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

by Orson Scott Card

  There it was, as directly stated as it could be: Eshut knew that Pharaoh intended to marry Sarai, and not just as another concubine, but as a wife whose children might inherit the throne. Quite possibly as his queen, whose children would be first in line. Eshut had to make sure she had done nothing to demean the queen of Egypt, if Sarai should ever ascend to that position. And if she did not, then Sarai was indeed worthless to her.

  “My hands are tied,” said Eshut, with a sweet and sympathetic smile. Her eyes also smiled, but there was no sympathy there.

  Sarai left, sure then that her boredom would have no ease. As usual, she walked at evening by the river, and in a secluded stand of trees she knelt and prayed. Hagar knelt beside her; whether she prayed or not, Sarai did not know and did not ask.

  O God, she said, what am I to do with these empty hours? I have nothing to study, nothing to do. How can I serve thee or serve my husband?

  What have I done to deserve this maddening punishment? The sword of Pharaoh’s marital ambitions hangs over me and my husband, and I have nothing to take my mind from this danger. Am I meant to live in fear?

  Abram has answers from thee, but to me the heavens are a curtain of brass. Do my words reach whatever star shines upon the world where thou livest? Hast thou no words for me?

  Thus her prayer began, step by step descending from humble request to ardent complaint until, finally, she was once again pouring out the darkest doubts of her heart:

  O Lord God of Abram, I see nothing of thy hand in my life. All that happens to me points to my being under the rule of Asherah. My womb is dry. I am to be taken from the man I love and given to a king, just as if I still lived in my father’s house. Did I dare to love Abram more than Asherah? Then she will have him killed. Did I dare to refuse to live in her house? Then I will live in the house of a god all the same, only instead of being pure, singing to the goddess all day, I will be in the bed of Pharaoh, bearing him children if Asherah deigns to forgive me, or being rejected in the end for my barrenness, if she does not. O God of Abram, why dost thou hide from me, while Asherah shows me her angry face everywhere I turn? How can I believe in thee, and disbelieve in her? Nevertheless I do believe in thee, and obey thee. Only help me, God of Abram! Give me the strength to conquer my doubts. Give me hope!

  “Mistress,” said Hagar softly, “I have not seen such weeping in many years. Please don’t cry so much.”

  Sarai was startled, roused from a prayer that had become nothing but a litany of grief. “I was praying,” she murmured as she wiped her eyes with her skirt.

  “What god is heartless enough not to hear such a prayer?”

  Sarai shook her head. She had no answer to that, except the bitterest one: A god who hates me, if he exists at all.

  “God loves me,” she said insistently, more to reassure herself than to convince Hagar.

  “As does your husband,” said Hagar. “Maybe your god is being kept from you the way your husband is.”

  “Speak not of husbands,” Sarai said mildly. “We are not always alone, even when we think we are.”

  “I have walked around and around this place while you prayed, Mistress, and I assure you that no one is listening.”

  Not even God, Sarai thought. And then, hurriedly: Forgive me for that unworthy thought, O Lord! “It’s a good thing I’m incapable of real misery,” said Sarai.

  “Oh, Mistress, forgive me for my false and ungrateful words last night!” cried Hagar. “I know that your suffering is greater than mine. Because your mind is so much wiser than mine, your heart so much loftier, the pains you suffer must be exquisite compared to the poor dull suffering of a slave!”

  “No, no, Hagar, don’t be foolish. You spoke the truth to me last night, and gave me more wisdom than I had before. I weep because I’m helpless, not because my suffering is so terrible. I weep because there is nothing I can do, of my own will, to help either Abram or myself. I have no choice but to rely on God, and yet I can’t bear to rely on him because . . .”

  “Because he has never shown you that you can rely on him,” said Hagar.

  “I have seen his hand, but always in Abram’s life. He only touches me to bring about Abram’s work. I am nothing of myself, and that is hard to bear. I’m a proud woman, that’s what I’m learning, and the silence of God is a constant lesson that I am nothing.”

  “If that god of your husband’s thinks you’re nothing, then he’s nothing. How could a god be so foolish as not to know that you’re a great woman?”

  “The greatness of this world is like a broken pot to God. It might have bright paint on it, but it’s good for nothing.”

  “I don’t mean your greatness as a rich woman or a princess or anything like that,” said Hagar. “You kept your word to me and asked to keep me as your handmaid, so I could leave Egypt when you go.”

  “I did you no favor. The lies we’ve told may lead to our destruction. What would happen to you then?”

  “Mistress, why do you argue with me? You’re a woman with a noble heart, not just a noble bearing. If your god is God of gods, as you say, then he knows that. And for all you know, Mistress, he is planning great things for you if you only have the patience to wait for them.”

  Sarai opened her mouth to argue once again, but then realized: I asked God for an answer. Whose mouth did I think his answer would come from? Could Hagar’s words not be God’s answer to me? Be patient and wait. God is planning great things. “Once again, Hagar, you have taught me wisdom.” Sarai rose to her feet. “Come, let’s return to the house. The sun has set and soon the desert cold will settle in.”

  When they reached the house, there were many torches burning in the dusky light, and boats drawn up at the dock. Pharaoh’s boat was not among them—he had not returned. So what was this gathering? Sarai knew that as a shy and modest lady, she should stand away from the men’s work that was going on, as slaves loaded the boats with foodstuffs and tools. But she could not master her curiosity, and so she descended the steps to the water’s edge and asked the man who seemed to be directing the loading, “Who will use these boats?”

  “Sehtepibre goes to the quarry for more stone tomorrow,” said the man. “The sarcophagus of Pharaoh is being built with great fineness, and Sehtepibre is not happy with the quality of the blocks most recently brought. So he will go and show the stonecutters where to find flawless stone that can be worked without crumbling or shattering.”

  “Is the quarry far?” asked Sarai.

  “Across the river and up into the mountain. It’s a journey of several days, Lady.”

  From behind her came another voice. “Does the Lady Milcah wish to come with me?”

  She turned to find that Sehtepibre had apparently followed her down the steps and listened to her question. She knew that if this wily steward was asking her to come with him, it was because he saw some advantage in it for himself. But she also knew that he was offering her a chance to get away from this house and see something of the land and hear conversation that was not the empty chat of bored women. She had never had anything to do with stone cutting, and so she had a chance to learn something new to her. She hesitated only a moment before saying, “Lord Sehtepibre is gracious, and unless it would displease mighty Pharaoh, Lady Milcah will make haste to be ready for the journey.”

  “We leave as soon as the boats are loaded,” said Sehtepibre. “And your desert clothing will be useful to you, since the sun will shine brightly where we’re going.”

  “I don’t have that clothing, sir,” said Sarai.

  “I’ll have it sent to you,” said Sehtepibre, thus sweeping away in a moment the claim of Eshut that she did not know where that clothing was.

  When the boats pulled away from the dock, Sarai sat on the largest barge, Hagar at her feet, Sehtepibre at her side. This was no procession. It was a working journey, and Sehtepibre did not bother to explain anything to her. Instead, once he saw that the boats were going where he had commanded, he lay down upon the deck of the barge
and fell asleep almost at once.

  “I can’t sleep on a chair,” Sarai murmured to Hagar. And in moments she, too, lay upon the deck. But she made sure that Hagar lay between her and Sehtepibre, so no tongues would wag and no scandal would endanger either her or Pharaoh’s steward.

  Sarai had never slept on a boat before. Unlike the Nile, the Euphrates was not reliable for transportation, varying from flood to mud at different seasons of the year, and while traders sometimes floated their cargoes down the river, no one used it for ordinary travel. So she had never had the experience of being rocked gently by the current of a river. She slept as peacefully as she had used to sleep in her father’s house, when as a child her future seemed secure and no fretting kept her awake at night or invaded her dreams.

  When she woke, though, she had lain too still, it seemed, for her neck was stiff. Like an old woman, she thought, as Hagar kneaded her shoulders to try to work the pain to the surface and away. “Not so old,” said Hagar, trying to be comforting and failing. Old enough that before long her natural child-bearing years would be behind her, and then all hope would be gone. Every joint that did not bend the way it used to bend, every muscle that ached where once there had been no pain, every breath hard-drawn where once she would not even have noticed the exertion, all were warning signs that her life as a woman would soon end in futility. And there was young Hagar, her buoyant breasts dancing under her translucent linen gown, telling her that she was not so old. How ignorant was youth! How devoid of understanding! And yet that was why youth was so precious, for most of its sins were sins of innocence.

  Sehtepibre must have risen before them—and properly so, since the expedition was his responsibility. He had docked their boat well upstream of the others, so that the noise of offloading did not waken them. Even now it was still not dawn—no light shone yet in the east. Sarai watched the last of the unloading with a practiced eye: dozens of men working in torchlight, yet almost silent in their order and vigorous obedience. Sehtepibre was not one of those fools who ruled through fear—none of these men cowered from him, and none malingered. They obeyed him willingly, because . . . why? Had he enlisted them willingly in his work? Was there some higher cause they shared? Or was it simply himself they served, for love of him, or admiration, or hope of his future?

  The latter seemed more likely, though she did not put the first beyond him. Eshut was easy enough to understand—a person of some authority, jealously guarding it and contemptuous of those who were not of her own degree. But Sehtepibre was different. A clever man, that was obvious, but perhaps a subtle one as well. Where Eshut, by her very jealousy, revealed her fear that she might not keep her place, Sehtepibre seemed perfectly confident, as if he could not be removed, as if his authority came from himself alone, and not from Pharaoh after all.

  Whom did he remind her of? Abram, of course. Only Abram’s serenity did not come from confidence in himself, but rather trust in God. He feared nothing because all that he was and all that he had belonged to God, and he believed that God would protect what he wanted protected. Was there a god that Sehtepibre trusted in that same way? Or was he the god of his own idolatry? It would be interesting to understand the man. And interesting indeed to see how long he lasted in the service of a Pharaoh who, for all that he seemed more interested in heaven than in earth, and more a student of the East than of Egypt, held the reigns of power. The priests obeyed him. The soldiers obeyed him. And if Pharaoh decided one day that Sehtepibre was no longer useful to him, Sehtepibre would be gone, and with him all his authority.

  A man in such a place had to be something of a fool to be too confident. Yet Sehtepibre seemed not to be a fool.

  A young officer came toward her boat, carrying a torch. To her surprise, it was Kay, the very one who had met them at the border. She greeted him by name, and he also greeted her. “Have you been reassigned from duty at the border?” she asked him.

  “When I brought you here,” said Kay, “it was decided that I should remain.”

  Interesting, thought Sarai. “A reward for your initiative?”

  Kay shrugged. “The decision of my superiors.” But she could see that her words had made him both proud and nervous. He preened a little, but was also just a little furtive. He was still too young to be as subtle as Sehtepibre. She could read this boy. “I hope you’ll be traveling with us today.”

  “I will,” said Kay. “This is a land of robbers. The Hsy come among us and we feed them, but still they slip away and become bandits in the hills. It is a shame that a stonecutting expedition should need military escort here in the heart of Egypt, so close to the Nile.” He caught himself being too heated. “Of course my Lady Milcah is not of the sort I referred to.”

  “It never crossed my mind that you might think of me as Hsy,” said Sarai. “And I understand your concern. In all the land from the Euphrates to Sinai, it has become like that, farmers turn to wanderers and wanderers to bandits, all in a month or a week or even a single day. Civilization only lasts as long as the citizens trust that they will have food tomorrow.”

  “But in Egypt, there is always food,” said Kay. “Why then do they turn to robbery?”

  “Because the food is not theirs,” said Sarai. “It’s a gift, which can be withdrawn at any time. What will the Hsy do then?”

  “But the gift has not been withdrawn, and therefore it is a shameful thing for the guest to rob the host.”

  “With that I agree. The world turns upside down, when host-right and guest-right are so casually disregarded.”

  He looked at her for a moment before replying. Did he guess the double meaning of her words?

  “We call it Ma’at,” he said. “The good order of the land. When all is right, when all is as the gods ordain, then we live in Ma’at. But when Ma’at is lost, then no one can trust in the future until it is all set right again.”

  “And that is the work of Pharaoh,” said Sarai.

  Kay sniffed. “It should be,” he said. And then, perhaps realizing that his irony betrayed too much, he added, “And so Pharaoh does his best.”

  Sarai was no fool, however. She had studied at her father’s feet, and heard his commentary on all that happened in Ur-of-the-North. Here was a young officer who believed that Ma’at was the most important work of Pharaoh. And what had caused the breakdown in Ma’at? The Hsy—the nomads from the East who had entered Egypt in such numbers. Pharaoh’s duty, then, was to control them, but instead Pharaoh was fascinated with the Fenekhu, seeking a wife from their number, spending his days learning religion from a man of Retenu who claimed to be a great priest. If there was dissatisfaction like this in the army, it meant that Pharaoh might not have all the authority he thought he had, for a king’s power lasts only as long as he is obeyed.

  And the resentment of the Hsy is bound to center around Abram, Sarai realized. Yet it was Kay who brought us straight to the people who put us in the king’s presence. He passed us to Khnumhotpe, who separated us and made sure Abram went straight to Pharaoh’s presence and I went into the House of Women. And someone then rewarded Kay by keeping him close at hand. Or was it, instead of a reward, simply a matter of putting resentful young officers in command of soldiers near the king? Where they could see firsthand how Montuhotpe was enthralled to this desert prophet?

  So why had Kay let slip his resentments to Sarai? If he truly saw her as the enemy, then he’d have no reason to speak to her at all. Instead he had, in effect, given her a warning. This was all too arcane and confusing for her. She would have to learn more in order to sort out how much of this was a plot, and how much mere chance, and who posed the greatest threat to her and Abram.

  Just as the first light appeared in the east, Kay helped Sarai into his own chariot. They would ride next behind Sehtepibre. “You can’t have much fear of bandits, to put a woman in your chariot,” said Sarai.

  Kay laughed. “Because we’re here at all, the bandits will leave us alone.”

  “But then, if the bandits can be frig
htened by so small a number of troops, they can’t be much of a threat.”

  “When Egypt has Ma’at,” said Kay, solemn again, “a lone man can travel from one end of the kingdom to another and none will harm him or cheat him.”

  “Then there has never been a kingdom in the world that had this Ma’at. Because there are always thieves and cheaters.”

  “In Retenu, perhaps,” said Kay. “But in Egypt, there used to be Ma’at.”

  Such a fantasy, thought Sarai. She had heard people talking of the golden age of Ur-of-Sumeria, too, when the wealth of nations flowed to that city and there was no crime and all men were noble and all women virtuous. But her father had told her afterward that past times are always held to be a golden age, compared to now. Old men who say that once there was a golden age are liars, Father said, and young men who believe their tales are fools.