Sarah by Marek Halter

tears stinging her eyes.
    â€œDo you need something, goddess?” she heard again.
    The old witch! The
kassaptu
who had shouted at her the day she met Abram! It was her voice Sarai was hearing in her head. And, as if in echo, she remembered the stories her aunts had told in the chamber of blood: “There’s one woman who drank the herb of infertility. She didn’t bleed for three whole moons. Her husband didn’t want to touch her anymore, or even hear anyone speak her name. Her husband or any other man. Who’d want a woman capable of stopping her own blood?”
    Sarai caught her breath. A smile as gray as the sky clouded her features. The gods were not abandoning her. They wouldn’t let her spoil like dead meat in the arms of a husband.

    â€œTHE herb of infertility?” the
kassaptu
muttered. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
    Sarai merely nodded. Her heart was pounding. It had been less difficult to find the witch’s lair again than to go inside. Everyone in the lower city seemed to know Kani Alk-Nàa. But before she could find the courage to cross the threshold of the one room that served as her lair, Sarai had walked up and down the street a dozen times.
    â€œYou’re quite young to want the herb of infertility,” Kani Alk-Nàa went on. “It can be dangerous at your age.”
    Sarai resisted the desire to reply. She clasped her hands together; she didn’t want the witch to see them shaking.
    â€œAre you at least a wife?”
    Once again Sarai did not reply. She stared at the dozens of baskets piled up in every corner of the room, giving off a smell of dust and rotting fruit. A thin chuckle made her turn her head. The old woman was laughing, her little pink tongue wriggling between her bare gums like a snake’s tail.
    â€œAfraid, are you? Afraid that Kani Alk-Nàa will cast a spell on you, lord’s daughter?”
    Without a word, Sarai took off the purse that hung around her neck and emptied the contents in front of the witch.
    â€œThree shekels,” the old woman calculated, gathering the copper and silver rings avidly; she was not laughing now. “I don’t care if you’re a wife or not. But I need to know if it’s already happened.”
    Sarai hesitated, uncertain if she had understood correctly.
    The old woman sighed. “Has the bull been between your thighs?” she asked, with irritation. “Are you an opened woman? If not, come back and see me after the man has parted your thighs.”
    â€œI am an opened woman,” Sarai lied, in a hoarse voice.
    The
kassaptu
’s eyes, barely visible between the folds of her eyelids, remained fixed for a moment. Sarai was afraid she would guess the truth.
    â€œGood. And how long has the man’s milk been inside you?”
    â€œAlmost . . . almost one moon.”
    â€œHmmm. You should have come earlier.” The old woman stretched her puny hand toward the baskets. She took out five little packets of herbs wrapped in dried reeds and handed them to Sarai. “Here’s your herb of infertility.”
    â€œHow many times is it for?” asked Sarai, without daring to look up.
    â€œHow many times will your bleeding stop? That depends on the woman. Two moons, maybe three, as you’re young. You’ll see. Put each of these packets in a
silà
of boiling water, without opening them, and leave them to soak for half a day. Then take the packets out and drink the infusion three times between the zenith and twilight. Do as I tell you, lord’s daughter, and everything will be fine.”

    SARAI had guessed right. She found Sililli hiding in her bedchamber, her face bathed in tears, her voice shrill with reproach, relief, anger, and tenderness. She had been so afraid that she had said nothing. Nobody in the house knew that Sarai had been gone since morning.
    â€œI said you were sick, you had a bad stomach, and I’d given you herbs to