When he returned to the camp, he wouldn’t eat and couldn’t sleep. He refused to see Hagar, and when Hagar mentioned the problem to Sarah, she was so preoccupied with the new baby, she answered, “He’ll get over it. He had to know sometime.”
Hagar was distraught. She had no patience with Sarah and was heard openly criticizing her in the camp. “How can she not see how she has hurt Ishmael?” she would ask.
Abraham suffered as he watched from afar. He loved Ishmael. He was proud of the boy. Everything he had ever wanted in a son was exhibited in the boy. He learned quickly. No one else could match him in physical prowess. He already had mastered the art of reading the wedge-shaped letters used to keep track of sales and purchases, but most of all he was unusually sensitive to anything spiritual.
“What will happen to Ishmael?” was Abraham’s constant prayer. “The boy must not be hurt in any way by what we have done.”
Gradually the realization came that at some point he would have to give Ishmael up. He would have to give him up—not just for Sarah and Isaac’s sake but for Ishmael’s as well. What would it do to this proud, happy boy to be displaced by a younger brother? He was the grandson of Pharaoh, and he must at some point recognize that relationship.
“In the meantime,” Abraham decided, “I must teach the boy everything of importance. Most of all I must teach him all I know of the Elohim. I will have to rely on the Elohim to protect and guide him when I am not able to be there.”
The birth of Isaac minimized the births of Lot’s grandsons by his two daughters. To everyone’s chagrin, they named the sons in such a way that no one was ever able to forget their unholy origins. The elder daughter named her son Mo-ab, “from my father,” and the second daughter named her son Ben-ammi, “son of my people.”
When they were circumcised by their great-uncle Abraham, an old man predicted, “These sons will be the founders of a great people. The first will be remembered as father of a people called the Moabites and the second as father of ones called Ammonites.” It was usual for predictions to be made at special events, so no one thought much about what the old man said.
Only Abraham saw the small, helpless creatures and marveled. Something so small and helpless, how could it be possible for such great and momentous things to come of it? he thought.
The enmity between Sarah and Hagar reached a crisis on the day set aside to celebrate Isaac’s weaning. Isaac was three years old, and Abraham had planned an elaborate celebration for his young son. There were magicians, story-tellers, jugglers, and musicians performing before the small boy who sat in the place of honor on his mother’s lap.
Several poets chanted praise in his honor, and a singer from the town of Gerar, who usually sang for the king, composed a song especially for him. Though Isaac was too young to fully understand all that was done, he accepted the accolades as though it were perfectly natural and right that he should be so honored.
Ishmael watched from a distance with scorn. He was sixteen and could never remember such a feast or celebration being given in his honor. It also became more evident than ever that he had been supplanted by the young child. Every look of approval, every bit of praise, stabbed Ishmael to the heart. He was the elder son. “Why,” he wondered, “should the birth of this child have changed everything?”
He had not intended to tease or torment Isaac, but when the two were finally together and the sweet cakes were being passed, he could not resist telling the child that he was too little to have one. When the dancing started, he told Isaac he was too clumsy and then proceeded to trip him. For each offense Isaac cried and ran to tell his mother, and Sarah came with eyes blazing to scold Ishmael.
Ishmael could not endure the look of raw hatred in the eyes that had such a short time before looked at him with love and approval. To make matters worse, Hagar had seen everything. She didn’t approve of the way Ishmael teased Isaac, but when Sarah scolded her son before all the dignitaries, Hagar lost all patience. “Come,” she said to Ishmael, “we have seen enough of this party. We don’t need more of their insults.”
At the same time Sarah was burning with indignation that her little son should be so tormented. As soon as the guests had gone, she cornered Abraham. “My lord, you must get rid of that slave girl.”
“Slave girl, you call her a slave girl?” he said. “She’s no longer your beloved handmaiden?”
That made Sarah even angrier. “Whatever she’s been to me in the past is unimportant,” she said.
“But Sarah,” Abraham said, trying to reason with her, “Ishmael is my elder son. Nothing can change that. We must be fair.”
Sarah became desperate. Her eyes flashed dangerously. Her long fingers clutched Abraham’s cloak and dug into his arm. “Her son must not share with Isaac. We must not let him claim the place of firstborn.” Each word was like a sword thrust. “He’s not your true son. He’s not the son of the promise. You must get rid of them.”
“What do you mean, ‘get rid of them’?” he questioned as he felt his stomach churn with fear of her answer.
“You must get rid of them. Hagar and her son must go. There will never be a moment’s peace for Isaac as long as Ishmael is here.”
Abraham tried to reason with her. “You are tired and distraught. Things will look different tomorrow,” he said.
Sarah bristled. Her voice grew strident and harsh. “They have to go!” she screamed. “Promise me. Promise me on your father’s beard that you’ll send them away. I can’t endure the sight of them.”
“We’ll sleep and discuss it tomorrow,” Abraham said. “It’s too late and you’re tired.”
“No, no, I’m not tired,” she insisted, clutching his arm again and searching his face with unbridled intensity. “They have to go. If you don’t drive them out, I will. I swear by our father’s memory, I will drive them out.”
Abraham remembered Sarah’s strong action with Hagar in the past, and he realized that this time it could be worse. Sarah was so angry, she would hurt both Hagar and Ishmael. He must act fast so harm would not come to them.
“I will see to it in the morning,” he promised.
“If I wake and find they are not gone, I’ll handle it myself,” Sarah threatened. “I’ll not have my son tormented, nor will I let Ishmael steal Isaac’s rightful place.”
Abraham didn’t sleep the whole night long. He heard the night watchmen as they made their rounds, the screeching owl, and the rustle of a small mouse getting into the new supply of grain that stood just outside the tent door. He prayed and waited. He worried and agonized, but there seemed no solution. Either he would send Hagar and Ishmael away, or Sarah would take it into her own hands. Hagar was her handmaiden. It was Sarah’s right to do with her as she wished. If anything else were to be done, it would have to be done quickly.
He earnestly prayed about it, and as he hoped the answer came again and again, “Listen to whatever Sarah tells you. Don’t be so disturbed about Ishmael. I will make him into a nation also because he is your son.”
Abraham became resigned to a heartbreaking decision. Hagar and Ishmael must go, and they must go quickly. He must first get them out of the camp, and then he would make arrangements for them to go to Egypt.
By the first light of dawn he had a tentative plan. He wasn’t pleased with it, but he couldn’t think of anything else. There were no good choices.
He called Hagar and tried to explain the situation. “It would be well for Ishmael,” he said, “to visit his grandfather the pharaoh as soon as it can be arranged.”
Hagar had heard parts of the argument of the night before, and she realized what Abraham’s decision had been. “You don’t have to talk in riddles,” she said. “I see how things are. It’s obvious we are the ones who must go.”
Abraham was finding the situation far harder than he had imagined. In the end they both knew it was impossible for her to stay. He drew a chart in the sand showing her how if she would go slightly south and east, she would come to the place
of seven wells. “One of those wells is mine. My men dug it. You will find some of my people there. Stay with them until I am able to make arrangements with a caravan going to Egypt.”
It wasn’t more than a day’s journey, and so he filled a skin with water and grabbed the first large flat loaves of bread as they came hot off the rounded clay dome of an oven. “Here, take this,” he said, stacking the bread and helping her place it on her head wrapped in a scarf. “This should get you there. Remember it is the place of seven wells. My well is the seventh. Ishmael knows my shepherds, and they will welcome you.”
Hagar called Ishmael, and the boy came, sullen and hurt. But he was ready to do whatever was asked of him. “You must take care of your mother,” Abraham said, looking with pride and sadness at his young son. “You will have to make all the arrangements for staying with my shepherds until I can find a caravan going down to Egypt. You are a man now, and your mother is in your keeping.”
“Will we ever see you again?” Ishmael’s eyes were red and dark circled, his mouth twisted with the hurt.
For a moment Abraham could not speak. The utter pathos of this tragedy leaped out at him and threatened to crush him. He saw the years passing and the impossibility of knowing what was happening to this dear son and his beloved mother. “Elohim will bring you back in time,” he said at last with great effort.
Ishmael reached out, and with a wrenching sob Abraham gathered him into his arms. “My blessing goes with you and my love surrounds you. The Elohim will be with you.”
Before the sun came up Ishmael and his mother started out beside the brook of Besor. Abraham watched them go until they passed out of sight beyond the campfire into the deep shadows. “Oh, my God,” he prayed, “take care of them. Let no evil thing befall them.”
Having prayed, he turned back toward the camp with a heavy heart.
Though Ishmael had been with his father to the place of the seven wells and thought he knew the way, he could see nothing that looked familiar when the sun came up. There was a great sameness about everything. In the distance loomed limestone ridges; close at hand sat sand dunes and loess hills swirled by the wind. An occasional acacia added a welcome sprinkling of dull green, and always there were the thornbushes that tore at their clothes.
There was no sound. A great stillness surrounded them while the sun, in stifling brilliance, wilted them. They drank freely of the water they carried, saying, “When we come to the wells, there will be plenty.”
However, when nightfall came, they still had not come to the wells. They sank down exhausted beneath a gnarled terebinth and drank the last of their water. “Surely by morning,” they reasoned, “we will be at the wells.”
They dared not sleep at the same time. Wild animals came out at night, and the fearful djinn were said to haunt these desert places. Hagar insisted that Ishmael sleep first while she watched and then they would change places.
Ishmael had shouldered the responsibility for them both, and he was exhausted. He was suddenly the protector, and she the one needing and welcoming the protection.
“I have my sling, and I am better than most with the bow and arrow,” he said proudly.
He had cautioned her about saving the water and their bread. “The desert can be cruel. Until we see the well, we won’t be safe.”
When the stars came out, he woke her and said they must make use of the cool night air and stars to guide them. Hagar was astonished at his knowledge. “Where have you learned so much about the stars and traveling in the desert?” she asked.
“You forget, I’ve gone many places with my father.” She noticed Ishmeal’s pride when he spoke of his father. She winced with the pain of realizing that he had not yet called her “Mother.”
Closed in by the darkness she let her thoughts circle around her hurt. Sarah stole my only treasure, then tossed it off like refuse, she fumed. To be called mother by this godlike child, how wonderful, what joy. I gave away so much.
As light began to erase the stars and make long shadows of the rocks, she saw him dimly through her tears. How noble and good he is, she thought.
He stopped and motioned her to sit beneath an outcropping of rock while he prayed. She saw him spread his outer cloak over the sand, then kneel with face upturned and hands folded. She wondered what he prayed. To what god did this grandchild of the pharaoh address his prayers? He wasn’t facing the rising sun as Pharaoh would have done, nor was he facing any earthly thing. It was undoubtedly the God of Abraham, the unseen, Creator God, he prayed to.
When he finished his prayers, he came and sat beside her and watched while she divided the last loaf of bread. She didn’t dare look at him when she said, “The water’s gone, and this is all our bread.”
He didn’t answer but stuffed the bread in his shirt and stood up. “There are no familiar landmarks. It’s all the same. We’ll have to keep to the south and head toward the east. We should soon come to my father’s shepherds and his well.”
There it is again, she thought. He loved his father and he loved Sarah as his mother, but I, Hagar, am nothing to him.
He was quiet and anxious as he pushed on through the heat of midmorning. The blowing sand swirled and twisted, stinging their eyes and hitting like sharp arrows. The jagged rocks pierced their sandals and cut their feet. They leaned against the wind and made little progress.
A sense of desperation hovered over Ishmael. He stopped often and looked around, climbed dunes, and gazed in all directions. She saw his face grow red and fevered. He lifted his feet with great effort, and each time he climbed a dune it was with difficulty.
Just as they were coming out onto a plateau, they heard quite distinctly the pounding of hooves and the raucous laughter of men. Hagar looked at Ishmael and smiled. “It must be our shepherds coming out to help us.”
Ishmael put up his hand in warning. “Our shepherds would be on foot, and there would be the sound of animals. Let me do the talking. This could be dangerous.”
As the men swung around the limestone ridge and came into view, they reined in their mules and advanced cautiously toward Hagar and Ishmael. When they came close enough, it was evident they were not going to be friendly. Their eyes were hard, and their mouths set in a hostile grimace. “Who are you and where are you going?” their leader demanded.
“I am Ishmael, son of Abraham, and I am going to his well for water.”
The men broke into mocking laughter. “Abraham’s well? He has no well. Go back and tell him all the wells belong to the king and we are his guards.”
Ishmael drew himself up and faced them bravely. “We have no herds or cattle with us. There are only this woman and me, and we have come for water.”
The men talked together, and then the leader announced, “There is no water here for strangers.”
“We are not strangers,” Ishmael said, trying to control his voice so they would not sense his desperation. “I am the son of Abraham who dug the seventh well. I was with him when he dug it, and I have every right to draw water.”
The men’s faces clouded, and their voices became harsh and their words cruel. The leader of the group unfastened a whip from his belt and cracked it in the sand at Ishmael’s feet. “We are guarding all the wells. You will get no water here.” With a string of curses, he turned and led his men back the way they had come.
Ishmael’s face was ashen. Without saying a word, he turned and walked over to the remains of a huge tamarisk tree and sank down on the shaded side.
Hagar could see he had lost all desire to struggle. He had given up. It was useless without water. In the relentless heat no one could live long without water.
She moved off to one side, pulled her mantle up over her head, and crumpled down onto the sand. There was no longer time for angry thoughts. She was too tired and desperately thirsty. She felt dizzy and nauseated. How long does it take for one to die in this heat? she wondered. Her own death didn’t matter, but to see the boy die—this lovely, splendid son—was more than she could b
ear.
Now it’s come to this, she thought. I who was once the terror of Pharaoh’s harem will die out here in this wilderness and will be eaten tonight by jackals. It is too much, too much. I’m helpless. I can’t bargain or barter or steal one drop of water for me or my son.
She sat up and flung back her mantle. Sarah, what are you doing now? she thought. Are you laughing? Abraham, how could you make the choice of laughter over my son who loved you so? How could you in the end choose Sarah and her rigid bitterness over the warm love I gave you?
You said it was the Elohim who told you to send us out as Sarah demanded. So even your God rejects me.
She stretched out along the burning sand, covered her head with her mantle and finally, too weak to move, grew quiet, waiting for death. How it would come she didn’t know, but its coming was sure. Perhaps an angel would come and lift her out of this shell that wrenched and choked for lack of water. How fragile a human being was after all. Even the great Pharaoh could not live without water.
How long she lay there she could never remember, but the voice that spoke to her she would never forget. It was a soft, quiet, but very distinct voice. “Hagar,” it said, “do not be afraid. God heard the boy crying. You must lift him up, take him by the hand, for I will make a great nation of his descendants.”
Then as she rose to go to the boy and do as the angel had commanded her, she looked down toward the valley and saw in the place where the men had been was a well. She guessed by its location it must be the seventh well, Abraham’s well. The men had left, and no one was in sight.
Quickly she got the water skin and made her way down to the well. They would not die after all. She had not been rejected by Abraham’s God. He had not forgotten or forsaken her. She could feel joy surging through her, strengthening her. The joy and the new strength somehow were one. With water Ishmael would live.
Gently she cooled her son’s fevered brow with the water, then lifted the skin so he could drink. His eyes opened, and she could see his surprise and something more. It was as though for the first time, he was really looking at her and seeing her. With great effort he reached inside his robe and pulled out the half loaf of bread and handed it to her.
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