Sarai (Jill Eileen Smith) (13 page)

Abram, Eliezer, and Lot returned with several other men from the camp, sooner than Sarai expected, and took seats around the open hearth. The bread had barely finished baking and the stew still needed time for the barley to soften. But the servants could see to the rest. She moved to the goat’s-hair tent that had become their home, not sure she wanted to listen to the men talk of plans for the move toward the Negev. She was weary of change, and she didn’t want to leave this place where she had found some small sense of peace.

Sighing, she moved to her sleeping area and pulled the bronze mirror from a leather sack, examined her disheveled appearance, and tucked loose strands of hair behind her head scarf. She should wash and put on fresh clothes before entering Melah’s shrine, but there was no time for such luxuries.

She smoothed her hands over her tunic, brushing loose grains and dust from its folds, and slipped out of the tent. Dusk was falling, something she would use to her advantage. She glanced to her right, toward the large, open hearth where Abram and his men still sat drinking clay cups of beer, legs stretched out in front of them. Female servants hovered nearby, the clattering of bowls telling her they were ladling the stew and taking bread to the men. Sarai skirted the cooking fires and headed across the rows to Lot’s tents opposite Abram’s. The distance was similar to the city blocks back in Ur, and as Sarai picked her way along the rocky path, she envisioned the cobbled pavement and mud-brick homes she once knew. The city with Ningal’s temple. The one she had previously spurned.

Glancing over her shoulder lest she be followed, Sarai ducked her head, pulled the scarf over her face, and quickened her gait. Her jeweled sandals were always coated in a thin layer of dust now, and she rarely brought them out of the wicker basket she had packed them in. These unadorned ones sufficed, though in truth she missed dressing herself in fine clothes and turning the heads of the nobles who came to visit. Her beauty was the only thing she had in her favor, perhaps the only thing keeping Abram from taking another wife. A wife who would give him this promised heir.

She stepped around a dropping of animal dung, probably from one of the milk goats Melah kept for curds and cheese. Glancing up, she spotted the small black animal tied to a rope attached to a peg in the ground. Melah’s tent stood just beyond, the wide awning stretching above the open enclosure. She paused. Should she enter unannounced? She had done so many times before, but never for such a purpose.

She turned, darting quick looks in all directions, then ducked through the door. If anyone was watching her, they would wonder why she appeared so skittish.

“Melah? Is anyone here?” She smoothed both hands on her skirts again, her fingers brushing the hard object in the pouch as she did so.

Silence met her ears. She moved to the area marked off as a sitting room, squinting to see in the dim light coming through the door. She had not thought to bring a lamp and would pay for her foolishness as she made her way back to the hearth. Her sandals would probably end up coated in the animal dung if she could not recall where it was in the dark. Chagrined by her wayward thoughts, she shook herself, reminded why she had come.

Just hurry and be done with this.
Where did Melah keep the shrine? Sarai chided herself for not having asked, and she had not been here often enough to notice. Perhaps it was hidden behind a cushion.

Irritated, she moved through the tent, going from the sitting area to the private area where Kammani and Ku-aya would sleep and Melah would keep her personal items. She shoved a cushion aside with her foot, hoping Melah did not notice the mess she had made. At last she spied a smooth, carved stone table with the image of a goddess sitting on a golden throne carved with symbols. She was dressed in a layered, flowing, golden robe, hands clasped at her waist, a golden headdress encircling her plaited black hair, her look serene.

Sarai studied the statue, transfixed. Could Ningal hear her prayers? The image was somehow comforting.

Sarai’s heartbeat slowed as she knelt before the image, extracted the wooden carving of her likeness from the pouch, and placed it before the idol.
Can you hear me?

No sound emerged, and no returning thoughts made her think there would be a response. But what did she expect from an image of gold? Perhaps her prayers would reach the moon and the goddess would hear from her home in the stars.

Grant me a son. Please. I beg of you to hear me, to do what I cannot. Let me fulfill my vow to my husband and bear a son to carry on his name.

A gust of wind blew the tent’s flap. Sarai jumped up, her fear rising. “Is anyone there? Melah?”

Only the hot breath of wind responded. She glanced from the shrine to the door. Darkness had fully descended now, and Abram would wonder where she was. Bending low, she left her image at the feet of the miniature golden goddess. She should make some kind of sacrifice, promise the goddess something, but what? She would not sacrifice the child—the very gift she requested. There was nothing else.

Uneasiness filled her at her own uncertainty, and the growing darkness made her shiver. She replaced the cushion in front of the shrine, hurried to the tent’s entrance, and slipped into the night. She attempted to fill her lungs but could draw only a shallow breath. Fear accompanied the shadows, whispering, haunting. She stilled, listening. Across the compound, light flickered from the hearth fires, drawing her, beckoning her.

She glanced back at Melah’s tent. The wind’s breath on her neck made her shiver again, the darkness deepening as the moon quickly rose. She glanced up. Had the goddess heard her? Would she speak with her here? For a heartbeat she wanted to believe it, to know that her prayers were answered. But as she picked up her pace and hurried toward the camp’s fire, she wondered at the wisdom of her choice.

10

“I looked for you. Where were you?” Abram accepted the clay bowl of stew from Sarai’s hands and angled his head to the side, motioning for her to sit beside him on the smooth rock that served as a bench.

Sarai sat, nerves tense, hands clutching a small loaf of bread and a flask of barley beer. “I went to Melah’s tent, looking for her.” She avoided his gaze, though she felt it resting on her, sizing her up, certain he could read her thoughts.

“Melah has been here with the women since I returned with Lot and Eliezer. Why would you go to her tent when she is obviously here?” He set the bowl of stew between them, taking the loaf from her hands. His fingers brushed hers, and she recoiled, surprised at the shock the intrusion of his touch brought. “Your hands are cold.” His gaze fully fixed on her now did nothing to still the rapid beating of her heart.

“I’m not feeling so good.” It wasn’t a lie, for in truth, the closer she’d come to Abram’s side, the more her insides churned, and she could not shake a sudden overpowering sense of dread. He would never understand or approve. She should run back to Melah’s tent even now and retrieve the image, cast it into the fire. She should expose Melah’s idol worship to Abram and put an end to her niece’s errant ways.

Concern etched his brow, and he touched her cheek, stroking her skin. “Your face is flushed. Perhaps you should lie down. I will send Lila to bring you some wine and herbs. Have you not slept well?”

She closed her eyes against the feel of his hand, guilt a heavy weight over her heart. She shook her head, unable to speak. She should confess all to him now . . .

“If you need rest, we can wait another day to move south. The shepherds can handle the flocks along the way.” He reached for her hand then and pressed it to his lips. “Talk to me, Sarai. What troubles you?”

She could not look at him, and yet she knew if she did not, he would suspect more than she dared tell him. Swallowing hard, she met his gaze, undone by the tender look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for this afternoon. If that’s what this is about—”

“No, no. You did nothing wrong. It is time to move, as we knew it would be. I just have to get used to this nomadic life. It wearies me sometimes. I thought Adonai told you this land would be ours, but if that is the case, I don’t see why we have to move about so much.” She hadn’t planned to complain, but the words sprang to her lips, a quick escape from the guilt of what she couldn’t say.

He leaned away from her, his chest lifting in a deep sigh. Silence passed between them for the space of several heartbeats, disturbed only by the sound of other conversations about them. At last he broke off a piece of the bread loaf and dipped it into the stew, then handed it to her.

“It is the life of a shepherd to go where the grass can feed the flocks and herds. This new land Adonai has sent us to is not like the irrigated lands of Ur or Harran.” He broke a piece of bread for himself and scooped up a large chunk of lamb and lentils. He chewed and swallowed and smiled at her. “Very tasty. No one can surpass your ability to bake and cook, my princess.” He handed her another piece. “I must adjust to this nomadic life as well. It is not at all what we’ve known during these first fifty years of our marriage, but then, it is a great adventure, is it not?”

His twinkling eyes put her at ease, and she accepted a drink from his clay cup, wrapping her hands around his as he gently lifted it to her lips. When he pulled the cup away, he leaned in and kissed the few drops of beer left on her lips.

“Mmmm . . . even after fifty years, you still taste good.” He touched a finger to her mouth and leaned close. “The next fifty will be even better, Sarai. Our God has great things in store for us.” His gaze traveled to her middle as his hand covered hers, over the place where a child had never lain. “You will bear the promised one, Sarai. I am sure of it.”

Heat crept up her neck from his intimate comments and the feel of his hand over hers. He still knew how to stir her emotions, to make her feel like a new bride when he wanted to, though those times were fewer and farther between. Had her prayers to the goddess somehow sparked his ardor? Or was his God trying to show her through Abram’s constant reminder that she had nothing to fear?

But it was a woman’s place to give her husband an heir. The law of the land of her birth declared it so, and her father had held her to her vow even on his deathbed. She could not sit back and hope Abram had heard correctly from the God he feared. It was Abram’s kindness that kept him from putting her aside. She could have been divorced or reduced to a lesser wife’s status, or at the very least forced to share him years ago, if not for his strength of character and his faith in his God.

“I hope you are right, my lord.” She squeezed his hand, willing his words to take root within her. Perhaps even this night . . . but her faith was not great enough to hope for it so soon.

“I am right. Never doubt it.” He settled back to finish his meal, turning his attention back to the conversations going on around him. “There is Melah,” he said, turning to her moments later. “Do you want me to summon her here?”

“No . . . no need.” Her calm shattered again at his comment, and she realized that he had not forgotten his initial question. “I found what I needed. Don’t trouble yourself.”

He nodded, his brow lifted in puzzlement, but he turned to his stew a moment later, sharing the last of the bread with her. The food, mixed with the lie, tasted like dust in her mouth.