Sarah (31 page)

It was my turn to feel a boundless pride, and parade my swollen belly through the whole valley of Hebron. “Who would have thought it?” I would say to whoever wanted to see my belly. “Sarah and Abraham are expecting a boy born of their flesh. As old as they both are, that is the will of Yhwh.”

They, too, laughed.

As the travelers had predicted, it was my turn to climb onto the bricks of childbearing, with my brow moist with sweat, pain in the small of my back and screams in my mouth. But I was lucid enough to say to the midwives: “If things go badly, don't hesitate to open my belly and take the child out alive. I've had my time.”

But Yhwh was in my body. To everyone's amazement, it was a short labor, the kind you might expect of a woman who'd already had twelve children. Isaac was born, a fine, round baby, soft as honey bread. My Isaac, the most beautiful child who ever came into the world!

From birth, he had Abraham's lips, and eyes that went straight to your heart. As soon as he grew, everyone would realize how strong and farsighted he was going to be—but with some of his mother's grace and beauty, too.

People came from far and wide to see him. “Who would have thought it?” they all cried. “Sarah breast-feeding a son for Abraham's old age!”

They would leave again, impressed by the greatness of Yhwh, admiring His power and the accuracy of His promises.

Even Eliezer of Damascus came to see me. He hadn't changed. He was a handsome man, but his lids were too heavy for his eyes. Seeing him again, I thought of those pretty sulfur-yellow flowers you see on the banks of the Salt Sea. When you go to pick them, you fall into one of the cracks in the rock the flowers have been concealing.

He acknowledged grudgingly that Isaac was as handsome and as strong as they said, then changed the subject. “Your nephew Lot's behavior in Sodom leaves a lot to be desired. He shows no respect for Yhwh. He's constantly drunk, and sleeps with whoever he likes, young or old, women or boys. They say he even does it with his own daughters.”

“‘They say . . .' Have you seen him doing it? Were you in his tent holding a candle?”

He laughed, venomously. “They say it, and I believe them. It doesn't matter if I've seen him or not. God Most High sees him. He's going to be angry, you can be sure of that.”

“Whether you like it or not, Eliezer,” I replied, “Abraham loves Lot, and won't abandon him. He'll plead for Lot's life with Yhwh, if he has to.”

That's exactly what happened. Yhwh destroyed Sodom, but Abraham begged him to spare Lot. He said to Yhwh, “You can't make the just die along with the wicked!” And God Most High heard him. Eliezer wasn't happy about that. I never saw him again. Good riddance. There's someone who'll be forgotten forever.

As for Lot, after Yhwh had saved him by Abraham's good graces, he sent me a calf and some scents, telling me through his servant that my happiness was his happiness and that he was going away to live with his family in the Negev Desert.

Poor Lot! I loved him less than he wanted and more than I should. He was a victim of my miraculous beauty. He remains a shadow in my life. Like Hagar.

After Isaac was born, she came to see me with Ishmael. Once, twice, then more and more frequently. We had very little to say to each other. She would hang on Ishmael's every laugh, while I, always a little afraid for Isaac, would keep my eyes open and hope her son didn't do anything naughty.

“Look how affectionate my son is with your son,” she said one day. “The two brothers are going to be really happy together!”

“I don't think so,” I replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it's better if you go away. You're no longer my handmaid and Isaac doesn't need a brother. Your son is big. Now you can walk and find a place that's all yours.”

“But why? I loved you more than a mistress. Like a sister . . .”

I interrupted her with a gesture. “No, Hagar. My jealousy isn't dead, only put aside. My wish that Isaac should be Abraham's only heir isn't dead either. Be sensible. We don't like each other. Our sons won't like each other because they'll feel the mistrust between their mothers. I can say to you ‘Go!' because it's in my power. And I do say it.”

I resisted all her tears and entreaties.

Even now, there are those who blame me for what I did.

Was I wrong? How to know? I was proud of my happiness and didn't want any shadow over my laughter.

But Yhwh, to teach me humility, saw to it that my laugh was transformed into a cry.

It happened one morning when the sky was low, although there was no rain. I was looking for Isaac and couldn't find him. I went down toward Abraham's tent, and there I saw the two of them, loading the packsaddles of an ass with wood. Abraham had that solemn look of his. I even thought he looked pale: There was something milky about his complexion despite his brown skin. Isaac was his usual amiable, carefree self. But he was dressed in a new tunic that I didn't remember having given him that morning.

I was intrigued. I watched them without going any closer. Abraham sat down on the back of the ass and took Isaac in his arms. He kicked the ass, and they set off at a jog along the road to Moriah.

At first, I watched them as they moved off into the distance. Then I felt my whole body tighten.

A presentiment caught me by the throat. My heart and my fingers felt ice cold. I had no idea what was going to happen; all I knew was that I mustn't let Isaac out of my sight. So I ran after them. Ran as fast as my old legs and my breath would let me. This time, I regretted being old.

As I ran, it occurred to me that the plateau of Moriah was a place where Abraham often made offerings to Yhwh. Sacrifices of ewes, lambs, or rams. Perhaps he was only taking his son with him to teach him how to make offerings and let him share in his word with God Most High.

Then I thought again of his gray face and Isaac's new tunic. The bags that hung on the ass's sides contained the wood for the fire, but where were the ram, the lamb, the ewe?

I was having difficulty keeping up with them. I could hardly breathe, so strong was my anxiety. I reasoned with myself, tried to calm down. “But what are you thinking?” I said to myself. “It's impossible. Why even think it?”

But I did think it.

When I finally reached the top of the little slope that leads to the plateau of Moriah, I saw them, a hundred paces away.

Isaac was heaping wood on the altar. A fine pyre, carefully arranged. Abraham was standing to one side, an absent look in his eyes. I saw him take his long knife from his belt and I knew I hadn't been mistaken.

I was about to scream and rush to them.

“Isaac! Come to my arms, Isaac! What are you doing, Abraham? Have you gone mad?”

But not a sound passed my lips. My screams were silent. I couldn't run, I couldn't take a single step forward. I was behind a fissure in a rock and something, some force, was keeping me there. As I watched, Abraham called Isaac to him. He stroked his cheek, took the rope that was used for binding the wood on the altar, and tied his arms with it. I fell to my knees in the dust. I was powerless to do anything but watch.

“Oh, Isaac, my son! Don't hold out your arms! Run, get away!”

But Abraham lifted him, and carried him to the pyre.

“I hate you, Abraham, how could you, how dare you? Your son, your only son! My only life.”

But Abraham did it. He laid Isaac on the altar. There was a look of surprise in Isaac's eyes, but he did not weep. Abraham stroked his brow. He kissed him, and the hand that held the knife moved away from his hip. Slowly, Abraham raised his arm, and the blade glinted in his hand.

Then I, Sarah, cried out:

“Yhwh, god of Abraham, listen to my voice. A mother's voice. You can't. No, You can't demand my son's life, Isaac's life. Not You. Not the god of justice.

“Listen to my cry. If you let Abraham bring down his knife, may the sky darken forever, may the waters engulf the earth, may Your work disappear, may it shatter like Terah's idols that Abraham destroyed in Harran.

“It took me all my life to give birth to Isaac. It took Your will, the breath of Your mouth, for him to be born. What other proof of Your power do you demand? When You allowed my old body to give birth to Isaac, You became for all of us, women and men, the god of the miracle of life. Oh, Yhwh, preserve this life! Who would believe in a god who vents his wrath on innocent children? Who would obey a god who spreads death and kills the weak?

“Oh, Yhwh! When I was young, I prayed to the gods of Ur, who loved blood. I turned my back on them and grew old at Abraham's side, and in all that time I've never seen a just man abandoned by You. You saved Lot. Is Isaac worth less than the just men of Sodom?

“When Your voice resounded in the air, Abraham said at once, ‘I am here!' Not a day goes by that he doesn't show us that You are our blessing. Let Isaac die, and you will be our curse.

“What is a god who kills, Yhwh? What kind of order is he bestowing on the world? I say to You, a mother is stronger than a god in such cases. There is nothing, no order, no justice, that can take a child from his mother.

“Oh, Yhwh, stay Abraham's hand! Throw away his knife! Your glory will find a dwelling place in my heart and in the hearts of all the mothers of Canaan. Don't reject my prayer; think of us, the women. It is through us that your covenant will sow the future, from generation to generation. I cry to You, Yhwh: Keep Your promise to me, and my hope will always be in You.”

In fact, I'm not certain I did cry out. But at the very moment I sent up my supplication, the thunder rumbled, the clouds poured out their waters, and a ram came trotting toward Abraham.

“Abraham!” I cried. “Abraham! The ram, look at the ram behind you!”

This time my cry rang out, though even now, Abraham maintains that it was Yhwh's voice he heard, not mine. So it seems we cried out together.

No matter. It was over. The only thing the knife cut was the ropes on Isaac's wrists. My son saw me and ran to my arms.

I didn't laugh with joy. I wept. I wept for a long time, with a terrible sense of fear.

And here I am today, alone here outside the cave of Makhpela, watching my life come to an end. Alone, for how long is it since I last saw my son's face? He has grown, and is no longer as close to me. He's becoming a man, totally occupied with his love affairs and his duties as Abraham's right hand. But such is life, and that is how it should be.

Wait and remember, that is all I can do in the little time I have left.

There is no wind and yet, above me, the leaves of the poplar tremble, filling the air with a noise like rain. Under the cedars and acacias, the light dances in patches of molten gold that remind me of the softness of Pharaoh's skin. A memory that fades with the fragrance of lily and mint that comes to rest on my lips. Swallows play and sing above the cliff. All is well with me.

Oh, I see I was wrong. I'm not going to be alone for my last journey after all. I can see a crowd setting out from the valley. A whole nation is climbing the hill. And yes, it seems to me I can see Isaac in front. And Ishmael behind him. And Abraham by their side.

Oh, my tender husband, how slowly you walk. Like a very old man. Like the man I have loved so very much and who is coming to hold my hand before Yhwh takes my breath from me. Oh, my beloved, place me, the mother of those who believe, in the cave of Makhpela, and pray to God Most High that Sarah and Abraham be long remembered.

Acknowledgments

This book would never have seen the light of day without the advice and help of Jean-Pierre Allali, Leonello Brandolini, Clara Halter, Nicole Lattes, Susanna Lea, and Nathaly Thery.

They have my deepest thanks.

About the Author

M
AREK
H
ALTER
was born in Poland in 1936. During World War II, he and his parents narrowly escaped the Warsaw Ghetto. After a time in Russia and Uzbekistan, they emigrated to France in 1950. There, Halter studied pantomime with Marcel Marceau and embarked on a career as a painter that led to several international exhibitions. In 1967 he founded the International Committee for a Negotiated Peace Agreement in the Near East and played a crucial role in the organization of the first official meetings between Palestinians and Israelis.

In the 1970s, Marek Halter turned to writing. He first published
The Madman and the Kings,
which was awarded the Prix Aujourd'hui in 1976. He is also the author of several internationally acclaimed, bestselling historical novels, including
The Messiah, The Mysteries of Jerusalem,
and
The Book of Abraham,
which won the Prix du Livre Inter. Marek is currently working on the second and third volumes of the Canaan Trilogy:
Zipporah
and
Lilah,
which will be published in 2005 and 2006, respectively. He lives in Paris.