Sarah (19 page)

Abram strode to the kiln and seized a long wooden log. “Perhaps it isn't enough? Perhaps I must destroy all these statues, leave not a single one standing, before your almighty gods manifest themselves?”

He was already walking toward the entrance of the workshop, his arm raised.

“Abram!” Terah cried.

Abram turned.

“Don't destroy my work, my son.”

Abram put down his stick. Father and son confronted each other, face-to-face. For the first time in many moons, they again seemed of one flesh.

Old Terah bent down and picked up a shard of pottery: the mouth, the nose, and one eye of Inanna. He rubbed his fingers over the terra-cotta lips, then pressed the shard to his chest.

“Perhaps the gods will punish you tomorrow, or in a few moons,” he said, in a low, unsteady voice that obliged everyone to be silent. “Perhaps soon, perhaps never. Who can know what they decide?”

Abram smiled and threw the log on the ground. Terah walked right up to him, as if he wanted to touch him.

“Your god says, ‘Go.' He says, ‘Leave, you owe nothing to your father, Terah the potter.' He tells you that henceforth you must place in him the trust a son usually grants his father. Well, if that is what you also want, go. Obey your god. Take your share of the animals and get away from our tents. All will be well. But as for me, I no longer have a son named Abram.”

THERE was so much to do, and the night seemed short. The chests had to be made ready, the tents taken down, the herds, mules, and wagons gathered by torchlight. With the servants who were leaving with Abram and Sarai bustling about, the whole camp seethed with activity. There was a constant movement of lamps and dark figures. From time to time there came the weeping of children, or the braying of animals disturbed in their sleep.

Just before dawn, Sarai moved away from the loaded wagons and sat down on a stone, rubbing the small of her back to relax herself. The crescent moon lay between little clouds and, here and there, the stars glittered, as cool as spring water.

Sarai smiled: The sky had not collapsed, fire had not ravaged everything, water had not engulfed the world, as everyone had feared after Abram had broken the holy idols.

Someone's hands touched her shoulders, and she immediately recognized their weight and pressure. She leaned back until she was resting her back and shoulders on Abram's stomach.

“You didn't hear Him as I heard Him?” he asked, softly.

“No. Your god didn't speak to me.”

“But you were on the plateau. You could have heard him, too.”

“No. I was waiting for you.”

“Are you only coming with me because it's your duty as a wife?”

“I'm going with you because you are Abram and I am Sarai.”

“Yet not long ago you were still the Sacred Handmaid of Ishtar.”

“Ishtar should have struck me down for abandoning her. It's been many moons since I last placed offerings on her altar. Inanna hasn't struck me down, any more than Ea has killed you.”

Abram laughed, startling Sarai. He stroked her cheek. “Do you believe that He who spoke to me exists?”

“I don't know. But I trust you. I, too, know that the day will come when you lead a great people.”

Abram fell silent as if pondering her words. Sarai was suddenly afraid that he would ask “How could I create a great people with your barren womb?” But he bent and kissed her on the temple.

“I'm proud of you,” he whispered. “I wouldn't want any other wife than Sarai, the girl from Ur.”

BY the time the sky turned white, they were exhausted but ready to depart. Sililli was in a tetchy mood, complaining that it would bring them bad luck if they left without chanting and without saying farewell to those who were staying behind. This was the way you left when you had committed a sin or a crime. Even Terah had not come to bid farewell to his son. According to Tsilla and the other old women, such a thing was unheard of, and sure to bring misfortune!

Irritated by her words, Sarai told her that she was under no obligation to follow her. “I'll understand if you want to stay.”

“Oh, yes!” Sililli retorted, offended. “And what would you do without me and my wisdom, my poor girl? You who always does the opposite of what you ought to! Who would you tell the things you can't confide in anyone else? Of course I have to go with you. Even though they say there's only barbarians and desert where your husband is taking us, and that it's the end of the land of men and beyond it there's only sea.”

Sarai could not help laughing.

“There's one advantage in being as old as I am,” Sililli went on. “I'll die before I see these horrors. But you can tell your husband this: I'm not walking. I'll sit in a wagon.”

“In a wagon,” Sarai said. “All right.”

By the time Abram was ready to give the order for departure, Lot was nowhere to be seen. They were about to go and look for him when he came running.

“Abram! Sarai!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Come and see, come and see.”

He took them by the hand and dragged them through the camp, which seemed very quiet, as if everyone had finally decided to sleep. But when they came to the path overlooking Terah's workshop, they discovered a long column of wagons. The slopes of the hills on either side of the road were white with the herds gathered there. A hundred faces, perhaps two hundred, turned toward Abram. Men, women, children; young and old. More than a quarter of Terah's tribe.

They were all waiting patiently for him.

A man by the name of Arpakashad came forward. He was the same height as Abram but a little older, and known for his skills as a shepherd.

“Abram,” he said, “we've been thinking about your words during the night. We've seen that neither Ea, nor Inanna, nor any of the gods we feared until today have punished you. We trust you. If you agree, we shall follow you.”

Abram was moved. “My father says his gods may punish me later. Don't you fear them?”

Arpakashad smiled. “We're always fearing one thing or another. It would be good to stop being afraid.”

“So you believe the God who spoke to me exists?” Abram insisted.

“We trust you,” Arpakashad repeated.

Abram glanced at Sarai. Her eyes shone with pride.

“Then come with Sarai and Abram. And you will be the beginning of the nation the One God promised me.”

Abram's Words

A
t first they walked every day, from dawn to dusk. They left the mountains of Harran and followed the Euphrates southward, as if they were returning to the kingdom of Akkad and Sumer.

And so they walked, for three or four moons. The lambs, the women, and the children took turns in the wagons. They learned to make larger goatskins, longer tunics, and sandals with thicker soles to protect them from the heat of the day and the fierce cold of the night. Whenever they came in sight of a town or another tribe's camp, people would come to meet them. They became known as the “men from across the river”—the Hebrews.

Nobody complained about these long, tiring days. Nobody asked Abram why he was taking this route rather than another. Only Sarai saw the disquiet that sometimes seized her husband in the early hours, before they resumed their march.

One morning, with the sun not yet completely risen in the east, Abram was searching the horizon, a frown on his face, his mouth tense with anxiety, when he felt Sarai's eyes on him. He turned and smiled at her, but the frown remained. She came to him, stroked his brow with her fingers, and placed her cool palm on the back of his neck.

“He doesn't speak to me anymore,” Abram said. “Not a word, not a command, since we left Harran. I don't hear His voice anymore.”

Sarai gently continued her caress.

“I'm going where I think I have to go,” Abram went on, “toward the land he promised me. But what if I'm wrong? What if we've come all this way for nothing?”

Sarai added a kiss to her caress. “I trust you,” she said. “We all trust you. Why shouldn't your god also trust you?”

They never spoke of it again. But a few days later, Abram decided to change route and head westward. They left behind them the rich pastures beside the Euphrates and entered a country of sand and rough, sparse grass. Arpakashad came to see Abram and asked him to let the herds rest.

“Soon we'll be going into the desert, and nobody knows when we'll see grassland again. Better to let the animals grow fat and gather their strength. A little rest will do us good, too.”

“Are you worried?” Abram asked.

Arpakashad smiled. “No. Nobody's worried, Abram. Or impatient. You're the only one who's anxious. We'll follow you. Your road is our road. And as it's likely to be a long road, what's the point in hurrying?”

Abram laughed and declared that Arpakashed was right. It was time to pitch camp for a moon or two.

From that day, their march again became what it had been when Terah was leading the tribe. It took them more than four seasons to cross the desert of Tadmor from one oasis to another, and reach the country of Damascus, where they discovered strange trees and fruit, but cautiously avoided the cities, settling only in the poorest pastures in order not to attract the anger of the inhabitants.

They grew so accustomed to this wandering life that some almost forgot that it would end one day. Sometimes, during a halt, a member of the tribe would form a relationship with a man or woman they had met around the wells or while trading. Abram would give him or her permission to marry. More and more children were born. The only woman whose womb remained stubbornly empty was Sarai. But there were no more insistent looks. Even Sililli refrained from pestering her with advice and had stopped reporting the women's gossip. It seemed to be generally agreed that if Abram himself was prepared to wait for Sarai's womb to become fertile, then they, too, had to be patient. Abram's nephew Lot would take the place of their son. It was only Sarai herself who could no longer bear the emptiness of her womb.

One day, she entered the women's communal tent as a young married woman was giving birth to her first child. The woman's name was Lehklai, and she was younger than Sarai, with very pale skin, big dark eyes, and opulent breasts. For moons, Sarai had watched as her belly had become rounder, then her whole body: her hips, her buttocks, her breasts, her shoulders, even her cheeks and her lips. Every day, she had watched her with envy. There were quite a few other pregnant women in Abram's tribe, but, for Sarai, Lehklai was by far the most beautiful. Although she did not show it openly, she envied her, loved her, and hated her with an intensity that gave her more than a few sleepless nights. So, although she usually avoided the communal tent when women were giving birth, she had come in now to be present at Lehklai's confinement.

From the start, it was clear that things were not going according to plan. Lehklai was moaning. Sweat plastered her hair to her face, her mouth gaped open, her lips were dry, and her eyes wide and staring. It seemed as though her whole body were wracked with pain. The rest of the day passed in this way. The midwives spoke encouragingly to Lehklai and anointed her belly and thighs with sweet mentholated oil. Their words and gestures were the usual ones in this situation, but Sarai could see that they were growing increasingly worried. Lehklai would moan, become short of breath, then moan again. Her eyes still stared, as if turned inward.

By the afternoon, she was no longer answering when they talked to her. Finally, the midwives asked Sarai and Sililli to help them to massage Lehklai, for it seemed that the blood was refusing to circulate normally within her. Yet when Sarai stroked Lekhlai's body she found that it was burning hot.

The midwives decided they could wait no longer. They placed the bricks of childbearing on the ground of the tent and, supporting Lehklai, tried to draw the baby into life. A long and terrible struggle followed. The midwives plunged their hands into Lekhlai's womb and managed to pull out a tiny baby girl, her mouth already formed for weeping and laughing. In the last light of day, Sarai and Sililli emerged from the tent, both shaking, their heads and chests still resounding from Lehklai's screams, which only death had stopped.

Sililli and Sarai looked at each other in silence. On the handmaid's aged face, Sarai read the words her mouth would not speak: “At least you won't die like that.”

Sarai stood watching the sun as it vanished below the edge of the world like a drop of blood. A glittering full moon loomed over the approaching night. It was very hot, with a dense heat the evening breeze did nothing to allay.

Sarai shook her head. “You're wrong,” she said in a low voice, just loud enough for Sililli to hear. “Lehklai doesn't frighten me. I envied Lehklai when she was full of life, so beautiful and so big with child. And I still envy her.”

THAT night, Sarai decided to do something she had not done since Abram had become her husband. She opened one of the chests in her tent and took out a bag containing a handful of cedarwood shavings and a painted wooden statuette of Nintu. In spite of Sarai's scorn, Sililli had insisted on keeping it.

She slipped a few brands into an openwork pot with a leather lid. Then she left the encampment as stealthily as she could and walked in the moonlight to the other side of a hill. When she was certain she could not be seen, she lit a small fire between some stones.

Kneeling, her mind empty, Sarai waited until the fire was an ember, then threw in the cedarwood shavings. When the smoke was thick enough, she took from her belt a thin ivory knife Abram had given her, and slashed first her left palm, then her right. She then took the wooden statuette, rolled it between her hands until it was smeared with her blood, and murmured:

Nintu, mistress of the menstrual blood,

Nintu, you who decide on life in the wombs of women,

Nintu, beloved patroness of childbearing, hear the lament of your daughter Sarai,

Nintu, patroness of childbirth, you who received the sacred brick of childbearing from the hands of almighty Enki, you who hold the scissors to cut the birth cord,

Nintu, listen to me, listen to your daughter's pain,

Do not leave her in the void.

She fell silent, her throat rough and her eyes stinging from the cedarwood smoke. Then she stood up, and turned her face to the moon. The statuette against her belly, she resumed her lament. She repeated her prayer seven times, until the blood stopped flowing from the cuts. Then she crushed the embers with a big stone and returned to the encampment.

Cautiously, she walked to Abram's tent. The lamps were out. Abram liked to spend all night in conversation with Arpakashad and some of the old men of the tribe, but tonight, luckily, he had chosen to go to sleep early.

The cloth over the entrance to the tent had been folded back to let the air circulate. Sarai let it drop noiselessly. In the milky half-light that filtered through the material, she picked her way between the tent posts and the chests. Abram lay naked on the heap of rugs and skins that served as his bed. His breathing was slow and regular, like that of a man in a deep, dreamless sleep.

Delicately, Sarai slipped the statuette of Nintu between the layers beneath Abram's feet. She took off her tunic, knelt beside her husband, took his penis between her palms, and gently stroked it. Abram's chest and stomach began to tremble. Sarai let her long curly hair slide over her husband's torso, grazed his chest with her nipples, kissed his neck and his temple, found his mouth. Abram opened his eyes like a man who does not know if he is still dreaming.

“Sarai?” he whispered.

Her only response was more caresses. She offered the small of her back to his hands and her breasts to his mouth. He was a mere shadowy figure to her, and she to him. Abram whispered her name again and again, “Sarai, Sarai,” as if she were about to escape him, as if she might dissolve in his arms at the very moment she took him into her, wrapping him deep inside her womb. They grasped at each other like starving people, their whole bodies offered up to their voracious desire. They were both aware that their lovemaking was different tonight, fierce and unrestrained. The waves of pleasure that shook Abram's body swept through Sarai, too. She felt as though she had suddenly become as vast as an entire country, as light and as liquid as the horizon between sea and sky. Then the waves of her own pleasure took her breath away and Abram turned her over on the bed. Clasping his neck as if she was hanging from an enormous bird that was taking flight, Sarai offered her mouth and chest to Abram's breath, and let the final rush of his desire flood her.

“I'M a sterile woman, Abram,” Sarai whispered: it was later, and her chest and hips were still painful with pleasure. “The blood hasn't flowed between my thighs for years. Putting your seed into my womb is like abandoning it in the dust.”

“I know,” Abram replied, just as gently. “We all know. We've known for a long time.”

“I deceived you,” Sarai insisted. “When you came to find me in the temple of Ur, I was already barren, already incapable of giving birth to a child. I didn't dare tell you. The joy of being carried off by you was too great; nothing else mattered.”

“I knew that, too. A Sacred Handmaid of Ishtar is a woman who can't menstruate. Everyone in Ur knows that.”

Sarai lifted herself on one elbow and stared at her husband. In the pale moonlight, Abram's face was as clear and smooth as a silver mask. He was more beautiful than ever, with a beauty so calm and tender that it brought a lump to her throat. With trembling fingers, she stroked his eyebrows and lightly touched his cheekbones above his beard.

“But why? If you knew, why take me as a wife? A wife with a barren womb!”

“You are Sarai. I want no other wife than Sarai.”

She shook her head, full of questions, uncomprehending. “Your god promised you a people, a nation. How can you become a people and a nation if your wife can't even give you a son?”

Abram smiled. “The One God didn't say to me: ‘You chose a bad wife.' Abram is a happy husband.”

Sarai sat down on the bed and observed him in silence. These words should have calmed her fears, but she could not be satisfied with them. The memory of her pleasure had now entirely vanished from her body, leaving only sadness.