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Book: Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) by Orson Scott Card
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Authors: Orson Scott Card
Tags: Fiction, Old Testament
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Asherah who tends to the wombs of women, who remembers that you belong to her.
To silence that voice, Sarai laughed. “Then let’s go to Egypt, Abram. I ask only this—that you share a few crumbs of your learning with me.”
“Learning is the only bread that you can share without lessening your own meal,” said Abram.
“If that isn’t already in your books, I hope you’ll write it down,” said Sarai. “It sounded very poetic and wise.”
He touched her nose, then kissed her lightly. “You shouldn’t mock me, you know.”
“Someone has to,” said Sarai, “and no one else would dare.”
He sighed, but smiled too. “That’s you, Sarai. Always willing to bear the heaviest burden.”
Chapter 5
For years, Abram had made his camp in the best lands—the deepest wells, the everflowing springs, where grass grew, where trees gave shade. Sarai thought she had seen the worst of the drought, seeing how many of those trees were scant-leafed now, and how many bare-limbed; hearing the hollow echo of stones thrown down empty wells; tasting the soupy water of a dying spring.
But in truth she had been sheltered from the worst destruction of this endless dry season. For now they moved through lands that had once been farmed, through villages that once had known the voices of children shouting in the streets, women chattering at the well, men grunting as they practiced the skills of war in a field outside the wall. Now the only sound was the echoing footfalls of the flocks and herds, the bleating and mooing of beasts, the murmurs and occasional shouts of herdsmen. These were sounds she had lived with for years, but now they came in the wrong place, which made them desperately sad.
At first she would succumb to the impulse to go into one of the houses, but it was always the same. Old spider webs near the ceiling, rooms half-filled with dust swept in by wind, but no sign of human habitation. It was not a hasty departure, not the ruins of war or plague. These people had lingered until there was no more hope, and then they had moved out, taking all that they could, leaving nothing of value to them. And then their neighbors had scavenged even the valueless things, and burned what could be burned to roast the last scrawny animals or boil the last weedy soup.
The last time she entered a house, Abram came in after her. “Why do you do this?” he asked. “It only makes you morose.”
“I can’t decide,” said Sarai, “if I should feel despair for those who left this place, or hope that someday it will be occupied again.”
“Someday this village will be peopled by our grandsons and granddaughters, and the land will be full from the river to the sea.”
He looked so happy and hopeful that it was all she could do to keep from screaming. She had been feeling pity for the losses of strangers; he turned it into a prophecy to be fulfilled by her drought-stricken womb. Today the time of women had come upon her, five days late. Those past five days she had allowed herself some hope, but today she had none. It will rain first, Abram, there’ll be water rushing down these streets before you hold my baby in your arms.
Still, she said nothing, because his words came from God, and hers from grief. To him, it was as if what the Lord had promised were already fulfilled; he thought of himself as a man with many children, and it didn’t occur to him that she did not live in that world. From then on she went into no more houses. She passed through each village without looking to left or right, for now it was her sons’ voices that had fallen silent in the streets, her daughters’ hands that spun no distaff in the houses. What a miserable life, she thought, to spend it mourning for the unconceived.
At last they left Canaan behind, and proceeded through the desert lands again. This time Abram had to consult old writings to get his bearings, for he had not come this way
To silence that voice, Sarai laughed. “Then let’s go to Egypt, Abram. I ask only this—that you share a few crumbs of your learning with me.”
“Learning is the only bread that you can share without lessening your own meal,” said Abram.
“If that isn’t already in your books, I hope you’ll write it down,” said Sarai. “It sounded very poetic and wise.”
He touched her nose, then kissed her lightly. “You shouldn’t mock me, you know.”
“Someone has to,” said Sarai, “and no one else would dare.”
He sighed, but smiled too. “That’s you, Sarai. Always willing to bear the heaviest burden.”
Chapter 5
For years, Abram had made his camp in the best lands—the deepest wells, the everflowing springs, where grass grew, where trees gave shade. Sarai thought she had seen the worst of the drought, seeing how many of those trees were scant-leafed now, and how many bare-limbed; hearing the hollow echo of stones thrown down empty wells; tasting the soupy water of a dying spring.
But in truth she had been sheltered from the worst destruction of this endless dry season. For now they moved through lands that had once been farmed, through villages that once had known the voices of children shouting in the streets, women chattering at the well, men grunting as they practiced the skills of war in a field outside the wall. Now the only sound was the echoing footfalls of the flocks and herds, the bleating and mooing of beasts, the murmurs and occasional shouts of herdsmen. These were sounds she had lived with for years, but now they came in the wrong place, which made them desperately sad.
At first she would succumb to the impulse to go into one of the houses, but it was always the same. Old spider webs near the ceiling, rooms half-filled with dust swept in by wind, but no sign of human habitation. It was not a hasty departure, not the ruins of war or plague. These people had lingered until there was no more hope, and then they had moved out, taking all that they could, leaving nothing of value to them. And then their neighbors had scavenged even the valueless things, and burned what could be burned to roast the last scrawny animals or boil the last weedy soup.
The last time she entered a house, Abram came in after her. “Why do you do this?” he asked. “It only makes you morose.”
“I can’t decide,” said Sarai, “if I should feel despair for those who left this place, or hope that someday it will be occupied again.”
“Someday this village will be peopled by our grandsons and granddaughters, and the land will be full from the river to the sea.”
He looked so happy and hopeful that it was all she could do to keep from screaming. She had been feeling pity for the losses of strangers; he turned it into a prophecy to be fulfilled by her drought-stricken womb. Today the time of women had come upon her, five days late. Those past five days she had allowed herself some hope, but today she had none. It will rain first, Abram, there’ll be water rushing down these streets before you hold my baby in your arms.
Still, she said nothing, because his words came from God, and hers from grief. To him, it was as if what the Lord had promised were already fulfilled; he thought of himself as a man with many children, and it didn’t occur to him that she did not live in that world. From then on she went into no more houses. She passed through each village without looking to left or right, for now it was her sons’ voices that had fallen silent in the streets, her daughters’ hands that spun no distaff in the houses. What a miserable life, she thought, to spend it mourning for the unconceived.
At last they left Canaan behind, and proceeded through the desert lands again. This time Abram had to consult old writings to get his bearings, for he had not come this way
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