J: The Woman Who Wrote the Bible

by Mary Burns

  I am an old woman at last; I live entirely in the background now, and Solomon is too busy to see me more than once a week, but that is enough. There is nothing I can do for him anymore; his wisdom reaches well beyond any advice I could give him, and his gift of Sight far surpasses anything that either I or Ishmael was granted. Only love, that is all I have to give.

  The work of my life is nearly done as well.

  Here I am, at my table, where I have worked these forty years and more. The scroll with the story of Moses is flat on the table in front of me, and I have only to add a few words to finish it. Then it will be placed in the great chest with all the other scrolls, to be read, I hope, by future generations who will be inspired by the account of the People of the Lord Yahweh. Yes, I say The Name now, if only to myself, but I use His Name—Yahweh—in my writings, to link us to the early times when He walked with Abraham, may his name be blessed, as a man walks with a friend.

  I write the final words.

  And Yahweh the Lord brought Moses to the top of Mount Nebo, to Pisgah, east of Jericho, and showed him the whole land. “Look! To Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, this land I swore to hand over to their descendants. Now you have seen it with your own eyes. But you will not enter it. Instead, you will come with me.”

  I look at the finished scroll, and the things before my eyes grow indistinct, replaced by the light of a vision powerful and breathtaking: the Temple of the Lord which Solomon built—it is destroyed! By fire and the engines of man, it is overrun and pulled down! I gasp for breath as I watch this terrible future unfold. I see the people of that time, far into the future, in chains and rags, being driven to a land of exile where they wail and die outside the walls of a great city of hanging gardens. Then, as I sit trembling at the sight, clouds cover the scene. The clouds part, and again I see Jerusalem, the city on this hill, rebuilt and shining from a great distance—and another Temple appears! Smaller, perhaps, than the one Solomon has built, but magnificent.

  I am breathless watching these events, but there is more. Once again, my heart is torn as I see this second Temple destroyed, razed to the ground by soldiers of an imperial army, their weapons and engines of war far superior to anything I have ever seen or could imagine.

  As the dust from this shattered temple settles across the landscape, and the fires burn out, I see a huge number of scrolls, my scrolls among them, being carried away in wagons and in boxes of wood. Then, many years beyond this time, others like them, newer, of finer materials, with writing on them I cannot quite make out—they are laid in chests of fragrant wood, preserved from damp and insects. And then I see men and women, scholars and priests, studying the scrolls, discussing them, writing down notes and adding new stories. Thus has been preserved the life of my people: their wisdom, their imagination, their faith, their love, their weak and magnificent humanity.

  And so my story ends, but the children of my mind have survived all the destroyers of the Temple—this is my Promised Land. Like Moses, I cannot go there myself, but it is enough to know that it will be there for future generations.

  FRAGMENTS OF THE

  WRITINGS OF JANAIA

  DAUGHTER OF DAVID

  THE KING

  The Beginning—Adamah and Eve

  Listen, try to see: black darkness, a fierce wind, black breaks in two, white leaks through the crack, breaks into countless points. Water floods following the light, divides, above and below. Waters gather here, there. Mud oozes, dries, hardens, becomes land.

  Morning is named, then evening is named, three times.

  From the soggy land, brown and green life covers the surface, sends up shoots from hairlike roots. More life wiggles, slithers, crawls from the mud. Wings, legs, heads and tails, eyes blink. The sun warms the land.

  Morning is named, then evening, two times.

  The human opens its eyes, not knowing it is human, not knowing even that it has eyes, and it looks out for the first time, the first one of humans opening eyes to see what is there outside of the skin in which it is, lives. Some thing flies near, a hand lifts to touch it, the human cries out—this shell enclosing it moves! It tries hands, feet, legs, turns its head to look around. Every thing is bright, reeling, noisy, claiming attention. The skin of its shell prickles, itches, feels cold and hot and wet, tender. It closes its eyes, finds the dark again, bursts into tears.

  Morning is named, then evening, the sixth time. And the wind sighs, free of its burden, emptying life and spirit to other-than-itself.

  * * *

  What have you done to me?

  See, already the human knows itself as separate from us— you and me, it says.

  Are you laughing at me? What kind of play is this—take me back!

  What, you don’t like your new home? Calm down, it’s an experiment.

  I was happy where I was, thank you very much. Take me back!

  It has to be. It has to be. Life is over-flowing, always seeking more. Think of it as a gift. A blessing, if you will.

  A blessing.

  Yes, and a promise—a promise of more to come.

  Why? Why?

  Let’s just say, the journey is more interesting that way.

  But I don’t want to be alone.

  We’re always here to talk to.

  That’s not enough—I’m not like you anymore, I want one like myself.

  Fair enough. Close your eyes.

  What?

  Close your eyes, you’ll see when you open them again.

  * * *

  Eva is the name he gave me, but I call myself imrah, word—a name I gave myself in secret—my own name. All else that moves upon the earth, or springs up from it, or darts across the skies, he has already called by their names, as told by the One who speaks to us from the cloud, and sometimes walks with us in the Garden. Yahweh, he says, is his name.

  The serpent, the one he named Ourobouros, told me I could call myself whatever I wanted.

  But let me go back a little, just a little, because otherwise you might think I sound resentful or unloving, especially toward him—Adamah, my own, my other self.

  He has told me how we came to be, the two of us. First him, molded from the dew-drenched dust of the ground—the adamah, his name—by the hand of the One and the Many. And me, taken from his side—bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh—built up and shaped from his living substance—not from the dust, yet it is part of me, too, way down deep. Sometimes I feel it, the dust, sifting through my own bones. I taste it, too, a dry grittiness that flavors whatever I’m eating with the earthiness of our origins.

  * * *

  My son! There is no breath in his soft body, no shine in his eyes! Is this death? Is this the strike on our heads for eating the fruit that showed us good and evil? I do not want to be like the gods, I do not want to know anything, if I must know this.

  My Adamah, your grief pierces my heart, and our lifeless child burdens the earth with his dead body—and our other son, now marked with a sign eternal, wanders far from us. And yet, it is no more than I expected…

  The Flooding of the Great Waters

  After a time, the people like monstrous animals lay waste to the earth and each other, and Yahweh’s pain was great, sad his heart. Only Noah, kind and fatherly, touched his heart, relenting.

  Come now, Noah, you and your sons and their wives, your wife—build this ark…

  * * *

  Unceasing the rain, no light to see the change from night to day, for more days than could be counted. All, all drowned in the terrible water!

  * * *

  Another seven days pass after the ceasing of the rain, the dove sent away does not return. With a fearful thump, the ark comes to rest in the cleft of two great crags on the mountain. Weeping with joy and grief, the only men and women alive upon the earth, the animals in the ark alone surviving, step upon the earth, fall down and embrace the moist clay and rock.

  And they hear the Voice aloud in the skies, Never again, all the long days of earth, seed time to har
vest, new leaf to snowfall, never again shall I do this.

  The Birth of Isaac

  Sarai, laughing, has hurt Yahweh’s feelings.

  What? I who groan in age am now to groan in pleasure, and bear a son? Who’s kidding whom?

  Who is that laughing? says the boldest stranger. Who thinks I cannot do this thing?

  Not I. Her eyes on the ground. Then sideways she sees her husband whose eyes are fixed on the stranger, who sits eating veal and drinking wine under their olive trees. Abram holds his breath. The stranger has just said to him, Count the stars. Can you? Your descendants shall be more. The two men with him are silent, their eyes glitter, their arms like wings tucked at their sides even as they eat.

  I’ll be back in nine months, says the stranger, to see your son.

  * * *

  Watch: they wrestle in the tent on the warm skins of calves. Under woven cloth, worn hands caress dry flesh, thin lips press to cheeks once smooth, once firm, still loved.

  A deep well of laughter shakes her, a joy not to be named. Her foolish husband thinks this is how it must be done. She felt the dart of light hit her womb when the stranger spoke.

  Abram groans, bringing forth his last drop of seed, wrung out of him as women twist wet clothes at the river to hurry the drying. He doesn’t think he has been able to thrust far enough, and yet, Yahweh said it.

  * * *

  Isaac’s earliest memory is of darkness pierced by utter light, threaded by a harsh laugh. Knitted in the womb, loop building on loop, heart beating, drops of endless water upon the same spot of earth, shaping it, smoothing it. Arms, legs, head all grow from backbone sprouting, ears of wheat on a stalk. He is borne about in a warm wet darkness that is sometimes gray, sometimes black. Lately, he hears murmuring, singing, laughing that vibrates through him; that’s how he hears it.

  Now look: a winter moon, luminous as pearl, a shining silver circle. Water gushes forth between Sarah’s wrinkled thighs, she laughs actually laughs, the pangs of birth are nothing. The miracle is accomplished.

  There: a male infant, as Yahweh promised, on the soft cloths laid ready for his coming. He gurgles, waves his arms before they are snugly swaddled. Abraham lifts him high, and the baby laughs actually laughs. Isaac, he laughs, that shall be his name!

  The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah

  When the three strangers are ready to leave, Father Abram accompanies them down the road a ways. He does not know that Ishmael is following, off to the side, hidden behind the hedge of bushes, full of green leaves at that time of year. The bold stranger suddenly stops, tells the other two to go ahead, and turns to Abram.

  This Sodom and Gomorrah, he says, I have heard much evil about them, contempt rising upon contempt for any stranger who stumbles into their midst, the faces of these cities with curled lips against the heavens. They should be destroyed!

  Now Abram’s nephew, Lot, and all his clan, live in the city of Sodom. So Abram says, Pardon me, Lord, if I speak up, dust and ashes that I am, what if there were fifty good men in this city of evildoers; should they be destroyed along with the guilty ones?

  The stranger considers this. He tells Abram, If there are fifty such, it wouldn’t do to destroy the whole place. And they walk on.

  But Abram speaks up again, Lord, forgive my forwardness, but what if there are forty good men; would you kill them along with all the evil-doers?

  The stranger stops walking and looks severely at Abram who lowers his eyes. If there are forty such, I will not destroy the cities.

  But Abram presses him again: what if there are only thirty, then twenty, then ten? Heaven forbid, says Abram, heaven forbid you should confound the innocent with the guilty; what kind of justice is that, what kind of god does that? Would you destroy ten innocent men along with the evildoers?

  So in the end, they agree that if ten good men can be found in the city, it should be spared. And then the stranger disappears in the blink of an eye, and Ishmael, who has heard it all, runs back home before his father can catch him.

  And they wait to see what will happen.

  Now look: the upturned faces of Sodom and Gomorrah rise before Yahweh, spewing insults that hurt his ears. He searches for justice among the humans who live there—he promised Abram!—but no one stands up to the evil seen and done. Men and women alike turn their backs to deny outrage and deception, lies and cunning. Despairing, Yahweh sends two Elohim to the ground; they must find at least ten to save.

  It is dusk; the sun is setting. Two strangers approach on the main road into Sodom and step inside the high gates just as they are closed against the coming night. The gatekeeper, an old man who has seen too much, shakes his head at them.

  Get yourselves to the inn now. He points up the street to an odd structure, half tent, half tree limbs lashed together with ropes. May not be room if you can’t pay, then Baal help you.

  Baal? One of the strangers, young and handsome, smiles. What happened to Yahweh?

  The old man shrugs. All the same to me; none of them are around when you need them.

  The second stranger, older, unsmiling, places his hand on the man’s shoulder. The gatekeeper’s eyes grow wide, as if struck with a sudden thought. Slowly he crumples to the ground, gently helped by the two, who prop him up against the gate, his last duty to bar the way with his own body.

  They move up the street, eyes watchful.

  Men’s shapes form in the shadows of the alleys, whispers fly on the darkening air.

  Strangers!

  Very handsome!

  Money, no doubt, even without camels!

  Follow them, follow!

  Waylay them, trip them up, grab them now!

  A ring of men, young and old, gathers slowly from the side streets, close in on the two sent from Yahweh. In a narrow, steep street, they press upon them, a pack of beasts, red eyes gleaming. The strangers’ backs meet a solid wall; they stare into the eyes of wolves.

  Listen! A sound of iron on wood, a bolt thrown back, and the wall is now a door, opening—they are pulled inside! The crowd howls, pummels the door.

  Inside, the two strangers see three women, a mother and two daughters, who have done this deed. Surprised, the young stranger speaks.

  Blessed be this house, and you, courageous ones, who have saved us this night.

  We heard those animals from upstairs! The eldest daughter, dusky-skinned, imperious, nearly spits on the floor, eyes flashing. We decided we couldn’t let this happen anymore!

  The mother is silent but she nods, motions for the strangers to be seated. Her forehead wrinkles, and she casts quick glances past a half-drawn curtain into an inner room.

  Yes, says the younger daughter, plump and fair, smiling shyly. We believe that Yahweh blesses the stranger and those who help him. She bows slightly in their general direction and runs off after a look from her mother.

  And the father of this house? The older stranger speaks. Is Lot here?

  The women exchange quick glances. Again, it is the daughter who speaks. My father is within, sir. Is it he whom you seek?

  I have come from Abram, his kinsman, with a message most urgent.

  Then you are welcome indeed, says the girl, and we rejoice again that we saved you from the inhabitants of this cursed town.

  A bustle at the inner doorway: the younger daughter leads forth an old man, Lot. The pounding at the door increases, thunders through the room, shakes the house walls.

  What is it you have done, daughters? Lot wrings his hands, clutches his garments. What have you done, wife? Now we’re for it! Listen! They’ll break down the door and kill us all!

  The two strangers are silent, standing in the center of the room.

  Father, you must go out and tell them to go away! The older girl is insistent. Would you throw these men to those scavengers? Those jackals? How could you live to see the morning if you did that! Oh! If I were a man! She pounds her fist on the table as tears stream from her eyes. Her little sister comes near, clutches her arm. Their mother
stands near the hearth, her hands over her mouth.

  Lot looks at the two strangers in his house. Their faces seem dark somehow, as if there are veils over them. Only their eyes, glittering, stare through him. A deep trembling seizes his body, and he is filled with shame. He covers his face with wrinkled hands, and no one speaks.

  Yes, he says at last, uncovering his face, yes, I will go out to them. Lot squares his shoulders. The worst I can do is die, and where’s the harm in that, old as I am?

  He does not pause to think further. He strides to the door, opens it quickly, steps outside, closes the door and faces the crowd, which has moved back a little.

  Men of Sodom! Neighbors and friends! I beg you, do not use these men wrongly; do not abuse the rights of a stranger to Yahweh’s hospitality!

  What is Yahweh to us?

  Your god, not ours!

  Send them out, old man, or you’ll be sorry!

  Lot is getting short of breath, feels them pressing in again.

  I—I will give you something in return, to leave them in peace!

  What can you give us, old man? You’re not rich!

  It’s not money we want; we want them, to know them in our way.

  Lot’s brain whirls; he doesn’t know what to say next.

  I—I have two daughters!

  A sudden silence.

  I will bring them out to you, and you can do with them what you will!

  Lot himself cannot believe he is saying these words, yet he has said them. His heart shakes inside his chest; he cannot draw another breath.

  Muttering approval, the men and boys agree, talk turns to a shout, the shout to a chant: Bring them out! Bring them out!

  The door suddenly opens: a white light, a liquid flame rushes out into the crowd, searing their eyes, blinding them. Stricken, they fall, they run, they stumble down the hill, trampling each other, tearing at their eyes to relieve the burning that has cast them into darkness.

  Lot feels strong hands on his shoulders, pulling him back inside the house. The door is closed and bolted.