Sarai (Jill Eileen Smith) by Jill Smith

wicker basket she had packed them in. These unadorned ones sufficed, though in truth she missed dressing herself in fine clothes and turning the heads of the nobles who came to visit. Her beauty was the only thing she had in her favor, perhaps the only thing keeping Abram from taking another wife. A wife who would give him this promised heir.
    She stepped around a dropping of animal dung, probably from one of the milk goats Melah kept for curds and cheese. Glancing up, she spotted the small black animal tied to a rope attached to a peg in the ground. Melah’s tent stood just beyond, the wide awning stretching above the open enclosure. She paused. Should she enter unannounced? She had done so many times before, but never for such a purpose.
    She turned, darting quick looks in all directions, then ducked through the door. If anyone was watching her, they would wonder why she appeared so skittish.
    “Melah? Is anyone here?” She smoothed both hands on her skirts again, her fingers brushing the hard object in the pouch as she did so.
    Silence met her ears. She moved to the area marked off as a sitting room, squinting to see in the dim light coming through the door. She had not thought to bring a lamp and would pay for her foolishness as she made her way back to the hearth. Her sandals would probably end up coated in the animal dung if she could not recall where it was in the dark. Chagrined by her wayward thoughts, she shook herself, reminded why she had come.
    Just hurry and be done with this. Where did Melah keep the shrine? Sarai chided herself for not having asked, and she had not been here often enough to notice. Perhaps it was hidden behind a cushion.
    Irritated, she moved through the tent, going from the sitting area to the private area where Kammani and Ku-aya would sleep and Melah would keep her personal items. She shoved a cushion aside with her foot, hoping Melah did not notice the mess she had made. At last she spied a smooth, carved stone table with the image of a goddess sitting on a golden throne carved with symbols. She was dressed in a layered, flowing, golden robe, hands clasped at her waist, a golden headdress encircling her plaited black hair, her look serene.
    Sarai studied the statue, transfixed. Could Ningal hear her prayers? The image was somehow comforting.
    Sarai’s heartbeat slowed as she knelt before the image, extracted the wooden carving of her likeness from the pouch, and placed it before the idol. Can you hear me?
    No sound emerged, and no returning thoughts made her think there would be a response. But what did she expect from an image of gold? Perhaps her prayers would reach the moon and the goddess would hear from her home in the stars.
    Grant me a son. Please. I beg of you to hear me, to do what I cannot. Let me fulfill my vow to my husband and bear a son to carry on his name.
    A gust of wind blew the tent’s flap. Sarai jumped up, her fear rising. “Is anyone there? Melah?”
    Only the hot breath of wind responded. She glanced from the shrine to the door. Darkness had fully descended now, and Abram would wonder where she was. Bending low, she left her image at the feet of the miniature golden goddess. She should make some kind of sacrifice, promise the goddess something, but what? She would not sacrifice the child—the very gift she requested. There was nothing else.
    Uneasiness filled her at her own uncertainty, and the growing darkness made her shiver. She replaced the cushion in front of the shrine, hurried to the tent’s entrance, and slipped into the night. She attempted to fill her lungs but could draw only a shallow breath. Fear accompanied the shadows, whispering, haunting. She stilled, listening. Across the compound, light flickered from the hearth fires, drawing her, beckoning her.
    She glanced back at Melah’s tent. The wind’s breath on her neck made her shiver again, the darkness deepening as the moon quickly rose. She glanced up. Had the goddess heard her? Would she