.
“She isn’t cold and she isn’t stiff,” she explained. “And parts of her stomach are burning hot. I put my hand on her chest and listened to her mouth: She’s breathing.”
As they stood there before Sarai’s inert body on her beautiful bridal bed, Egime called them to witness. She held a dove’s feather close to her niece’s cracked lips. The feather shook, and slowly bent, first in one direction then the other. There was no doubt about it: Air was entering and leaving Sarai’s body.
“She’s alive,” Egime said. “She’s just sleeping.”
Sililli yelped like a ewe being slaughtered, and collapsed on the floor
. Ichbi Sum-Usur was shaken by a long, nervous laugh. Kiddin shot him a fierce look, and he managed to stifle it. He ordered all the fires to be relit, one hundred silà of cedarwood shavings to be burned, and Sarai’s young aunts to purify themselves and go to the great temple of Inanna to offer half a flock of small livestock in his name.
When the sun had reached its zenith, Sarai was still asleep. She was still asleep at twilight. Sililli, who had been watching over this stubborn sleep as if she were watching a pot of milk on a fire, turned to Egime.
“It isn’t possible. She can’t be asleep.”
“She is. I know what happened. The punishment finally came. Her intended husband’s gods asked Ereshkigal for justice, and Ereshkigal sent his great demon Pazzuzzu to take her last night and drag her down to hell. But Sarai must have found a way to move him. You know how she is. The demon finally let her go. She was so exhausted when she came back, she needs many hours’ sleep.”
Sililli thought for a while, then shook her head. “Things may have happened that way. . . . But did Pazzuzzu let her go just so she could sleep?”
“That’s what she’s doing.”
“No. I know what sleep is. You move, your limbs twitch. She hasn’t moved a muscle since this morning.”
“It’ll come,” Egime replied, with a touch of irritation. “The way you sleep when you come back from the underworld is no ordinary sleep.”
“It isn’t sleep at all!” Sillilli went on, stubbornly. “She’s still sick. That’s what I think.”
“She’s asleep. It doesn’t really matter what you think.”
“What do you mean? I’m almost like her mother. Her life is my life! She’s as much part of me as if she had come out of me.”
“Some use that’s been! We’ve all appreciated the kind of behavior you taught her!”
Soon, the two women were arguing so violently that they had to be separated. Egime left Sarai’s bedchamber in a furious temper, which she took out on anyone who approached her.
