The Bible of Clay Page 4

  Abram smiled. Shamas was right: The master was too rigid. But Abram dared not feed the boy's rebellious nature by siding with him. Shamas was the most intelligent boy of the tribe, and his mission was to study so that he might become a scribe, or even a priest. The tribe needed wise men to carry out the calculations necessary to build canals through which water might flow to the arid land, men who could bring order to the granaries, control the distribution of the wheat, make loans, men who could preserve the tribe's knowledge of plants and animals, of mathematics, who were able to read the stars. Men whose purpose was greater than simply feeding their broods.

  Shamas' father was a great scribe, a master, and the boy, like many other members of his family, had been favored with intelligence. His must not be wasted, for intelligence was a gift that God gave some men so that they might make life easier for others and so that they might combat those who had become infected with evil.

  "You should go, before they begin to look for you and your mother begins to worry."

  "My mother saw me follow you. She knows nothing will happen if I am with you."

  "But she will be cross with you nonetheless, because she knows you are not taking advantage of your education."

  "But, Uncle, dub-sar Hi makes us invoke Nidaba, the goddess of grains; he insists that it is she who has given us the power to know the signs."

  "You are learning what the dub-sar teaches you, then." "Yes, I know, but do you think it is Nidaba who gives us the power of knowledge?"

  Abram did not reply. He did not want to confuse the boy, although

  he could not keep silent about how he felt, about the path that had led him to the certainty that the gods his people worshipped were not filled with any spirit but were simply vessels of clay

  His father, Terah, modeled the clay himself and provided temples and palaces with those god idols. Gods made by his own hands! Abram still recalled the pain and grief he had caused when years ago Terah found him in his workshop, surrounded by the shards of dried clay that had once been the figures left to dry before being fired and transformed into gods.

  Abram had thrown them to the ground and stamped upon them with his feet, these false idols born of his father's hands before which men stupidly bowed their heads in the conviction that all gifts and all misfortunes descended from them. Abram did not know why he had acted as he had in his father's workshop; he simply could not but follow his instincts.

  Then he had sat down to await the consequences of his act. There was nothing in those figures; if they were gods they would have unleashed their fury upon him—they would have struck him dead. But nothing had happened, and the only wrath that descended upon him was that of his father when he saw the fruit of his labors shattered in a thousand pieces.

  Terah had reproached him for sacrilege, but Abram had responded disdainfully. He knew that there was nothing in those figures but clay, and he urged his father to reflect upon it.

  Then he asked his father's forgiveness for destroying his work, and he cleaned up the remains of the figures. He even kneaded the clay so that his father might make more gods to sell.

  Now, many years later, although all the members of their tribe recognized the authority of Terah, the respect given his son was just as great, and the men of the tribe often came to Abram in search of counsel and advice, many to hear his quiet but assured meditations on the one true God. Terah was not offended by this, for he was an old man now and he slept most of the day. At his death, Abram would become the tribe's leader.

  And that was precisely why Shamas admired him. That and the fact that Abram was in fact a distant relative of Shamas' mother, a person who spoke to the boy as an equal, as one who could reason as a man, curious to know all, unsatisfied with rote learning. And it was that quality that Abram had to remind him of now.

  "What I think, Shamas, is that you must learn what Hi teaches you, for that will enable you to uncover the difference between truth and untruth. The day will come when you alone will separate the wheat from the chaff. But until then, you must not look down upon any knowledge, no matter its source."

  "The other day I spoke to Hi about. . . Him," the boy said, turning his eyes upward, "and Hi became very angry. He told me that I must not offend Ishtar, Isin, Inanna. . . ."

  "And why did you speak to Hi of Him? "

  "Because I never stop thinking about what you tell me. Uncle, I cannot believe there's a spirit inside the figure of Ishtar, which I can see and touch. But because I cannot see the one God, I am all the more certain He exists."

  Abram was surprised by the boy's reasoning; he believed in what he could not see precisely because he could not see it.

  "Does He speak to you?" Shamas asked with a glint of hope in his eyes.

  Abram, cautious not to override Hi's teachings, responded reservedly. "I feel that He does."

  "And does He speak with words, as you and I speak?"

  "No, but I can hear Him as clearly as I hear you." Abram knelt and put his hands on his nephew's shoulders. "But you must refrain from angering your teacher with this."

  "I will keep your secret, then."

  "I'm not asking you to keep a secret, Shamas—I am asking you to be discreet. Go, now, off to school with you—and no more provoking Hi."

  The boy got up from the rock on which he had been sitting and stroked the long neck of a white goat chewing grass with obvious pleasure, indifferent to everything around it.

  Shamas bit his lower Up and then, smiling, made a request of Abram.

  "Uncle, if you tell me how He created us, and why, I will write it down. I will use the bone stylus that my father gave me. I only use it when the dub-sar gives me something important to write down. It would be good practice for me, Uncle—please."

  Abram's eyes gazed long upon Shamas before he replied. The boy was ten years old—was he able to understand the complexity of this God who would be revealed to him? Abram made a decision.

  "I will tell you what you ask of me, and you will write it down upon your tablets and guard them jealously. You will show them only when I say you may. Your father shall know what we are doing, and your mother also, but no one else. I will speak with them. But I will do this only under one condition: that you not miss school again. And you are not to dispute with your teacher—you must listen and learn."

  The boy nodded happily, then turned and ran off to school. Hi would be angry with him for returning late, but he didn't care. Abram was going to tell him the secrets of God, a God who was not fashioned of clay.

  Ili frowned when he saw Shamas run into the house of tablets, sweating and still breathing hard from his exertion.

  "I shall speak to your father," the scribe said to him sternly, then went on with the lesson that Shamas had interrupted. He was teaching the boys mathematics and, more than that, leading them to understand the mysteries of numbers, the abbreviations with which the tens were drawn.

  Shamas' reed moved over the wet clay tablet, documenting everything Ili explained, so that later he might read it to the satisfaction of his father and mother.

  "Father, I'd like some tablets . . . for my own use," Shamas meekly proposed.

  Jadin raised his eyes from the tablet he was holding, astounded by his son's request. He had been noting observations of the sky, as he had done for many years. Of his eight children, Shamas was his favorite but also the child who gave him the most concern, for his curiosity was perhaps too great.

  "Has Ili given you lessons to do at home, then?"

  "No, Father. I am to record Abram's story Has he not spoken with you about this?"

  "He has not—not yet anyway," his father responded with a tinge of curiosity.

  "Abram has found our Creator outside the clay figurines we are taught to worship."

  Shamas' father sighed. He knew it would be useless to forbid Shamas to listen to Abram's stories; his son was devoted to his uncle. Abram was a man of clean heart—and too intelligent to believe that a piece of clay contained a god. Jadin knew be
tter as well, though he never expressed his disbelief. Abram believed in a God who was the beginning and the end of all things, and Shamas' father much preferred that his son know about that God than be bound by idolatry— preferred that his son be a "heretic" than have his curiosity stifled.

  "Have you told Ili what Abram proposes?"

  "I've mentioned his ideas, much to Ili's disapproval. But, no, I haven't told him about Abram's project for me."

  "All right. You may write everything that Abram tells you."

  Shamas ran to embrace his father. "Thank you! I will take good care of the tablets. I will keep them with me always."

  "Don't you want to take them to the house of tablets? Are you certain Hi would not understand?" Jadin asked with a smile. "Hi is intelligent, even though he has little patience as a teacher. You must not forget that, Shamas—you must give Hi your respect."

  "I respect him, Father. But Abram decides to whom God will be spoken about and in what fashion."

  "I see. Then do as Abram has told you, and be mindful of his discretion."

  "Thank you, Father. I'll ask Mother to help me look after the tablets, to be sure that no one touches them but me."

  And the boy skipped gaily out of the house to find his mother. After he spoke to her, he would take clay from the little deposit where his father went to make his own tablets. The next day he would sit down with Abram. His kinsman always went out with the goats before dawn, because, he had explained, it was the best time of day to think.

  The boy was impatient to begin, for he was sure that Abram was about to reveal great secrets to him, secrets he had wondered about as long as he could remember. Some nights he could hardly sleep, wondering where the first man had come from, and the first woman, the first chicken, the first bull, and who had discovered the secret of bread, and how the scribes had awakened the magic of numbers. Yearning for answers, he would turn these questions over and over in his head, until he would fall asleep at last, exhausted and still restless, for even in his dreams he sought knowledge.

  Men were sitting expectantly before the door of Terah's house. Abram had asked Terah, as the tribe's leader, to call the men together. It was, however, Abram who wished to speak to the heads of the houses of the tribe.

  "We must leave Ur," Terah told them. "This is a decision not made in haste. Come, my son Abram will explain." He extended his hand toward his other son. "Come, Nahor, sit beside me while your brother speaks."

  The men's murmurs quieted as Abram, standing before them, looked at each of the men in turn. Then, with a voice touched with emotion, he announced that Terah would lead them to Canaan, because it was a land blessed by God. There they would make their settlements and bear their children, and their children's children. It was, quite simply, God's will. He urged them to begin preparations for a departure, for they would be setting out as soon as everyone was ready.

  Terah responded to the men's questions and calmed their disquiets. But the fever of Abram's monotheistic revelation had caught and spread among the tribe; most would do anything Abram asked of them. Nahor was animated and enthusiastic as well, so that the others would take heart. Leaving the land of Ur would not be easy; their fathers had been born there, and their fathers' fathers. Their flocks had pastured there, and they had labored among those flocks and in the fields for generations. Canaan seemed a far distant place to them, but despite their misgivings, the hope of a new life began to take fire in all of them, for Canaan was said to be a land rich in fruits, in pastures for their flocks, in strong rivers where their thirst might be always quenched. And it was the place where God commanded that they live.

  Some of the men of Terah's tribe were scribes and thus enjoyed the protections of the palace and the temple. There were also fine artisans among them, and abundant flocks. In Ur, however, most struggled against the desert, digging canals to bring the waters of the Euphrates so that their lands might yield grain with which to knead bread. Theirs was not an easy life. Their goats and sheep provided them with milk and meat, but still they spent much of their lives looking up at the sky, hoping that the gods might bring the gift of rain to water the ground and fill the pools and cisterns.

  Now they were to gather all their belongings and their flocks, and set out along the Euphrates toward the north. It would take days to carry out all the preparations and take their leave of other kinspeople and friends. For not everyone would make the journey—the sick and aged, who could hardly walk, would remain under the care of younger members of the family, who someday would be called to the land of Canaan but until then would remain in Ur. Each family was to decide who would undertake the journey and who would remain.

  Jadin called his wife, his sons and their wives, his uncles by blood and their children, who came also with their children. All the members of his family sat down with him at dawn in his home, where they took shelter from the chill of the morning.

  "We will go with Terah to the land of Canaan. Some of you will stay here, in the care of those we leave behind. You, Hosen, will be the leader of the family in my absence."

  Hosen, Jadin's younger brother, nodded in relief. He did not want to leave; he lived in the temple, where it was his task to compose letters and commercial contracts, and he wanted nothing more than to continue exploring the mystery contained in numbers and stars in the land of his father.

  "Our father," Jadin went on, "is too old to leave. His legs barely allow him to stand, and there are days when his eyes stare off and he can speak no word. You, Hosen, will see that he lacks nothing. And of our sisters, Hamisal shall remain with you, for she is a widow without children and will be able to care for our father."

  Shamas listened in fascination to the words of his father. He felt a tickling in his stomach, caused by eagerness and impatience. If he had his way, he would already have set out in search of that land Abram had spoken of. But suddenly he felt a pang of concern—if they were setting out on a journey, would he then not be able to write the history of the world that Abram had promised to recount to him?

  "How long will it take us to arrive at this land of Canaan?" Shamas blurted out mid-thought.

  The boy's question disturbed Jadin, for children were taught not to interrupt their elders. The father's stern gaze made Shamas flush with embarrassment, and he lowered his eyes to the ground and muttered an apology.

  Jadin, however, spoke to the boy, to calm his unease.

  "I know not how long the journey to Canaan will be, nor whether we may have to stop for some time in some other place before we reach it. Who knows what may happen when a tribe undertakes a long journey? Now go, all of you, and make preparations so that you will be ready when Terah calls for our departure."

  Shamas saw the silhouette of Abram's lean figure against the horizon and ran toward him. He had been seeking an opportunity to meet with his kinsman for two days now: This was the moment.

  Abram smiled when he saw the boy, whose face was red with desert heat and exertion. He plunged his shepherd's crook into the ground, while his eyes sought out a tree under which they might take shelter from the sun.

  "Come, rest," he said to Shamas. "We can sit in the shade of that fig tree, beside the well."

  "Uncle, if we are leaving, we will not be able to bake the clay to make tablets. My father will not let me carry with us more than is necessary. You will not be able to reveal your story." He lowered his head.

  "Shamas, do not worry yourself about this. You shall write the story of Creation later. He will simply decide when and how you shall do it."

  The boy could not hide his disappointment. He didn't want to wait—he wanted to write the story now. And despite his intense desire, he had to confess something to Abram.

  "Is Ili coming?"

  "No."

  "I will miss him, Uncle. Sometimes I think he is right to be vexed with me when I do not listen to his explanations, and ..."

  The boy hesitated, unsure whether to continue. Abram gave him no encouragement, asked no questions, but onl
y waited for the boy to decide whether to finish his sentence or not.

  "I am the worst scribe in the school, Uncle; my tablets are filled with errors. Today I made a mistake in a calculation. ... Ili will not abide me. I have promised him that I will do better, that he will have no reason to scold me again, but I want you to know all this, because you may want to draw upon one of the other students to record this history. One who doesn't make so many mistakes with the reed."

  Shamas fell silent, waiting for Abram to speak. The boy bit his lip nervously, ashamed he wasn't a better student. Ili often scolded him for wasting his time asking absurd questions. He had complained to Shamas' father, and Jadin had scolded Shamas—he was disappointed in him. Now Shamas feared that Abram, too, would be disappointed and that he might put an end to his dream of writing the history.

  "You do not try hard enough in school."

  "I know," the boy replied timorously.

  "Yet even so, you think that if I tell you the story of Creation you can write it down without error?"

  "Yes! . . . Or at least I will try. I have thought about it, Uncle, and I think it would be best if you tell it to me little by little, and then I can write it down slowly, at home, carefully, with my bone stylus. Then each day I can show you what I wrote the night before, and if I succeed, you can continue telling me the story."

  Abram looked at him for a long time. It mattered little that the boy's impatience might lead to errors, or that his speculative mind might question Ili, or that his desire for freedom might lead him to pay too little attention to the scribe's explanations. No, the boy had other virtues, the principal one of which was his ability to think. When he asked a question, he expected a logical answer. He was never content with the answers that adults generally gave children.