Sarah (20 page)

Why couldn't she be delighted at Abram's words? Didn't they express all the love, all the kindness, she could ever wish for?

No, it seemed to her that Abram did not fully grasp how heavy was the burden of sin that she carried, a burden not only on the two of them but also on those who accompanied them.

“I fell in love you that first night,” she said, in an almost inaudible voice. “That night I fell over you on the riverbank while I was fleeing the bridegroom my father had chosen. I wanted you to kiss me.”

At last, she told him why she had bought herbs of infertility in the
kassaptu
's lair. How she had almost died because of them and how, although he had left the city of Ur with his father, she had never stopped waiting for his kiss.

“I was barely a woman. My sin was due as much to the ignorance of youth as to my desire for you. The desire is still there, but I've become useless to you. You need a mother for your children, a fertile wife who will allow you to accomplish what your god expects of you.”

Abram shook his head. He seized her hands and pressed them to his chest. “You're wrong: I need Sarai. Your stubbornness is my happiness. He who speaks to me, He who calls me and guides me, knows who you are. Just as I do. He wants you to be by my side. You, too, are blessed by Him, I know you are.”

He kissed her palms ardently. And then, abruptly, he looked up. His lips had touched the new gashes she had inflicted on herself out of devotion to Nintu. Sarai saw his neck stiffen with anger.

“What have you done?” he cried.

She left the bed and took the statuette of Ninta from under the sheepskins. She stood naked before him, bold but fearful, the statuette in her hands.

“A sterile woman,” she said, “would swallow earth, mud, and even monsters or demons if that could bring life back into her womb. Young Lehklai died today giving birth to a daughter. In spite of all my love for you, Abram, I wish no other death for myself.”

Abram got to his feet before her. In the opalescent half-light of the moon, his features were indistinct, as if his face had disappeared. He was breathing rapidly, his chest rising and falling.

“This evening, I caressed Nintu with my blood,” Sarai stammered, showing him the statuette. “Your seed is in my womb. The greater the pleasure the man and woman have had, they say, the more powerful the seed, the more agile . . .”

She fell silent, thinking that Abram was going to cry out, perhaps even hit her.

He held out his hand. “Give me that doll,” he said, in a calm voice.

With a trembling hand, Sarai held out the statuette. Abram grabbed it by the head. From one of the tent posts, he unhooked a short bronze sword with a curved blade, a heavy, solid weapon with which Sarai had seen him cut the head off a ram. Not even taking the trouble to put on a loincloth, he walked naked out of the tent. He placed the idol on the ground and, with a few blows, smashed it to pieces, then threw the fragments as far as he could.

By the time he came back inside the tent, Sarai had put on her tunic. She stood there, her body stiff with humiliation and sorrow. Her eyes were dry and her mouth closed. In spite of the heavy heat, she was shivering.

Abram approached, seized her hands, and raised them to his mouth. He stopped the trembling of her fingers by pressing them to his lips. Then he kissed her palms, licking them with the gentleness of a mother kissing a graze on her child's skin to take away the pain. He drew Sarai to him.

“In Ur,” he whispered, “they wanted you to confront the bull until it disemboweled you, on the pretext that no blood flowed between your thighs. My father, Terah, and all those who stayed with him thought badly of you, because we made love for nothing but our own pleasure. I know the questions Tsilla asked, moon after moon. I know the withering looks they all gave you. And I left you alone with the shame and the questions. I had no words to soothe your pain. How was I to tell them all that there was no shadow over the happiness I felt in having Sarai as my wife? That my wife's love was growing as much as any sons or daughters she could have given me? They all invoked their gods, talked of sin and resentment. They saw nothing in your womb but evil spells. And I, who saw nothing but their credulity and submissiveness, I left you alone with the burden of your sorrow.”

He fell silent. Sarai held her breath. Abram's words, the words for which she had been waiting for so long, were coming at last, pouring into her, as warm and as sweet as winter honey.

“Don't keep taking upon yourself their fears and their superstitions. Trust my patience, as I trust you. You think that Abram's god isn't yet yours. You're sure you haven't heard or felt Him. Yet who knows if the herbs of infertility weren't a message from Him to you, Sarai, daughter of a lord of Ur, in order to turn you away from their vain worship? Who knows if it wasn't the road He showed you so that we could become husband and wife? In Harran, He said, ‘Leave your father's house.' He didn't say, ‘Leave your wife, Sarai, who can't transform your seed into a child.' He always says what He wants and what He doesn't want. He says to me, ‘You are a blessing. I bless those who bless you.' Who blesses me more, day after day, night after night, than my wife, Sarai? He promised me a people, and He will give me one. Just as He will give us the land He promised me. Sarai, my love, stop wounding yourself with the knife of shame, for you are in no way at fault and your pain is mine.”

Abram slid Sarai's tunic off her, and let it fall to the ground. He kissed her shoulder.

“Come and sleep beside me. Tonight and every night, until the One God shows us the land where we will settle.”

Salem

I
t happened less than one moon later.

For some days now, the hills they had been crossing had seemed rounder and greener. There was no dust on the meadows or on the leaves of the trees. No need to search for wells, or to be content with stagnant water for the animals. Streams flowed from one valley to another, some of them so deep you could plunge your whole body in them. There were insects in abundance, such as are found only in fertile country. One morning, it started raining. Abram decided that they wouldn't walk that day, to let the rain clean the fleece of the sheep and the canvas of the tents. When it stopped, just before evening, the sun peeped out again from between the clouds, and they were all stunned by the beauty of the scene that confronted them.

Alas, although they had seen nobody for days, it was clear to everyone that this land was not deserted. The pastures were bounded by walls; the paths bore traces of herds. That evening, they sat silently around the fires, dreaming of how happy they would be when Abram's god led them to a country like this.

The next day, in the pale light of dawn, Sarai woke with a start. Abram's place beside her was damp but empty. The tent flap was still swinging.

She rose in silence and was outside in time to see her husband walking quickly away. Without a moment's thought, she followed him.

Abram broke into a run. He dashed across a stream, sending up a spray of water around him, up the side of a small hillock, and into a large copse. Sarai followed him into the trees. She could not see him, but ahead of her she could hear the dead branches crackling under his hurrying feet. As she was about to leave the copse, she stopped dead and hid behind the trunk of a green oak, recovering her breath. A hundred paces ahead of her, on the summit of the hillock, Abram stood motionless in the tall grass. He had his back to her, his face lifted slightly and his arms half raised as if he were about to grasp something in his hands.

But there was nothing before him but the morning air, ruffled by a slight breeze.

Sarai stayed where she was, as motionless as Abram, watching for a movement, a sound.

But there was nothing: no noise, no gesture.

She could feel the breeze on her face. The grass swayed. Tiny yellow and blue butterflies whirled above the grass and the flowers. Birds chattered in the foliage. Some took flight and came to rest on other branches. The sun rose above the horizon and tinged the big puffy clouds with gold. There was nothing to see. Just the ordinary activity of a morning.

Yet she was sure of it: Abram was meeting his god.

Abram was listening to the voice of his invisible god.

How could a god give so little sign of himself? No face, no glow? Sarai could not understand it.

And if Abram was speaking with his god, she could not hear him.

All she saw was a man standing in the grass, surrounded by the indifferent birds and insects, his face lifted to the sky as if he had lost his reason.

It seemed to her that a long time had passed, but perhaps it had not. Then, all at once, Abram raised his arms, and a cry rang out.

The birds ceased their din.

But the insects continued to whirl and the grass to sway.

Abram cried out again.

Sarai made out two syllables. An unknown word.

She took fright and ran away, as silently as possible. Her face was on fire, as if she had seen something she should not have seen.

“THERE was really nothing to see,” Sarai said. “Nothing was moving, I swear it. Abram wasn't moving, either. If he was speaking, his voice was inaudible. And what he was seeing was invisible to my eyes.”

Sililli was grinding corn, while Lot listened openmouthed. When Sarai had finished, Sililli shook her head, silent and unconvinced.

“But Abram spoke the name of his god,” Lot said, enraptured, ready to hear the story again.

“I didn't realize it was a name,” Sarai said. “When he cried out, I heard only two sounds. Like the sounds Arpakashad makes with his ram's horn to gather the herds. It was Abram, later, who said, ‘The One God spoke to me. He told me his name. It's Yhwh.'”

“Yhwh!” Lot laughed. “Yhwh! Easy, no chance of forgetting it. And it
is
like the sound of a horn: Yhwh!”

“A god who can't be seen,” Sililli grumbled, “who doesn't speak, and who only gives his name to one man! And then only when he feels like it. What's the point of a god like that, I wonder?”

“To find us a beautiful, fertile country full of water!” Lot replied, peremptorily. “You aren't listening to what Sarai is saying. Abram's god didn't only give his name: He said this land was now ours. The most beautiful land we've seen since we left Harran. But you, Sililli, you're too old to appreciate fields of thick grass. Nobody wants to roll in the grass with you anymore—”

“Now, now, boy!” Sililli scolded, landing a vigorous blow on Lot's buttocks with her wooden pestle. “You just hold your tongue, you. I may be too old for what you're thinking about, but you're still too wet behind the ears to think about it either!”

“That's just what I was saying,” Lot laughed, unconcerned. “Too old to see the beauty of a country and too old to see the beauty of a boy who's becoming a real man!”

“Just listen to him!” Sililli guffawed, astounded at Lot's boldness.

Lot had taken up a pose before the two women, his hands on his hips, a thin, provocative smile on his lips and in his eyes, playing at being a man. But although Sarai and Sililli concealed their surprise, they both had to admit that he was right. These last few moons, they had paid too little attention to Lot; for them, he was still a boy, energetic, proud, and sensitive. In a short period of time, though, as often happened with adolescents, the boy had become a man. He was a full head taller than either of them. His shoulders were growing broader, more supple, with firmer muscles. There was a silky down on his cheeks and around his mouth, and the gleam in his eye was no longer as innocent as it had once been. The smile he now gave Sarai brought a blush to her cheeks.

“Seeing my aunt's beauty every day,” he murmured, in his slightly husky voice, “is enough to make anyone impatient to be a man.”

Sililli squealed, pretending to be offended, and shooed Lot away. Lot went and sat down some distance from them, muttering under his breath. It was only when he turned his back on them that Sarai and Sililli exchanged an amused look.

“He isn't the only one to think that way,” Sililli said in a low voice. “Your beauty is starting to excite all these idle young rams. It's time Abram decided to make a real halt and build our city. Then these youngsters would finally have something to spend their energy on.”

Sarai remained silent for a moment. She threw grain into the mortar, watched as Sililli's pestle crushed it. “What if we've already reached the end of our journey? Abram is sure that his god has given us this land. To all of us, now and in the future, even to those who are not yet born.”

Sililli shook her head, skeptically. But as Sarai fell silent again, she looked up. There was no need of words: They were both thinking the same thing.

“Who knows?” Sililli said, tenderly. “Perhaps he's right.”

“Abram was trembling with joy when he came back to the tent. He threw himself on me and covered me with kisses. He kissed my belly and repeated the words of his God: ‘I give this land to your seed!' When I reminded him that the hills and valleys of my country were not very fertile, he almost lost his temper. ‘You don't understand! If Yhwh says that, it means He's thinking of you, my wife! Be patient, the One God will soon show you how powerful He is.'”

Sililli shook her flour-whitened fingers. “Hmm. Who knows?” she repeated.

“But Abram isn't exactly patient,” Sarai said, amused. “I tell you, there isn't a single night or morning that he doesn't make sure his god will be able to make his seed bear fruit!”

Eyes sparkling, they both burst into a great laugh full of joy and lightness.

Lot had stood up. “Why are you laughing?” he asked. “Why are you laughing?”

THE following day, they came to the entrance of a vast valley that stretched beside a chain of mountains. The mingled greens and yellows of the fields of flowers, cereals, and pasture were like a woven cloth. Animals grazed in the pastures, and men were working in the meadows.

Their awe was marred by frustration. Why had Abram's god marked out this country for them?

Sarai turned to Abram and summed up what everyone was thinking. “This land is magnificent, but it doesn't seem to be clear of people. How can we possibly put up our tents here or build a city?”

Abram looked for a long time at the landscape before his eyes. Clearly, Yhwh had wanted to show him how beautiful this country was before he entered it. Yes, this land could support them. To the west and the south there was no sign of sheep or cattle.

“There is enough here for us,” he said.

“It's quite possible,” Arpakashad replied, somberly. “But Sarai is right: As soon as our herds drink from the rivers, and our buckets lift water from the wells, there'll be disputes.”

Abram smiled, without taking offense. It was a long time since they had seen him look so joyful and so serene. Nothing seemed to mar his good humor. He shook his head.

“Parts of this country are empty. Look: There's a city on top of the mountain. Come.”

He asked for three of the best wagons to be brought forward, drawn by the finest mules, and had their interiors covered with clean sheets.

“Fill these wagons with all the loaves baked yesterday and this morning,” he declared. “Add all the good food we have: newly killed lambs, fruit picked in the last few days. And let's go and offer it all to the inhabitants of this city.”

“You're stripping us completely bare,” a woman cried out, in a shrill voice. “What will we have left to eat in the next few days?”

“I don't know,” Abram replied. “We shall see. Perhaps the inhabitants of the city will give us something to eat in return . . .”

Abram was so sure of himself that as presumptuous as his words seemed, they knew they had no other choice than to follow him in his obstinacy.

IN the heat of the afternoon, they took the path leading to the city.

They formed a long procession: more than a thousand men, women, and children, at least double that in small livestock, not counting the wagons carrying the tents and the chests, and the herds of mules and asses. The cloud of dust raised by their sandals and clogs could be seen from a long way away. Then there was the noise of bleating animals, creaking axles, and even the pebbles dislodged by their steps.

It was no surprise that they had hardly come within sight of the city when trumpets and drums sounded the alarm. His long stick in one hand, the other resting on his mule's saddle girth, Abram took care to advance slowly. He wanted the people of the city to be able to examine them at leisure from the walls and see that they were approaching peacefully, unarmed and not in any warlike spirit.