Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) by Orson Scott Card Page A

not restrain a dry laugh.
     
    “It’s good that your sister can write to you,” said Abram.
     
    “Just because she can mark the syllables doesn’t mean she has anything to say.”
     
    Abram laughed. “What she says, even when she says nothing, is that she cares for you.”
     
    “Oh, Abram, must I be virtuous every moment?”
     
    “Virtue is supposed to be alive in the heart, not put on and off like a burden.”
     
    “Sometimes, my love, virtues conflict.”
     
    Abram raised an eyebrow.
     
    “Do I speak kindly of my sister at all times, or do I speak honestly to my husband?”
     
    “Just see to it that you speak kindly of the husband.”
     
    “So loyalty is better than honesty?”
     
    He roared at her, pounced on her, all in play, but it was a delight to see him light-hearted at such a heavy time. Soon enough the distant red cloak became a dust-covered man on a weary donkey, handing a bag to Abram.
     
    They read sitting in the doorway of the shadier tent—hers, at this time of day. Other men might have tried to conceal that their wives could read, but Abram was proud of Sarai’s learning, and so they set aside the letters from Qira and sat together reading Lot’s letter.
     
    It was bitter news.
     
    Strangers aren’t welcome here. More and more wells are failing, and we’re importing grain from Egypt. Every stranger is regarded as a thief, stealing water. I can’t bring you here, or to any of the five cities of the plain, not till we see whether the spring rains come. Indeed, I was about to write to you, to ask if we could take refuge with you until this drought ends. I see now that we are better off separated. At least my wife consented to leave the city. Thirst for water is apparently stronger than dread of boredom.
     
    “He doesn’t understand Qira,” said Sarai. “It isn’t boredom she fears, it’s loneliness. She needs faces around her, lots of them, and the sound of many voices.”
     
    “I’ve seen a tree full of monkeys that would do very nicely for her,” said Abram. “I’m glad I got the sister who doesn’t need chattering.”
     
    “Oh? And what do I need?” asked Sarai.
     
    “You are the lioness standing alone over the kill, waiting for her mate to come and dine before her, driving off the jackals and the vultures.”
     
    Sarai was not at all sure how she felt about this image of her, but she’d think about it later. “We aren’t going to Sodom,” said Sarai. “And we can’t stay here.”
     
    “I wondered about building a boat,” said Abram. “It worked for my ancestor Noah, when he had too much water. Why not try it again when there’s too little? Get out on the sea and float before the wind until we find a land that no one else has known.”
     
    “And do what?”
     
    “Create a great nation,” said Abram.
     
    “To do that,” said Sarai, “you would need children.”
     
    There. It was said.
     
    But he didn’t notice or didn’t care how fearfully she had said it. “We’ll have children,” Abram answered simply.
     
    She accepted his reassurance without argument. Until he understood what it meant to her, there was no use trying to prolong the discussion. “Do you want to read Qira’s letter with me?”
     
    “Will you forgive me if I don’t?” asked Abram. “Unless I decide I’m serious about boatbuilding, I must find some more practical solution.”
     
    He got up and crossed the way to his own tent. To pray, Sarai knew, and between prayers to read the books that were unreadable, the ones he seemed to spend his life copying over, so that not one word would be lost. Unreadable words, for they were in a different script from the wedges of the Akkadian or the painted figures of the Egyptian language. He tried to explain it to her, that this language was written with only a few marks—one mark for the sound “buh,” no matter whether it was “bee” or “bah” or “boo” or “bay.” It made no sense to Sarai—how could you tell