Sarai (Jill Eileen Smith) (8 page)

“What happens if Adonai sends His promised seed and produces this long-awaited child in me? What will they think of us then, my lord? We cannot live a lie forever.”

“We should not live a lie at all.” But what else was he to do? “I don’t plan for us to stay here that long.”

“So we are leaving then?” She sat up, her long, dark hair falling far beneath her shoulders, its thick tresses framing her beautiful face. Her expression clouded. “We cannot force Father to continue.”

“He should have stayed in Ur.” Silence followed Abram’s comment. “I could send for Nahor to come and get him, to take him home to Ur.”

“I cannot leave him with Milcah. She never cared for him as I do. He would die too soon, and I would never know it.” She glanced beyond him, her eyes filming, and his heart ached with her pain.

He drew her into his arms again, his sigh palpable. “Of course not.” He rubbed her back, enjoying the feel of her head against his heart. “When the promised seed grows within you, I will tell the elders the truth. Until then, we will keep our love quiet between us.”

She placed a hand over her middle, her own sigh deep yet quiet, as though willing the promise to come this moment yet certain it wouldn’t. Surely it was possible . . . surely soon.

But when she rose to dress and looked down at him still resting among the cushions, he wondered whether El Echad would bless them now amid the lie they were living.

Sarai waited in the courtyard outside of Lot’s home for Melah to fasten the clasp of her robe while her servant tied the leather sandals to her feet. Lila stood in the street just beyond the gate with Sarai’s two ever-watchful male slaves. Lot’s voice came from inside the house, his tone angry, but his words were indistinguishable. She looked toward the wooden door at the sound of footsteps and moved to the side as he burst into the courtyard with barely a glance at his wife. He nodded toward Sarai, stopping abruptly.

“I did not see you there, Aunt.” He smoothed his hands along the sides of his robe as though suddenly uncertain what to do or how to act. “Is there something you need?”

She shook her head, her gaze skipping to Melah’s, catching the soft glint of tears on her lashes. Had they fought? But of course they had. She looked back at Lot, clearing her throat. “I came to accompany Melah to market. The Akitu Festival is next week, and I thought to purchase some spices and games for the children so we might have a quiet celebration in its stead.” Abram would never allow them to participate in the worship of foreign gods, but planning an alternative seemed like a good way to keep her father distracted and the household servants and their children at peace.

“The festival. Of course. I had almost forgotten.” Though by the slight scowl along his brow, Sarai wondered if he spoke the truth. “I will leave you two to your plans then.” He offered her a curt nod, not even a hint of his once-charming smile poking at the edges of his close-cropped beard. He strode through the courtyard into the street, turned a corner, and disappeared from sight.

Did Lot plan to allow his household to participate in the gaiety, to watch the act of sacred marriage or pretend the moon god had died and somehow come to life again? She knew too well the horrors of the sacrifice that accompanied the festival, of life lost because of such beliefs. Their brother Haran had lost his son to such a sacrifice in the years before Sarai was old enough to understand its significance. She shuddered at the thought.

“Are you ready?” Melah appeared at her side, her face barely a handbreadth from Sarai’s.

Sarai took a step back. “I’m ready.” She pointed toward the gate, allowing Melah to move ahead of her. They maneuvered the crowded streets, and Sarai could not help but note the festive atmosphere already present, as though the people were anxious to start the celebration. Men whistled as they passed, and as they stepped beneath the merchants’ tents, smiles greeted them.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Sarai fingered a miniature table with its accompanying stool, bed, and doll, then snuck a glance at Melah. “Why was Lot so upset?”

Melah stood close, her hand grazing a selection of tiny animals—sheep, goats, birds, bears, and lions. “Kammani would love these.” She picked up a lamb and turned it over. The wooden craftsmanship was superb, down to the fine lines depicting the wool.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.” Sarai chose several tops and balls and small ships for the boys, along with some dolls and furniture for the girls. She enjoyed spoiling the children of her servants. It didn’t quite fill the void of her empty arms, but the temporary joy it brought to the children and parents alike helped.

“We argued about the festival. He doesn’t want me to go.” She lifted her chin, a defiant gleam in her eyes. “But we’ve been here a year, and we missed it last time. I told him I was going whether he liked it or not.” She met Sarai’s gaze, her own challenging. “And I don’t want to hear any lectures against the evils of watching the parade or listening to the stories of the gods. If it isn’t real, there’s no harm. And if it is, then it’s good to keep the gods happy.”

Sarai’s stomach tightened and a shiver worked through her, as it always did whenever she and Melah got into a discussion about the gods. “I won’t argue with you, Melah. Obviously Lot already tried that.” She stepped toward the merchant with her purchases, exchanged a few words to barter the price, paid the man, then followed Melah to the next tent. She was in no mood to argue with Melah today, and by her tone, there would be no reasoning with her anyway.

“What are we looking for here?” Sarai glanced around the black goat’s-hair walls, where multicolored tapestries hung with pictures of erotic art. Tables were spread with amulets and idols of gods she had seen in Ur all her life. She turned to leave, but Melah caught her arm.

“I need an amulet to keep the demons from stealing my baby.” She laid a hand over the place where a child would lay.

“Kammani is to have a brother or sister?” Sarai could not stop the swift pang of jealousy, but she smoothed her expression and stuffed the pain away. She smiled. “How wonderful for you.”

Melah lost her defiant look, her gaze suddenly troubled. She moved to one of the tables holding various stone pendants strung with leather strings to wear about the neck. “If the gods are kind to me. You know how many I have lost.” Melah had miscarried several children before Kammani’s birth.

“That one is the demon Pazuzu and is perfect for counteracting the evil of Lamashtu against you or your unborn child.” The female merchant looked at Melah, taking in her appearance as if trying to judge what to think of her.

Melah picked up the amulet and held it to her chest. “I will take it.”

The merchant gave Melah a semi-toothless smile, waiting while Melah fished the coins from her pouch. She accepted them and placed them in the pocket of her heavy leather girdle, then turned her attention to Sarai. “Can I interest you in such an amulet? I have all kinds—those for women with child, women who are sick with child, and even women who are barren and cannot bear a child.” At her last words, she pointed to a leather strand with twenty-one small stones draped down the sides. “I’ve heard testimonies that this one really works.” She gave Sarai a pointed stare. Could the woman read her thoughts?

Sarai stepped closer, looking down at the gleaming black stones, wondering what possible power such a thing could have to procure a child.

“It’s not a bad idea, Sarai,” Melah said at her side, their shoulders touching. “What can it hurt?”

The necklace was appealing. Would Abram recognize it as an amulet? It almost looked like the jewels she often wore, especially during festive occasions. But Melah’s attitude stopped her.

“We better go.” She looked at the merchant. “Thank you.” Before Melah or the woman could respond, Sarai hurried from the tent, breathing deeper when she saw Lila and her guards standing close by.

“Why did you rush out like that?” Melah touched her arm, and Sarai took a step back, suddenly wanting to go home. But she had not purchased the spices yet or found the honeyed treats she hoped to secure.

“I have more important things to shop for than stone trinkets that will do nothing except be a weight around my neck.” She glanced at Lila to follow her and hurried on to find the stall of spices.

“You’re wasting a lot of good opportunities,” Melah called after her. “You don’t have to worship it. Just give it a try.”

Sarai ducked into the tent, knowing Melah would follow and probably try to push the point, but Sarai had no intention of letting her. She did not need to tempt the fragile trust she had in Abram’s God to keep His promise to them. If she listened too long to her niece, she would plunge headlong into despair and darkness.

She dare not risk it.

6

Palm trees lined the brick streets in the main section of Harran, leading a parade of people toward the city’s temples. Carts carrying the image of Nannar-Sin, pulled by fattened oxen, were decorated with elaborate designs, while priests in grotesque face masks and wild costumes walked behind. Painted women in colorful garments danced, skirts swirling around the costumed priests, while guards flanked them before and behind, all leading the crowd toward the imposing ziggurat temple of Sin.

Melah stood on tiptoe, straining to see above the heads of other men and women, her heart beating with the pace of the drum. Terah, Lot’s grandfather, stood at her side, clutching her arm in a grip far stronger than he’d exhibited in previous weeks.

“We should have found a roof to stand on to look down upon the parade.” Terah’s voice rasped like dried parchment. He cleared his throat. “We won’t be able to see the king with the priestess from here.”

“Abram would be glad we can see so little.” Melah glanced at Terah, but his look told her he did not care whether his son was troubled by his choice to be here. Even Lot had acquiesced, allowing her to come once Terah insisted he would accompany her.

“Abram is too concerned with pleasing only his unseen God, my daughter.” He patted her arm, motioning for her to follow him behind the crowds to the street beyond. “He does not realize the significance of the New Year’s Feast. How will the gods shine upon the city or bless the ground with fertility if we do not please them? The grieving and contrition are important, to be sure, but the feasting and rejoicing matter too. What is one without the other?”

They maneuvered around donkeys tied to parked carts, and Melah lifted her robes to avoid a pile of dung in the dirt path. Terah’s walking stick struck the uneven ground, and his breathing grew labored. He paused to catch his breath.

“Perhaps we should go back, Sabba. We do not need a better view.” If Terah fell ill while in her care, Sarai would never forgive her. Not that she cared what Sarai thought. Sarai agreed with Lot, and Lot could learn a thing or two from his grandfather. What harm was there in watching a celebration?

“I’m fine.” Terah stopped to take a few deep breaths, then continued on. They turned at the next street to the sound of trumpets and marching feet.

“The king is heading to the temple, Sabba. We must hurry!” Melah helped him climb the rest of the steps, then begged and pushed and prodded until a young woman finally took pity on Terah and allowed them a place to squeeze in beside her near the parapet. The ziggurat stood directly across from them, the steps clearly visible. Melah stood mesmerized, her heart beating faster as she watched the handsome king climb the steps to the temple doors, where the beautiful priestess stood waiting for him.