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

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

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.”