Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) (29 page)

So it was that Sarai was there in Hobah when Abram himself returned at last. The place of honor was given to him at the feast, and Melchizedek gave him the formal hero’s greeting: “Blessed be Abram of the most high God, possessor of heaven and earth!” cried Melchizedek, and even though few of the former captives cared much for Abram’s God, they joined in the shout of acclamation that came from Abram’s and Melchizedek’s men. “And blessed be the most high God,” Melchizedek went on, “who has delivered your enemies into your hand!”

Abram arose then, and everyone fell silent to hear him speak. “The victory truly did come from God, at whose word I came and by whose strength we conquered. Melchizedek was also sent by God to help us, and to comfort all who suffered from the passing of Chedorlaomer’s army. Therefore of all this great treasure that God has delivered from the hands of our enemies, let us give a tithe to God’s high priest Melchizedek, and the people of Salem, so they can use it to do God’s work and help the many poor and innocent villagers who have lost all their goods and cattle.”

At once the kings agreed, and the former hostages as well, but Sarai well knew how the generous promises made in the moment of deliverance could shrink day by day as memories faded and treasure grew more precious. So she was not surprised to hear Abram say, “I was sure that you would agree, so I have already caused my men to divide out one-tenth of all the treasure we have recovered. It is ready to load onto the beasts of burden at dawn, and Melchizedek will take it with him to do God’s work with it.”

Sarai could see that there was noticeably less rejoicing at this news—it was always disappointing to the makers of empty promises when they were compelled to keep them. Still, no one was angry or even displeased. They had thought they had lost everything, including their freedom, and to give up a tenth of what had been recovered seemed trivial by comparison to what had been returned to them. By taking care of this business at once, Abram had brought it off. There would be no disputing it in the morning.

Then Bera, the king of Sodom, rose to his feet. Since generous gestures were the order of the evening, he spoke in praise of Abram’s courage and the bravery of his soldiers, and then said, “I ask of Abram only that he return my captive people to me. All the gold and treasure he may keep as my gift to him!”

Sarai heard this and understood at once that Bera thought Abram was nothing more than an Amorite adventurer. It was an easy enough mistake to make. If Abram were nothing but a bold raider, then as far as Bera was concerned, Chedorlaomer’s captives and hostages would now be his captives and hostages, and all the treasure his as well. Indeed, by any law of any city, that was Abram’s right. From the moment they were captured, all these hostages had been transformed into slaves—or dead men, depending on the will of their captors. Abram had just disposed of a tenth of the booty by giving it to the king of a hilltop city who had apparently been following along to scavenge what he could—or so it would seem to Bera, who could only assume that others were motivated by the same desires that controlled his life.

Abram treated Bera’s insulting misjudgment of him with the contempt that it deserved. “I lift up my hand to the most high God, who owns all things in heaven and earth, in a solemn oath to you that I will not take so much as a thread or a shoelace from you, nor anything else that is yours or that belongs to any king or man of Siddim. None of you will be able to say, I made Abram rich. The only thing I’ll keep is what my young men have eaten here at this feast. And of the freemen who rode with me, my friends Aner and Eshcol and Mamre, they should keep their portion. But of the portion that by law belongs to me and my house, I return it all to you. What I already had before this war, God gave to me, and it is enough.”

Bera and the other kings were obviously surprised and relieved. They would not only be returning to their cities, they would still be rich. The devastating defeat that was caused by their own foolishness in ceasing to pay tribute had turned to victory, for Chedorlaomer would never again come back to demand payment of them. In the end, thanks to Abram, they were getting out of it without serious consequence. And, Sarai well knew, it would not take long for them to forget their gratitude to Abram; as for God, they clearly paid no attention to Abram’s and Melchizedek’s words attributing the victory to him. An experience that should have taught them the danger of pride and gratitude to God for his mercy was instead teaching them nothing, because they were men who were not disposed to learn.

Sarai understood, though, that Abram had acted wisely. For if he
had
kept the treasure that rightfully belonged to him and his men, the kings of the cities of Siddim would soon have come to resent him as a profiteer, and before long there would have been hostility between them, even bloodshed. And certainly it would have gone badly for Abram’s brother Lot if he stayed in Sodom. Abram’s generosity would instead make Lot one of the great men of Sodom, and would earn him a place in the highest councils. After all, hadn’t Lot’s warnings all been borne out? And hadn’t everyone been saved by Lot’s brother, Abram, a man so rich and powerful that he could defeat great armies and yet refuse the spoils of war?

You’ve done well today, my husband.

That night, though, as she embraced Abram in the opulence of a captured enemy tent, she felt him trembling. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Lot is free, and all your men are safe.”

“I don’t like killing,” said Abram. “So much blood was shed.”

“You killed as few as possible,” said Sarai. “They came to kill and rob and enslave—there was not one whose death was not well deserved by law.”

“Let justice come,” said Abram, “but not by my hand.”

“And yet it
was
by your hand.”

“Only because I have given my hand to God, to use as he sees fit.”

The idea of giving his hand to God made her think of what he had said at the banquet, about how he didn’t want anyone to think Bera had made him a rich man. Abram gave his hand to God, and yet it was still Abram’s hand. If Bera had given his treasure to Abram, it would still have been Bera’s treasure in everyone’s mind—even though Bera had already lost the treasure, and Abram had taken it from someone else.

If I could give a child to Abram, it would still be my child, because it would be my gift, even if the child came from someone else.

The thought frightened her, because it meant surrendering to the barrenness of her body, admitting that she would never have a child. Still, what mattered was that Abram have seed in order to fulfill the promises of God. And if Sarai gave him another body, a body that belonged to her also, the body of her handmaiden, to receive his seed and bear him a child, then that child would come to him from Sarai as surely as if her own body had borne it.

O God, is this the sacrifice that I must make? To forswear my own child-bearing as I give my husband his son? No, please, Lord. Let my own body bear the child of Abram’s promise. Don’t leave the gates of my womb locked forever. Let life grow within me!

But she knew even as she prayed this silent prayer that she already had the answer when God gave her the thought of giving her handmaid to her husband to bear him a child. Now everything made sense to her—why God had placed her in the House of Women in Egypt, so she could meet Hagar and take her out of Egypt and bring her here to be her husband’s concubine. I was sent there only to bring Hagar’s young body to my husband.

It was with a bitter heart that she made her vow to God, to obey him in this. For only despair could make her let another woman take this place within her husband’s arms.

Chapter 17

Abram did not answer. They had been at home in Mamre for a week before Sarai worked up the courage to say what she knew she had to say. All the rejoicing was over. The kings of the cities of Siddim had left, and Lot with them. Aner, Eshcol, and Mamre had gone home. Life was back to normal.

And Abram came to her one morning and sitting there in the door of her tent, he said, “Why are you unhappy? The Lord gave us the victory. Not one of our men lost his life. Lot has returned to his family. Melchizedek left his blessing with us and went back to Salem. All is as it should be. And yet through it all, whenever I look at you I see something terrible in your eyes. And it isn’t the old sorrow that I always see. It’s a fresh pain, and it frightens you, and so it frightens me. But you have to tell me. I have to know. You can’t bear this alone, whatever it is.”

His words came in a rush, or so it seemed to her; and yet it also seemed to her that it took him forever to say it, and after every sentence she thought a thousand sentences of her own, long explanations and longer pleadings, discourses, volumes, libraries were in her heart and yet she said nothing, she barely breathed until he was through and then, in the silence, she said, “Abram, you must lie with my handmaiden Hagar. She will bear you the son you have been promised.”

He did not answer.

The silence grew very long. So she found the courage to speak again. “It was to find her that we went to Egypt, and all we have been waiting for is for my heart to be ready to hear the Lord and do what must be done.”

Still he did not answer.

“That is what we’ve been waiting for,” said Sarai. “For me to humble myself, and to realize that a man does not have to bear children only through the body of his wife. Hagar’s body also belongs to me, and that is the body you must use to get your children from the Lord.”

And still he said nothing.

So she fell silent, and looked out over the camp, and beyond it, to the brown hills of autumn, to the thin skiff of dust being raised by the passing of a small flock of goats and the boy who was herding them with his long stick.

Her heart leapt within her. He is silent because he will refuse the gift. It was enough that I offered. He will hold me in his arms and tell me that he would rather have no child at all than to break my heart by accepting this gift. He will tell me that the Lord forbids it, and so he will not do it. He will tell me that all the children of this camp are his children. He will comfort me and we will never speak of this again.

O God, she cried silently. What am I thinking? In my heart I deny the gift. I make myself a liar by taking it back again, by hoping that he will say no. But that is not what I hope. I want him to say yes. I want the promise to be fulfilled. O Lord, let him take Hagar into his bed and let her give him a son that I can love and raise as my own.

My own, but he will look like her, he will have her eyes, and I will hate him for that, I will hate him for her mouth, for every word he says, and I will hate myself for having stolen her son from her and for trying to raise him in a lie.

O God, forgive me once again, for pretending to myself that the boy can be mine. No, he will be Hagar’s. Abram’s and Hagar’s,
their
son, not mine. She will be his mother. I will not steal her child from her.

But please, Lord, do not make me give up my place beside Abram!

A strange new peace came into her heart. As if a kind voice said to her, You have given all that I ask. The child will be Hagar’s, but I will not take Abram from you. She did not hear the voice, she did not know the words, but she felt the peace that could only come from having heard that voice, and understood those words, and so she knew they had been spoken, and by whom.

“Abram,” she whispered. “Now I truly mean it. Lie with Hagar.”

She turned to face him.

Tears streaked the dust on his cheeks. “I know what that cost you, my love,” he whispered, “but I will never do that.”

“You will if the Lord tells you to,” said Sarai. “It is God who has restrained me from bearing. Go to her as a husband, and get children from her. I would never say it if God had not given it to me.”

“Have you spoken of this to Hagar?”

“No,” said Sarai.

“She has to agree, freely. Work we can command from a servant, but not this.”

“I couldn’t ask her till now,” said Sarai.

“How could you ask me without asking her first?”

“Because until a few moments ago I hoped you would say no,” said Sarai.

“And you no longer hope I’ll say that?”

“I want you to have a child,” said Sarai, “more than I want it to be mine.”

Abram leaned to her, put an arm around her shoulder, kissed her cheek. “You ask Hagar,” he said, “and I will ask the Lord.”

He got up and walked to his tent.

Sarai went nowhere at all. She just sat there. Sure enough, Hagar, who had been waiting not far away, saw that Sarai was alone, that she was doing nothing, not even spinning with the distaff that was always at her hand.

“Mistress,” said Hagar, “are you ill?”

Sick at heart, said Sarai silently. But with her lips she smiled. With her hand she beckoned, then patted the cushion beside her, where only moments ago Abram had been sitting. Such a coincidence would never have mattered to her, but now, knowing that her husband’s warmth was still on the fabric, she cringed as Hagar sat on it.

Hagar, still so young of body, so beautiful. I’m an old woman, and Abram will find her so sweet that he will never want me again. O Lord, must I do this?