“Well then, why doesn’t God just destroy everything bad and make everything good again?”
Abraham folded his hands and leaned forward. He began to speak earnestly, as to an adult. His son was young in years, but he had been asking questions since he had learned to talk. At first they had been simple ones, but as the boy grew they became more and more difficult, framing problems that the seers of all nations in all generations had struggled with.
“You’ve heard me tell the stories as they came down to me from my grandfather. He got them from his father, stories that had been passed down through generations.”
“Yes, Father, but don’t those stories tell of how God destroyed the world with a flood because it was so evil?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Then everyone in the world goes back to Noah.”
“That’s right. You’ve learned your lesson well, Isaac.”
“But then if God destroyed all the evil, why is it still here?”
Abraham sighed and struggled for an answer. “I think because when our first father sinned, something in him changed, and he somehow passed that on to his sons.”
“Yes—I remember the stories. Cain killed Abel, and then Adam and Eve had another son, Seth.”
“That’s right. And all of our line comes down through Seth, the more righteous of the sons of Adam. Nevertheless, the descendants of Adam all had evil in them, and they spread it again throughout the earth, even after the flood.”
Isaac sat listening as Abraham talked, but when his father fell silent, Isaac said, “When the first man sinned, I wonder why the Eternal One didn’t just destroy him and start all over with another good man.”
“No one can answer that question, son. The Eternal One does what He chooses, and we mustn’t question it.” He leaned forward and took the medallion he had worn all his life from beneath his robe. He rubbed it with his thumb and studied the lion with the uplifted paw and the fierce, noble face, wondering what it all meant. For a long time he remained silent, then said, “I think that someday one is coming who will be what the first man, Adam, should have been. And he will set all things right again. There’ll be no more ugliness in the world or injustice or sin.”
Sarah watched as Abraham continued to speak. Her eyes fell on the medallion, and she wondered if Isaac would be the next to wear it.
A cry came from outside, and Isaac rose and flew to the door of the tent. “It’s Eliezer!” he cried. He stepped back in as the tall form of Eliezer entered.
Sarah saw the relief on his face and cried out, “Is the child here?”
“Yes.” Eliezer had to keep himself from shouting. He had such joy on his face, they did not need to ask if all was well.
“Come and see our son,” Eliezer said, his face beaming. He reached over, picked up his sleeping daughter, and left the tent.
Sarah tried to get up, but the child she was holding was heavy.
Isaac reached out to take the baby. “Let me carry her, Mother.”
As Sarah surrendered the child, a warmth grew in her heart over Isaac’s concern. It pleased her that her son loved all children—especially the daughters of Eliezer and Zara.
Sarah stepped out of the tent, and Abraham took her by the arm, making their way as quickly as their old legs would carry them to Zara and Eliezer’s tent. Eliezer had arrived ahead of them and was now kneeling by his wife and baby. Sarah moved closer and saw that Zara was exhausted, her face pale and wan. Yet she had a beautiful smile.
“Let me hold my son,” Eliezer whispered. He took the child, and the three visitors moved forward, gathering around to stare down into the red face of the infant.
“Why, he looks like you, Eliezer,” Isaac said.
“That’s right,” Abraham said. “I can see he’s going to be a fine, strong man just like his father.”
While Isaac and the men admired the infant, Sarah went to Zara and kissed her, whispering, “You’ve done so well. What will you call him?”
Zara smiled as her eyes went to the baby. “His name is Zani.”
Abraham had taken his turn holding the infant. “‘Gift from God,’ “ he said, smiling. “What a wonderful name!”
Eliezer had gone over to kneel again beside Zara. He put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. “You did so well. Thank you for giving me such a fine son.”
Zara touched Eliezer’s cheek and said fervently, “I hope he’s as good a man as his father!”
****
The sun had already gone down when the moon made its appearance, a pale globe in the sky. It was five months after Zani’s birth. Sarah looked up at the moon and turned to Abraham, who was sitting beside her outside their tent. “Last night I was holding Zani,” she said, “and he saw the moon.”
Abraham turned to her with interest on his face. “That’s an observant young fellow. He’s growing so fast.”
“Yes,” Sarah said. “He’s a beautiful boy. I was looking at the moon, and suddenly I saw his eyes focus. And you know what he did?”
“What?”
“He reached for the moon, just as if he could reach out and grab it in his hand.”
Abraham chuckled. “I guess I’ve been doing that myself for a long time.”
Sarah smiled. “I think you’ve been reaching for something as long as I’ve known you. Probably even before.”
Abraham took her hand. “Well, I don’t have to reach anymore. I have you, and I have the son God promised.”
He would have said more, but suddenly there was a sound of an animal approaching. There was still enough daylight left to see a traveler come to the edge of the camp and dismount. He was immediately challenged by the guard and stopped. Abraham and Sarah could hear the voices, then could see the guard wave the traveler on into the camp. They watched as the tall man strode purposefully toward them.
“Who could that be coming this late?” Sarah asked quietly.
“I have no idea.”
They could not make out the man’s face, but finally he came to stand before them, and a shock ran through them both.
“Ishmael!” Sarah uttered.
Abraham was so surprised he found it difficult to speak. Ishmael was robed in a thin black garment with a black turban wrapped around his head. His eyes had always been deep set and sharp, but now they were like the eyes of an eagle. Strength was in every line of his body, and for just an instant both Abraham and Sarah felt a touch of something close to fear. This son of Abraham’s was so vital and strong he could be dangerous.
Abraham rose, as did Sarah. “Welcome, my son. Come in. You must be hungry and tired after your journey.”
Ishmael bowed low and said, “Father, it’s good to see you.” He turned to Sarah and studied her briefly and smiled. “It’s good to see you also, mistress.”
Sarah raised her voice, and a servant appeared. She commanded that food and drink be brought, and Abraham invited Ishmael into the tent. Sarah helped with the meal while the two men talked. When the food was ready, she set it before Ishmael. Abraham was not hungry, so the couple simply sat down across from him as he ate. At Ishmael’s request, Abraham told him about various members of the tribe. When Ishmael had finished his meal, a servant carried away the plates. Ishmael took the cup of barley beer, drank it down, then nodded, saying, “The food was good. I was hungry.”
Abraham hesitated, then said, “I have heard, my son, that you have done well—that you have a family now and that many are joining your clan.”
“Yes, Father, that is true.” Ishmael looked at Abraham with a question in his eyes. “Are you well, Father?”
“Yes. Sarah and I are very well.”
“And Isaac. Is he well too?”
An instant’s hesitation revealed Abraham’s agitation over the circumstances leading to Ishmael and Hagar’s dismissal from the camp. He could not read anything in Ishmael’s eyes, so he finally said, “Yes, very well.”
Ishmael nodded. “That is good. I am glad.”
Sarah ra
ised her voice and asked the question that was on her mind as well as on Abraham’s. “How is your mother, Ishmael?”
“She is dead.”
The blunt announcement brought a pang of grief to Sarah. During the last years Hagar had been with them, there had been much trouble, and Sarah had grown to hate her. But she remembered how kind Hagar had been to her in Egypt, and she whispered, “I am so sorry. When did she die?”
“Only a month ago. She caught a fever and could not get rid of it.”
Abraham was silent. “She was a strong woman,” he said. Then he cleared his throat and spoke the question that was most on his mind. “Son, did your mother ever forgive me?”
Ishmael dropped his head, unable to meet his father’s eyes. “She was not a forgiving woman, Father.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Abraham knew he had one more question that he must ask. “And you, my son, have you forgiven me?”
A silence fell over the tent, and both Abraham and Sarah waited tensely for Ishmael’s answer. They were both relieved when he looked up and managed to smile. “I hated you for sending us away. I couldn’t help that. But I’ve gained a little wisdom in the years since.”
His comment took away the weight that had been on Sarah’s heart for years. Ever since Ishmael had left, she had been afraid that he might return to seek vengeance. Now she saw that the big man had changed.
“I had bitterness in my heart over being cast off, but it was right to make us go. If I had stayed, I might have done something terrible.”
“It was one of the most difficult things I ever had to do,” Abraham said, “and I know it hurt you.”
Ishmael was silent for a time and then turned his head to one side. “A woman of my tribe was holding a block of wood while another was splitting it with a sharp ax. The ax missed and cut off her finger. She picked it up and held it to the stub and quickly they bound it together.” He smiled and said, “It grew back. It was not as flexible as the others, and there was always a white ring where the finger grew together. So she never quite forgot it, but at least she had her finger. I suppose,” he said, “I will always remember our disagreements. But it has become bearable. It was the right thing to do.”
Relief washed through Sarah, and she rose, saying, “I will go prepare a place for you, Ishmael.”
“No, don’t do that.” Ishmael rose, his large frame filling the tent. “I came only to do what I have done.” He knelt before his father and said, “Please give me your blessing, Father.”
Abraham’s hands trembled as he touched Ishmael’s head, but he was happy to pray for him and bless him.
When Ishmael rose, he said, “Isaac is the son of promise. You did the right thing in sending me away. Good-bye, Father.” Ishmael turned to Sarah and said, “Good-bye, mistress.” Then he left the tent and walked purposefully away, disappearing into the gathering darkness.
Sarah found herself relieved but trembling. It had been a tense moment. “He’s such a strange man!”
“Yes, and a violent man too. Some of that is still in him.”
“I’m glad Isaac is not like him. He has a natural gentle spirit.”
“Like you,” Abraham said, putting his arm around her.
She leaned against him and whispered, “God Most High has given us a precious gift in our son.”
“Yes, wife, and as long as I have Isaac, I will never doubt the Lord God!”
****
During the months after Ishmael’s visit, Abraham and Sarah talked often of it. Their lives were filled with other things, though, and the memory of his return gradually faded. Their fear that Ishmael might come back for vengeance was now gone, and Abraham and Sarah turned their lives fully toward Isaac. Abraham spent all of his free time with him, pouring the lore and history of his people into him. Isaac in turn listened and asked questions, some of which Abraham could answer and others that he could not.
It was on a bright, sunny morning, when Abraham was walking toward a flock of sheep guarded by a single herder, that he became aware of a familiar sensation. He stopped abruptly on top of a small rise. The bleating of the sheep faded, and he knew he was in the presence of God. He waited, standing still, and after a time the voice spoke.
“Abraham!”
“Here I am,” Abraham replied, trembling. The voice no longer sounded warm and comforting as it almost always had in the past. Now it sounded harsh and demanding:
“Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about.”
It was as if a bolt of lightning had burst upon him, striking him and sending burning pain throughout his entire body. Abraham cried out loudly, “O Lord God, not Isaac! You cannot ask me to give up Isaac!”
Abraham fell on his knees and began to cry out…but there was no answer. The only sound was the bleating of the sheep and in the distance the howling of a wild dog, but the voice Abraham longed for was not to be heard. His heart shattered, he wept before God, praying that he had heard wrong. “God, he is the son of promise. He is the one you sent us in our old age. Please, Lord, tell me that I need not do this terrible thing!”
The silence became profound, and Abraham, with tears streaming down his face, lay full-length on the dusty earth and begged the God whom he loved to speak to him again. But there was no answer, and finally Abraham the Hebrew rose to his feet. A longing for death overtook him, but he knew that would not happen. He turned and stumbled back to the camp like a blind man, knowing that God had asked him to sacrifice the most precious gift in all the world.
Chapter 37
As four donkeys bearing riders crawled upward over a long, steep ridge, the wind ruffled up the dead grass and leaves that lay in a thicket to the east. The smell of the land rose with the earth’s dissipating heat, whirling in streaky currents as the sky grew darker. The smoky haze that marked the end of a long hot summer made a blue-gray ceiling over the desert. There was the smell of cooler weather in the air, and behind them three rising lines of smoke, marking three camps or villages, reached upward into the air. The earth was thirsty for the rains that had not yet come, and the donkeys’ hooves stirred up the powdery dust, which rose behind them as they crested the hills.
The four had traveled hard for two days, and now weariness made the third beast in the row stumble, and the young man astride called out, “Master, the beasts are exhausted! We’ve got to rest.”
Uzziel, who rode immediately behind the speaker, whispered, “Good, Rayel! He’s going to walk the legs off these animals, and I’m starving.”
Abraham, who sat on the lead donkey, jumped at hearing the servants’ voices behind him. He had spent much of the journey in lonely silence, focused on what lay ahead and barely aware of Uzziel’s and Rayel’s chatter. Only twice had he talked to them—once when they had stopped for a brief meal at noon, and another time when they had found water and allowed the thirsty animals to drink. Now he turned to them to address their concerns. His dark preoccupation lifted momentarily and he told them, “All right. We’ll make camp over by that thicket.”
“Good,” Rayel grunted. “About time.” He slid off his donkey and led the animal forward until Abraham called a halt, saying, “This will do for the night. Gather wood for the fire.”
Rayel and Uzziel tied their animals up and began to move over the ground. Fortunately they found a fallen tree that would provide them with firewood, and as they began breaking off the dead branches, Uzziel said, in a voice tinged with discontent, “Why do we have to go so far just to make a sacrifice?”
“Because the master said so. That’s why. You know his crazy ideas about God.”
Uzziel was unsatisfied. “Why couldn’t we go a short walk from the camp and sacrifice at the usual spot? How far are we going?”
“I don’t know. The master hasn’t told me,” Rayel snapped. “Why don’t you go tell him that it’s time to stop fooling around and get down to business?”
Uzziel grinned, his teeth showing white against his dark face. “I’ll let you do that.” He put another stick on top of the pile he held in his right arm and shook his head. “How long do you think we will travel before we return home?”
“He wouldn’t even tell his own wife where he was going or when he would be back. You think he’s going to tell us?”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I heard them talking. When we left she asked him right out, ‘Will you be back tomorrow?’”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. He just kissed her and got on his donkey and rode out.”
“He’s been walking around in a daze, hasn’t he? Everybody’s noticed it.”
“Yes, and did you see his wife’s face? She’s worried sick about him.”
“Well, I’ve got problems of my own. I hope we get back soon.”
“I know what’s the matter with you,” Rayel said, grinning. “You’re afraid Dekaz will run off with your girl.”
“That clod couldn’t run off with anybody!”
“Come on. Let’s get back.”
The two hurried back and busied themselves making a fire and cooking the meat they had brought with them. It was tough and stringy, but the men ate it as if it were a feast. When the servants had filled their bellies, they both lay down and were soon fast asleep.
Isaac was sitting in front of the fire, feeding it small sticks. He picked up a long splinter, stuck it into the fire, then pulled it out, watching the tiny orange flame on the end consume the bit of wood. Then when it reached his fingers, he tossed it back into the fire. He looked across at his father, who was sitting slumped with his back against a tree, staring at nothing, it seemed. “Are you all right, Father?” Isaac asked softly.
Abraham stared, then nodded. “Yes, I’m all right.”
“You haven’t said much since we left. I thought maybe you didn’t feel well.” Isaac, always sensitive to the moods of his parents, had been one of the first to notice three days earlier that Abraham had fallen silent—had become almost mute. Isaac had questioned his mother, but she could not answer him, other than to say that she was worried about him.
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