Abraham and Sarah Read online

  He glanced into the room where the fresh clay was kept and then into the next room where the potters’ wheels stood ready and waiting for the first work of the day. Finally he came to the larger room where the finished idols were displayed. There were smaller images that could be hidden in a man’s hand, then larger ones that would stand in a niche by a front door. A large, well-formed image of the god Nanna was his father’s prize piece and one he hoped to sell to a smaller temple for a good price.

  Impulsively Abram reached out and twisted off an ear from one of the idols and held it in his hand. It was nothing but common clay, and the idol made no move to defend himself. He jabbed out the jeweled eyes of another and broke off the arm of a third. All the time he muttered, “They neither see nor hear nor speak, and none of them can feel a thing.”

  In a sudden burst of frustration he flung his arm out and swept all the small idols off their shelves onto the floor where he watched them break into unrecognizable bits of pottery. Then he grabbed a stick from behind the door and jabbed and pushed one after another of the larger idols off their pedestals onto the floor where they lay in miserable heaps of rubble. A wonderful feeling of elation swept over him as he felt justified in all that he had done. Surely now his father would understand. Surely he could see that one must be as wise in worship as in trading. A god so fragile was no god at all.

  At that moment he heard his father coming along the narrow lane outside. Abram looked around and realized that it would be hard for his father to get any real lesson from the devastation. He would think only of the hours involved, the money paid to the artisans, and the profit lost. Quickly Abram reached for the stick and thrust it into the outstretched hands of the large idol he had not destroyed.

  Seldom had anyone seen Terah surprised or caught off guard. Now he was shocked and dismayed. He kicked at pieces of the rubble and circled the rooms, all the while shaking his head in disbelief. It was almost as though he wasn’t aware that anyone else was in the room. “How did this happen? Who could have done such a thing?” he muttered with a glance at Abram.

  “My father,” Abram replied quickly, “don’t you see? The big idol did it. The stick is in his hands.”

  “What foolishness are you talking?” Terah said, turning with an accusing look to his son. “How could such a thing made of clay move at all, let alone destroy all the idols?”

  Abram hesitated only a moment, then with a knowing look, he said, “No more foolish, I would say, than to expect this idol made of clay to answer prayers.”

  Terah looked surprised, then a bit sheepish as he admitted, “Maybe you have a bit of wisdom there. Perhaps we have gone too far in following the Sumerians.”

  “We have indeed gone too far when we offer our children to their gods and goddesses.”

  “Who among us would offer a child to the god or goddess of the Sumerians?” Terah stood up straight and glared at Abram with an obvious sense of indignation.

  “Have you forgotten Sarai?” Abram countered with a surprising tone of defiance.

  Usually once Terah spoke, no one contradicted him. He thumped his cane on the floor in annoyance and sputtered, “Your brothers are right to be angry. You thought you rescued Sarai, but you have only placed the rope of barrenness around her neck. If we were Sumerians, she would become a prostitute. That’s what they do with the barren ones. My poor Sarai. What’s to become of her now?” Quickly his tone changed as he sank down on the stone bench and hid his face in his hands.

  “Father,” Abram said, “I plan to marry Sarai myself.”

  Terah looked up in surprise. “How … I don’t understand?”

  “Because she is my sister? I know this isn’t usual among us as it is in Egypt, but Sarai and I have different mothers. More important, we are all strangers here among these people. It is best if we marry among ourselves.”

  Terah smiled. He realized Abram’s remark was a strike at his own marriage to a Sumerian. At the same time he saw that the marriage was right for Sarai. She wouldn’t have to leave her home and her people. To give a daughter to foreigners was risky. If they didn’t treat her right, one was helpless to interfere without bloodshed. Terah slowly got to his feet and embraced Abram. Then with genuine warmth he said, “My son, at times you are a puzzle to me, but I must admit you have gladdened my heart more than all my other children.”

  Like Nahor’s marriage to Milcah, the daughter of Haran, Abram’s marriage to Sarai was simple. There was no agreement between father and bridegroom, only the feasting and celebration with the formal moving of Sarai and Abram to their own rooms in Terah’s large house.

  Terah was happier than he had been in a long time. This marriage was obviously just what Sarai really wanted, and he knew that Abram was at last content. “Perhaps now he’ll be so occupied with his new wife that he won’t be bothering with the stars and our ancient God,” he said to the brothers.

  With the joyful event it seemed that all their troubles were at an end. But when the months and then several years went by and Sarai gave no sign of becoming pregnant, old questions returned. Not only their neighbors but Abram’s brothers began to believe that Sarai was cursed and would never have a child.

  Terah tried to encourage them. But he often heard Sarai weeping in the night and saw Abram looking grim and burdened.

  “She cursed me, the priestess of Ningal cursed me, and I’ll never have a child,” Sarai said over and over as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “It’s proof the goddess has strange powers,” the people of Ur would say and in time the brothers and even Terah hesitantly agreed.

  Only Abram refused to go along with the pronouncement. “It isn’t the moon or the moon god or Ningal, his consort, that sends children,” he said. “It is Elohim, the Creator God, who holds life in his hands.” He would say this, knowing that people first laughed at him, then pitied him. He chafed at their scorn. He even grew angry at times with his God, the all-powerful Elohim. He could easily give them a child, but he seemed to withhold his blessing even when it would have silenced his enemies.

  Terah pondered the situation often. Whether Ningal’s curse had harmed Sarai only time would tell. Now he had to live with the burden of neighbors and friends who firmly believed in Ningal’s curse. “We may have to leave Ur to find peace,” he concluded. Then thinking of his warehouses, the trade he had spent a lifetime building, and the comfort they all lived in, he rationalized, “It would be difficult to leave. It would be costly. We have nowhere to go. In time, people will forget, and Sarai may have a child.”

  The people didn’t forget, and life in Ur became more and more difficult for Terah and his family. At the same time their caravans covered wide areas and brought back even greater wealth to Ur and to the family of Terah. Their business in idols prospered, even without the blessing of the priestess of Ningal, and the family found it more and more difficult to consider leaving Ur. All but Abram determined to accept the unpleasantness. “Where would we go?” they asked each other. “There’s no place where a woman is welcome who cannot bear children.”

  It was true that at times, when tossing restlessly upon his straw mat and listening for the call of the night watchman on the wall, Terah felt what he called a divine nudge to leave. It was persistent and strong, but never with real direction as to where they were to go or why. However, the next morning with the first cock crow and the new sun rising, he would think better of it.

  If it had not been for a major tragedy, an emergency of enormous proportions, they might never have left. Such a disaster came suddenly and unexpectedly, and life in Ur was never to be the same again.

  The crisis came on them suddenly. It was first rumored, then confirmed, that the fierce, barbaric Elamites from beyond the Tigris were preparing for battle and Ur was their target. The Elamites, who lived in the Zagros Mountains, had marched against Ur before and had been soundly defeated. “This time,” they boasted, “will be different.”

  Ur was already suffering from a variety
of disasters. First, the Amorites from the western desert had attacked them and claimed their outlying fortresses. Then there had been a poor harvest so they were forced to import grains and pay the inflated price of 144,000 gur for 10,000 tons. The birthing of their cattle had fallen off, and trade had slackened.

  With all of these unfortunate happenings, many had been completely unnerved as they heard reports of Elamite soothsayers who foretold victory for the Elamites. “The stars,” the Elamites were saying, “are aligned for our success and the readings in water and in the goat’s liver confirm it.”

  Day by day the tension increased. It could be witnessed everyplace. The temples were crowded with supplicants. In the market and at the gates, men lingered to discuss the news while women exchanged predictions of doom as they drew water at the wells. Even the children clung to their parents and cried out in the night for fear of the Elamites.

  When news came that one of Elam’s most powerful magicians had taken a rope and tied it in ten knots, declaring that in ten days Ur would be decimated and their king taken captive, most of the people of Ur gave up all hope.

  Despite all of this, some people in Ur trusted in their powerful moon god, Nanna. Or put their faith in the mercenaries their king, Ibbi-Suen, had sent out against the barbaric horde. “They have never been able to defeat us,” they boasted. “You will see. These fiends will be turned back.”

  Terah and his son Abram disagreed with these optimists, but Haran and Nahor were skeptical. They tended to believe the priests of Nanna, who insisted their omens predicted a victory for Ur. According to these priests, the readings of the goat’s liver, the stars, and the entrails of sacrificed animals all foretold defeat for the Elamites.

  Just after sunrise, in the month of U-Ne-ku—the month of the gathering of seed—Terah was discussing the latest news with Haran and Nahor. They were sitting cross-legged on thick, goat-hair rugs in the reception room off their large warehouse. The two sons were trying to convince their father there was nothing to worry about. “In the past,” said Nahor, “the Elamites have never even breached our walls.”

  “But as Abram says,” Terah objected, “this time the Elamites are more determined and better prepared. They see us as rich from trade, and they know we have just imported more grain.”

  At mention of the old man’s eldest and favorite son, Nahor bit his lip and nervously toyed with the measuring stick he still held in his hand. Haran stood up. “I suppose Abram’s the one who has gotten you all upset,” he said testily. “We’ll have a good laugh when he’s proven wrong.”

  Terah didn’t answer but picked up a crudely glazed bowl filled with steaming barley gruel. Then holding it between his hands, he sipped with loud enjoyment. Both sons knew they must wait for him to finish if they were to hear his response. Finally, having set the bowl down on the reed tray, he waved some flies away and motioned for the servant.

  Terah took his time wiping his mouth on the edge of his fringed robe and then leaned back and looked at his two sons. His eyes were those of an astute bargainer, while his large Semitic nose betrayed his background and kept him from totally fitting in with the Sumerians. “Abram is right. The Elamites have been getting stronger. They may not be so easy to turn back this time.”

  The brothers looked at each other and then back at their father. They wanted to tell him how they resented some of the things Abram had done. They and their wives had always tried so hard to fit in and be a part of everything. Act too different, they reasoned, and you just brought on enemies. Abram didn’t worry about such things. He had always gone his own way and ignored Sumerian traditions.

  Haran, being older, spoke, “My honored father, we know that Abram is sharp in bargaining and can outwit the cleverest trader. In spite of offending the Sumerians, they accept and even seem to prefer him at their feasts and celebrations. But to us they complain. They want to know how he can stand against all of them and their customs, even their gods.”

  Terah seemed not to be listening, but when Haran finished, he challenged them, “Your problem is that you don’t see how clever your brother is. He’s brilliant, and this sometimes gets him in trouble.”

  “Brilliant?” Nahor said, the frustration evident in his voice. “How’s it brilliant to defy everyone and act as though you’re the only one who’s right?”

  Terah cackled with a dry rasping tone of amusement that annoyed both brothers. “Don’t you see? He’s the only one who dared come out and say the idols made in my shop were nothing but stone or clay and couldn’t help anyone.”

  “He could have kept his thoughts to himself,” Haran said. “He didn’t have to crush the idols. We lost valuable trade, and he barely escaped having their priests put his feet to the fire.”

  “It may have been foolhardy,” Terah admitted with obvious smugness, “but he wasn’t afraid of the people or their clay gods. He isn’t afraid … like the rest of us.”

  Nahor bristled. He hated it when his father took Abram’s side and even appeared to admire him for what he’d done. “There have been times,” he said with an effort at control, “when it would have served us and our sister, Sarai, better if he had been afraid.”

  At that the old man grew terribly disturbed, waved his cane, and ordered them to help him to his feet. “You know that’s a subject we’ll never discuss. I forbid it to be mentioned.” He was shaking all over and pounding his cane on the mud brick floor. All the time he was looking at them from under his craggy eyebrows, eyes hard as flint.

  Nahor knew he had gone too far. The trouble over Sarai and the priestesses of Inanna and the goddess Ningal had almost killed their father. Still, Nahor found it impossible to resist one last thrust. “I hope he’s right. If not, we’ll all look foolish. Already everyone is laughing at us for moving our cattle farther north and even our families out of the city.”

  He didn’t get a chance to say more. Terah stiffened and, with eyes still blazing, thundered his frustration, “And if he’s right, if the Elamites do destroy everything, we’ll be the only ones prepared. You’ll see how brilliant your brother is then.”

  Nahor was ashamed that he had deliberately riled his father, while Haran, remembering it was getting late, hurriedly excused himself. He said that he was going to the central market to hear the latest news.

  As was the custom, Haran took the old man’s hand, pressed it to his lips, then left. He stood silhouetted in the doorway for just a moment as though wishing to say some final word. Apparently thinking better of it, he turned and disappeared into the bright morning sunlight.

  The old man sank back among the dusty cushions. He was exhausted with the effort his rage had caused him. It was not his custom to get so upset. He suffered from no illusions. He knew that both Haran and Nahor trusted in the wise men of Ur and their gods. They were always repeating the encouraging predictions and ignoring any ominous news coming out of Elam.

  Just a week earlier, a trader who had come through the Elamite capital of Shushan had told how the men there had been practicing war games. They were fighting huge lions with only their daggers and shields to defend themselves and walking about the streets completely dressed for battle with their quilted helmets and large shields. “All the talk in their markets is of war,” he warned.

  “You mustn’t get so disturbed, my father,” Nahor said. “Our rulers know what is happening. They have conquered large parts of Elam. They have made agreements, even marrying some of their royal women in pledge. More than that, our walls are high, and our god is more powerful.”

  Terah listened, but his blood ran cold as he visualized these wild, undisciplined barbarians successfully breaching the walls and breaking down the gates. They could take over the city before anyone knew what was happening. Very few took the threat seriously, and no one was prepared. “Only Abram sees things as they are,” he muttered, “and with him it isn’t logic. He talks about some warning, some nudge from the Elohim, the God most people have forgotten.”

  Suddenly the sound
of running, of bare feet hitting hard on the cobbled street just outside the door, broke the early morning silence. Urgent and fearful voices rose and fell in the distant lanes and along the wall. Then finally, clear and strong, cutting the early morning fog, came the piercing, shrieking blast of silver trumpets that signaled danger. Terah sat alert while Nahor jumped to his feet, clearly alarmed. Sounds that seemed to come from the ziggurat were answered by guards on the city’s walls. The sharp, quick blasts were followed by ones more wild and eerie, a frantic call to attention and action.

  As the sound grew in intensity, it seemed to come from all directions. It was the announcement of approaching disaster, the warning of victorious Elamites moving in triumph across the plain. They had not been stopped by Ur’s mercenaries sent out against them.

  Both Terah and Nahor were stunned. Even now the gates were probably being closed and barricaded while the walls would be alive with the bowmen of Ur.

  Before either Terah or Nahor could form a plan of action, a figure loomed in the doorway. It was Abram. He was out of breath from running. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “We have to be calm and think clearly. I was with the guards on the wall. Our mercenaries are fleeing before the Elamite hordes. They cover the land like locusts.”

  Nahor rang his hands in fear. “What are we to do? Where are we to go?”

  Abram didn’t answer but calmly helped Terah to his feet and stood holding his arm to steady him. Terah looked at his son with pride. Even in the midst of this emergency Abram was dressed in every aspect like the Sumerian dignitaries. His robe had as many fringes as theirs, and he wore it as they did—fastened on one shoulder with his right arm bare.

  When Abram spoke, he was calm, and his voice rang with decided authority. “We’ll have to leave immediately. I have the mules ready. The women and our men are waiting for us outside the city.”

  “But how will we go? How can we leave?” Nahor was terrified. “It won’t be safe to leave now.”