Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) Page 31

  “It was you last night,” she said.

  “Not Hagar, no,” said Abraham.

  “Where’s my baby?”

  “He’s with a wetnurse. A woman from Hebron and a shepherd’s wife are taking turns with him.”

  “Is he whole?”

  “Strong and healthy, all the right parts to his body,” said Abraham. “As beautiful as if his mother had been a bride of only one year.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Three days,” said Abraham. “It was hard on you, that birth.”

  “I thought of Asherah,” she confessed at once.

  “You can think of Satan himself. What of that? Did you pray to her?”

  “No, I prayed to God, but I feared her all the same.”

  “You were filled with fear, and Asherah was a name that came to mind.” Abraham kissed her forehead. “Fear nothing, Princess. God knows you are worthy. Your heart turned to him in your pain. And more than that, my love. When hands gave you water in the darkness, you called the waterbringer by the name of your friend.”

  She remembered last night, the water. “Hagar,” said Sarah.

  “It was only your husband,” said Abraham.

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t see.”

  “In your heart, you have forgiven her.”

  Sarah closed her eyes. “Have I?”

  “You spoke her name so gratefully.”

  “I was in the madness of a dream,” said Sarah. “All the years were fled, and she it was who slept at my feet. But no, Abraham, you judge me too kindly. I have not forgiven her. I fear her more than ever.” And then she poured out her heart, all her fears for her son.

  Abraham listened gravely. When she had finished explaining all and then explaining her explanations because he was so adamantly silent, showing nothing on his face, when she had no more words left to say, she concluded, “Now you know the evil in my heart, and how I judge the mother of your first son.”

  “My firstborn son, in the eyes of God and the law, is Isaac,” said Abraham, “because only he was born of the body of my wife. And I am not as utterly innocent as you think me. Do you think I don’t know the same tales that have haunted your nightmares? Hagar has shown no sign of resentment, but she’s shown no great joy, either. But Eliezer keeps two men awake all night and watching through the day. I told myself that such a thing was foolishness, that no one would harm our son. But . . . who knows what dark thoughts might find purchase in someone’s heart?”

  “What will we do about Ishmael?” asked Sarah.

  “I love him,” said Abraham. “He’s a good boy, bright and happy, obedient, ready with animals, playful. How can I harm him, when he’s done no wrong?”

  “No, of course not,” said Sarah. “Your love for him is right. I understand.” But her heart cried out: Isaac!

  “Let’s see what Hagar does, what Ishmael does.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they do,” said Sarah. “You and I are old.”

  “I know how old we are,” said Abraham. “Old enough to know how precious life is. How few the years we had with our parents, how fast the years pass while your children grow.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” said Sarah. “I may not live to know it.”

  “We’ll see what happens,” said Abraham. “I love Ishmael. And you love Hagar—I heard it in your voice last night. We’ll wait and see.”

  She heard it in his voice: This discussion was over. He had heard her, and he had decided what he would do. And she knew that he was right, that it would be seen as a cruel thing to send Hagar and her son away. It would taint Isaac’s childhood, a stain on him despite his innocence, for with his first step, everyone would remember the first step of another boy, and with his first word, everyone would remember another voice, now unheard.

  Show us what to do, O Lord. Isaac will be in thy hands, not ours. He is thy gift. He was born to fulfill thy covenant. Show us how to keep him safe.

  Chapter 23

  All the flocks and herds were driven to nearby meadows, so that as many shepherds as possible could be at the feast for Isaac’s weaning. Everyone wanted to see him, to be part of the celebration. Many friends were coming from Hebron, too. Several bullocks and kids and lambs had been roasting all night for the feast. The choicest lamb, however, was reserved for the Lord, to be offered as a sacrifice at dawn.

  Sarah received the congratulations of the women. From time to time Isaac came toddling up, demanding to be fed. When Sarah offered him cheese and bread, he stamped his feet and reached again to be picked up and nursed. Sarah had been warned by many women that it was so hard on the mother not to give in to the child’s pleading. But it wasn’t hard for her at all. She had enjoyed nursing when Isaac was very little, but teeth had pretty much killed the pleasure for her. And she had wanted to wean him a year ago, when he started being able to ask for a breast with words instead of gestures. “He’s ready to be a boy and not a baby,” she had said, but the wetnurses acted as if Sarah were some sort of monster, not to keep the baby at the nipple until he was three, so she gave in.

  Wetnurses. Hagar hadn’t needed any help to nurse Ishmael. Well, Hagar wasn’t an old woman with dried-up little dugs that had to practically be wrung out like damp clothes to get any milk from them. So two nursing mothers, one from Hebron, one from Abraham’s household, had each given Isaac two nursings a day when he was little, one each day as he grew older and began eating solid food as well. Naturally, they felt they knew as much about mothering as Sarah, and offered their advice freely; and Sarah took their advice when she agreed with it, or when she didn’t know. That’s why Isaac was actually being weaned on the day of his weaning feast, instead of having been long since dining on bread and cheese and figs and dates, well-watered wine and chopped-up meat.

  So today Isaac was being bratty, naturally. Everybody else was having a party, and he was getting ignored by his mother and his wetnurses. With all the strangers coming in from the town and the nearby villages, and all the men returning from the outlying flocks and herds, Isaac was afraid and wanted to be held, and to him, being held and protected meant suckling. Poor child.

  Abraham was the proud host, which meant that he sat near the cookfires and talked to people who were lining up for food or whose flatbread was freshly covered with spicy meat or stewed beans and fruit. From time to time he’d call for the servants to bring Isaac to him, and Abraham—still remarkably strong and fit for a man his age—would hoist the boy high over his head for all to see. Naturally, Isaac, already out of sorts because he wasn’t getting suckled, regarded this as an affront, and he yelled in protest, his face turning red. This provoked laughter and applause from the crowd, which only made Isaac angrier, and the moment Abraham set him down, Isaac would run off on his stubby little legs. The crowd parted for him and cheered him on.

  Then, of course, Isaac would head for Sarah, needing the comfort of the breast. Soon he would learn that it was his mother he wanted, and not just one small part of her, but then, plenty of grown men had a similar problem, didn’t they?

  Feast days were tiring. Abraham seemed to thrive on them, getting so energized that he often could not fall asleep until late in the night. But Sarah could only take a few hours at a time before she had to withdraw to her tent. In her younger days, she would have lasted out the day and fallen exhausted into bed the moment the crowd broke up. But she simply couldn’t do it now. And, because she was old, she didn’t have to. People assumed her weariness was physical, that like many old people she needed frequent naps. Well, she didn’t mind napping, but if that were her problem, she’d simply doze off where she sat. It was solitude she needed at times like this, not sleep.

  So no one thought ill of her when she got up and doddered off to her tent. She hated the fact that her hip joints had never really recovered from the pregnancy, so that now she could walk only in fairly short steps. It made her look crippled, when in fact she was quite robust in most other ways. She could still outspin mo
st of the women in the camp. Her eyes and her mind were sharp. Her hearing was acute. But, seeing her walk in that shuffling way, people assumed they had to speak slowly to her, and shout, and tell her who they were even though they were standing right in front of her. Oh, well. Let them assume what they assume. It only meant that when she revealed how keen her mind was they were pleasantly surprised. Or unpleasantly—depending on their own character.

  It was hot inside her tent, but she didn’t care. She drew the curtain closed all the same, so she would not be intruded upon. She lay on her bed, not intending to sleep, but soon she did doze off.

  She slept only lightly, and not for long, for she heard noises outside her tent. A grunting sound, and soft laughter. Her first thought was to wonder if some young village couple, wits dimmed by wine, had decided to have a tryst behind her tent. But as she lay there listening, the sounds began to make a different sort of sense. The grunting was really not grunting at all. It was more like a sustained scream, only so muffled that it could hardly be heard.

  A muffled scream, she realized, from a little child’s throat.

  She rose from her bed with an alacrity she had not thought her body capable of. Heart pounding, she drew apart the door of her tent enough to see a sight that chilled her to the soul.

  The soft laughter came from Ishmael. The screaming came from little Isaac. Ishmael had bound a long scarf around Isaac’s open mouth, muffling his voice. And Ishmael held the end of the scarf like a tether, so that even though Isaac strained against it with all his might, he could not get away.

  Isaac was desperately trying to get to Sarah’s tent. It was his mother he was calling for.

  Was this not Sarah’s worst nightmare, being acted out in the flesh? All her fears of what would happen after she died, with Isaac helpless in the hands of Ishmael, were here before her eyes.

  Isaac threw himself toward the tent so hard that his legs flipped out from under him, and he fell on his back, still tethered. The way his head was twisted by the scarf as he fell sent panic through Sarah’s heart. His neck! Ishmael has broken his neck! But after a moment of lying there, still and winded, Isaac scrambled back to his feet and ran at Ishmael, pummeling him with his little fists. Ishmael only laughed, holding his little half-brother by the head so that his blows struck only air, or landed uselessly on Ishmael’s tight-muscled arm.

  Grinning, Ishmael glanced up to share the joke with someone standing off to the side. Obviously, he was still unaware that Sarah was watching—but he had some audience that he was playing to.

  Sarah parted her door wider, and now she could see who it was that watched this miserable scene of torment without intervening. It was Hagar of course, standing in the door of her tent, smiling indulgently at the sight of her son mocking Isaac’s fear and rage.

  Then Hagar glanced toward Sarah’s tent and saw her. At once the smile left her face. “Ishmael,” she called sternly. “Come here.”

  At first Ishmael simply ignored her, laughing as Isaac tried to free himself by pulling the scarf from Ishmael’s grip. But when he glanced at her and saw her nod her head toward Sarah’s tent, it was Ishmael’s turn to notice Sarah standing there. For now she had the door fully open and stood there in plain sight.

  At once Ishmael started to untie the scarf around Isaac’s mouth. But all of Isaac’s pulling had made the knot too tight to undo easily.

  “Let go of my son,” said Sarah.

  “I’m just untying the—”

  “Let go of him now,” said Sarah.

  Ishmael, apparently realizing how bad this looked to Isaac’s mother, finally obeyed. At once Isaac ran to Sarah and clung to her leg, sobbing, his voice still muffled by the scarf. When he inhaled, his breath was a labored gasp, for crying had plugged up his nose, so that the only breath he could get was whatever air he could draw through the gag. And since it was now soaked in saliva, there wasn’t much air getting through at all.

  Sarah tried to get a finger between Isaac’s cheek and the cloth of the scarf, to open a passage for air to pass. But it was so tight that she could not do it.

  “I was trying to keep him quiet so you could sleep,” said Ishmael.

  “Go to your mother,” said Sarah. “She thinks it’s clever for you to torture a baby.” She couldn’t undo the knot either.

  “I was just teasing him,” said Ishmael. “I didn’t hurt him.”

  Sarah pulled the knife from the sheath at her waist.

  Ishmael gasped. She looked at him, saw the horror on his face as he backed away from her. Stupid boy, to think she would take after him with a knife at her age. Carefully she worked the blade between the scarf and Isaac’s cheek, then carefully sawed at the wet fabric, careful to keep the edge from touching Isaac’s tender skin. Soon the scarf came apart, and Isaac gasped and sobbed and fell into her arms as she lowered herself to the ground to hold him close. She did not even bother to look to see where Ishmael was, beyond noticing that he was gone.

  Finally one of the servants noticed her in the doorway and came to her. “Oh, is he crying again? Did he wake you?”

  “Go get my husband,” said Sarah.

  “Let me take the baby and you go back to bed,” said the servant.

  “Go get my husband,” said Sarah again. Perhaps because her intonation was exactly the same both times, flat and brooking no discussion, the servant realized that something quite serious must be going on. So she ran down the slope to where Abraham was regaling the company with some story or other. Soon he came up the hill, with far too many of the company coming with him, to see what was so urgent that Sarah would summon her husband, instead of going to him herself.

  Well, let them wonder. They would see Isaac crying. They would see the stern look on Sarah’s face. No doubt Hagar would be spreading the story through the camp that Ishmael was just teasing the baby as boys will do, and Sarah was making something out of nothing. Let her say what she would. It was Hagar’s indulgent smile more than Ishmael’s cruel teasing that condemned them both. Hagar had shown that rather than being a restraint on Ishmael’s worst impulses toward Isaac, she would be an encouragement to him. Today she allowed petty cruelties and mocking contempt. What would she allow in a year or two? What would she allow when Sarah and Abraham were dead?

  I have kept still for the first years of Isaac’s life, because Abraham asked me to be patient and see how things turned out between Hagar’s son and my own. But now I will be patient no longer. I saw this from before the baby’s birth, and my husband did not hear me. He will hear me now.

  Abraham looked puzzled and, perhaps, a little annoyed as he approached her. Sarah rose up, parting Isaac from his grip on her. “Your father will carry you inside the tent,” she said.

  Isaac turned his tear-streaked, saliva-soaked face toward Abraham and reached up his arms. Abraham lifted him as Sarah bent over and picked up the scarf. She led the way inside the tent, and when Abraham had also entered with Isaac at his shoulder, she closed the door behind her. She knew that Eliezer would soon have would-be eavesdroppers dispersed from around the tent.

  She held up the scarf. “This was tied around Isaac’s mouth so tightly that I could only get it off by cutting it. He could hardly breathe.”

  Abraham looked properly horrified. “Who did it, do you know?”

  “The other end of the scarf was held by Hagar’s son. Isaac was screaming for me and trying to run to my tent. He could have broken his neck when he outran the tether and flipped over on his back. Ishmael laughed at his screams and his fear and his rage.”

  “Surely he meant no harm by it,” said Abraham.

  “His mother stood at her tent door and smiled at him while he did it.”

  “Perhaps you’re making too much of this.”

  “No, Abraham. You’re making too little of it. I saw Ishmael’s face, and Hagar’s. You did not. There was no pity in them. Only malicious delight.”

  “You’ve been so sure that they would hate Isaac,” said Abraham. “How can you be
an impartial judge?”

  “You’ve been so sure that your Ishmael could not do any wrong,” said Sarah, “how can you claim to be impartial? I saw. You did not. Here is the scarf. It happened.”

  “The baby is not harmed.”

  “When will you die, Abraham? Has the Lord promised that you will outlive Ishmael? Because if he hasn’t, the day will come when it won’t be childish pranks. If Ishmael has no mercy now, when Isaac is a baby, and if Hagar has no pity when you and I are both alive to protect our son, what will happen when we’re dead?”

  “What do you want me to do?” said Abraham. “In all those family histories of yours, the only solution that seemed to work was to kill the rival son. Is that what you want? For me to sacrifice Ishmael for your son?”

  “What do you want, to sacrifice my son for Hagar’s? Because that is the choice you face, as God is my witness.”