No Woman So Fair

by Gilbert, Morris

  The two stood there, and Sarai knew that her words had meant little to Abram. His thoughts were in the past, and she knew he was thinking about the time that the Eternal One had appeared and given him a glorious promise.

  Now a gloom settled over him, and he shook his head. “I do not think He will ever speak to me again.”

  He turned and left Sarai, who stood looking after him, a sadness in her own heart. She had never seen Abram’s God herself, but now she prayed to him. “O Eternal One, do not forsake my husband. He loves you dearly!”

  Part Four

  The Pharaoh

  When Abram came to Egypt, the Egyptians saw that she was a very beautiful woman. And when Pharaoh’s officials saw her, they praised her to Pharaoh, and she was taken into his palace.

  Genesis 12:14–15

  Chapter 13

  Abram sat in his home in a long, narrow room between pillars that supported the roof, looking out over the darkening sky to the fields in the distance. It was a pleasant and airy haven from the heat of the day. Turning his head, he looked out past another pillar into the quadrangle of the inner court, hung with colored awnings and with a wooden gallery running around it. The silence of the afternoon was broken by the hum of the servants’ voices, and from far off a wild donkey brayed raucously.

  Evening was coming quickly, and now a maidservant fetched fire from the hearth and lit the three earthenware lamps that stood upon tripods. Abram watched her listlessly and could sense the aroma of fresh bread baking. To his right stood a great earthenware jar filled with goat’s milk. Two large wooden chests occupied the outer wall of the room, and two dark brown dogs slept soundly in a patch of sunlight that flooded the outer court.

  Knowing that the evening meal would soon be served, Abram got up and left the house. He had purchased the home from Oliphaz since his mother’s death. His father had become almost helpless and it was necessary for Abram to stay close to him. Ten more years had passed in Haran, and he now spent much of his time here at his home in the city, dividing his attention between his father’s needs and those of the herds that proliferated out in the pasturelands close to the river. Now he made his way through the city, needing a break from his father almost as much as he needed air. He passed by the houses on the outskirts of the city, nodding or speaking to those he knew, until he finally reached the edge of the city.

  He paused beside a large wall of unmortared blocks of stone on which was perched a statue of the god Nanna. Abram observed the remains of offerings that had been left—food and flowers—and he watched three mangy dogs fighting over the scraps of food.

  “That’s about the only good that’ll come from those offerings,” he muttered. Then he turned and made his way to the well that lay on the outer side of the city. When he got there he paused and, feeling thirsty, leaned over and stared into the water. Even in the fading light he could see his reflection in the still water below. He stared at it, noting how white his hair had become in the last ten years. He saw his dark skin, bronzed from a lifetime of exposure to the sun, and the ever-deepening wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. He noted that his neck was not as strong and muscular now as it had once been, and he could foresee the day when it would be scrawny and thin and weak.

  “What are you looking at, master?”

  Abram whirled around, startled, and saw that Eliezer was standing behind him. “Oh, nothing,” he said quickly, shaking his head at the tall young man.

  Eliezer, not fooled, came over and looked down into the well. “Admiring yourself in the water, eh?” he said, smiling.

  Abram bent over again next to Eliezer and studied the two reflections. “Who is that old man in there, Eliezer?”

  “Why, it’s you.”

  “That’s not me! That old man is seventy-five years old, my son.” Abram looked at the reflection in the water again, then picked up a pebble that lay on the wall surrounding the well. He tossed it in and watched the stone break the water’s smooth surface, turning his image and Eliezer’s into rippling waves of concentric circles. He muttered to himself again, “Who is that old man? Where is the young man who could run like a deer and never grow tired? Where is that young fellow who could lift more than anyone in the city of Ur? Where is he?”

  Eliezer was staring at Abram. He had a worshipful attitude toward this man, who had always been like a father to him. He smiled quickly and reached out to touch Abram’s arm. “Why, you look like a man of forty, and my mistress, Sarai—why, she looks like a young woman!”

  Abram turned quickly and smiled. “You’re right about her at least. She may be sixty-five years old, but she’s more beautiful to me than any woman on earth.”

  Eliezer nodded quickly. “That is so true, master. But it’s true of you too. You’re still tall and strong, and if you would enter into the games that the young men sometimes engage in, why, you’d put them to shame.”

  Abram shook his head, but his eyes lit up with humor. “You must want something, Eliezer, talking like that.” He regarded the twenty-year-old man, who was tall and slender with a muscular build. He could win most of the races among the young men of Haran, and in the feats of strength, he held his own. He was a handsome man too, with lustrous black hair and dark eyes.

  The young Eliezer was aware that his master was staring at him and stood patiently. It was something he had done all of his life. Sarai had told him many times how Abram had saved his mother from the bondage of slavery at the hands of a cruel master, and he had found great delight in serving this man.

  “Did you just come in from the flocks, Eliezer?”

  “Yes. I went out to check the animals over in the north pasture. There were seventeen new lambs, and every one of them looks healthy.”

  Abram beamed. “Did you give them names?” he teased. “You know every animal in the herd, I do believe.”

  Eliezer returned Abram’s smile. “No, not really, but the flocks have never looked so good, master.”

  Eliezer knew every sheep, goat, cow, and bull in the flocks and herds. He always knew when it was time to change pastures, and there was no one like him for treating sick animals. Even in his youth, no one had thought it strange when Abram had named him his personal steward. No one had ever thought of him as a slave, and there were those who were convinced he was Abram’s son, though Eliezer never presumed such a thing himself. He was totally devoted to Abram and Sarai, and the first thought in his mind was always, What would be good for my master and mistress?

  “I suppose we’d better go back. It’s time to eat,” Abram said.

  The two men started back home, and Abram noticed, with some pride, that Eliezer had reached his own height now. The two of them were the tallest men in Haran and always attracted attention as they walked together through the streets.

  Eliezer continued to speak of the flocks, but then he changed the subject. “My mistress has told me so many times about how you saved my mother.”

  “That’s right. I was courting Sarai at the time—and not doing a very good job of it.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Eliezer protested. “She must have loved you at once.”

  “I hate to disillusion you, but she didn’t. Our romance had a rough beginning. I pushed her off a bridge into the mud, and she hated me for it, or seemed to.”

  Eliezer wanted to hear all about it. He loved to hear Abram tell stories of his youth. When Abram stopped speaking the young man said, “And you saved my mother, master. I can never be grateful enough to you for that.”

  Abram was quiet for a moment. They were approaching the house now, and he stopped and turned to the young man. “Your mother was a fine woman, Eliezer.”

  “I wish she would have lived so that I could have known her.”

  “So do I. You would have loved her.”

  “But you and Mistress Sarai have been like a father and mother to me.”

  Abram lifted his eyes and peered into the young man’s face, looking for some key of meaning in the words he had just spo
ken. Abram had been aware for years that many considered Eliezer his own son. He knew that Sarai had those thoughts too, although she had kept them to herself. Now he was wondering if Eliezer was referring to this possibility, yet he saw nothing in his gaze but a firmness and an openness. “I hope so, Eliezer. I couldn’t have asked for a finer man to have for a son.” His voice grew husky, and he cleared his throat. “Come along. Let’s go in to the meal.”

  The meal that they finally sat down to, along with Sarai, was filling. The mutton was cooked exactly right in sheep’s milk, just as Abram liked it, and was flavored with coriander and garlic, mint, and mustard. They ate flatbread dipped in olive oil, and the wine was heady and refreshing.

  “If you keep feeding me like this, wife, I’m going to grow as fat as old Oliphaz.”

  Sarai sniffed. “You never gain a pound! You walk it all off, and you too, Eliezer.”

  Eliezer swallowed a mouthful of the sour wine and grinned. He made a handsome sight, his skin bronze and his eyes and hair as dark as night. “I’m not afraid of growing fat, but you are the best cook in the world, mistress.”

  They were concluding their meal with a compote of plums and raisins served in copper bowls when Sarai turned serious. “Your father’s not doing well, husband.”

  Abram put down his goblet and stood to his feet, an anxious look on his face. “I’m worried about him,” he admitted. “Perhaps I’d better go see him.”

  After Abram left the room, Eliezer said quickly, “Is he very sick, mistress?”

  “Yes. He’s not going to live much longer, Eliezer.” Sarai looked up and shook her head. “I don’t understand how he’s lived this long.”

  ****

  Abram stepped inside the darkened room lit by a single lamp. A male servant sat beside his father, and when Abram nodded, the servant immediately rose and left the room. Sitting down beside Terah, Abram put his hand on the thin, withered shoulder and said, “Is it well with you, my father?”

  Terah’s face shadowed death so clearly that Abram was shocked. He had not seen his father for three days, and when he had left him last, the old man had been sitting up and taking nourishment. Now it seemed the life that was in him was so faint it was hard to believe he could exist. He had been ill for several years now, going steadily down, and Abram had been faithful to procure the best care for his father. Now, however, he knew for a certainty and with a dull shock that death was imminent.

  “My son…” Terah struggled to get out those two words, and just the effort of it seemed to exhaust him. His eyes fluttered, and his lips moved faintly. He had lost his teeth ten years earlier and was able to take only that which had been turned into a mushy liquid. His lips were drawn in now, and his face seemed to have collapsed. His hands lay on his breast, and they twitched feebly, so Abram put his hand over his father’s and said, “My father, I trust you are resting easy.”

  The voice seemed to arouse Terah. He opened his eyes fully then. They appeared enormous because the face was so shrunken. Abram leaned forward to catch the whisper that came from the withered lips.

  “Abram…what’s going to…become of me…?”

  “Become of you? Why, I’ll take care of you, Father.”

  “No, I mean…after death.”

  Abram could not speak for a moment. He could almost smell the fear in the old man, and he thought quickly how his father had grown more fearful of death as the years had mounted up. Terah had made offerings to every god he could think of in these past years, but the fear had only increased and now flickered in his eyes. He lifted his hand, and Abram took it. The bones felt like the bones of a bird, so tiny and fragile, and Abram could think of no answer. He saw his father looking at him, straining to lift his head and waiting for an answer—and then suddenly the moment passed.

  Abram was shocked, for he saw his father give one sudden expulsion of air along with a tiny cough, and then he lay totally still.

  “Father!” Abram whispered. “Father, can you hear me?”

  But Terah could hear nothing nor ever would hear anything again in this world.

  Abram sat there with his hands on his father’s in the stillness of the room. There was a grim finality in the lines of his father’s face. Abram could only sit and stare at him.

  Finally he reached out, touched his father’s forehead, bowed over the old man, and kissed his cheek. Then he got up and left the room. When he returned to the living area, both Sarai and Eliezer turned. Sarai started to speak but with one look at his face, she rose up, saying, “What is it, husband?”

  “My father is dead.”

  Abram’s voice sounded flat in his own ears, and he was aware that both Sarai and Eliezer were speaking to him, but his mind was fragmented. He was thinking of their words and of the still, dead face of the one who had given him life, but somehow he knew that something different had come into his own life at the moment his father died.

  ****

  Abram went through the funeral ceremonies in a daze, saying hardly a word. His silence had been so pronounced that Sarai was troubled about him, but she could think of no comfort to give. For two weeks after the funeral, he disappeared into the hills alone.

  Sarai knew that Abram had always done this during times of crisis, yet it troubled her.

  For Abram, the death of his father was like a door that had opened. A numbness had come over him, yet a tiny spark glowed inside, and he knew that something vital had changed in his life.

  The sun was almost over the low-lying hills far away to the west as he sat beside the river. He had been there for hours simply watching the water birds and an occasional fish breaking the surface. The fishermen were all gone now, and a strong silence lay over the land. He could smell the river with its moistness and strong odors of mud and decaying vegetation.

  He had been praying almost continually since his father had died, and now as he sat there, he prayed again. “O Eternal One, maker of all things, hear my voice.”

  Abram perhaps expected no reply. After all, it had been decades since he had heard the voice of the Eternal One.

  But then the voice came, and instantly the memories came flooding back. He remembered the voice! Abram fell down on his face, conscious that he was in the presence of the great Eternal One. He quaked and could not speak again, nor did he dare lift his face, for fear filled him.

  “Do not be afraid, Abram, for you will see the promise I have made fulfilled. Leave now and go to the land I will show you. I have told you that I will make you into a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, and you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse, and all peoples on earth will be blessed through you.”

  As the voice of God spoke to Abram, he continued to kneel before the Lord. He never knew how long he stayed there, but afterward he could not forget the voice, and there was a new determination on his face when finally the voice fell silent and Abram became aware of the night sounds around him.

  Startled, he stood to his feet and saw that the moon was high in the sky. His knees felt weak and his legs unsteady, and he breathed shortly. He could not speak, and tears were running down his cheeks. He stood for a long time unable to move, and then he straightened up, wiped his face on his robe, and started back toward Haran.

  He spoke to no one, and when he came into the house he found Sarai waiting for him.

  “Where have you been?” she said at once. “I’ve been worried.”

  Abram took Sarai by the hands, and when she looked up, she was startled. Her husband had looked tired and worn for so long—for years, she realized—but now his eyes were glowing and it seemed there was a fire somewhere deep inside him that could not be contained. His grip was so strong that he hurt her hands, but she could not speak, so shocked was she at his appearance.

  “Sarai,” Abram said, “the Eternal One has spoken to me again.” Words tumbled out of Abram’s mouth, and he told her what God had commanded him to do. “It’s the same as he tol
d me back in Ur. I was wrong to take my father and mother along. I know that, but it’s not too late. He still has a work for me to do. Sarai, the Eternal One has not forgotten us.”

  “But where will we go?” she asked.

  Abram seemed to have regained his youth. He picked Sarai up, swung her around, and then put her down and laughed. “The Eternal One will lead our way. We will go where He commands. Oh, Sarai, He has not forgotten me! The Eternal One still loves me!”

  Sarai could not feel the same joy that she saw in Abram’s face. She had made friends and a life in Haran. At this late age, she had given up on ever having her own children, but they had Eliezer. One day soon he would marry and give her grandchildren. But she saw the light in Abram’s eyes and knew that this dream must go. She put her hands on his chest and then spoke softly. “All right, my husband, I will go with you—wherever the Eternal One leads you.”

  Chapter 14

  Sarai held Meri’s child high in the air and smiled as the girl screamed with delight. “You’re a sweet one!” Sarai crooned. “The best baby I’ve ever seen.”

  Meri, Lot’s wife, sat in the shade, resting from the midday heat. She could not, however, escape the incessant wind, which blew the sand in her eyes and covered her hair and skin with a fine film of dust. She shook her head and scowled. “I don’t see how you have the energy to pick her up, Sarai.” Meri nodded her head toward her other three daughters, who were playing in the sparse shade of a scraggly tree. “I don’t know how they have the energy either. This trip is killing me.”

  With the baby resting on her hip, Sarai turned to face Meri, who had taken off her sandals to massage her feet. She resisted the retort that came quickly to mind: If I could have had babies like you, I would never have complained about the heat or the dust. Of Meri’s four daughters, the older two were almost ready for marriage, while the younger two had come along much later. One was still a toddler, the other just crawling. Sarai had fought her own feelings of jealousy each time Meri had produced a baby, having never stopped grieving over her own childlessness. By now she should have had many grandchildren and great-grandchildren.