Sarai (Jill Eileen Smith) (14 page)

Hot, dry winds whipped the sands of the Negev into a storm fiercer than Sarai had ever seen. The camp had moved from Bethel in search of greener pastures two weeks earlier, but summer’s heat had scorched even the outskirts of the desert grasses, forcing Abram to push on further south in the direction of Egypt.

Sarai stood at the tent’s closed flap, listening to the sand slap its fine grains against the sturdy goat’s-hair enclosure, her stomach knotting with barely concealed dread. Abram had wrapped himself in his cloak and hooded turban, brandished his staff, and gone out into the storm.

Where was he? Two days had passed if her guess was correct, though with the darkness and relentless whistle of wind, it was impossible to tell the passage of day or night. And still he had not returned.

“He will come, mistress. You must not fret so.” Lila spoke from behind her, and when Sarai turned, she could barely see the outline of her maid’s face in the dimness. They could not risk a lamp during what little daylight a day afforded, lest the wind shaking the goat’s-hair enclosure somehow seeped beneath and whipped the tent into flames.

“Then where is he?” Sarai drew in a shallow breath. It was hard to even breathe in the confines of the tent. He should have been back by now, unless something awful had happened. Was this sandstorm a punishment sent from Abram’s God because she had prayed to the moon goddess?

“He and Eliezer and the others had a long way to go to reach the flocks. The camels can survive in the storm. I’m sure the master’s God will go with them.” Lila touched her arm, something she rarely did, the action somehow more comforting than Sarai had expected. Since Lila had married Eliezer, the relationship of servant to master had changed. Though Lila still served Sarai, she was not a slave, and Sarai considered her like a daughter.

“Yes, I know. Abram’s God will not let the storm harm him.” Hadn’t Adonai promised to make Abram a blessing to nations? But that did not mean Abram would suffer no loss in the meantime. Especially if his God held him responsible for what she had done.

Guilt filled her. Was such a thing possible? Abram knew nothing about her choices, her failures. He could not know how rising each day took more strength than she had. If only she could stay beneath the bedsheets and never rise again until she could fling aside her barrenness like the unwanted covers.

A prick of tears surprised her, and she hurried back into the tent’s sitting area lest Lila somehow see her pain. Feeling along the wall for the spindle and distaff, she unwound the yarn and sank onto the dusty cushions. She was so tired of dirt and dust and lack of water and travel . . . Where
was
he?

Her hands moved to the rhythm of the spindle she knew so well as Lila began dinner preparations. If the men did return, they would be as hungry as camels. She lifted her head to the sound of the wind, wishing she could pray for their safety but knowing nothing she could say would be heard.

Abram kept his head bent against the sand-coated wind, pushing and prodding the last of the sheep toward one of the caves of the Negev. It had taken thirty men the past two days to round up the herds and hurry them toward shelter. He had no idea how many sheep they had lost to the desert. A count would be taken when the sandstorm abated.

The cave’s entrance suddenly drew near, a break in the wind guiding his way. He lifted the last tottering lamb into his arms and used his staff to prod the others. At last inside, he made his way back and pulled the turban from his eyes. Adjusting to the dim light, he spotted some of his men further on, heard the bleating of worried sheep.

He set the small lamb onto the hard earth and watched it totter off toward its mother, then made his way toward the huddled men. Eliezer stepped forward, and the two men embraced.

“You are safe.” Eliezer’s voice held relief, as though he feared Abram incapable of surviving such a feat.

“I am old, but not quite so old.” Abram unwrapped the turban the rest of the way and rubbed a hand over his gritty beard. “I think that’s the last of them.”

Eliezer rubbed the back of his neck. “Hard to tell for sure until we can count them.”

Abram nodded, untied the skin of water from his side, and allowed a few drops to wet his throat. He’d rationed it as best he could, troubled by the sight of the skin’s sagging sides. No telling what the storm would have done to the wells or the wadis. “After we assess the damage, I want you to lead the men and herds further south. This storm, added to the already sparse grass and drying riverbeds, is only going to make things worse. The animals will not survive long in a famine.”

Eliezer tucked his hands behind him and followed as Abram walked further into the cave and slowly sank to the earth. “Egypt is not likely as hit by the famine as Canaan,” he said, squatting opposite Abram.

Abram laid his staff on the ground beside him and called one of the ewe lambs over to him. The animal obeyed, and Abram pulled it to him like a pet, sifting his fingers through the lamb’s sand-coated wool. “Have the men brush the sand from the sheep as best they can.” He looked up, meeting Eliezer’s gaze. “Egypt is not my first choice. Adonai called me to Canaan.”

“Adonai would not wish us to die in Canaan, though.”

“Adonai will not let that happen.” But doubt pricked him just the same. Adonai had allowed the drought and sandstorm, which only worsened the threat of famine. What else could he do if he hoped to save his flocks and the people entrusted to his care? He could not, would not return to Mesopotamia, nor retrace his steps north toward Eliezer’s Damascus. That left only Egypt or the Great Sea.

“I will see to the flocks.” Eliezer rose and walked away. Abram absently brushed the ewe in his lap, weighing his options. If Nineveh had posed a threat to Eliezer, taking his first wife, Jerusha, from his bed, how much more would the king of Egypt do to a man with a wife as beautiful as Sarai?

Dare he risk his wife and his own life for food?

11

Sarai’s jaw clenched and her hands gripped the reins of the donkey, her emotions rising and falling with each look forward at Abram’s stiff back. He walked ahead of her, staff in hand, the determined speed of his gait raising her irritation all over again. That he had returned to her safely after the storm was a relief beyond measure, but the next words out of his mouth had dampened the relief, angering her instead. She did not want to go to Egypt!

“We have no other choice, Sarai, unless you would like to starve and watch everyone we love die of hunger and thirst. The famine is not going away anytime soon. Egypt has both food and water in abundance. Besides, it’s not like we’re going to stay there indefinitely.”

His words had ended the discussion, though she would not call it that. He had not listened to her complaints and had obviously decided before he ever stepped into her tent to greet her with just exactly what he planned for their future.

I thought Adonai wanted us to live in Canaan.
But she hadn’t voiced the thought because her persistent guilt had stopped any further attempt to change his mind. Had her actions brought on the famine? Should she tell Abram what she had done, confess her wrongs, offer a sacrifice? Perhaps the famine would swiftly end if she did, but the damage the sandstorm had caused was already too evident. The herds needed grass and water, and both were in short supply.

She loosened her grip, her anger abating slightly at the thought, reminding herself yet again that she had agreed to follow her husband wherever he led. She forced a smile as he turned, easing his gait to let her donkey catch up with him and walk beside him.

“We will reach the border crossing into Egypt by morning.” He looked beyond her toward the distant rise they were approaching.

She waited for him to say more, not sure how to respond. Should she tell him this was a good thing, let him think she was now pleased to have arrived at the destination she feared? She checked her spirit. Why did she fear Egypt? No logical explanation surfaced other than the fear she faced at every new city. She closed her eyes, silently begging him not to ask it of her again.

“The guards at the checkpoints will inspect our belongings. I’m told the pharaoh exacts a tax on visitors to his country, and garrisons are posted along the main highways. Pharaoh’s hand is mighty, and like all kings, he makes use of his power to ensure everyone knows he has it.” Abram gripped the donkey’s neck, coaxing it to stop. The rest of the men and women following did the same, waiting for Abram to move on again.

Sarai looked into his dark eyes, reading the truth in his imploring gaze.

“I know what a beautiful woman you are.” He hesitated, looking down toward his feet as though embarrassed to repeat the request he had voiced too often before.

“Please, Abram . . .” Her voice dropped in pitch. “Don’t ask it of me again.” The whispered words fell like darkness between them.

He rested his hands over hers, the ones fisted over the donkey’s reins. “When the Egyptians see you, they will say, ‘This is his wife.’ Then they will kill me but will let you live. You know it’s true, Sarai. Should we escape the famine only to find my life ended because of a king’s desire?”

She gripped the reins tighter, stiffening at his words, reading in his expression the full import of what he would not say. If she had a son, he would not ask this of her. But until she produced an heir, his death would mean the end of much more than his life. The promises of Adonai would go unfulfilled, and she would end up the property of a foreign king. His request was meant to protect her, though she had a hard time feeling protected at all.

“Say you are my sister, Sarai, so that I will be treated well for your sake and my life will be spared because of you.”

His words set her teeth on edge. The constant clenching caused a headache to begin along her jaw and travel to her temples.

“It would be nice if you cared for my life as well.” The words hissed between her gritted teeth, and she turned her head away, avoiding his pleading look.

His touch on her shoulder was gentle, a caress. “Of course I care for your life, dear one. I have loved you since childhood, and not just because of your beauty.” He coaxed her to turn and look at him again. “If you were not so unimaginably beautiful . . . Do you not wonder how hard it has been to shield you from the gazes of unscrupulous men over the years? Even in Ur and Harran when you were either my wife or my sister, I have warded off the advances of other men who approached me on your behalf. Believe me, beloved, there have been too many to count.”

Her eyes widened at his revelation. “You never told me that.” Was he saying so simply to get her to go along with the lie?

“I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to hunger for another man, since I have never given you the son you so desire.” He prodded the donkey forward again, glancing behind them. The buzz of conversation in the distance told her they were alone in the crowd, that his comments had not been overheard.

But his words warmed her in a way nothing ever had. No man would ever admit to such a thing. If a woman did not conceive a child, it was her fault, not the man’s. And it was her place according to custom to supply a substitute if she could not bear a child on her own. That Abram had never asked Sarai to give him a maid—to prove his innocence and bear his child—spoke of his deep love for her, something he rarely said openly.