Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) (8 page)

At first it was only in an emergency that they would tell her their business, so she could decide whether to interrupt her husband. Sometimes, though, she simply decided what to do, knowing that her decision was exactly what Abram would have done. Only rarely had he contradicted her later, and then only because he knew of circumstances she didn’t know—and he made it a point to explain this, so that she would not lose authority. Now Abram was able to spend many hours undisturbed in his tent, while Sarai’s tent gradually became the center of the camp. She enjoyed this, partly because it was a kingly role, to govern and judge, so she felt she was living out the role she was born for. But mostly she was glad that she could free Abram to do the work he cared most about—to study and copy out the holy writing, to pray, to listen to the voice of God in his heart.

She had spun a sheepsworth of wool, it seemed to her, and dealt with a dozen minor questions, by the time Abram emerged. His face had that curious shine to it—not light, really, but it seemed like light from his eyes, drawing her like a moth to the fire.

“What does the Lord say?” asked Sarai.

“Years ago,” said Abram, “the Lord told me to get out of my father’s house and go to Canaan. He said he would make a great nation out of me, and make my children a blessing to the world.”

After Qira’s letter, these words stung doubly. “You’re getting a slow start,” said Sarai.

He waved off her words, a little annoyed with her for hearing only the implicit reference to her barrenness. She couldn’t help it—he never complained about it and someone had to.

“I’m explaining to you why I’ve refused to go far from Canaan,” he said. “Why I don’t go dwell in a city, why even when I have to range far beyond Jordan, I always return within a year. This is the land God has given me.”

“Does he plan to let anyone else know this?” asked Sarai. “Or will they take your word for it?”

“With the Lord, things don’t happen all at once,” said Abram. “It might be my children or my children’s children who inherit the land—I’m content having the Lord’s promise.” He put his fingers to her lips to stop her from mentioning that his grandchildren could not inherit anything unless she first bore him a child or two to get things started. “Sarai, I’m explaining something.”

“And I’m listening.”

“For just a moment, my love, listen with your ears, and leave your lips out of it.”

His grin almost kept his words from stinging.

“Sarai, the Lord today affirmed his promise. He said that he would bless those that bless me, and curse those that curse me.”

“Did he mention rain?”

Abram looked heavenward in supplication.

“Sorry,” said Sarai.

“The Lord
mentioned,
” said Abram, “a journey.”

“Your life is a journey,” said Sarai. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth and between her fingers mumbled, “Sorry.”

“To Egypt.”

She sat in silence.

“Well, don’t you have anything to say to that?” he demanded.

She rolled her eyes and made a great show of trying, and failing, to pry her mouth open.

“Egypt!” said Abram. “So much wisdom there, I’ve heard.”

She made a face and rocked her head back and forth derisively.

“Just because you didn’t like the Egyptians who came to Ur-of-the-North doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with Egypt itself,” said Abram. “Only lowborn and ambitious Egyptians, or the highborn without ambition, end up so far from the Nile. The best of them remain in Egypt, because it’s not just the oldest kingdom in the world, to them it’s the
only
kingdom.”

Sarai mimed falling asleep.

“They have water in Egypt, Sarai,” said Abram. “The Nile is low, but it still flows, and the flood comes every spring.”

“Why would they give any to us?” she said.

“Ha! I knew you couldn’t keep that silence going forever!”

“Why should I bother to speak, when you don’t answer my words?” asked Sarai.

“They will give us water and food and fodder because they value knowledge. They will tell me what they know, and I will tell them what I know.”

“Or they’ll kill you and steal your books and read for themselves.”

Abram laughed. “That would be silly. They can’t read it!”

“Make sure to tell them that very quickly,” said Sarai, “because they might be disappointed to discover it later, but you’ll be dead.”

“What kinds of stories do they tell about Egypt, there in Ur-of-the-North?” asked Abram. “They don’t kill every stranger who comes.”

“But strangers who come from the desert with vast herds and a mighty host—how will they know, from the look of us, whether we’re supplicants or invaders?”

“When I explain who I am—”

“The last time you explained to an Egyptian who you were,” said Sarai, “he tried to sacrifice you.”

Abram shrugged. “If the Lord chooses to let them kill me in Egypt, then that’s where I’ll die.”

“That’s well for you,” said Sarai. “God knows your name, you’re old friends. What happens to the rest of us?”

“He knows your name, too,” said Abram.

She smiled. But inwardly she argued: Does he? Does he know that I exist? I’d rather think he didn’t, that he simply hasn’t noticed me, and when he does he’ll say, Oh, Sarai! How could I forget a good woman like that! She needs some babies! Who was supposed to remind me of that? While if he does remember me, then my barrenness is not by chance. He must hate me.

A little voice, deep inside, said, It isn’t the God of Abram who hates you. It’s Asherah who tends to the wombs of women, who remembers that you belong to her.

To silence that voice, Sarai laughed. “Then let’s go to Egypt, Abram. I ask only this—that you share a few crumbs of your learning with me.”

“Learning is the only bread that you can share without lessening your own meal,” said Abram.

“If that isn’t already in your books, I hope you’ll write it down,” said Sarai. “It sounded very poetic and wise.”

He touched her nose, then kissed her lightly. “You shouldn’t mock me, you know.”

“Someone has to,” said Sarai, “and no one else would dare.”

He sighed, but smiled too. “That’s you, Sarai. Always willing to bear the heaviest burden.”

Chapter 5

For years, Abram had made his camp in the best lands—the deepest wells, the everflowing springs, where grass grew, where trees gave shade. Sarai thought she had seen the worst of the drought, seeing how many of those trees were scant-leafed now, and how many bare-limbed; hearing the hollow echo of stones thrown down empty wells; tasting the soupy water of a dying spring.

But in truth she had been sheltered from the worst destruction of this endless dry season. For now they moved through lands that had once been farmed, through villages that once had known the voices of children shouting in the streets, women chattering at the well, men grunting as they practiced the skills of war in a field outside the wall. Now the only sound was the echoing footfalls of the flocks and herds, the bleating and mooing of beasts, the murmurs and occasional shouts of herdsmen. These were sounds she had lived with for years, but now they came in the wrong place, which made them desperately sad.

At first she would succumb to the impulse to go into one of the houses, but it was always the same. Old spider webs near the ceiling, rooms half-filled with dust swept in by wind, but no sign of human habitation. It was not a hasty departure, not the ruins of war or plague. These people had lingered until there was no more hope, and then they had moved out, taking all that they could, leaving nothing of value to them. And then their neighbors had scavenged even the valueless things, and burned what could be burned to roast the last scrawny animals or boil the last weedy soup.

The last time she entered a house, Abram came in after her. “Why do you do this?” he asked. “It only makes you morose.”

“I can’t decide,” said Sarai, “if I should feel despair for those who left this place, or hope that someday it will be occupied again.”

“Someday this village will be peopled by our grandsons and granddaughters, and the land will be full from the river to the sea.”

He looked so happy and hopeful that it was all she could do to keep from screaming. She had been feeling pity for the losses of strangers; he turned it into a prophecy to be fulfilled by her drought-stricken womb. Today the time of women had come upon her, five days late. Those past five days she had allowed herself some hope, but today she had none. It will rain first, Abram, there’ll be water rushing down these streets before you hold
my
baby in your arms.

Still, she said nothing, because his words came from God, and hers from grief. To him, it was as if what the Lord had promised were already fulfilled; he thought of himself as a man with many children, and it didn’t occur to him that she did not live in that world. From then on she went into no more houses. She passed through each village without looking to left or right, for now it was her sons’ voices that had fallen silent in the streets, her daughters’ hands that spun no distaff in the houses. What a miserable life, she thought, to spend it mourning for the unconceived.

At last they left Canaan behind, and proceeded through the desert lands again. This time Abram had to consult old writings to get his bearings, for he had not come this way in many years, and the blowing dust had hidden or transformed many a landmark. Still, where there was a well to be found, he found it. But more and more of them were dry.

After a week of losing a dozen animals a day, they topped a rise and saw, in the distance, the shimmering of water. Not a mirage above burning sand this time. There was marsh grass growing in patches, then reeds, tall and topped with seeds. The beasts could not be held back—they ran, those that could, or shambled, the neediest arriving last, but there was water enough for all. Not from the marsh itself—that water was brackish, too salty to drink. Near it, though, the men hurried to dig shallow depressions into which water quickly seeped. There the animals drank greedily, the men watching to make sure all got a chance at the water, and to keep them from fouling it.

Abram did not need to watch them drink. He stood looking westward, across the water, toward Egypt. “They call this marsh the Sea of Reeds,” said Abram. “We have to go around it, and the water we get this way isn’t very good. But it’s fresh enough for the animals, and reliable even when springs and wells fail.”

“This is the boundary of Egypt?”

“Oh, I suppose we’ve been in Egypt for days. But off the main road.”

“Why? Are we hiding?”

“Egypt is in the midst of its own troubles,” said Abram. “Too many people coming because of the food and water here. They might try to keep us out.”

“Compared to the herds we once had, these are only a bedraggled few,” said Sarai.

“As you yourself once pointed out, it’s hard to know how they’ll see us,” said Abram. “We might look like an invading host. We might look like a horde of locusts. Or we might look like a weak band of travelers, easy to rob.”

“Rob? I thought Pharaoh kept the peace.” What she had most hoped for in Egypt was to be in a land where kings ruled and streets flowed with commerce and conversation. The city life that Qira could not live without, Sarai also sometimes missed. But cities were only worth visiting when the king maintained good order.

“Pharaoh keeps whatever Pharaoh wants,” said Abram. “Or rather, Pharaoh’s servants take what they want in his name. That’s the tale, anyway.”

“So is Pharaoh stronger in Ur-of-the-North than he is in Egypt?”

“In Ur-of-the-North, Pharaoh has influence because people wish his servants to make a good report of the city. On the borders of Egypt, Pharaoh’s servants do as they wish because they are the very ones he relies on to report on their own doings.”

Sarai tried to reconcile this with her own understanding of how kings must trust their servants. “They would lie to their king?”

Abram looked at her oddly. “The first skill a good king has to acquire is to learn how to find the truth behind the lies he’s told.”

“But your men don’t lie to
you.
”

“Because there are only a few of them, and the lives of their own families depend on my making wise decisions based on true knowledge. Egypt is vast, and the great system of granaries runs itself, year after year. Pharaoh’s ignorance costs them nothing, individually. But a king who has no idea what is happening reels back and forth like a drunken man, and finally he will fall.”

“My father fell because of invaders from the desert.”

“Your father ruled wisely, and the invaders won only because they were too many for his defenses. If it’s true that Pharaoh rules ignorantly, then he might be brought down by a much smaller force.”

“If this place teeters on the brink of chaos, then why are we here?” asked Sarai. “Why didn’t we go north, to the Hurrian lands? Or east into Elam?”