Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) Read online

  Sarah

  Women of Genesis

  Orson Scott Card

  © 2000 Orson Scott Card.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Card, Orson Scott.

  Women of Genesis : Sarah / Orson Scott Card.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-57008-994-9

  1. Sarah (Biblical matriarch)—Fiction. 2. Abraham (Biblical patriarch)—Fiction. 3. Bible. O.T.—History of Biblical events—Fiction.

  4. Women in the Bible—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3553.A655 W66 2000

  813’.54—dc21 00-044005

  Printed in the United States of America 70582-300070

  Phoenix Color Corporation, Hagerstown, MD

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  To Jill Locke, whose voice has been heard

  reading aloud, filling our home

  with the language of love, and whose music is gold that we hold in our hearts

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Out of the Desert

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  In a Dry Season

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Pharaoh's Women

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Ma'at

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Division

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Kings and Judges

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Fire from Heaven

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Isaac

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  It was bold of Cory Maxwell at Bookcraft to decide to contract with me for three historical novels based on the lives of the wives of the patriarchs. His boldness became even more evident when, to my own surprise but perhaps not to his, I began the manuscript almost on time, but then took so long to get past several serious story hurdles that it ended up being submitted more than a year late. By that time, Bookcraft had been purchased by Deseret Book, but Sheri Dew showed as much patience and boldness as Cory Maxwell did. I thank them both for making it possible for an old science fiction writer like me to have a chance to write a novel aimed at a very different, but (I hope) overlapping audience.

  I very much appreciate the helpful comments of those who read the manuscript chunk by chunk as I was writing it, especially Erin Absher, who was my bellwether when I wandered into dangerous territory. Other readers who deserve my heartfelt thanks are Erin’s husband, Phillip Absher, my son Geoffrey, and my friends and fellow writers Kathryn H. Kidd (encourageuse extraordinaire) and Jill Robinson.

  Every word I write is read first by my wife, Kristine, and while I remain responsible for whatever foolishness survives her careful reading, she deserves my readers’ thanks for all the foolishness she caught before you saw it. Besides, if I have any understanding of what a good marriage can and should be, it is because we have spent so many years trying to make one for and with each other.

  And if I have any understanding of what it meant to Abraham and Sarah to have children, regardless of the cost or the delay, it is because of Kristine’s and my five children, Geoffrey, Emily, Charlie Ben, Zina, and Erin, who have each taught us a complete course in why raising children is the most important enterprise one can embark on in this life, and the one in which we most closely approach an understanding of the work and glory of God.

  Part I

  Out of the Desert

  Chapter 1

  Sarai was ten years old when she saw him first. She was mistress of the distaff that day, and was proud of the steadiness of her spinning, the even quality of the yarn she drew from the spindle. She had a gift for closing off the outside world, hearing nothing but the words that raced through her own mind, seeing nothing but woolen fibers as she transformed them into yarn. And today she worked with wool of the finest white, for it would be woven undyed into the bridal dress of her sister Qira.

  Into the yarn, from time to time, she added a red-gold hair plucked from her own head. It would be almost invisible, yet in the sunlight there would be the slightest sheen of color in the dress. Her sister would be embraced by Sarai even as she was given to her husband; a part of Sarai would go with her to the distant places where she would live.

  A desert man, a wanderer. What was Father thinking? And all because the man was supposed to be of an ancient priestly lineage. “There’s power in their blood,” Father said. “My grandchildren will have it.” As if Father were not the rightful king of Ur, with plenty of godly power in his own blood. The difference was that Father still lived in a city, with many servants around him, while this desert man lived in a tent and surrounded himself with goats and sheep. Let us buy his wool, Father, and pay for it with olive oil, not with the life of my dear sister, my truest friend!

  As she thought of words she wanted to say, her eyes filled with tears and she had to stop the spindle, lest she mar the yarn through her blindness.

  Only now, with her spinning stopped, did she notice the flurry of voices at the door.

  “Then come to the courtyard! My younger daughter will draw you water from the cistern.”

  Father’s voice. Which meant that Sarai was the daughter who must draw the water for this visitor.

  She laid aside distaff, wool, and yarn, and blinked her eyes to clear them.

  Two feet stood before her, greyish-white with the dust of travel, creased and cracked from the dry air. She had never seen feet so weary-looking.

  “I’m afraid I’ve interrupted you,” said a voice. A gentle voice, pitched so only she could hear. But also a strong voice, full of confidence. Already she knew that she wanted her name to be spoken by this man, so she could hear the sound of it spoken with such authority and yet such kindness. If the gods could speak, this would be the voice of a god.

  “Sir,” she said, “will you have water from our cistern?”

  “I would have water from your hands,” said the man, “since you are to become my sister.”

  At once the tears leapt back into Sarai’s eyes. This must be the desert man, her sister’s husband-to-be. She should have known at once, from the feet! Who but a desert wanderer would have feet like these? And he smelled like goats and donkeys!

  But his voice . . .

  I don’t want to see his face, she thought. For what if he is beautiful, so my sister will love him and not be sorry to leave me? And what if he is ugly, and I have to be afraid for her, going off into the desert with a monster?

  “I will draw water for you, sir.” Not looking up, she strode to the cistern—walking boldly, so he would know she did not fear him, though she would not raise her eyes to see him.

  She climbed the short ladder and pulled upward on the waterdoor. She could hear water gurgling out of the cistern, splashing down into the jar. It would take much to wash those feet, so she left the water flowing until she could hear the pitch of the falling water begin to rise, telling her the jar was growing full. Then she put all her weight onto the
waterdoor; it slid downward and closed off the flow from the cistern.

  When she had climbed down, she turned to the jar and, to her surprise, looked the stranger in the face. For instead of standing, he had sat down on the tiles of the courtyard and now looked, smiling, up into her eyes. “You’re so serious at your task,” he said.

  Was he mocking her? “I’m not serious when I play,” she said, “but I prefer to work. There’s pride in work, when it’s done well. And someone gets the use of it.”

  She ladled water out of the jar and poured it over his feet. The dust on his legs turned into black mud, and then into slime. He immediately put his hands right in it, scrubbing away the dirt.

  Ubudüe, the courtyard servant, at once protested. “Sir, it is for my hands to wash your feet.”

  “Your hands?” asked the man. “They’re as clean as the king’s dishes. Whereas my hands need washing almost as much as my feet do.”

  “And your face,” said Sarai. The words came out of her before she realized how outrageous they were. She blushed.

  “Ah!” cried the man. “My face! I must be as pretty as a locust.” He held out his hands to her.

  She poured water into his cupped hands, and he splashed it at once on his own face. And again. And again. Only then did he take the linen cloth from Ubudüe’s hand and vigorously rub his cheeks and brow. When he pulled the towel away and revealed his face to her, his eyes were crossed and his mouth deformed into a grotesque shape. “Better?” he asked.

  She couldn’t help it. She had to laugh. “A little,” she said.

  He rubbed again with the towel. This time he made a much more threatening face. “Do I need more water?”

  “I’m not sure it will help.”

  He held out his hands all the same, and she poured more into them, and he washed again, and now when the towel came away, he was grinning.

  It was the face of a god, his eyes so bright, his smile so warm, his cheek so golden with sunlight.

  “I see that my sister will do well,” said Sarai. She said it politely, but inside, her heart was breaking. Qira will forget me quickly, with this man as her husband.

  “She will do well,” said the man, “and better than you think. For I am not Lot. I’m only Lot’s uncle, come with the bride-price for your father and to help prepare for the wedding. Lot is much better looking.”

  “His uncle?” asked Sarai. “But you’re so young. He must be a child.”

  “He’s the son of my elder brother Haran. My much elder brother. My late elder brother. Lot grew up in my father’s tent, as if he were my own brother. He is my brother, in truth, since my father adopted him—and more to the point, he’s the same age as me. Twenty years in the world our gracious Lord has given us.”

  “I’m ten,” said Sarai, wondering even as she said it why she imagined that he would care.

  “Before your age is doubled, I expect I’ll be coming back for you.”

  “Why? Have you another nephew?”

  He laughed at that as if it were the cleverest thing she could have said. She had no idea why.

  “No more nephews,” he said. “But still these two feet, much in need of washing.”

  She poured more water as Father came into the courtyard, followed by servants carrying cups of beer and a basket of bread. “Barley for the traveler,” said Father. He took one cup from the servant’s hand and gave it to the visitor himself.

  “If the elder daughter is as pretty as the younger,” said the visitor, “my brother Lot will be the happiest man in the world.”

  Sarai was astonished. No one spoke of her as pretty.

  “Oh, now, don’t be getting thoughts,” said Father. “The younger is already spoken for.”

  “Before the elder?” asked the visitor.

  “Spoken for by the goddess Asherah.”

  At once the visitor’s face was transformed into a mask of rage. This was no game of making faces with a child, either. “You mean to slay this child?”

  “Abram!” said Father. “You misunderstand me! She is marked to be a priestess. One daughter of the king’s house has always tended a shrine of Asherah.”

  Abram was his name.

  His body relaxed a little, but he was still upset, Sarai could see it. “Even though you live six days upriver from the city where your great-grandfather was once king?”

  “The duty of kings does not end just because the gods are pleased to let another have our throne. A king is a priest before he is a king, and he still must intercede for his people, even if he no longer rules them. What right would I have to return to the throne of ancient Ur, if I slack in my duty now, with my people under the harsh rule of the Amorite?”

  Sarai poured another ladle of water over Abram’s feet and lower legs. The dark slime was almost gone, and the bronze color of his sunworn skin was visible now. His legs were strong—this man ran as much as he rode.

  “You speak the truth,” said Abram. “But God does not ask parents to give their children to him. He asks people to give themselves, by their own free choice.”

  “Well,” said Father, “it’s not as if we’re going to force her. But she was god-chosen from her infancy. She sang in the cradle. She danced before she walked.”

  “One can be chosen by God, and yet still marry and raise children. The soul with many children is rich, though there is no bread, and the one without is poor, though there is oil enough to bathe in.”

  This idea struck Sarai like a thunderclap. Who had ever heard such a thing? Marriage was fine, and these princes of the desert had their own sort of prestige. But to be a priestess of Asherah was the highest work of all. She would make music in the temple and sing before the goddess and minister in her holy name. Yet this man seemed not to understand it.

  No, he understood—he simply did not believe it.

  “Sarai,” said Father, “I fear that our visitor is too weary for company right now.”

  “I have spoken too boldly,” said Abram. “I did not mean to give offense. But you see, your news came as a surprise to me, for I had already promised Sarai that I would return in ten years to marry her.”

  Sarai dropped the ladle. To marry her? That was what he meant when he said that he’d be coming back?

  “My daughter is normally graceful,” said Father. “But look—you’ve made her clumsy. Leave the ladle, Sarai. Go inside with your spinning.”

  Still blushing, Sarai strode to her distaff, gathered up wool and yarn and all, and rushed into the house.

  But she did not stay indoors—it was too dark for good work, wasn’t it? In moments she was on the roof looking down into the courtyard. Without quite planning it, she found herself positioned so that Father’s back was to her and she could see the face of this earnest stranger, this Abram, who had been so furious when he thought that Father meant to slay her in sacrifice to Asherah. It was as if he thought himself fit to judge a god. To judge a king in his own house!

  Was he joking when he said that he would return to marry me?

  No matter. Sarai knew her life’s work. It had no marriage in it.

  But such a man as this. Filthy from travel, yes. But there was a light inside him that even the dust of the desert could not hide. Everyone in Ur-of-the-North treated Father with great respect and honor, even though he was a king without a city. But this Abram did not need to have others give him his honor. He carried it within himself. He was more a king, arriving filthy from the desert, than Father was, here in his fine house.

  The disloyalty of this thought made Sarai blush with shame. She would never speak it aloud. But she would never deny it, either. If the desert is traveled by such men as this, no wonder they are fit husbands for the daughters of kings.

  * * *

  Qira was born to be a queen, and this marriage covenant with a desert man was the disaster of her life. When Father returned from the temple of the Lord of the city full of talk about a desert priest named Terah, Qira had to fight to stay awake. Why would Father bore her w
ith talk about some Amorite who claimed a special kinship with Ba’al? It was Sarai who was going to be a priestess. Qira was going to be a queen!

  So when Father said, “And I want you to marry his heir, Lot, the son of his eldest son,” Qira did not quite understand.

  “Whom?” she asked. “You want me to what?”

  “Marry him. Terah’s grandson, the heir to his great and ancient priesthood. Not to mention the greater portion of his flocks and herds.”