Abraham and Sarah (6 page)

Abram knelt beside the still form. It seemed impossible that the mouth was motionless and the eyes stared out but didn’t focus or kindle with recognition. He felt a choking sensation. Tears blinded him. His brother was gone. Such pain, such a feeling of loss, enveloped Abram that he couldn’t move or think.

He tried to lift Haran but realized he wouldn’t get far. The ziggurat was deserted. The Elamites were busy plundering the city below. Time passed, and he thought of nothing but his grief until the sun set and darkness descended over the Hill of Heaven.

Slowly he folded the garments around Haran, and as he did so, he noticed the family signet ring. With the ring went a blessing. Abram turned away. It was heartbreaking to see the hands, at once so familiar and yet now cold and still. He knew he should take the ring, but he couldn’t bear to touch it.

He stood up. For the first time he thought of Haran’s sons, Lot and Iscah, and wondered if they had escaped. Usually it was the sons’ business to bury their father, but now nothing could be done as usual.

In a daze Abram ascended one more flight to the observatory where he had come so often to study the movement of the stars. He hoped to find someone to help him, but instead he found his friend, the old astronomer, dead among the smashed tablets he had spent a lifetime studying.

Looking up, he noticed that, as so often in the past, the evening star hung low on the horizon beside the new moon. He could remember the old astronomer telling them that the morning star was the star of love and beauty, but the evening star signaled hate and destruction. “One goddess exhibiting two opposing natures … just like a woman,” he had often observed with a shy smile.

Abram leaned against one of the pillars of the observatory and wept. The Hill of Heaven was dark and quiet. For the first time the priests were not out to greet the moon and evening star with sistra balag-di drums, harps, and
high-pitched nasal chants. How sad, he thought, all Ur believed that those who blessed the new moon would not die this month.

Peering over the parapet, he could see, far below him, flames bursting out in one section after another. The smell of burning flesh scorched his lungs. Faint and far away, as though in some nightmare, could be heard shouts, screams, and cursing as people were driven from their homes. Above it all, and most terrifying, was the frequent sound of the Elamite horns announcing their victory. Abram felt drained, exhausted, and unable to fully comprehend the extent of the tragedy. Everything was lost.

Gradually he began to recognize the immediate danger. The city was crawling with Elamites; the gates were closed and well-guarded. The moment he descended from the deserted Hill of Heaven, he would be accosted and taken prisoner or killed.

He who had always helped others found himself trapped in a hopeless situation. He thought of his father and Nahor, and he hoped they had safely made it through the gate and up the river to the grazing lands where he had taken the rest of the family.

He thought of Sarai, his lovely, spoiled little wife, and wondered what would become of her if he couldn’t escape. After Abram’s own mother had died, Terah, following their custom, had married the daughter of his uncle. She was the only mother Abram remembered. She had been gentle and loving, and he had been her favorite. In turn, when she gave birth to a daughter, Abram had loved the child with an almost fanatical love.

For a moment he forgot everything in his concern for Sarai. He had done his best to shield her from the cruel observations of their neighbors. “By now your house should be full of children,” the people taunted. “What’s wrong with Sarai? For sure you’ll find she has a devil in her belly.” Delighted in her barrenness, it was to them proof that only the goddess Ningal or Innini could grant children.

Abram had been so determined to protect her from the crude jeers that he had spoiled her beyond all logic. True, she had been indulged first by his grandfather and then their father. Now he saw no way of putting an end to it—and had no real desire to—for he loved the woman she had become.

Gradually the panic returned. There was no way out. What good had it been to rescue his family if he weren’t there to lead them to safety? He sank down on the steps of a small shrine and with his head in his hands groaned,
“Elohim, Elohim, where are you? These gods have failed, and only you are left.”

No sooner had he uttered the words than he remembered a day in the past. A day like no other day. It was the day he had taken a firm stand and smashed the idols in his father’s shop.

He remembered how at first Terah had been taken aback, though Abram had been right in guessing the logic would please his father. However, the city’s elders were a different story. They had learned nothing from the demonstration. Instead, they had been determined to kill him—and almost did.

In the very midst of the crisis, when crushed with the blackest depression, Abram had felt the presence of his God—Elohim, the God who had been nearly forgotten and few knew or worshiped.

Though Abram had seen nothing, he remembered being overwhelmed by such love and compassion that he wept for joy. Once again he felt surrounded by this same love. Such a slender thread of hope to go on. Such a strange bit of encouragement. Though he could not explain it, he knew he had been singled out and comforted. It was real, more real than the hand he held before his face, more real than the devastation all around him.

He stood up. The feeling of hopelessness had vanished. He felt vibrantly alive, and a small surge of courage began to grow. He thought first of Haran. It would be impossible to bury him, but now he knew he must go back and take the family ring that had been given to Haran. It would be a reminder of Haran and of all those from his family who had worn it in the past.

Haran still lay where Abram had left him, and the hand that bore the ring was still stretched out on the cool tiles. Abram was relieved that no one had taken it. It would have been a great loss. Abram stooped down and gently worked the ring off Haran’s lifeless finger and then, with only a moment’s hesitation, put it on his own. He was the older brother, and whether he wore the ring or not, he would be responsible for the family when his father died.

He stood up and looked around. He’d somehow have to escape the city to where his family waited for him. He didn’t know how he would go. He knew only that he must find a way.

As he peered into the darkness, he was surprised to see a figure materialize out of the shadows. When he came closer, Abram could see it was Urim, the cheese maker. “My lord,” Urim said, “if you will let me go with you, perhaps together we can find a way out.”

“What do you know?” Abram questioned.

“I know that you have been planning for some time to leave Ur. I want to go with you.”

“And your family?”

Urim’s teeth flashed white in the moonlight as he said with a smile, “My wife and children are already with your family and servants. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It seems everything has already been decided. How do you propose to get out?”

“I have no plan. It looks impossible. From what I’ve seen we’ve more chance of getting speared on an Elamite javelin than escaping, but I’m ready to try.”

Abram immediately liked the man. He was glad to have someone with him. If they escaped, it would be a miracle. They moved out of the shadows and Abram got a better look at Urim. The man was obviously no scholar but one of those ordinary men with an abundance of common sense. If we are to escape, Abram thought, this is the man who will find a way.

S
arai had left Ur much earlier. When Abram told her they would be moving out to live in tents until the possible trouble in Ur was over, she was annoyed. When he said she must pack up everything she treasured, she was miserable. It had taken one large, cumbersome cart heavily loaded to carry her jewelry and cosmetics. Three others were filled with her ornate robes, wedding finery, exquisite woven pieces, headdresses, and footwear. Finally it took a whole string of donkeys to carry the condiments, herbs, seasonings, dried fruits, grains, and wines she used for special occasions.

She had not known that Abram was not riding with them until they were at the gate ready to leave. She was terribly upset. She would never forget the last poignant moments.

It had been dark, and though she couldn’t see the marble fountain, she could hear its soft splashing on the hard granite curb. She breathed deeply of the pungent odor of the tuberoses, heard the nesting stork stir and flap its wings, and rubbed her hand over the heavy worn boards of the gate that opened out into the lane.

She reached out for Abram and clung to him, begging him to stay with her. He joked and humored her, trying to reassure her that she would be back within a few days. “It’s just a feeling I’ve had. I may be wrong, but I don’t want to take a chance,” he said. She knew it was more serious than he wanted to admit, and Sarai intuited that she would never see her lovely old home again.

When they paused outside the city to look back at the Hill of Heaven, Sarai again had misgivings. On the flat plain the man-made mountain rose huge and dark within the city walls, but the temple at the top had already caught the first rays of the morning sun. She knew the priests would be mounting the steps, and the high priest would be sprinkling drops of clear water in all four directions to purify the city.

Sarai shuddered. As much as she loved her home, the place brought back memories of the fearful ordeal she endured before she was married to Abram.
She could picture all too vividly the temple of Ningal in the shadow of the ziggurat, and she would never forget what had happened to her there. She didn’t like to think of it and promptly put the memory out of her mind.

There was the whir of wings as a family of bats was visible for a moment against the lightening sky. A wild dog howled and was answered by one of their trusted sheepdogs. Then the signal was given, and they moved out onto the worn roadway that bordered the irrigation ditches.

They had heard almost nothing of what was happening back in the city until Terah and Nahor had ridden in with their report of the Elamite attack and their own narrow escape. Sarai could tell by the fear in Nahor’s eyes, and the way his mouth twitched when he tried to tell of all they had seen, that something unspeakably terrible had happened. “It’s thanks to Abram we haven’t all been killed or captured,” Terah insisted.

“And where is Abram?” Sarai asked with alarm.

“And where’s my father?” Milcah demanded of her husband, Nahor.

Lot and Iscah pushed forward to face their uncle and grandfather. “Yes,” they demanded, “where is our father?”

Nahor glanced at Terah, who stiffened and glared at them all. His face was ashen. Though he was exhausted, he maintained the demeanor of authority. “Haran is somewhere in the city. We can only hope he is still alive.”

“And Abram … where is he?” Sarai pushed the two men aside and clutched her father’s arm in a frightened grip.

Terah’s agonized eyes told the story before he spoke. “Abram went to find Haran. Both may be lost to us.”

Sarai pulled back and glared at her father. “Not Abram. Nothing will happen to Abram. He’ll think of something.” Her voice was confident, but they could tell by the way she clutched her shoulder scarf and tossed her head defiantly that she was really frightened.

When night came and there was no news, the anxiety grew. Most of the family gathered around Terah as if needing his strength to face whatever might be in store for them. Sarai stayed in her tent, unwilling to let the others see her mounting fear and anxiety. She sat by a fire of nettles and aimlessly poked small sticks into the fire to keep the coals burning, her thoughts on Abram.

It had never occurred to her that anything really bad could happen to him. She realized with growing panic that she couldn’t even imagine life without him. He was always able to make things come out right. He was fearless.

She remembered with a shiver of delight how he had dared to rescue her from Ningal’s sacrifice. Then how he had smashed the idols and even dared to challenge the gods of the moon.

She would never forget how Abram had risked everything for her sake. Her father’s concubine, her brothers Nahor and Haran, and even her father thought she should do as the maidens of Ur and sacrifice to the goddess. She remembered how her father’s concubine had whispered, “They say that if you don’t go, you will be cursed. No child will grow in your womb.”

Even after all these years, she had not borne a child, and she was haunted by the priestess’s curse. She had never been allowed to forget the curse for a moment because the people of Ur were always asking her why she had not made peace with the goddess so she could have a child. In that way they continued to taunt her. She knew they whispered that her barrenness had resulted from her refusal to honor the great earth goddess Ningal and her daughter Inanna.

With a conscious effort she pushed the fearful memories from her mind. She was concerned about her husband, not about the past. She moved out of the tent into the bright moonlight. Nervous and impatient, she wanted to be where she could see the road more clearly.