6

Palm trees lined the brick streets in the main section of Harran, leading a parade of people toward the city’s temples. Carts carrying the image of Nannar-Sin, pulled by fattened oxen, were decorated with elaborate designs, while priests in grotesque face masks and wild costumes walked behind. Painted women in colorful garments danced, skirts swirling around the costumed priests, while guards flanked them before and behind, all leading the crowd toward the imposing ziggurat temple of Sin.

Melah stood on tiptoe, straining to see above the heads of other men and women, her heart beating with the pace of the drum. Terah, Lot’s grandfather, stood at her side, clutching her arm in a grip far stronger than he’d exhibited in previous weeks.

“We should have found a roof to stand on to look down upon the parade.” Terah’s voice rasped like dried parchment. He cleared his throat. “We won’t be able to see the king with the priestess from here.”

“Abram would be glad we can see so little.” Melah glanced at Terah, but his look told her he did not care whether his son was troubled by his choice to be here. Even Lot had acquiesced, allowing her to come once Terah insisted he would accompany her.

“Abram is too concerned with pleasing only his unseen God, my daughter.” He patted her arm, motioning for her to follow him behind the crowds to the street beyond. “He does not realize the significance of the New Year’s Feast. How will the gods shine upon the city or bless the ground with fertility if we do not please them? The grieving and contrition are important, to be sure, but the feasting and rejoicing matter too. What is one without the other?”

They maneuvered around donkeys tied to parked carts, and Melah lifted her robes to avoid a pile of dung in the dirt path. Terah’s walking stick struck the uneven ground, and his breathing grew labored. He paused to catch his breath.

“Perhaps we should go back, Sabba. We do not need a better view.” If Terah fell ill while in her care, Sarai would never forgive her. Not that she cared what Sarai thought. Sarai agreed with Lot, and Lot could learn a thing or two from his grandfather. What harm was there in watching a celebration?

“I’m fine.” Terah stopped to take a few deep breaths, then continued on. They turned at the next street to the sound of trumpets and marching feet.

“The king is heading to the temple, Sabba. We must hurry!” Melah helped him climb the rest of the steps, then begged and pushed and prodded until a young woman finally took pity on Terah and allowed them a place to squeeze in beside her near the parapet. The ziggurat stood directly across from them, the steps clearly visible. Melah stood mesmerized, her heart beating faster as she watched the handsome king climb the steps to the temple doors, where the beautiful priestess stood waiting for him.

Music continued as the king declared his love for the priestess, then she spoke of her love for him in return. The words were poetic, their meaning erotic, as the flute and harp accompanied the spoken song. The crowds hushed, taking in the passion of their declaration, until at last the king pulled the priestess into his arms and kissed her. The crowd cheered as the king lifted the priestess and carried her into the temple, and the great double doors swung shut behind them.

Melah sighed, drawn to the romance of such symbolic love, her heart yearning for more. Lot had treated her that way once. Back before they had wed, when he glimpsed her at Ur’s New Year’s Festival dancing in the streets with the other virgin daughters of the city. He had thought her a priestess at first, but when he realized she was free to marry, he had charmed her to the bank of the river, where the moon god’s glow bathed the waters in ethereal light. He tempted and wooed her there, night after night, coaxing her from her father’s house until at last she had succumbed to his desire. If only marriage had not changed him.

She looked back at the closed doors of the ziggurat, imagining the passion that was now missing from her own marriage, then shrugged the depressing thoughts aside. The parade continued with singing and dancing in the streets. A banquet would follow, and they should head to the palace grounds if they wanted a good seat.

She turned to face Terah. “Are you ready to head to the banquet, Sabba?”

Terah leaned against the parapet, but his face had gone gray, and a look of fear filled his expression. He slumped forward, his chest catching on the bricks, which stopped him from tumbling over the roof to the street below.

“Sabba!” She dove toward him, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him back, but the action made him lose his grip, and he crumpled to the ground. She looked around, frantic. “Someone help me!”

But the crowd on the roof had already headed down the stairs to join the celebration in the streets, and the sound of the drumbeat and the loud singing and chanting of the crowd smothered her insistent cries. Terah lay ashen and still. She leaned over him, listening for his breath, watching for the rise and fall of his chest, but he remained in his crumpled position, unmoving. She slipped her arms beneath him, grunting and groaning as she dragged him to the back of the roof near the stairs. She could not carry him home. She must get help.

Her pulse keeping time with her racing thoughts, Melah hurried down the steps and ran through the streets, silently thanking Nannar for the empty back alleys as she hurried home to find Lot and Abram.

Sarai sat limp and cold, unable to get warm despite the summer heat. Abram paced the length of the sitting room, his brows drawn low, his scowl hiding the worry she knew he felt. The door to their father’s bedchamber opened, and a wiry, shriveled man emerged, the only physician not feasting and celebrating with the rest of the city.

“How is he?” Abram stood a head taller than the physician and looked twice as fierce. Sarai placed a hand on his arm in comfort.

“Very frail,” the man said, craning his neck to meet Abram’s gaze. “In truth, my lord, he hasn’t much time. By all the gods, it is surprising he still lives at all. How old did you say he is?”

“A hundred twice and five years.”

“Ah, that explains many things. By the look of him, I would have thought him a younger man.”

“We are blessed to carry age well.” Abram appeared to at last notice Sarai’s hand on his arm and reached to tuck it closer, bringing her alongside him. “There is no hope for him then?”

The man shook his head. “His breathing—very shallow. And his life pulse beats so slow I can count to three before I feel the next.” He adjusted the pouch holding his instruments and straightened his bent back, though it seemed to make little difference. “I will come again tomorrow, but you will be calling the mourners before I get here if my guess is right.” He moved past them before Abram said a word in response.

Sarai looked at her husband, the shock she felt keenly evident in his dark eyes. “He seemed well this morning,” she whispered, again wondering what had happened during the parade to bring such a thing upon him. Only Melah could tell them, and she, for once, wasn’t talking.

Abram nodded. “We should go to him.” He spoke to the room more than to her, and when he moved forward, he did not let go of her arm but coaxed her to follow.

They entered the room, where dark stuffiness greeted them. “Is that man trying to make things better or worse?” She quickly crossed to the window and threw open the dark shutters to let in the afternoon light. Her father would be in the depths of Sheol soon enough; he didn’t need the darkness to take him there.

When she turned back from her task, she found Abram kneeling at their father’s side, his large hand encasing Terah’s equally large but thinner, veined one. “Father, can you hear me?”

She crept close, kneeling beside Abram, searching their father’s weathered face for some sign of movement. Not even his eyes fluttered, and when she looked at the thin sheet covering his chest, she saw no movement. Was he already gone? A lump settled in her throat, and she swallowed hard against the threat of tears. Not yet. Oh, please, not yet.

As if he could read her thoughts, Terah’s lips moved. Sarai leaned close until her ear nearly touched his mouth. His chest barely lifted, his breath too shallow against her cheek.

“Promise.” His voice faded, and Sarai struggled to understand his meaning.

“Father, you must save your strength—”

“Keep.”

She lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were open now, his gaze firm, taking her in. But in a heartbeat they closed again, the moment of intensity gone.

Abram’s hand moved to touch Terah’s throat, searching for the life pulse. He waited, bending low to listen for a breath. At last he leaned back and shook his head.

Sarai stared at Terah’s face, waiting, watching to see if Abram’s assessment proved true. What had he meant? That she must keep her promise to Abram, the promise she had made to Terah when he agreed to the marriage? Or to trust El Echad’s promise to bring about what she could not? She stood, meeting Abram’s gaze, certain he had not heard their father’s final words.

“He never gave you the blessing.” She wished Terah’s thoughts had been directed to his son rather than to her failures.

“Adonai has already blessed me, dear one. Father could have added nothing to such promises as His.” He rested a hand on her back.

She gave him a brief look, unconvinced. Turning once more to her father, she touched his face with her palm but did not linger. Life had gone out of him, and the feel of his skin made her shiver.

Never again would she listen to him give Abram sage advice or look on him with pride, bolstered by his endearing smile. Never again would she look into his eyes, hear his laughter, or touch his dear face.

She could not swallow past the lump in her throat.

How much she would miss him!

She felt Abram’s arms drawing her close, turning her into his comforting embrace. She slumped into him, weeping.