Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) (39 page)

Abraham loved Ishmael. Everyone knew that, and knew as well that Abraham was a fair and generous man. Ishmael would be well taken care of. And Hagar, too.

Yet Sarah knew how this would look to Hagar. Though there had been peace between them for fourteen years, it was a peace based on balance. Sarah was the wife, with great authority and respect from all. But Hagar was the mother of the heir, and that also gave her an unassailable position.

Now that position was gone. Sarah was wife and mother, and Hagar was nothing except insofar as Abraham, out of charity, doled out favors to her in memory of her useful service some fourteen years ago. Or so it would seem to Hagar. The old hungers and fears were bound to return.

And yet if Sarah so much as mentioned any of this to Hagar, even if she was trying to reassure her, it would only make things worse, for Hagar would take it as confirmation that Sarah was plotting against her. How else could it look to someone who had already lost everything once before in her life? Oh, Sarah understood well. Her heart ached in sympathy for this young woman who, despite all the pain between them, had once been Sarah’s closest woman-friend. Hagar was the one who had been Sarah’s companion and comfort and, yes, guide in the Pharaoh’s house. Hagar had given the use of her body in Sarah’s service. The debt was great, and the love, however strained, was still strong for her in Sarah’s heart. But she could not speak of this to Hagar. She could only watch, and dread.

For one thing was certain. No matter how the rest of the camp might long for the baby Isaac to be born, and dote on him after he appeared, there would be one woman who hated him because he had taken the place of her son.

What made this secret harder to bear was the fact that she was the only one who knew it. For only Sarah had grown up in a king’s house, knowing all the family lore of dynastic struggles, assassinations, poisonings, maneuverings behind the curtains and under the sheets, all to secure a throne for this child instead of that one. The bitterest stories she learned from her father were the tales of fratricide and parricide. The sons who could not wait to inherit, and so rebelled against their fathers. The wives who feared their husbands would choose the wrong child, and so poisoned the rivals. The young men who, upon acceding to the throne, had their brothers murdered. The royal uncle who somehow forgot to feed his “sickly” nephews, the little princes, so that they passed away and the regent inherited the throne after all.

She tried to tell herself that only royal houses had such problems. Shepherd families did not kill each other to get control of some wells, some sheep, some tents.

But Abraham’s house
was
a royal family. Kings were priests first, soldiers second, rulers third. Abraham was all three. And he had the promise of God that his descendants would rule the land of Canaan. Hagar would have to be a fool not to know what her son was going to be deprived of because of Isaac’s birth.

She would not be in a hurry, though. She was still young. Abraham and Sarah both were old. How long could they live, after Isaac’s birth? What if Sarah lived till Isaac was three? What if Abraham lived five years after that? Isaac would be eight years old, and Ishmael would be a man of twenty-two. By then he would have had time to make friends and gather followers. He wouldn’t even have to lift a finger himself. One of the men would do it for him. Or perhaps Hagar would. Whoever it was, Ishmael could be outraged, could deny that he ever wanted such a thing. He could have the killer strangled over Isaac’s grave. Whatever show he wanted to put on. All that mattered was that Isaac would not outlive Abraham by a week.

That was the fear that lived in the back of Sarah’s mind. That was what she tried so desperately not to think of while she lay on the litter, her belly growing above her brittle bones. That was the one thing she never mentioned to Abraham during all those months until at last the child was born.

It was a terrible birth. The midwives commiserated with her and tried to comfort her, but she could see how frightened and frustrated they were. Her body was too old. She hadn’t the strength in the muscles of her back and belly to push the child out. Nor could she give birth squatting: Her bones were too brittle, her joints too frail to sustain her in that position. For hours she lay in the pangs of birth, as the child waited in vain, unable even to show the crown of its head.

Of course Sarah prayed. For her baby, for herself. After all the years that she had been barren, her womb unused, the passages of her body closed, it was no surprise that the baby should have trouble being born. But if the Lord had done the miracle of letting these two old people conceive a baby, shouldn’t he go ahead and finish the job? She prayed and complained and pleaded and, yes, demanded, for in the throes of pain she did not care about the protocols of addressing God, and instead spoke to him as one would speak to a friend whose help was needed and who, for reasons known only to him, was standing uselessly by.

Then there came the moment when, once again, she remembered that the goddess of childbirth was Asherah, the one that Sarah had repudiated by marrying Abraham. Was there some divine struggle going on over the baby in her womb, the God of her husband battling with the stubborn, angry, vengeful goddess of her childhood?

O God of Abraham, help me drive such thoughts from my mind! I know that Asherah is nothing, a misunderstanding, a memory of Mother Eve and not a god of any kind. I know that I sinned against no one when I broke the vow that gave me to her. And yet the fear and pain drive the thought of her through my body like a tent spike and I cannot pry her out. O God, deliver me of this baby, pull him out of my body and let me die, if that be thy will, only let me die forgiven for having thought of Asherah again.

The baby suddenly slid down, and a midwife said, “Ah, there’s the little one.” Another pain. Another sensation of release, of sliding, of her body being pried open like a butchered sheep and all of her insides slopping out and she tried to scream at the pain and terror but all that came from her throat was a gurgling sound and she thought, This is death.

“A little man,” said the midwife.

A baby cried.

“God is merciful to his daughter!” cried Sarah.

“She’s whispering something,” said someone.

“God watch over my son!” she shouted.

“Hush, sleep.” A hand stroked her forehead. And as if the words had some power in them, she could not stay awake another moment, but slipped into the darkness of sleep, not knowing if it was the sleep from which the dreamer never wakens, and at that moment not caring either. The child was born. Her boy was alive.

She woke again and again, each time surprised to be alive at all, and then surprised by the pain that still gnawed at her. Hadn’t the child come out after all? Was this going to go on forever? And then back down into the darkness of sleep.

Finally she awoke and did not feel so much pain. Nor did she collapse again. She saw only darkness around her. Then she realized that her eyes were not open. She parted her eyelids and saw that there was faint light coming from somewhere. She was thirsty. Her mouth was so dry that she could feel her lips split open like sun-dried mud.

“Water,” she whispered.

Someone stirred beside her. Her handmaid, of course. She closed her eyes and waited. Soon water splashed over her lips. She licked with her tongue, drew water inside her mouth. More trickled in. She managed to swallow some through a throat that seemed to have been mortared shut. That was enough. Sleep reached for her again. “Thank you, Hagar,” Sarah murmured.

At last, hours later, she woke to daylight. Her mouth was dry again, but this time she could see who lay beside her. Abraham. What was he thinking, to lie by a woman who was not yet purified? But then, why not? If she died, what would it matter then?

“Abraham,” she whispered.

He woke, and almost at once reached for a flagon of water and offered it to her, just as Hagar had offered it last night, a splash over the lips, a trickle into the open mouth. “More?” he asked.

“It was you last night,” she said.

“Not Hagar, no,” said Abraham.

“Where’s my baby?”

“He’s with a wetnurse. A woman from Hebron and a shepherd’s wife are taking turns with him.”

“Is he whole?”

“Strong and healthy, all the right parts to his body,” said Abraham. “As beautiful as if his mother had been a bride of only one year.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days,” said Abraham. “It was hard on you, that birth.”

“I thought of Asherah,” she confessed at once.

“You can think of Satan himself. What of that? Did you pray to her?”

“No, I prayed to God, but I feared her all the same.”

“You were filled with fear, and Asherah was a name that came to mind.” Abraham kissed her forehead. “Fear nothing, Princess. God knows you are worthy. Your heart turned to him in your pain. And more than that, my love. When hands gave you water in the darkness, you called the waterbringer by the name of your friend.”

She remembered last night, the water. “Hagar,” said Sarah.

“It was only your husband,” said Abraham.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t see.”

“In your heart, you have forgiven her.”

Sarah closed her eyes. “Have I?”

“You spoke her name so gratefully.”

“I was in the madness of a dream,” said Sarah. “All the years were fled, and she it was who slept at my feet. But no, Abraham, you judge me too kindly. I have not forgiven her. I fear her more than ever.” And then she poured out her heart, all her fears for her son.

Abraham listened gravely. When she had finished explaining all and then explaining her explanations because he was so adamantly silent, showing nothing on his face, when she had no more words left to say, she concluded, “Now you know the evil in my heart, and how I judge the mother of your first son.”

“My firstborn son, in the eyes of God and the law, is Isaac,” said Abraham, “because only he was born of the body of my wife. And I am not as utterly innocent as you think me. Do you think I don’t know the same tales that have haunted your nightmares? Hagar has shown no sign of resentment, but she’s shown no great joy, either. But Eliezer keeps two men awake all night and watching through the day. I told myself that such a thing was foolishness, that no one would harm our son. But . . . who knows what dark thoughts might find purchase in someone’s heart?”

“What will we do about Ishmael?” asked Sarah.

“I love him,” said Abraham. “He’s a good boy, bright and happy, obedient, ready with animals, playful. How can I harm him, when he’s done no wrong?”

“No, of course not,” said Sarah. “Your love for him is right. I understand.” But her heart cried out: Isaac!

“Let’s see what Hagar does, what Ishmael does.”

“It doesn’t matter what they do,” said Sarah. “You and I are old.”

“I know how old we are,” said Abraham. “Old enough to know how precious life is. How few the years we had with our parents, how fast the years pass while your children grow.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Sarah. “I may not live to know it.”

“We’ll see what happens,” said Abraham. “I love Ishmael. And you love Hagar—I heard it in your voice last night. We’ll wait and see.”

She heard it in his voice: This discussion was over. He had heard her, and he had decided what he would do. And she knew that he was right, that it would be seen as a cruel thing to send Hagar and her son away. It would taint Isaac’s childhood, a stain on him despite his innocence, for with his first step, everyone would remember the first step of another boy, and with his first word, everyone would remember another voice, now unheard.

Show us what to do, O Lord. Isaac will be in thy hands, not ours. He is thy gift. He was born to fulfill thy covenant. Show us how to keep him safe.

Chapter 23

All the flocks and herds were driven to nearby meadows, so that as many shepherds as possible could be at the feast for Isaac’s weaning. Everyone wanted to see him, to be part of the celebration. Many friends were coming from Hebron, too. Several bullocks and kids and lambs had been roasting all night for the feast. The choicest lamb, however, was reserved for the Lord, to be offered as a sacrifice at dawn.

Sarah received the congratulations of the women. From time to time Isaac came toddling up, demanding to be fed. When Sarah offered him cheese and bread, he stamped his feet and reached again to be picked up and nursed. Sarah had been warned by many women that it was so hard on the mother not to give in to the child’s pleading. But it wasn’t hard for her at all. She had enjoyed nursing when Isaac was very little, but teeth had pretty much killed the pleasure for her. And she had wanted to wean him a year ago, when he started being able to ask for a breast with words instead of gestures. “He’s ready to be a boy and not a baby,” she had said, but the wetnurses acted as if Sarah were some sort of monster, not to keep the baby at the nipple until he was three, so she gave in.

Wetnurses. Hagar hadn’t needed any help to nurse Ishmael. Well, Hagar wasn’t an old woman with dried-up little dugs that had to practically be wrung out like damp clothes to get any milk from them. So two nursing mothers, one from Hebron, one from Abraham’s household, had each given Isaac two nursings a day when he was little, one each day as he grew older and began eating solid food as well. Naturally, they felt they knew as much about mothering as Sarah, and offered their advice freely; and Sarah took their advice when she agreed with it, or when she didn’t know. That’s why Isaac was actually being weaned on the day of his weaning feast, instead of having been long since dining on bread and cheese and figs and dates, well-watered wine and chopped-up meat.