J: The Woman Who Wrote the Bible

by Mary Burns

  I nodded, trying to calm myself.

  “Good,” he said, linking my arm through his and beginning to walk again. “Then, does it not follow that He can do anything and everything He wants to? That He can appear in any form, in any time, with any voice of His choosing, and to anyone He chooses?”

  That made sense to me, but his way of talking was so unusual! I was used to the arguments of the priests, and my own discussions with Nathan, about the intricacies of what a particular word or phrase meant as uttered by HaShem, and what instruction it held for each of us in our daily lives. Lively discussions, full of imagination and heat, but not like this, not the clear, stepped process that Ishmael was unfolding to me.

  Ishmael continued his discourse, and by degrees I became more comfortable and able to meet his questions with eagerness and delight as we walked through the beautiful garden.

  * * *

  It was the first of many such sessions. I was learning from him, but not as I had imagined it might be, as between student and teacher. Rather, his love of wisdom and knowledge enkindled in me a great desire to know the world as he knew it, and to think about the world in the way he showed me: logically, clearly, questioning everything. But ultimately, it was a searching for the ways to understand the nature of things as they are without blemish or decay, as they were meant to be known. The reality of how they appeared in the world only showed in high relief what their true nature really was. Justice, for instance, as I well knew, was uneven, arbitrary and often actually unjust in the hands of men, subject to their passions and vices. But True Justice, Ishmael explained, was the ideal of what everyone dreamed it should be: balanced, but merciful, all-knowing, and therefore, able to forgive. It was what we looked to when we tried to deal justice in our lives on this earth.

  In return for these lessons of philosophy and ideas, I taught him—a poor enough repayment for what he gave me!—how to play the harp and compose songs. Ishmael had an excellent voice, and his skill in poetry made it natural for him to write songs that soared like hawks and danced like sunlight on the ocean waves.

  Under his tutelage, I also grew skilled in calling forth visions, at first with the aid of specially prepared drugs, but later through a practice he called “silencing the world within” to enable opening the boundaries of time and place. As the weeks passed quickly, I was able to bring forth glimpses of my family in Jerusalem, caught in the firelight or a pool of water. There, Tamar! Grown so tall and beautiful in the nearly five years that I’d been gone. And Absalom and Amnon, practically men now, I could see them as they practiced war games, becoming skilled in fighting. Absalom’s beauty was breathtaking, even through the hazy medium of a vision, and Amnon strode tall and proud through the hallways of the palace. My mother, too, I saw, and Ahinoam, both looking much older than I remembered. It made my heart long to be home.

  But I never could catch more than a distant glimpse of my father; it was as if he were protected from such surveillance by an intervening cloud. Even Ishmael had to admit it was very strange, a powerful shield he had not encountered before. I realized how much I missed my father, and how very long I had been away from him and all my family.

  But whenever Ishmael and I sat together and talked, all thoughts of my family would vanish, and I would lose myself in the wonder of his eyes, and the trembling I felt whenever he touched me. Every day I awoke with the joy of seeing him again, and every night I tossed restlessly in bed, longing for his touch.

  Chapter 30

  “Isaac brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah,

  and he married Rebekah. So she became his wife,

  and he loved her; and Isaac was comforted

  after his mother’s death.”

  Genesis 24:67

  One evening, late in the summer, we had been going over some of the scrolls I had written from the tales I had collected. We had come across the references to the original Ishmael, and I told him that I had heard, in Beer-sheba, that when Abraham died, Ishmael returned from Egypt to honor him at his funeral, and stayed with his half-brother Isaac and his wife Rebecca. That was all we knew. I was curious to find if it was a part of his histories, and when I asked him, a strange look crossed his face, and his disquieting eyes flashed, a mere spark in the still room.

  “Yes,” he said, slowly. “There is a great deal more to that story.” He looked over at me, and I felt a thrill run through all my nerves. “Are you sure you want to hear it?” I nodded, not trusting my voice to sound without revealing my feelings.

  He gazed into the fire for a moment or two, took a sip of wine, and began the tale.

  The Story of Ishmael and Isaac and Rebecca

  Abraham lingers in a twilight world, seeing little, hearing less, eating nothing. His breath comes and goes like butterflies on desert flowers. He has instructed his son to erect his old tent again, so that he might die as he lived, in the breathing walls of goatskin, the door flap open to the land and the sky. Since Rebecca came, she has made improvements and innovations in their camp, causing houses of clay and wood and wattle to be made, cooler in summer, warmer in winter, with cooking stoves inside! The younger people have taken to the changes more easily than their elders. So it is with every generation.

  Late in the evening of a summer night, the stars just beginning to appear, a horn sounds from the edge of the compound—a rider approaches on a swift horse. It is Ishmael.

  “My brother!” Isaac runs out to meet him and grabs the reins of the horse as Ishmael dismounts in a single move. There is no hesitation; they embrace, each holding on as if they fear the other will crumble to dust before his eyes. Curious, Rebecca stands at the door of their house, partly in shadow, to see this half-brother she’s heard so much about. Ishmael is a full head taller than Isaac, dark to his fair, lean to Isaac’s stockiness. He walks lightly, like a dancer, muscles taut, ready to spring. This is what Rebecca sees from the shadows.

  Isaac hangs on to his brother’s arm, leads him past the doorway where Rebecca stands, overlooked, as the two sons hurry to their father’s tent. But a single glance thrown back pierces her; Ishmael sees her there, acknowledges her with a slight bow of his head. She is even more beautiful than he has heard. She steps back further into the dark, closing the door against the soft summer night.

  “Ishmael, firstborn.” Abraham whispers it, and raises a feeble left hand. Ishmael grasps it gently.

  “Isaac, heir to the promise.” Isaac lays his right hand on his father’s right hand. Abraham’s voice is almost gone.

  “Both . . . promised. Both . . . blessed. It will be fulfilled.”

  * * *

  The cries of grief rise to the night sky, like children lost in the wilderness. Isaac seeks comfort in Rebecca’s arms, while Ishmael sits cross-legged next to Abraham’s body, the first watcher.

  Now look: a procession of great length winds through the plain to the cave of Machpelah. The sky is dim, clouded with the tears of the bereaved. As they walk, Rebecca is next to Isaac, with Ishmael on the other side of her. She has seen him watching her, in the evenings, in the daytime, and he sees her seeing him. He walks next to her like a dark flame burning, heat but no light. She stumbles on some stones, falls against Isaac’s arm, but is caught by Ishmael’s swift hands from behind; they burn her flesh through the cloth! She will not look at him, ducks her head and turns toward Isaac who pats her arm, his mind absent.

  The heavy carved stone is rolled back from the tomb—it takes ten men—and Abraham is laid to rest on a shelf next to Sarah, whose form is nothing but bones and dust under the linen.

  * * *

  Now begin the nine days of mourning.

  “What is this, a husband must sleep apart from his wife?” Rebecca is displeased; she has not heard of this custom before. “But it is soon to be the time when I shall be ripe to conceive! You know we must try, though the Lord has not seen to bless us with children so far.”

  “My love, it must be so, to show respect for my father.” Isaac says it humbly;
he has suffered on occasion from Rebecca’s sharp tongue.

  “The dead are for the dead, and the living for the living, say I.” But she sees he is firm. “Very well, then, only I shall expect you back in my bed on the ninth night! Where will you sleep, in one of the guest rooms?”

  Isaac is silent, looking down at the floor.

  “What? What have you to say now?” Her voice is pitched high.

  “Rebecca, I want to sleep in my mother’s tent, for these eight nights. I want to set it up over by the well, where I first met you, dearest.”

  Her heart softens. “Very well, Isaac, of course, you may do as you wish. I . . . thank you for asking me, though you do not have to ask my permission for anything, you know. You are master here.”

  “And you,” he says, giving her a warm kiss, “are the master’s mistress, well-beloved.”

  Ishmael, unseen, stands in the hall outside their room, overhears this conversation, tucks it away for future reference.

  * * *

  At the end of the ninth day, a feast is held to honor the dead and to mark the new father-of-the-tribe, Isaac. It is a somber feast, and yet, as always, the young people find occasion to flirt and smile at each other, exchange glances and favors behind half-closed doors. Life succeeds.

  Late in the evening, with few servants attending, only three sit at the table: Isaac, Rebecca, and Ishmael.

  “One more cup of wine,” Ishmael urges them. “I am leaving so early in the morning, you know, that I won’t see either of you, I am sure. So grant me one more cup before we part for the night.” He lifts a bottle from his bag on the floor. “Something special, just for us, which I have brought all the way from Egypt!”

  Isaac, bleary-eyed, consents with a smile, while Rebecca, impatient, barely nods her head. Ishmael pours generous portions in all three glasses, makes a toast.

  “To my little brother! And his lovely wife, my sister.” He looks sideways at Rebecca. “I may call you sister, may I not? Aren’t we all brothers and sisters here?”

  “Of course,” Isaac says, gulping down the wine, “we’re all family—the best family in the world.” His eyes flutter, he begins to doze, then wakes with a start. Rebecca rises, her face dark.

  “But sister, you have not finished your wine,” Ishmael protests, holding up her half-full glass.

  “I thank you; I’ve had quite enough.” A steely glance at Isaac, sleepy again. “Isaac! It’s time to go to bed!” But even her voice, sharp, is not enough to rouse him.

  Ishmael puts a hand on her arm; it’s all she can do not to draw back, trembling. “I will walk him around a bit, Rebecca, I’ll wake him up and bring him to your bed.” The last word sounds like a threat, and Rebecca shivers, feels faint. Too much food, too much wine.

  “Very well,” she says. She knows she cannot support her husband’s weight on her own. “Please do it soon.”

  “Yes, my lady,” says Ishmael, the perfect courtier. “And may I add my thanks for your very gracious hospitality while I have stayed with you? I am your most grateful servant.” Beneath the hooded eyes, a flash. Rebecca leaves the room without replying, pauses at the door to catch her breath and steady herself.

  Her bedroom is dark, there is no moon tonight, and Rebecca barely manages to undress and fall into bed; she has not lighted a lamp for Isaac. Her body feels heavy, dreamlike; she floats on the bed of soft wool and linen sheets, cool for warm summer nights. She aches for Isaac, his warmth.

  A shadow slips into the room, kneels by the side of the bed, strokes her hair. Her body, like lightning at his touch. Every part of her strains toward him bending above her. Her back arches, she cries out, hands grasping his arms, lean, muscled. Wait, wait, this is not right. Her mind is befuddled; she cannot find a clear space to think, to act. Deep inside her womb, she feels a spark, heat without light, and she knows she has conceived. Just as swiftly as he came, the shadow departs, and Rebecca lies alone on the tousled bed, drowning in sleep even as she struggles to wake up.

  * * *

  A gentle caress gradually brings her to herself, and she opens her eyes to see Isaac kneeling beside the bed. “Dearest,” he says, “I’m sorry, I guess I fell asleep in the other room, but here I am now.” He gets into bed beside her, eager to kiss and caress her. Confused, at first she resists, but he thinks she is playing.

  “Isaac,” she says, “wasn’t that you?” He draws back, laughing, “Wasn’t what me?”

  “Nothing,” she says, “no one; I must have been dreaming. Come here, my dear, kiss me.” Isaac enfolds her in his arms, rolling over on the bed. The sunrise sends streaks of light into the room, cool now in the early morning. Isaac cries out as he thrusts deep inside her, she clings to him and yes! she is sure, a rush of warmth floods her womb.

  She has conceived, again.

  * * *

  Rebecca is huge now, eight months pregnant, and often doubles over from the kicking and roiling in her belly. “Good Lord!” she cries. “Is this what I prayed for? I will be torn apart!” She is lying in her bed, trying to rest. It is the middle of the night, and she has sent Isaac away to get some sleep elsewhere, away from her ceaseless tossing and turning.

  “Rebecca. Rebecca.” A voice without substance says her name. Startled, she knows.

  “Here I am, Lord.” She is blanketed with a sense of peace, and the war in her belly subsides.

  “Two nations are in your womb,” the voice says. “Two tribes from your body shall be divided, one tribe mightier than another, the elder servant to the younger! Thus is my promise continued.”

  The very air trembles, the darkness seems knit back together where the voice split it asunder, and she is alone in the room. She will hold this saying in her heart all her life.

  * * *

  Now see: the day of birthing, twins! The first one comes out ruddy, hairy all over, so they call him Esau Ruffian. No sooner is he out of the womb than his brother appears, dark of hair and eyes, his hand grasping Esau’s heel; they call him Jacob Heel-Clutcher.

  And Esau grows up knowing how to hunt, an archer skilled with the bow, a delight to his father, while Jacob is dark and quiet, staying among the tents with his mother, thinking and conversing.

  As my cousin fell silent, I found I had leaned so close to hear his soft words that our arms were touching. He raised his eyes to mine, and a passion I had never known seized me. Then and there, on a bed of pillows and soft skins before the fire, we became one in fire and storm: wild, driven, obsessed. I wanted to be consumed by him. All night we wrestled in love until exhaustion took us, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  * * *

  When morning came, we awoke together, almost as from a daze of wine or drugs, and the memory of our passion took from us our normal speech. Ishmael stood and helped me from the floor, wrapping me in my silken cloak. He held me close, kissed my hair, and murmured that later, we would talk.

  I made my way back to my rooms where Alaya waited, sleeping across the foot of my bed. She awoke when I entered the room, but I put a finger to my lips before she could speak. Eyes wide with astonishment, she helped me into bed, then left the room.

  I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, dreamless and refreshing, and woke mid-day as Alaya entered with a servant bringing food and drink. Suddenly I was ravenously hungry, and I sprang out of bed as soon as the servant left, snatching up grapes and bread, meat and vegetables as if I hadn’t eaten in a week.

  I felt heady with an unnamed joy, and there was no alloy in my happiness. I would not look farther into the future than this afternoon, when I would see Ishmael again. To sit with him and renew our discussions, with perhaps the promise of another night of love, was all I needed within the compass of the time.

  But it was not to be.

  My first glimpse of Ishmael’s face when I joined him in our “school” as I loved to call it, remembering Didymos’ description so long ago, tolled the first note of distress.

  “What is it, Ishmael?” I was bolder now, and knew him we
ll enough to understand he responded best to straightforward, clear questions. “What is wrong?”

  His brow was gloomy, so different a look for him than I was used to, but he tried to smile as he reached out for me. Enfolded in his arms, I took comfort from the kisses he pressed on my mouth, and the touch of his hands along my shoulders and back.

  “My dear, there is something you must see,” he said, and we walked together to the pool of clear water that always stood in the room, fed by an underground spring so it was always fresh, tiny ripples occasionally playing on its surface.

  I gazed a moment longer at his face, then turned my eyes to the pool.

  Instantly I saw the palace in Jerusalem; it was nearing sunset, and I could see men in the courtyard mounting their horses hurriedly. I peered more closely and saw Absalom, tears streaming down his face, a bloody sword in his hand, racing to the head of the troop of men. They rode, hard and fast, out the gates and through the town, disappearing into the east.

  I blinked my eyes, and another scene opened before me: Tamar, lying on her bed with the women wailing and crying over her. I could not tell if she breathed or not. Ahinoam held my mother, supporting her from falling in a faint.

  Then I heard a great cry, and the voice I knew and loved sent shudders through my blood. I saw revealed my father in the great hall of reckoning, holding a young man’s body cradled in his arms. I could see that his throat had been slashed, ear to ear— and it was Amnon, my brother, the King’s eldest son!

  As the sun set over Jerusalem, the scene faded, and the weeping sounds of women died away.

  * * *

  I slumped to a sitting position on the floor, and Ishmael sat beside me, his arms around me, holding me close. I could not believe what I had seen, and yet, it must be true! But how, and what had happened, I knew not.

  “I must go home,” I said, and clung to Ishmael.

  “I know, my dear, I know,” he said. “You must go without delay.” He pulled away from me only to kiss my face and smooth my hair from tear-stained cheeks. “Your father—and his kingdom—need you now.”