Abraham and Sarah (8 page)

Abram turned and Lot was surprised to see that his eyes were soft with something close to pity. “Nahor,” he said, “I, more than most, understand about family. There is only one thing stronger than family.”

Nahor leaned forward, his jaw taut, his eyes hard and cold. “Nothing, nothing is stronger than family, and you are the oldest.”

Abram stood up and walked to the parapet. His natural dignity immediately silenced Nahor. Abram seemed calm and very much in control as he glanced down into the courtyard and then out at the stars. “You know you are welcome to come with me,” he said finally. “I hope Lot will decide to come.”

Lot was stunned, while Nahor seemed almost overcome with frustration. Nahor closed and unclosed his fists. His voice choked with emotion. “As I hear it, you don’t really know where you’re going. You have only some promise of land, descendants, and blessing,” he thundered. “You have taken total leave of your senses and now you expect me to go. It’s foolishness. No good will come of it. It’s not a trading venture. It’s not a business proposition. It’s merely a dream, a childish dream.”

Abram listened patiently to the tirade, and when he finally spoke, it was with a twinge of regret. “I’m sorry you don’t want to come. It won’t be easy, but as you mentioned, I have promises.”

“I’ll not let you take the household gods our father left us.”

“I neither want nor need them.”

Nahor cringed. “You are to have blessings, land, and descendants, and you are leaving the gods behind?”

“I would have left them in Ur.”

“I thought after the trouble that you would have learned.”

“My brother,” Abram said with quiet dignity, “I didn’t want to offend you, so I said nothing. I neither need nor want those lifeless bits of clay.”

“Lifeless clay!” Nahor shouted, jumping to his feet. “You call them lifeless clay! They have powers you can’t imagine.”

“You have no proof.” Now Abram’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Aha, no proof you say. I have proof. We all have had proof, but our old father forbade us to speak of it.”

Abram took a deep breath, leaned back against the rough edge of the parapet, and demanded, “You have proof. What proof? Why were you not to speak of it?”

“Our father made us promise. He said we were never to say the words.”

“And now I am head of this family, and I demand that you tell me everything.”

Nahor backed up, looking frightened at what he’d brought about. But then glancing at Lot, he stiffened and drew himself up, speaking quickly and boldly, “It has been noticed by our family—and indeed by all our acquaintances—that while we have many children, you have none.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Why, it’s obvious to all of us. You have offended the great earth mother. She has closed Sarai’s womb.”

Abram stared at Nahor in disbelief. The cruel words cut like a knife. Others might point out the lack, but for his own brother to mention it was devastating. “I will have children,” Abram said at last. His voice was calm, and there was still a quiet dignity about him. “I have been promised children and descendants.”

Nahor was totally frustrated, but he couldn’t leave the subject alone. “You will have children when you make peace with Ningal. Look, I have children, the poorest peasant has children, the king has hundreds, and they all worship Ningal.”

“Keep the house gods. I have been given promises,” Abram said.

“Promises!” Nahor spat on the floor in a spasm of disgust. “What good have your promises been? Our homes and lands are gone, our father has died, and you have not one child to show for your promises.” In a veritable frenzy he snatched up his silver-knobbed walking stick, flung his cloak over his
shoulder, and strode toward the door. “You’ll be back,” he said through clenched teeth as he shook the walking stick. “I predict you’ll be back. You can’t live on dreams or depend on Elohim. You’ll see.”

He closed the door with a bang, and they could hear him breathing heavily as he felt his way down the dark stairs.

In that moment Lot made his decision. “My uncle,” he said, “I know nothing of this God and I have very little faith in the venture, but if you’ll have me, I’d like to go too.”

In just such a simple way Lot decided to join his uncle. He was encouraged by the thought that Abram had some genuine promise of great blessing and that if he were there, he would get a little of it for himself.

As Lot made his way down the stairs and out into the narrow lane, he congratulated himself on his wisdom. Abram had no children of his own, and with a bit of luck it was possible that he would choose Lot to inherit all his wealth. Any way he looked at it, his best chance for good fortune lay with Abram. Lot drew in his breath with the excitement of it all. With Abram’s wealth he would move to the city and enjoy all the comforts he had only imagined up until now.

Abram had not followed them down the stairs. For the first time in his life, he let himself shirk the niceties and conventions of his people. It was a small thing compared to what he’d been accused of: deserting the family. To turn his back on his own flesh and blood was almost the worst crime a man could commit. To desert his family and the household gods made by his father was beyond the comprehension of anyone he knew. He didn’t blame Nahor for his strong reaction.

Of course, it all went deeper than any of them imagined. It had started in Ur with innocent questions, then the scandal over Sarai, and finally the devastation by the Elamites. Was it possible that he was the only one who watched how easily they gutted Nanna’s temple and swept the god from his pedestal? Nanna, the powerful god who controlled the moon and stars, seedtime and harvest and was supposed to hold their fate in his hands. The god was helpless before the Elamites.

Abram knew he had hurt Nahor and frightened Sarai, but there was no way he could turn back. He rubbed his hand along the cold stones of the parapet
and took a deep breath of the clear night air. It had seemed such a small decision … to keep moving, to seek Elohim’s path. Now he saw that it was going to be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

A few days later, Urim the cheese maker squeezed in among the men at the gate while Abram was discussing his plans. He wanted desperately to go too. “Can you use a cheese maker?” he asked when there was a lull in the conversation.

He saw Abram’s eyes move over the heads of the dignitaries and search him out. “A cheese maker? We can always use a cheese maker,” he said, obviously recognizing Urim. “If you really want to go, come and let my nephew Lot record your name.” Abram’s eyes crinkled into an amused smile.

In a daze of excitement Urim hurried over to where Lot sat cross-legged on a raised platform in the shade. Up close Urim could see that Lot appeared to be shrewd and calculating. He wasn’t as relaxed and genial as Abram. After many questions and several conferences with his uncle, Lot had a scribe record Urim’s name in wedge-shaped characters on a tablet of moist clay.

When Urim returned home, reality set in. He could answer none of the practical questions his wife asked him. He walked around the small courtyard touching the large jars of grain and olive oil, then his old plow, the yoke hanging beside it, and the cart from which he sold his cheese. He’d need to get rid of some of these things and take only the essentials.

“I’ll have to take the molds and pots for making cheese,” he said half to himself.

“I need my grindstones, my loom, and the dried herbs,” his wife said.

In the end it was the tent that caused the most trouble and almost kept Urim from going. To have a goat hair tent made the size he needed for his family would have taken six months. There was no time for that, and finally he ended the matter by trading some of his goats to a band of nomads for one of their worn tents.

When the day of departure arrived and those who were going gathered before sunrise outside the city gates, Urim and his family were included. He sat on one donkey that was loaded down with their bedrolls. His wife sat on another that was almost covered with bags of wheat and barley. She held in her arms the precious grindstones and had her savory herbs tied around
her waist. Behind them came two donkeys laden with Urim’s cheese-making equipment. On each side were his four young sons herding the goats that were to produce the milk for cheese.

There was great confusion as relatives and friends came out to say goodbye. Urim had left his house and tools with his brother, and now there were last-minute admonitions and expressed concern. “I’m surprised that you’re really going,” Urim’s brother said.

“Don’t worry,” Urim replied smugly. “It’s the chance of a lifetime. I’m going to get rich and famous with Abram.”

“We’ll see,” the brother said. “It’s more than likely you’ll be back poorer and wiser. Too bad you won’t listen to reason.”

The signal was given; the donkeys were prodded into a loose grouping; goats and sheep padded past with only the clicking sound of the herders and an occasional bleating. The early morning air was vibrant with excitement as the whole formation took shape and began to move. For a short time the torches flickered along the wall and at the gate, and then the city of Haran was lost in darkness.

Urim chuckled. “What a surprise my brother is in for. I’ll be back in no time and rich enough to sit at the gate with the best of them.”

At the same time on a rooftop overlooking the city gate, a lone figure watched everything with interest, even at times straining forward to catch the chance remarks that drifted up to him from the gathering below. It was Nahor. He had been too proud to speak to his brother since the disagreement, and he was unyielding in his determination not to say he was sorry.

He was bitterly disappointed. Abram was the older brother. It was his duty to hold the family together, to plan for them, to make a living from which they could all benefit. “He’s making a big mistake, a very big mistake,” Nahor muttered.

He watched until the torches at the gate were snuffed out and the last of the stragglers faded into the early morning mist. Soon even the sounds of bleating and soft, padding hooves could no longer be heard. “He’ll be sorry, very sorry,” he said as he turned and felt his way down the narrow stairs.

Back on his hard straw pallet he tossed and turned, trying to rid himself of the anger and resentment. “He’s not one for such a venture. He’s a bargainer, a man of important affairs, a shrewd dealer. He’s wasting it all, and he’s destroyed the family.” He felt such anger and frustration he knew the sun
would be up before he could get any sleep.

Nahor sat up and groped in the dark for the wall niche and the small, well-formed image of Nanna carefully wrapped in a woolen cloth. He ran his hands over its smooth belly and round bald head. He could feel the jewels that made up the eyes. Nanna was powerful. Nanna, god of the moon, kept the dark forces of night and evil spirits under control. Abram had done a fearful thing to divide the family this way, and worse than that, he had turned his back on the old household gods that had always protected them. “Sarai will never have a child until he makes peace with the gods,” he said for the hundredth time.

That his sensible brother could flaunt the proven necessity of their household gods was unthinkable. It was frightening to live in a house without gods and even more frightening to go off on such a trek without them. “He’ll be back,” he muttered to himself. “He’ll be back having lost everything.”

Nahor raised the cold red clay god to his lips, smelled the musty odor of rose water and incense, then carefully wrapped it in the woolen cloth and replaced it in the niche. He lay back down, and within minutes he had dozed off and didn’t wake until the second cockcrow.