Angels at the Gate (32 page)

—Book of Genesis 18:10-12

A
ND SO, I HAVE SPENT
most of the spring on Mamre's hills, and Sarai has kindly allowed me to spend much of my time helping Ishmael with the herds. In many ways, though Ishmael is older than Shem, he reminds me of my young desert boy. I hope Shem will one day have his own herd of white camels.

Sarai has required only that I learn cooking skills from Hagar, who is as kind to me as ever, and that I continue my lessons with Ishmael and the other children, as we have always done. I am glad to apply my mind to reciting the familiar stories. Sarai requires we memorize them all. I enjoy the poetry of Ur, especially the
Epic of Gilgamesh
and the “Lament for Ur.” They are beautiful and magnificent and sad. In a strange way, feeling the poets' despair gives me respite from my own.

Ishmael also lifts my spirits. He does not stare at my ruined face
anymore, but simply accepts it, a gift for which I am grateful. This simple thing—along with the tug of wind in my hair, the sun's caress, the frolic of kids and lambs, the uncomplicated self-interest of the donkeys, and Nami's steadfast presence—gradually begins to heal the wounds that lie beneath my flesh.

The air begins to thicken with summer when Sarai calls me into her tent. I enter and take the short stool that has become my customary seat when we are at lessons. Nami settles at my feet. My fingers work on the mats in the silken hair behind her ears. With a deep sigh, she rests her head on my foot. I do not share her contentment. A tall man with red hair fills my mind's eye. What is Mika doing? Is he safe? I ask every stranger or traveler for word of what has happened in Babylonia—Mika being never far from my thoughts—but have learned little.

Sarai studies me for a few moments, and I remain still beneath her scrutiny until she sighs. “I have pondered what to do for you, Adira.”

I cannot but wonder if she has more pondered what to do
with
me, but I do not say this.

“I am happy here watching the herds with Ishmael.”

A slight flinch tells me I have identified one of the thorns that prickle her. Ishmael must marry a woman who can bear him children. She is not blind to Ishmael's fondness for me. I cannot stay here. As much as Sarai wishes to have her own child, she is first loyal to Abram and to the vision of making a people for El, regardless of her private scoffing of the gods.

I take a deep breath. “So you have found a husband for me?” I hardly dare imagine who that might be—an ancient widower breathing his last? Why waste the dowry, which Abram will have to supply? But I am silent.

“I have found you a husband.”

I wait. It is what I want, is it not? If I cannot stay here, I want the safety of a husband, perhaps one who already has children I can love as my own.

“It is a match of great prestige and honors your father.”

“Who is he?”

“He is Abram's own nephew.”

Abram's nephew? I know only of three, and all are married. “Am I to be a second wife?” This is a solution, but hardly an honor to my father's memory.

“His favorite nephew, in truth,” Sarai says and answers my unspoken question. “And no, you are not to be a second wife.”

“I thought Lot was Abram's dearest nephew.” It was Lot who had followed Abram from Haran, even to Egypt and back to Canaan. Abram had led men into battle to retrieve Lot from the arms of the king who had taken him into slavery. Then, to solve the inevitable arguments over grazing land, Abram had given Lot lands to the south. Of course, they only “belonged” to Abram in the eyes of El, but that was no matter. Lot was a man of wealth, thanks to Abram's generosity, and had bought the lands from those who had never heard of Abram and his claim.

“Lot
is
Abram's dearest nephew,” Sarai says. Her fingers twist together in her lap, a rare sign of discomfort.

“If I am not to be a second wife, then I am confused. Lot has a wife. Hurriya. I met her in Sodom.”

Sarai sighs and her eyes, at last, meet mine. “Hurriya is dead.”

I take a quick breath. “How?”

“She fell from a cliff.”

I remember Hurriya as an overly ample woman. “What was she doing on a cliff?”

“I do not know.”

A long silence passes between us.

“Do you have any other questions?” Sarai asks.

“What? Oh, yes.” My hand lifts to my face. “Does he know?”

“Yes.”

“Then why would he take me?”

Sarai's slender hands fold together. “He has children, and you are the only child of Zakiti, an honorable man of our tribe and family, well thought of, and your father has left you with a fine dowry.”

I look up. This is the first I have heard such. “He has?” I had thought Chiram brought what wealth my father had left for me.

“Each time he came here, your father added to your dowry and asked me to keep it safe for you.”

Tears fill my eyes at my father's love, but they do not fall. My eyes are dry. Lot has children, but they are older than I. Perhaps we can be as sisters. They will marry soon, if they have not already, and bear children. I will have a family again.

T
HE NEXT DAY
I am told Abram himself will bless me. I wait outside his tent, but the sides are rolled up, and I cannot help overhearing him speak with Eliezer.

“She will be fine, Eliezer. Sodom cannot be such a terrible place if Lot is happy there.”

“Lot is content because he gets to play the role of Abram's beloved nephew. I am telling you, it is not a place that will welcome a stranger.”

“Yes, you did have a bad experience there, but Eliezer, not everyone is alike. There are good and bad men in every city.”

“I wash my hands of it then. Bless the child well; she will need it.”

I step aside as Eliezer stomps from the tent, not giving me a glance as I enter.

“Father?” I say, giving Abram the respectful title of the family's head.

Abram waves me inside. “Enter, Adira.”

He sits on a pillow, and I sit opposite him, trying not to wince as I lower myself down, wishing for the little stool Sarai provides for me.

“You are still in pain?” His eyes may be old, but they do not miss much.

“A little.”

“I would give my right arm to have saved you that, child.”

I bow my head. “I am not worthy of such, Father.”

He chuckles. “Your father certainly thought so. He spoke of you as if you were the perfect pearl in the oyster's heart. Come closer.”

I do, kneeling before him. His hands cover my head like an anointing of oil. A shiver runs down my spine at his touch. He calls on El to bless me and my womb and charges me to bear children to add to El's people and to honor my god and my people and my husband with my obedience.

I will try to be an obedient wife. I will try. For my father's sake.

L
OT COMES, AT
length, to claim me.

“Let us know if the size of his thumbs is a true reflection of his manhood,” one of Sarai's young handmaidens giggles in my ear as they dress and veil me in fine white linen. I remember my curiosity about Lot's thumbs as a child. It is of no interest to me now, other than to hope lying with him will not be painful.

At our wedding, Abram himself asks El's blessings on us.

I feel many things—my oath to my father, my fears, and my hopes. I am not eager for Lot's touch, but I know most women go to the bed of
a husband chosen by their family. I am no blushing youth, hoping for a handsome young man, nor even a wiser woman hoping love will grow from respect and intimacy. I am wife to an older widower, a second wife in truth, if not by the letter.

Lot insists Nami not share the bridal bed, so we are alone this night. Incense sweetens the air of our tent, and flower petals adorn the floor. I am reminded yet again of the sacred union with Mika and hope for some tenderness. But when Lot lifts the veil to behold his bride, he flinches—despite the warnings I am certain he has been given—and turns aside, drinking wine until he sprawls unconscious across the bed, crushing the petals.

I listen to his snores until the wild doves announce the morning, torn between relief, and regret that I will never again be the goddess for Mika … or any man.

M
Y HEART IS
somewhat lightened when I learn Ishmael and Eliezer will accompany us part of the way on our journey to Sodom. Abram and Sarai and Hagar come out to see us off. Sarai oversaw the packing of my dowry—fine clothes, rugs, and jewelry from Father's travels. I am quite wealthy, but these things, though a reflection of his love, are not my father. Instead of filling my heart, they merely make it ache for him.

Abram lays a hand on my head in a final blessing. “I have asked El to watch over his messengers as you asked, Adira, and I offered a pair of doves for your safety,” he says in that quiet, intense voice that always seems to hold me motionless.

I am grateful he remembered my request and honored he has made a sacrifice to El for my sake. “Thank you.”

Hagar waits a step away, but when Abram and Sarai are finished, she takes me into her arms. “Be safe, child,” she whispers and holds me for a long while. Perhaps I am primed by thoughts of my father, but my throat closes in her embrace and, for a moment, I have a mother. When she finally releases me, she presses a package into my hands. “Honey cakes,” she says, and I see her eyes, too, are brimming. “I made extra.”

“They are the best, Hagar. They always have been.”

She smiles and sniffles. “I know.”

L
OT HAS NOT
allowed his trip for a bride to interfere with business, and we take five black donkeys with us. They are prize animals and will bring a nice price, though perhaps he will keep a female or two to expand his own herd. He leads the way, riding a donkey like he is a king, but the rest of us walk. He has not given me a glance, and I am just as glad.

Ishmael matches my slower, limping pace at the rear of the herd, helping me keep an eye on them. “We can only go as far as En Gedi,” he says.

“Why?”

“Eliezer cannot enter the city.”

I wait for the explanation that must follow such an odd statement.

Ishmael pauses, making a show of checking Eliezer's location, to heighten the suspense of his story. Then he rubs his chin, which makes me laugh, as he has no hair there yet to itch. “You have been to Sodom, so you know how they are to strangers.”

“It has been almost two summers since I was in Sodom. We stayed at Lot's house. It was during the Spring Rites, and I went among them only once afterward.”

“And what was your experience?”

“I stopped only at one place—at a rug merchant's shop.”

“And he welcomed you as a customer?”

“He was nasty.”

Ishmael smiles knowingly. “They are all like that.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “My mother says it is because of the famine. They hold tight to everything and are suspicious of strangers. Beggars are not allowed in the city.”

“But the famine was many years ago, and the whole land suffered,” I protest. “And hospitality to strangers is a sacred duty.”

“True, but after the famine, the kings from the east came and took everything, all the young men and women as slaves, every bit of wealth and food and all their livestock. Mother says it is no great wonder the cities are wary of strangers.”

“But Eliezer is no stranger. He fought with Abram to win back all the cities' wealth and rescue their people. He should be a hero.”

“He was,” Ishmael said, “but as the summers passed, many forgot, and their attitude toward outsiders hardened. Once, he encountered a man
who did not recognize him. The man spoke to him in an insulting way, and Eliezer responded in kind. The Sodomite struck him with a brick.”

I remember the scar on Eliezer's forehead.

“What did Eliezer do?”

“He took the man before a judge and claimed damages. The man counter-claimed that Eliezer had asked him for a bloodletting for some ailment and then not paid him.”