Abishag
My only true sorrow was that I could not give Solomon a son. His other women quickened with child, and I did not; other women bore sons, and I remained unchanged, barren. In secret, I wept, for the loss of my hopes, and Solomon’s. Our child would not wear a crown.
By the time I could go to my husband and say, “I am with child,” half-a-dozen princes stood between any son I might bear and the throne. But we rejoiced nonetheless, for any child is a precious gift.
“Pray for a girl,” my mother told me, and I smiled and laid my hands over my rounding body. “Yes” I said, “that would make all simple, would it not?”
“Simple—and safe. If you bear a son, Abishag, guard him as you would a casket of rubies, for you will be unable to trust a single one of the king’s wives to so much as touch his cheek.”
My mother cradled my hand in hers and closed my fingers over a small smooth object. “Pray to Her; She loves girls, as your husband’s god does not.”
Upon my palm lay an Asherah in ivory warm from my mother’s skin; ivory old as love and dark as wild honey. And I did as my mother bade me, I prayed with all my heart and soul that my child be a girl. King Solomon already had too many sons.
My prayers were answered; I bore the king a daughter, But I would not live to see her grow, to raise her to be a queen in her turn. To cherish and to protect her—that task would fall upon my mother, and upon Solomon’s. For I fought hard to bring my daughter into the world, and that bloody battle took all my strength. And as Solomon bent over me, I knew I looked upon him for the last time in this life.
“Beloved, we have a daughter,” he said. “A girl almost as beautiful as you, my heart. Do you wish to see her now?”
Already he seemed far away, his image unclear, as if I saw him through rainwater, or through tears. And I knew that I must see my daughter now, or never. “Yes.” The word seemed no more than a sigh; I hardly heard my own voice.
Solomon laid her in my arms; she curled there warm and small and perfect, her eyes seeming to seek mine. But that was illusion. My daughter would never know me; I could give her nothing. Nothing except a name I did not even know why I chose for her.
“Baalit,” I said. “Her name is Baalit. Tell her I give her that, when she asks about me.”
“You will tell her yourself,” Solomon said.
“Solomon, my wise and foolish love, we both know I am dying.” I thought I spoke the words, but Solomon did not seem to hear them. And I knew he would never hear my voice again.
Only one hope remained: that my daughter might someday hear me whisper in her dreams. Hear, and understand.
And—perhaps—remember.
Baalit Sings
This is how the harpers sing it, when they sing the end of the Song of Solomon and Sheba. It is, in its fashion, truth.
And when King Solomon the Wise and Mighty had proved himself a worthy match, the Queen of the South praised him, calling his land happy and his people blessed to own so great a king. And then she returned to her own land … .
And the king’s daughter returned with her, gift of King Solomon to the Queen of Sheba. When we rode south, away from Jerusalem, she looked back. But Princess Baalit did not.
The visit of the Queen of Sheba to the court of Solomon the Wise had ended as all such formal visits ended: with treaties guaranteeing trade, with promises of eternal friendship, with gifts of treasure enough to ransom king or queen at need.
Other gifts had been given, and taken, and I knew why Queen Bilqis looked back, and why I did not. She in her wisdom had given my father back his heart—and he in his had gifted her with a past she could turn to for comfort in all her days to come.
But the gift he gave me was far greater: my father, who had always given me every precious thing I might desire, gave me a future. What I did with it would be my own affair.
If I had learned nothing else from my father’s wisdom, I had at least learned that. I hoped it would be enough to help me live my life wisely and well. And if it were not—
If it were not, that too would be my own doing. The gods give us life for good or for ill. If we do not use their gift wisely—well, that is our own fault.
Not theirs.