Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) (5 page)

Sarai thought of all the babies that she had known—an infant suckling at a servant’s breast, a toddler playing beside his mother as she worked. She saw how mothers loved their children, even when they were annoyed with them, even when they were angry. Though she didn’t understand why the mothers got angry. Everything children did, at every age, fascinated and delighted Sarai. And somewhere, either a god or a priest decided that people should be commanded to offer their own babies as sacrifices.

All of this preyed on Sarai’s mind, and many times she almost convinced herself that it was all pretend, that nobody ever really killed people in the name of a god. Certainly it never happened with the worship of Asherah—though there were things that went on at the temple of Asherah that they didn’t talk about in front of her. Could it be that even there, something or someone was killed? Impossible.

But the rising tide of gossip made anything seem possible. Now she heard for the first time that Suwertu had sacrificed a child as a thank offering, burning the child’s body on a hill near Olishem. This story was told in support of the idea that there really wasn’t anything unusual about human sacrifice, though to Sarai it seemed that if human sacrifice were normal, no one would need to prove that it was normal, because everyone would already know.

Most of the stories horrified or puzzled Sarai. Only one really frightened her. It was the tale that Suwertu had sacrificed three young sisters. It wasn’t the fact they were young like Sarai that made her afraid. It was that they were the daughters of a man named Onitah, who just happened to be making a claim that he was the rightful heir of the first Pharaohs.

If this story was true, it meant that Suwertu made it a habit to kill people in order to punish their fathers for claiming the birthright of the priesthood. That was the reason this story was told—those who repeated it always made comments about how murder was murder, even when a priest did it and called it sacrifice. “This has to be stopped,” they would say.

But Sarai never heard them mention any
plan
to stop the sacrifice of Abram. They might deplore it, but they weren’t doing anything. Not even Father. And why? Because he was afraid that he might lose his safe haven in Ur-of-the-North if he spoke up against Suwertu’s “sacrifices.”

This is how it happens—how bad people can do terrible things, right out in the open, and everyone stands away and lets them do it.

There were even people who were helping Suwertu. The priest of Shagreel, for instance, claimed that Abram had also blasphemed against
his
god, which was, after all, only the sun. By saying that only the priests of his father’s God had authority, Abram had as much as said that all other gods were false. “And yet we see the sun in the sky every day!” the priest was said to have declared. “We are warmed by it! And Abram denies that the sun is a god!”

At last Sarai could stand it no more, and went tearfully to her father to ask him why no one was doing anything.

“But many of us
are
doing things,” said Father kindly. “We do them quietly, where you don’t see. But if it hadn’t been for our intervention with the king, Suwertu would have pierced Abram’s heart already.”

“So you’re going to stop him?”

“With so many jackals pulling at the deer, how long will it stay on its feet?” Father shook his head. “I’m sorry you have to know about such things.”

“Why don’t people hate Suwertu?”

“They do hate him. But they fear him more. So they don’t stand against him.”

“
You
stand against him, Father! I don’t care if he sacrifices me.”

“He couldn’t sacrifice
you,
” said Father. “You belong to Asherah.”

Only then did she realize—if Father openly opposed Suwertu, it might be Qira on that altar, just like those three daughters of Onitah.

So because they fear it happening to their own families, everyone will let this murderer have his way.

And he does it all in the name of a god.

It made Sarai ponder long and hard about the life she had been pledged to live, as a priestess of Asherah. If the worship of Ba’al or Osiris or Elkenah or Shagreel could be used as a mask for the murder of a foreign king’s enemy, then which gods were genuine? Only Abram seemed to be acting out of faith instead of private advantage, and his God had no statues. His priests were herdsmen like Terah and Abram and Lot, who worked with their own hands instead of leading the washed and perfumed life of a temple priest.

Will I have to become a liar and hypocrite like Suwertu in order to serve Asherah? Or are the priestesses somehow holier than the priests?

Abram said that Asherah was just another name for a real woman, Mother Eve, who was not a god at all. Why then would she need priestesses?

These questions rankled her and bothered her, getting all mixed up with her confusion about Abram’s promise to marry her and her own feeling of rage and revulsion at what was being done to that good man.

Finally a day came when she could stand no more of it. She set aside her distaff and ran up to the roof. Three servants were there spreading out clean clothing to dry, but she sent them away so she could be alone there. She knelt and raised her arms to heaven and prayed, not to Asherah or Ba’al, but to the God whose name she didn’t even know.

“O God, spare the life of Abram! If thou dost this miracle, O God, then I will know thou art the only true God, mightier than kings and false priests, and I will worship only thee forever. I will repudiate my promise to Asherah. I ask only the life of Abram. He doesn’t even have to keep his promise to come marry me—I know that a man can sometimes be prevented from keeping his word, however honestly given. I ask nothing for myself. Only save his life, and I will be thy servant in all things forever.”

Over and over she said the prayer.

That night, as she slept, Sarai was suddenly awakened by a great shaking of the ground. Her bed bounced on the floor. She heard the roofbeam creaking above her, and ran from her room into the courtyard, so nothing could fall and crush her. The servants ran there, too, and Father, and Qira. Some of them had bloody knees because they had fallen when the ground shook so hard. And some had bloody heads or shoulders, because of tiles or bricks that had fallen on them.

When the earthquake ended, no one would go back inside. It was common knowledge that God rarely shook the earth just once. So even though the night was not warm, they slept outdoors, servants lying down right among the royal family. Sarai stayed awake after most of them slept, but not because she was afraid. At first she wanted to see whether the servants slept in some vulgar manner that would explain why they were not allowed to sleep in the same rooms as the royal family. And when she satisfied herself that servants were no cruder in their sleep than the royal family, she used the time to pray.

At last she did sleep, though only fitfully. No one slept deeply or long. She lay on her mat on the stones of the courtyard as the adults woke, speaking softly, repeating news of the city. The earthquake had broken down this house or that one; this person had been killed, or that one. The reports of disaster made Sarai imagine what it might be like to have someone in her own family killed by the shaking of the earth. Surely there could be no clearer sign that a god wanted you dead than to have him shake the earth to accomplish it.

She listened with her eyes closed, so no one would realize she was awake and cease speaking plainly in front of her. So she heard the glorious news at the same time Father did.

“Suwertu was on the hill where he does his sacrifice when the earthquake struck,” said the breathless visitor. “The earthquake knocked down all the statues he had gathered there, shattering them all. And Suwertu was directly under the statue of Osiris, which fell on him and crushed him to death.”

Father gave one bark of laughter, and then composed himself. “I am sure the king of this city will have a day of mourning for this noble servant of Egypt. There will be weeping and wailing throughout the land!”

“No doubt,” said his visitor.

“What about the sacrifice of my son-in-law’s uncle?” asked Father. “They can’t be going on with it, can they?”

The visitor chuckled grimly. “Since his own chief god crushed him to death while he was preparing to conduct that very sacrifice, I think it’s safe to say that no one else is at all interested in going ahead and daring the gods again. No, there’ll be no sacrifices today. I hear that Abram has already fled the city and gone into the desert.”

“Yes,
now
he goes,” said Father. “I tried to get him to do that days ago, but would he listen?”

“If he had left when
you
told him to, Suwertu would not have been at the altar when the earthquake struck, and so he would not be dead, and so the human sacrifices would have continued.”

“You think they’ll stop?”

“He’s the one who got people back into that kind of worship when he was nothing but a priest of Elkenah. He showed everyone the danger of giving any man the power to kill his enemies in the name of God. No, I think that when the next priest of Pharaoh is chosen, it will be carefully explained to him what he may or may not do without the consent of the king of Ur-of-the-North.”

“So,” said Father. “It looks like my daughter’s marriage will go ahead after all.”

“If you still want to marry your daughter to the grandson of such a weak man.”

Sarai perked up her ears.

“It was not weakness for Terah to refuse to repudiate his own claim, even if it cost the life of his son,” said Father. “It was great courage and faith. More than I have. For I would never allow my own child to be sacrificed, as Terah was doing, just for the sake of preserving my own estate.”

For the first time it occurred to Sarai: Isn’t that exactly what you did, Father, when you pledged me to Asherah the day I was born?

Then, condemning herself for even having such a thought, Sarai bounded to her feet and ran once again to the roof. Behind her she could hear Father saying, with an irked tone, “Was she listening the whole time?”

On the roof Sarai fell to her knees to pray again. “O God of Abram, I know thou art faithful to thy true servant, Abram. So I will keep my vow. I will not give myself to the service of Asherah. How could I, when I know now that thou art the only true and living God. Thou, O Shaker of Earth, art my God forever. For thou hast heard my prayer. Thou hast spared the life of Abram.”

Chapter 3

In the spring, Lot finally came in person and married Qira under the gaze of their fathers—two kings without kingdoms. It was a joyful time, and Sarai was especially happy for her sister, for she was going to have everything she wanted: Lot seemed to be a kind man, he was even more handsome than Abram had been, and he promised to live in Ur for the near future, leaving his steward and servants with Abram out in the empty grasslands.

For Abram did not return to Ur, even for the wedding of his beloved nephew. There were those in Ur—especially priests of other gods who had joined their cause with Suwertu’s—who would never forgive Abram for having humiliated them. Never mind that what humiliated them was proof that there was indeed a God who did not want Abram murdered. There was too great a chance that someone would try to finish the job—Abram would never enter Ur again.

And I will never leave, thought Sarai. He will forget me. But I will never forget him.

It took two years, but she finally persuaded her father that it wasn’t a whim—she was determined not to enter the service of Asherah. It was a delicate task, persuading him to release her from the vow, for by releasing her he was as much as confessing that he was not, in fact, king of anything, and so his daughter had no responsibilities to the gods. Father never quite admitted that openly. He found some pretext about Sarai’s unreadiness or unworthiness—Sarai did not care, as long as she did not end up bound into the service of a god in whom she no longer believed.

The years passed. Sarai watched as her father tried to arrange this or that marriage, but always it was the bored son of a rich man trying to add some luster to a family that had no standing. Father tried to persuade her that each one was really a good husband, but in truth he was never even able to convince himself.

By the time Sarai was eighteen, she had no idea what was going to happen to her. By her age, most women were already married. Almost every day Sarai was reminded of how well her older sister had married—with Lot’s wealth to back her up, she was head of a worthy household in Ur. But to Sarai, the prizes in Qira’s household were the two little girls who, truth be told, saw more of their aunt than of their mother. Is this my destiny, Sarai wondered, to be a spinster living in my sister’s house, tending her children and someday her grandchildren, always subservient, never to have a child of my own in my arms?

The one thing she could not let herself think of was the man who had come from the desert so long before. Lot sent messages back and forth to Abram at least every week, and servants made the journey often. Sarai heard of every movement Abram made, each new encampment. He would be in the ruins of this or that city in Canaan, empty because all the years of drought and windborne dust had forced the people to flee to other lands. Or he would be selling cheeses in Akkad or wool in Babylon or leather in Ur-of-Sumeria, and the next month, south of the Dead Sea in Sodom or Zoar, he would be selling jewelry or clothing from Akkad, Babylon, and Ur. She heard of him trading along the Phoenician coast in cities like Tyre or Byblos, or north among the Assyrians or the Hittites or the Hurrians. Not once did Lot ever tell Sarai that Abram had so much as asked about her. Not once did she receive a letter or a message or a gift or even a glance from a servant that would tell her that perhaps her name had been mentioned in Abram’s tent.