by Marek Halter
Meanwhile, even though Abram’s desire for her showed no sign of lessening, and even though they slept in the same bed more often than many couples, Sarai, like everyone, became aware of her husband’s increasing hard-heartedness.
When they reached Harran, Terah wisely decided to stop their march and let the herds gaze their fill. It was a rich city, constantly crossed by convoys transporting wood from the north toward the powerful cities of the kingdom of Ur. The wealthy local traders soon began to take an interest in Terah’s statuettes. With his agile fingers, he fashioned a thousand idols, satisfying every one of his customers’ whims. No two statues were alike.
The orders came flooding in so fast that it was decided that Abram would work with his father. But the following moon, Abram refused to place offerings on the altar of Terah’s god or any other, and they quarreled violently. From that day on, relations between father and son grew increasingly sour. Terah avoided talking to his daughter-in-law. The mood of the whole tribe changed. Sarai felt she was being subjected to more and more speculative looks, to which she would respond with downcast eyes, for the truth was that she, too, thought it was her flat stomach that was causing Abram’s ill humor.
Sometimes she would sit up in the middle of the night, listening to Abram’s breathing beside her. What would happen if she woke him and told him the truth? Would he understand her childish terror? Would he understand how much she had loved him, even then, to resort to a kassaptu’s spells? Could her words ever make up for the barrenness of her womb?
She doubted it, and instead of waking him, she would merely stroke the back of his neck and lie down next to him again with her eyes wide open, the silence gripping her chest like ice.
THE ball of wool rose into the air, wrapped in a piece of linen, and the children shrieked with joy. When it fell back to the ground, they threw themselves on it in a furious scrum. As usual, Lot was the first to extricate himself from the heap of legs and arms, the ball in his hands. Sarai, who had been watching with furrowed brow, relaxed. She resumed her work, spreading the newly woven and washed pieces of wool on the sun-warmed rocks.
The boys ran, shouting, through the fields of thick grass that bordered the encampment. Then their game took them farther, toward the river, the workshop, and Terah’s kiln. They disappeared behind the brick wall, from which smoke rose constantly. Sarai thought to call them back, but they were out of earshot by now and she had no desire to run after them.
She glanced at the women who were busy around her, washing the newly woven wool or pressing it with stones to wring it and soften it. One of them smiled at her and waved her hand toward the river.
“Let them be, Sarai. If they disturb Terah, he’ll know how to get rid of them!”
“He’ll put their ball in his kiln,” another said, “and then we’ll have to make them another one!”
They resumed their work, beating the cloths and rugs in time to the songs they hummed. Suddenly, the children’s cries grew more shrill, and were followed by a suspicious silence. All the women looked up.
“They’ve been fighting again!” one of them sighed, rubbing the small of her back.
Lot came around the corner of Terah’s workshop. He was alone and was holding his face in his hands. Swaying like a drunk, he began to climb the slope. Sarai lifted the bottom of her tunic and ran to meet him. Halfway up the slope, just before he reached her, Lot fell to his knees in the grass. Blood was gushing between his fingers and down his neck. Sarai parted his hands: There was a nasty cut, full of brick dust, running from his temple into the thick mass of his hair. It wasn’t really a deep or serious wound, but it was bleeding profusely.
“You almost split your head open!” Sarai exclaimed. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“Not that much,” replied Lot in a blank voice. He was making an effort not to cry, but was shaking like a leaf. “They pushed me down on the piles of broken pottery behind grandfather’s workshop.”
By now, his cheeks were bathed in blood, and it was running down inside his tunic. Sarai quickly untied her belt and wrapped it around his head.
“Do you need any help?” a woman asked, above them.
“No,” Sarai shouted back. “It isn’t serious. Just a cut. Sililli must have some herbs.”
She wiped Lot’s face as best she could with the bottom of her tunic. He was finding it hard to hold back his tears.
“They were all against me!” he said, his mouth quivering with pride and anger. “Not one of them was on my side!”
“That’s because you’re the strongest,” Sarai whispered, kissing him on the cheek. “If they didn’t get together to fight you, they’d never win.”
Lot looked at her with dark, serious eyes, and sniffed. The red stain was spreading on the bandage, making him look like a little warrior back from the wars.
“I’m proud of you,” Sarai said.
Lot forced a smile. He slipped his arms under her lifted tunic and hugged her bare thighs with all his strength.
“Let’s go into the tent,” she said, gently freeing herself.
SILILLI, of course, cried out when they appeared. But in next to no time Lot had been washed and given new clothes and a big bandage over a plaster of crushed clay and grass.
“No more fighting, my boy!” Sililli ordered, stabbing his chest with an authoritative finger. “The bandage has to stay in place until tomorrow. If not, I’ll let you bleed like the little pig you are!”
Lot shrugged. “It isn’t serious,” he said, confidently. “Sarai will take care of me.” He hugged Sarai, while Sililli pretended to be offended. “I like it when you look after me. You’re as sweet to me as you are to my uncle Abram.”
Sarai laughed softly, gave Lot several little pecks on the cheek, and pushed him away.
“Listen to that, the greedy little man!” Sililli said, slapping him on the buttocks.
Lot skipped to the opening of the tent. On the threshold, he turned to Sarai. “It’s when you take care of me that I know you’re really like my mother.”
Sarai, her eyes abruptly misting over, gestured to him to go. Nervously, she began putting away the bags of herbs and pots of plaster, aware of Sililli’s eyes on her back. As she picked up Lot’s bloodstained linen, Sililli decided to speak.
“Tsilla asked me again this morning: ‘Still nothing in Sarai’s womb?’ I answered no, as usual. She asked me if Abram and you often slept in the same tent. I said, ‘Too often for my taste. Three nights never go by without them waking me with the noise of their lovemaking!’ That made her laugh—her and the rest of the gossips who were listening so hard.”
Sarai shook her head, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. Sililli approached, and took the bloodstained linen from her hands.
“Tsilla laughed to make the others laugh,” she went on, lowering her voice. “Because she likes you. She’s liked you since the first day, when she gave you the bridal veil. She laughed because she loves Abram as much as I love you. But she’s no fool. She’s understood. She knows.”
Dry-eyed again, Sarai tried hard to stop her voice from trembling. “How can you be so sure? Did she say something?”
“Oh, no! She didn’t need to. Old women like Tsilla and me don’t need to tell each other everything, we understand each other perfectly well. She’s been asking me the same question every month since we arrived in Harran. I’m sure she even knows about the blood on the sheets.”
Sarai turned away. “I have to get back to the others. I haven’t finished my work.”
Sililli held her back by the arm, determined to spare her nothing. “Tsilla knows, but she’s a good woman, and she knows how difficult life is. The others, the ones you work with, aren’t so forgiving. I can read it in their eyes like a scribe reading a clay tablet. They’re thinking: Sarai’s beautiful, the most beautiful of us all. There isn’t a man here—husband or son—who doesn’t dream of having the girl from Ur in his bed and sharing some of Abram’s happiness. Yes, their eyes are full of jealousy
and their hearts full of poison. But time is passing, and the girl from Ur, the girl Abram chose as a wife against his father’s wishes, the girl who drove all the virgins in the tribe to despair, has a belly that’s still flat. And I see the smiles coming back to their faces. Because they’re starting to realize that Sarai isn’t going to have a child. Beautiful she may be, but she’s as sterile as desert sand.”
“I know all that,” Sarai said, angrily. “Keep your moaning to yourself. I don’t need anyone to see and hear for me.”
“In that case,” Sililli went on, undaunted, “perhaps you’ve realized that Abram’s character has changed? Almighty Ea, your husband has become as dark and closed as a cellar! He doesn’t play with Lot anymore, even though he loves him as if he were his real father. He’s as stubborn as a mule. Not a moon goes by that he doesn’t quarrel with someone or other, beginning with his father, Terah. Those two have been as daggers drawn since the start of spring—and over nothing.”
Sarai pushed Sililli’s hand away and went out of the tent and into the sun. Sililli followed her, the soiled linen still clasped to her ample chest.
“Sarai, listen to me. You know I live only for your happiness. Do I still need to prove it to you?”
Sarai did not move. Mealtime was approaching, and the camp was full of activity. She thought of the loaves stuffed with meat and herbs that she had baked for Abram without the help of any handmaid. She had invented the recipe herself, as a surprise for him. Instead of listening to Sililli’s whining, which was breaking her heart, she ought to be doing her duty as a wife: She ought to get the loaves, find Abram, and give him his meal. But Sililli could not stop talking.
“This is the truth, Sarai, my child: Everyone’s afraid for the tribe. Everyone thinks Abram made the wrong choice of wife. Everyone thinks, ‘Terah’s eldest child, Haran, is dead, and soon Abram will become chief of the tribe.’ But what is a chief if his wife can’t give him sons and daughters? They’ll start to argue about the the family’s behavior, and they’ll all turn against you.”
Sarai remained silent for another moment, then shook her head. “I’m going to see Abram and tell him everything. I don’t care what the others think. It isn’t right for me to hide the truth from him any longer.”
“Think of the consequences. He’ll reject you. Or take a concubine. You’ll be reduced to nothing. Even if he chooses a handmaid, once she has his child in her womb, she’ll be the mother, and you’ll be nothing. That’s how it happens. The best thing would be to undo what you’ve done. I can find herbs, and we’ll try to bring your blood back.”
“Haven’t you given me enough herbs already? All they ever made me do was run into the bushes!”
“We can try again. I’ve heard of a very good kassaptu who lives on the edge of town—”
“No. I don’t want any more magic. And you’re wrong. Abram isn’t like other men. He loves the truth. I’ll tell him why my womb is barren. I’ll tell him I did it because I loved him from the first moment I saw him. He’ll understand.”
“That would certainly be the first time a man understood a woman’s sorrow! May Inanna, our almighty Mother Moon, hear you.”
WITH a heavy heart, Sarai put her loaves, a gourd of cool water, another of beer, and some grapes and peaches in a basket, and covered it with a fine cloth she herself had woven. Since she had started living with the mar.Tu, she had learned to love these simple gestures. At that moment, though, the mere fact of carrying a basket brought a lump to her throat.
Aware that she was being watched, she stood up, and left the encampment with a confident step, responding to the smiles and greetings as she usually did.
In the distance, she saw a group of children gathered around Lot, whose turbaned head stood out above the others. Despite her distress, she could not help smiling fondly. She was sure Lot had succeeded in using his wound to compel respect from the other boys. She was sure, too, that the tenderness and pride she felt for Abram’s nephew was the same as a mother feels for her beloved son.
She walked toward the river as far as Terah’s workshop, where Abram had been working with his father since their arrival in Harran. The fire roared in the cylindrical kiln, which was twice the height of a man. Terah’s assistants were throwing big logs in through an opening, behind which flames could be seen dancing. Although they wore only loincloths, the heat was so intense that their torsos streamed with sweat.
Sarai hung back: Terah did not really like women to enter the lean-to where the statues of the gods were kept for polishing and painting before being taken to the customers. She called one of the assistants over and asked for Abram. The assistant told her that Abram wasn’t there. He had left the workshop early in the morning and nobody had seen him since.
Sarai’s first thought was that he had had another quarrel with his father.
“Do you know where he went?”
The assistant asked his workmates. They pointed to a path that led across the river and up a slope to a high plateau where the herds grazed. She thanked them and, without hesitating, set off along the path.
Tree trunks had been thrown across the river as a bridge. As she crossed, Sarai was sure that Terah was following her with his eyes from the door of the lean-to. She hurried on, anxious to join her husband.
As she climbed the path to the plateau, she tried to formulate the words she would say to Abram. She had been his wife for nearly twenty moons. Twenty moons since she had fled the great temple of Ur. Twenty moons filled with joy and sorrow. Yet she had never found the courage to tell Abram the truth. Now she had to. There was no turning back.
SHE walked quickly. By the time she reached the top of the slope, she was out of breath, and her heart beat so loudly that her ears hummed. As far as her eyes could see, the plateau was empty. No herds, and no people.
She went up to the great sycamore, older than many generations of men, which sat in solitary splendor on the edge of the plateau. Its shade was vast and cool. Abram often came here to rest and think, sometimes even to sleep when the nights were too hot.
But there was nobody resting against the grooved trunk now. Abram was nowhere to be seen.
Sarai stopped into the shade of the sycamore and put down her basket. The grass was bending in the breeze. In the far distance, to the north and the east, the mountains seemed as transparent as petals in the blue sky. From here, everything seemed immense and infinite.
She sat down and rested her shoulders and head against the rough bark. All at once, she felt terribly weary, and as helpless as an abandoned child. If only she could curl up in Abram’s powerful arms, hear his warm voice, feel his soft lips, then she could tell him what was so important!
But Abram was not here.
At that moment, his absence seemed absolute. As if, wherever Abram was, he was an infinitely long way from her.
The tears she had held back for so long gushed from her eyes like an overflowing spring. They streamed down her cheeks, into her mouth, and over her neck. There was nobody to see her, and Sarai wept all the tears that were in her.
Then, when her eyes were dry again and her heart calmer, her trust in Abram returned. Sooner or later he would appear. She would wait here and rest, regaining her strength so that, when she spoke, her words would be strong and right.
Despite herself, a very old prayer to Inanna rose to her lips:
Inanna, holy Moon, holy Mother,
Queen of Heaven,
Open my heart, open my womb, open my mouth.
Take my thoughts for offerings.
Abram’s God
Noises rose from the village of tents. Fragrant smoke spread from Terah’s kiln as far as the eye could see, mingling the scents of oak, cedar, sycamore, and terebinth. The path out of the encampment led past the workshop, wound between the opulent hills, and joined the main road to Harran. From the edge of the plateau, Sarai could see the fine houses of the city. The shadows were lengthening. Abram still had not reappeared. The coolness of the shade and the im
mense tranquility of the plateau was making Sarai drowsy.
Feeling hungry and thirsty, she ate one of the loaves she had made for Abram and drank the water—the gourd had kept it cold.
She continued waiting, struggling against her anxiety. It was unusual for Abram to be absent like this without a word to her or Lot.
By now, they must have noticed his absence in the camp, too.
What if Abram didn’t come back before nightfall? What if she had to go back to the tent alone?
Suddenly, she felt something. His presence.
Perhaps even his footsteps.
She got to her feet, searching the plateau from one side to the other. And then she saw him. She was surprised at herself: How had she known he was coming?
He was still such a long way away. Nothing but a silhouette, advancing through the tall grass!
But she recognized him. She did not need to see his face to know it was him.
He was walking quickly, with long strides. A rush of joy swept away all Sarai’s doubts and fears. She wanted to call to him but only raised her arms to signal to him.
Abram responded. She began running.
When they were quite close, she realized he was laughing. His face was radiant with joy. It was many moons since she had last seen him looking like that!
He stopped, and opened his arms wide. “Sarai, my beloved!” he said.
They embraced like lovers separated by a long journey.
Beneath her cheek and in her hair, Sarai could still hear Abram’s laughter. Then his words came, rapid and breathless:
“He spoke to me! He called me: ‘Abram! Abram!’ I replied: ‘Here I am!’ Then there was silence. So I walked, far away, beyond the plateau. I didn’t think I would hear Him again. But He did call me: ‘Abram!’ And I said: ‘Yes, I’m here!’” Abram laughed again.
