Dark Sons by Nikki Grimes PROLOGUE Ishmael He calls himself my father. So why is he sending me away? This is the question I'm tired of asking. Better to accept what I know: between my mother and me, we have a bow, a loaf of bread, a waterskin, and the clothes on our backs. No donkey laden with bags of grain. No tent to pitch against the rain, or sun, or swirling dust. Just lonely desert ahead, a carpet of sharp rock, a smattering of trees, miles of dry weed and briar, without a settlement in sight. We can expect a company of wild goats or sheep, the few sturdy inhabitants of this terrain. Fresh well water is bound to be the stuff of dreams. My head hurts from imagining the worst. I ignore the tears in my eyes, pretend my father, a few feet away, is already dead, and take my mother's hand. "All will be well," I tell her, sounding as manly as I can muster at seventeen, knowing full well that our survival will strictly be a matter of miracle. SAM The moving van pulls away from the curb, cutting off my air supply. My anger a stammer, I stare through the window at the guy loading his car for the move from Brooklyn to Manhattan. He's supposed to be my dad. I'm glad he's not waiting for me to smile and wish him luck. Like I give a flying -- What is he thinking, leaving Mom in the first place? Why does he have to run off? To start some new family? With her? Like we aren't good enough, like I'm not all the son he'll ever need. And what about tomorrow? Child support won't put a dent in the rent, and Moms hasn't worked a job in years. I don't want to bring on her tears, so I keep quiet, and when she comes up to me and slips an arm around my waist, I say, "Yo, Mom. Not to worry. We'll be okay. It's all good." Sure, I know better. This city's just waiting to eat us up alive. BOOK ONE Foreign Country My mother and I face the foreign country of the desert, valley of heat and sandstorm, and the false hope of juniper and olive tree -- just enough green to tease the eye. Behind me, the grassy court of sheep, cattle, and goats. Before me, the cry of jackals, the kingdom of Thief and his brother, Wolf. Vultures lick their beaks while eagles draw my eye to the bowl of sky, and the horizon. Beersheba's wild goats, wild sheep, and boar remind me that even her wilderness is kinder than the Negev beyond. All sandstone sculpture, a dance of naked mountains with occasional crags where wise Bedouins hide, the Negev boasts the bones of luckless travelers whose waterskins ran dry. Will Mother and I even reach this desert's doorway? My thoughts thrash about for comfort, and it is this I hit upon: the life of the nomad is in my blood. My father left his father's house long before I was born. For years on end, his family, servants, and cattle have wandered from Haran to Shechem, from Moreh to Egypt, from Ai to Bethel, and beyond, with settlements in between. Lo! My people are experts at striking camp, constantly in search of new grazing land, of fresh pasture, moving ever deeper into the Promised Land. I wonder, Father, did your stomach churn like mine the first time you stepped from the safe shadow of your city's gate? Of course, our situations are different. When Jehovah called you out of Ur to conquer Canaan, you had a choice. Or did you? Beginnings How did I get here at the edge of the desert, at the edge of tomorrows as pale as the sand? Oh, yes! I was born. That's how it all began. Hammurabi's Code of Laws #146 If a man take a wife and she give this man a maid-servant as wife and she bear him children, and then this maid assume equality with the wife: because she has borne him children her master shall not sell her for money, but he may keep her as a slave, reckoning her among the maid-servants. Surrogate My father was eighty-five, rugged still, but his hair was dipped in silver and so was Sarah's. She could have played the part of grandmother, but her long, lonely years without a child made that a cruel joke. Worse yet, she was pregnant with the promise of God to make her husband ancestor of more children than there are stars. A sweet promise, but slow. Ten years and counting, her belly remained empty as an ancient well. So she told my father, "Have a baby with my servant, Hagar. Make her Second Wife." The law made provision for such things. The child Hagar had would be as good as Sarah's. They all agreed. It seemed an acceptable solution, at the time. Show-Off One night. As soon as that, and I was on my way into the world, a feat that seemed like magic to Sarah, who'd tried the trick for years and got nothing but tears for her trouble. Then comes my mother, a dark beauty, a young Egyptian, strutting with the pride of the pharaohs in her veins, saying, "Look at me! I am already with child." I am told the smack that nearly cracked my mother's jaw could be heard for miles. Egypt Bound Her clothing quickly bundled in a sack, face still stinging, my mother ran. Never mind the murdering sun, the moonless dark, the distance, the danger of strange animals and robbers. The way she tells it, she ran toward Shur, stumbling into the wilderness, feet split by thorn and jagged rock, falling, parched and breathless near a spring, encountering Adonai -- Adonai! My father's Lord and Master, the God she barely knew, who spoke to her, unlike the several gods of Egypt. "Hagar," he said, "Return to your mistress and I will bless your son." He told her she would grandmother more children than she could count. She believed him, and why not? God never lies. So she rolled his promises around in her mind like rubies, slipped them in the pocket of her memory, and hurried home. The Naming "The angel of the Lord gave me your name that night," Mother said, "warned me you'd be more thorn than rose, that someday you'd be at odds with all your kin. I knew then I'd drown in tears of grief over you."  I stuck my tongue out when she said it and rolled over on my sleeping mat. "He knew you, son," she said, "before you ever were." I pulled those last warm words up over me, snuggled up for the night and went to sleep. Half and Half Half Chaldean. Half Egyptian. Half slave. Half free. Half loved. Half hated. Half blessed. All me. Sarah I was only two or three when I toddled up to her, in love with all the world and wholly oblivious to rocks in my path. I fell face-first and let fall tears of embarrassment by the time she rescued me from the dirt. "Sweet one, come here," she said, her smile like sunshine. She set me on her knee and bounced me there, humming a rhythm that wiped away my tears. Then my mother appeared. Sarah choked on song, scowled, set me roughly on the ground, and left me there wondering why. Possession Sarah owns my mother and me, a truth I'd run away from if I could. Sometimes I think if the camp were under attack, or our tent ablaze, we are the possessions Sarah would choose to lose. Three Tents Three tents: His, hers, ours, goatskin fortresses separated by severed promises, cultural circumstance, and yards of useless pride. Even so, we are joined together by one invisible thread: Blood red. Mistake I could hate her and some days, I do, this other mother who planned my birth, then wished me away. It troubles me to know I was her idea. Is it my fault my birth mother got pregnant in a day, then paraded her swollen belly past Sarah, morning, noon, and night? Sarah shares the blame: it was she who burned for a baby, she who wrote my mother into this story, she who gave father permission to bring me into this world. And now that I am here, it is Sarah who lashes me with every stare, purses her lips when I pass, and spits out her secret name for me: Regret. God of My Father Lord Jehovah, this evening Mother's eyes followed Father as he strolled alongside Sarah. I watched Mother rock, holding herself in the absence of other arms. God of my father, Most Merciful, look down on my mother. Burn her loneliness to ash and scatter it with the wind of your breath. Abraham I joined the servants herding sheep today, my face half hidden by my shepherd's hood. I blended quietly into their brotherhood and heard them laugh behind my father's back. "He calls himself Abraham now," they said, snickering. "'Father of a multitude.' Hah! A multitude of one!" How dare they make fun of him! Of us! I wadded up all my anger and spat. What do they know? I heard the words God spoke to my mother, the words she handed down like family treasure: "I will so greatly multiply your offspring that they cannot be counted for multitude," God said. I fed on every syllable with Mother's milk. God's words are what I'm made of. Do I believe? We'll see who has the last laugh. Meeting Place One morning, in Father's ninety-ninth year, I followed him to a favorite place of prayer, beneath an olive tree. There, he lifted his arms, pale against dawn's purple curtain, and cried out his petition. Then he let God have His say. I confess, I heard only a rush of wind. Still, I sensed a presence heavier than air. Jehovah hovered there. I trembled until the moment passed, then watched Father stacking stones -- rocks of remembrance to mark yet another site where God answered Father out loud. The Covenant Father summoned every male in camp, slave and free, gathered us around the fire, face flush from his latest visit with God. He explained the Covenant, and I took from it what I could. It was all about promises. God's promise to be present, His promise to make of us kings and nations, to grow our family till our numbers beat the stars. Promises to give us Canaan. Promises to be our God forever. And it was all about signs, the signs in our flesh, one generation following another, signs that would say "We are God's," signs that would say "We believe." The Mark I. This God of ours always wants something new: Leave your home, change your life. Build this altar, possess that land. Give me burnt offerings. Wait on me. Believe. Believe. Believe. This time, it's our foreskin, a bit of man-flesh. I'm all for showing loyalty to God, and I am man enough to shed tears and shed blood for the cause. Only, tell me, why is pain required? II. Last night, I saw no sleep. My waking dreams were filled with heat, and blood, and screams, familiar as the sound of my own voice. I rise and shovel my fear into the fire. Eyes half closed, I creep toward the tent where hot blades wait. My hands travel south of their own accord. I shield my jewels one final time, then duck inside the tent and disappear. III. We are truly joined, my father and I. This mark of God connects us for all eternity. Nothing now can separate my father from me. Acceptance Mother says Sarah's given up the dream of her body's own son. She's decided I'm the one who bears the promise of future princes through Father's line. "Mark my words," says Mother, "Sarah is ready to make her peace with you now." Temporary Love Sarah's invitation came as a surprise. "Dine with us, Ishmael," she said. "I don't see enough of you these days." And so, I dared accept. I stepped into Father's tent, half again as big as ours, its goatskin walls busy with shadows born in the glow of oil lamps. At the center of the tent a low table was spread with baskets of flatbread, a bowl of dates, bunches of grapes, carrots, cucumber, and dill, and too many dishes to number. A dizzying mix of cumin, onion, garlic, and pepper rose from a circle of tempting sauces to dip our bread into. Then, there was that special treat: roasted calf's meat. More festive than the vegetable stews I'm used to. The meal made me ponder whether I was cause for celebration. I sat cross-legged and tentative, wondering at the strangely friendly woman seated across from me. "I baked fig cakes for you," she said. "Hagar tells me they're your favorite." The dishes before me were a fragrant offering my father's smile encouraged me to receive. So I lifted a fig cake to my lips and settled in for an evening's pleasure. Travelers The midday heat boils me as if this goatskin tent were a cooking pot. Desperate for a blessed breeze, I stand at the entrance. And there, beneath a stand of trees is where I find them: three strangers, faces bright as sunshine, traveling toward the cities of the Plain. Father runs to greet them as if they're expected. Distant cousins, perhaps? On their way to visit Lot and other cousins I have yet to meet? Of the few blood relations we have scattered abroad, I've never seen Father bow to any as he's bowing now. Who are these men my father deigns to honor? I strain, but cannot hear what words pass between them. Suddenly, hunger blots out my curiosity and I duck back inside my tent in search of bread. Later, as darkness gathers, I find Father dining with the travelers, his ear attentive to proclamations I cannot hear. Something in me shudders, hoping time will explain the mystery of these three, of the hushed conversation, of the laughter pealing from Sarah's tent. Renewed Promise Angels my father called them, the three men whose visit marked the moment Sarah took her love for me and rolled it like a threadbare carpet ready for the heap. No angels of mine, those three! "God keeps his promises," they told my father. Soon, Sarah's shriveled body would bear a son. Sarah laughed, but my mother cursed, worried that the joke would be on me. Smoke The faint smell of smoke wafts into my tent at dawn. The cooking fires have long been doused, so I rise to investigate. My nose leads me beyond the familiar oaks, where I meet Father trudging back to camp, upwind of Sodom and Gomorrah. Even in morning's dim light, his is clearly not the face of one who's just been promised a second son. He clamps a heavy hand upon my shoulder, wet and weary eyes staring into mine, and intones: "The cities of the Plain have been destroyed. They and all within them have been eaten by the angry fires of the Lord." The hard slap of Father's words brings tears to my eyes, where the names of kith and kin swim to the surface. "But what of Cousin -- " "Lot has been spared. He and his family." I let out a sigh. "All, save his wife." Again, I feel a catch in my throat, but Father waves away further questions. For now. "Come," he says. "We will strike camp and move on." Puzzle I. Some day, I will puzzle out the tie between those angels and these tidings: One promised son, and two lost cities. For now, I lay my questions on the mat beside me. II. Sleep is no friend of mine this night. I close my eyes and sink into a quicksand of gruesome thoughts: the rage of flame, the stink of singed flesh, the smoke-smothered screams of a boy. I shake myself awake, trembling before my God, whose judgments can be irrevocable. III. And what are his judgments concerning me? Is Mother right? Is a second son someone to be feared? After Sodom and Gomorrah, this much is clear: for good or ill, Jehovah keeps his word. IV. A second son will come. Does that bode good or ill for me? We will see. Nomad We wave good-bye to the ancient oaks of Mamre and head for Gerar, away from the smoldering ashes of Sodom and Gomorrah. We are a roving city of hooves and feet -- sheep, cattle, donkeys, camels, and sorry souls already anxious to pitch tent again. Where is Father leading us? How deep into the Promised Land must we travel? I stick to what I know: I load the donkeys with waterskins and cooking pots. Strap tents and sleeping mats in place. I grab a donkey's reins and fall in with the caravan. Misadventure I never asked where Sarah was our first weeks in Gerar. Her absence was something I could get used to. But you, Father! The part you played in this! Why? I wish I could forget your lie, but it is whispered through the camp and everybody knows it now: how, for fear of your life, you watched the king of Gerar carry Sarah off to his harem, having told him she was your sister. Even I know Sarah deserves better. Why did you let her suffer the worry of landing in another's bed, forced into adultery? Had God not troubled King Abimelech in a dream, Sarah would still be there. You say you care, but what kind of man risks his wife to spare his own life? Where was your faith then, coward? Such words will never pass my lips, of course, nor will I press you for an answer. . . . But the question itself cuts me more than you know. The Light of Day The rising sun brings me no warmth, only a cold reminder of the ugly secret I learned yesterday. I dress quickly, rejecting the smile I usually wear for my father. "What is wrong, son?" Mother asks repeatedly until I surrender. I spew the disappointing tale, note Mother's lack of surprise, and cringe, sensing there must be even more to know. But do I want to? The Gift I. It happened long before I was born, Mother told me, a little before she was taken from her home. Famine drove Father into Egypt, a young Sarah at this side. She was beautiful then, and Father feared the Egyptians would lust for her, and kill her husband to free her for themselves. His fear swelled until he beat it down like clay and molded it into a conspiracy. "Pretend to be my sister," he instructed Sarah. "The Egyptians will deal kindly with me to earn your favor." And Sarah did so. "How could such a story have a twin?" I interrupted. "And if it did, how could you know?" Mother tenderly touched my cheek. "Patience, my son," she said. "Patience." II. As Father predicted, the Egyptians' eyes glowed at the sight of Sarah. They praised her beauty till Pharaoh himself heard of it and took her to his house to be his bride. He lost his heart to Sarah, if not his head. Straightaway, plagues poured down upon his palace, and in the midst of them, he learned the truth. He called for my father. "What have you done to me?" he asked. "Here is your wife. Begone!" A trembling Sarah packed her things and left his presence, this Pharaoh who had loved her. Shrouded in sadness, he offered her a living token of his heart-his daughter. "I was that gift he parted with, my son. That is how I came to be in this place with your father." III. What a twisted story, I thought. Born of such a history, I can expect my life to be anything but easy. Eventually How fortunate for me to be called Son instead of Wife. Among our people, no bond is holier than father-son. For all his appalling lies concerning Sarah, I need fear no such subterfuge from my father. What man would risk losing a son? And so I toss these stories into the dark tent of my mind with other things I don't care to remember. The Law Simple as sunrise, The law spells out my place: I am the oldest son, firstborn of Abraham. Yet, not the promised one, as Sarah now reminds me countless times a day, oft repeating the phrase "When he who is promised comes . . ." Fight Mother slipped into the tent tonight, head bowed low enough for me to wonder why. She tried to hide her face, the palm print a crimson scar across her cheek. The latest sting from Sarah. Why does Mother accept it? Why doesn't Father take her side? Instead, he looks away and wraps his sorrow in silence. Hammurabi's Code be damned! Sarah has no right to keep punishing Mother for giving Father his first son. Tomorrow, I will tell her so. Pharaoh's Daughter One day, we will meet, Grandfather, and I will ask why you gave my mother away. Was your love for Sarah so great? Was Mother simply something for her to remember you by? Mother could have been an African princess, with servants of her own. She could have been first wife instead of second. "It will be better for her to be a servant in your home," you told Sarah, "than a queen in some other." Why? Because Father's God confounded the priests of Egypt? Because He cast down plagues your gods knew nothing of? Was it Mother's divine protection you were after? Her royal robes the price of the trade? Tell me, Grandfather, is hers the "blessed life" born of your imagination? Friends They were close once, my mother says. She and Sarah. Like sisters. I can't see it. No tent is large enough for them to share. The very air between them turns rancid unless they're kept apart. If they ever loved, there's been a change of heart. Sacrifice Yesterday, we rode our donkeys far into the desert, and pitched our goatskin tents under the map of stars. Long into the night, my father regaled me with the old stories of Father Adam and Mother Eve, of Noah and the flood. The ark rocked me off to sleep. Come morning, we built an altar of stone. I gathered timber while father prepared a goat to sacrifice for our sins. And his. That Jehovah still received sacrifices from Father's hand proved a forgiveness I might need someday. With one mercifully swift jab of blade, the young goat was ready to go to God. We lit the fire and prayed. The Game We are both men now, my father and I, hunched over a gaming board, silhouetted by a sunset deep as pomegranate. I map out my strategy. For once, I would like to beat Father, and badly. My eyes study the board, then move up to the mirror of Father's face. Our brows are deeply furrowed, our jaws set. Father tugs his beard and I tug my smooth chin, wondering when my reluctant hairs will finally appear. But never mind. Now is the time to focus. I throw the dice, grin at the six, and count out as many pebbles. I drop one in the first cup and grind my teeth. This is war. Stroll The cold of the desert night bites nose and face. Yet Father leaves the comfort of his tent for our evening walk. "Good evening, Father of Princes," he says. It's his private name for me. I smile each time he says it, and every time he says it, he bows. My laughter only bends him lower still. "Stand up, old man," I say, "before you hurt yourself." He straightens up, stronger than any man I know. "As you wish, sire," he says. I shake my head, happy that Sarah is too far away to hear. Father of Princes is a name she would rather save for her promised son. It troubles her that God has chosen to bless me as well. Are there not blessings enough to go around? "What causes your frown, my son?" asks Father. I shake off the question and turn my eyes to the sky. "Teach me more about astronomy, Father. No one knows the stars better than the men of Chaldea." And before the night is done, he proves it. On the Way Shriveled as she seems, my second mother is with child -- proof of miracles! As her belly rises my mother's spirits fall. Even I begin to worry. Will Mother suffer more at Sarah's hand? Will my inheritance be lost? But I stamp my feet, and leave my worry in the dust. My father loves me and he will not neglect his firstborn. The Ride Home Father counts down the days until my brother's arrival. But I have loved these years of him and me, alone on long walks, trailing our cattle as they graze, or out here in the desert worshiping our God, our comfortable silences neatly divided by two. It will be years yet before this new son joins our company, and even then, he cannot steal my father's love from me. Meeting Isaac One morning, I duck inside my father's tent, my body taut as a slingshot, waiting for my heart to let fly. Finally, Father lays him in my arms, a warm, wriggling surprise with eyes bright as shiny shekels, eyes that plunge into me, piercing skin, delving in between rib cage, fingering my heart. My lips part. I try the word: "Brother," then join Isaac in one unbelievable sigh. Child of Promise Long awaited. Twice promised. Heir of Canaan. Born of Sarah. Son of miracles. The one intended. The son who is not me.