He had heard some of the men say that this time they might go as far as the bank of the Tigris, to Asur and from there to Haran.
"I will remember everything you have taught me," Shamas promised.
Ili didn't believe him. He knew that much of what he had tried to teach Shamas had been lost in the clouds; during many of the boy's lessons, he wasn't even listening. Still, Ili patted Shamas on the back and gave him several styluses, some of reed and some of bone. It was a gift for a student he would never forget, for the many bittersweet mornings and afternoons they had spent together.
The sun was rising, and the tribe of Terah was ready to begin the long journey. At a sign from Abram, more than fifty men, women, and children set out on the march, with their belongings and their animals.
Shamas looked for Abram, who was leading the procession with Jadin, Terah, and other elders of the tribe. The boy could not get them to pay him any mind, for they were squabbling among themselves. They had not yet come to an agreement over the route they would take, so Terah, weary, ended the dispute by declaring that they would journey along the bank of the Euphrates, which would lead them near Babylonia. They would pass through Mari and go from there to Haran before they continued on to Canaan.
The boy realized that he should wait a few days before asking Abram to begin the story of Creation. First they would have to become accustomed to the routine of the march, for although almost all of them had made such a journey before, during the first days of a migration problems always arose, whether it be friction between neighbors or adjusting to sleeping on the ground, with only the sky above them.
One evening, while the women were bringing water from the Euphrates and the men were counting the flocks, Shamas saw Abram go off along a path near the river, and he followed him.
Abram walked for some time, and then he sat down on a long, flat rock beside the river. From time to time he would absentmindedly pick up one or two little pebbles on the riverside and toss them into the water.
Shamas realized that Abram was meditating, so he did not make his presence known. He would wait until Abram returned to the camp to speak with him.
But suddenly he heard Abram call out to him.
"Come, Shamas, sit down here with me," the older man told the boy, gesturing to a nearby rock. "You knew I was here?"
"Yes, you followed me from the camp, but I knew you would not speak to me until I had finished thinking." "Were you talking to Him?"
"No, today He has not spoken to me. I have tried, but I have not felt His presence."
"Perhaps because I was here," the boy replied apologetically.
"Perhaps. But perhaps He had nothing to say to me."
Shamas felt better when Abram said that; it seemed natural that God would not talk unless it was important.
"I brought styluses with me. Hi gave them to me, a gift for my departure."
"So you two finally made your peace?"
"I tried to be a better student, but I know I did not meet Ili's expectations. I want to learn—I do, but..."
"Would you rather be with the tribe?"
"Forever?"
"Yes, forever."
"Can I learn everything Ili knows and still go from one place to another?"
"There are other places where you can have lessons. Now that you have left Ili behind, you must think about other things."
"Yes, that is why I followed you. I wanted to ask you to start telling me why and how He made the world."
"I will."
"When?"
"We can start tomorrow." "Why not now?"
"Because it is growing dark and your mother will begin to worry about you. She does not know where you are, does she?"
"No, you're right. But tomorrow when?"
"I will call you. Come, we must not stay away too long."
But Abram and Shamas did not start writing the story of Creation the next day, or the next, or the next. The long marches, the care of the goats and sheep, incidents between their tribe and villagers in the places they set up camp kept Abram from finding the calm moments he needed to explain to Shamas why and how He created the world. But the boy refused to stop asking Abram about that God more powerful than Enlil, Ninurta, and even Marduk, and so during the long march to Haran, Shamas heard Abram say many times that there was no god but God and that the others were but figures made of clay.
"Then Marduk didn't fight against Tiamat?"
"Tiamat, the goddess of chaos," Abram answered with a smile. "Do you think there is a god in charge of chaos, another in charge of water, another of grain, another of sheep, another of goats?"
"That is what Ili taught us. Marduk fought against Tiamat and split her into two pieces. With one of them he made the sky and with the other he made the earth. And from her eyes sprang the Tigris and the Euphrates, and with the blood of the goddess's husband, the god Kingu, Marduk made man. Marduk told Ea: 'I am going to knead up blood and make bones. I am going to create a savage, whose name shall be Man. I am going to create human beings, men, who shall see to the worship of the gods, so that they may be well pleased.' "
"It sounds as though you did learn something Ili tried to teach you."
"Yes, but tell me the truth—does Marduk exist?"
Abram looked upon Shamas and quietly said, "No, he does not exist."
"The only god that exists is your God."
"God alone exists."
"Then everyone is wrong but you?"
"Men try to explain what happens and they look up at the sky, thinking there is a god for each thing. If they looked within their hearts, they would find the answer."
"You know, I try to look into my heart, as you tell me to, but I do not find anything."
"Yes you do—you have found the path by which you will reach God, because you ask about Him and want to find Him."
Shamas timidly met Abram's eyes. "Is it true that you destroyed the workshop where Terah made figures of the gods?"
"I did not destroy it, I just wanted to prove that they were clay, that inside that clay there was nothing. My father made the gods. Is Terah a god, then?"
The boy laughed out loud. No, of course Terah wasn't a god; how silly. Abram's gray-headed old father with his prickly beard looked nothing like a god. He yelled at the boys angrily when they awakened him under the hot afternoon sun, and he milked the goats at dawn. Gods didn't milk goats, Shamas told himself.
As they marched north, the weather changed. The sky turned gray and then rained infinite torrents of water onto Terah's camp. Huddled in their tents, the men talked while the women prepared the day's last meal, and the children tested their elders by pretending to dart outside the tents, into the storm. An old man announced that they were now very near the pasturelands of Haran, and Terah nodded, saying that they would rest awhile when they arrived there, for certain distant family members of the tribe lived there, and he himself had been born in that place.
Shamas was ecstatic. He was eager to settle down again. He didn't like all this moving from place to place. He even missed the house of tablets where Hi had given him his lessons. Except for his conversations with Abram, no one in the tribe seemed particularly interested in talking about anything except the health of the goats and sheep and events along the way.
That night, under the mantle of the rain, while Terah was explaining that the tribe would stay for a time in Haran, Shamas asked his father whether there would be another house of tablets there, where he might continue his studies.
Jadin was surprised at his son's question.
"I thought you disliked school—as if it were a punishment to you." "No, Father. I would much rather study than walk." "That is the way we live, though, Shamas. You must not scorn what we are."
"No, Father, I am not scorning it. I like to sleep where I can lookup at the stars and play until sunrise. I have given all of our sheep and goats names, and I have learned to milk them. But I miss my lessons."
Shamas' father sat quietly, pensive. He knew that h
is son was intelligent and that this journey to the north had clearly changed him— suddenly he longed to learn again. Jadin would speak with Terah and Abram, and together they would decide the boy's destiny.
The tribe made its settlement outside the walls of Haran. With the aid of his sons Abram and Nahor, Terah would once again model gods from clay. But they would shape bricks and make storage jars and other vessels as well, so that they would have a way of earning their livelihood. They would also have their flocks of sheep and goats and several good asses to carry their burdens as they traded.
Jadin asked Terah to find a way for Shamas to start his lessons again, and one afternoon, just at sunset, Abram sought out the boy. He found him playing with some of the other children, though on the boy's face there was a cloud of sadness.
"Shamas!" Abram called out to the boy.
The boy ran over.
"Now that we have arrived, I thought that I might begin telling you the history of the world. We can mold the clay to make the tablets, and with the styluses that Ili gave you, you can document the story of why God made us. Do you know, Shamas, that of all the things your eyes can see around you, the only thing that will remain through time is that which is written down?"
"Has He told you that?"
"I feel it within me. Our children's children will be able to hear and believe the stories of the gods because other men have written them and left them forever on dried clay. Therefore, Shamas, you and I will tell the story."
"You and I?"
"Yes. I will tell it and you will write it. That is what you asked me to do before we left Ur, is it not?"
"Yes! And we will do it," the boy answered eagerly, looking forward to his new responsibility. "When can we start?"
"Have some tablets ready tomorrow at sunset. We will meet in the palm grove near our tent, and I will begin telling you the story of the world."
As Shamas ran toward his tent, a worry came upon him. It had been many months since he had used the stylus on the clay. Had he forgotten how? So he asked his mother and father to let him mold some tablets to practice on. He didn't want to disappoint Abram, but most of all he didn't want to disappoint himself.
When the first tablet was ready, he wrote his name on the top, as Ili had taught him. Shamas. Then he began to write his first words in many months:
/ shall write the story of the world. Abram shall tell it to me. And in that way, men may know why He created them.
Shamas looked at the tablet; he was unhappy with the result. He had lost the ease with the stylus that he had once had, and the symbols were uncertain; they had lost firmness; some of the indentations were twisted in the clay. He decided to keep practicing until his writing was perfect.
Marduk is but a clay figure. The clay gods are only clay. The God of Abram cannot be seen, and that is why He is God. He cannot be shaped in clay, nor can He be broken.
The boy squinted critically at the tablet again. His father looked over his shoulder.
"What are you writing, Shamas?" "I am just practicing, Father."
"Don't worry so much," said Jadin affectionately, overlooking the marks made by his son's unpracticed hand. "Be patient. You will improve."
There is but one God who reigns over the heaven and the earth, and He shares His power with no others, Shamas went on writing, and he continued practicing until the sun sank beneath the horizon and its light became night, so that the boy could do nothing more, and he slept.
In the morning, before the sun was fully risen, Shamas asked his father to make some new tablets so that he could practice again. He wanted Abram to be proud when he read what he had written.
Jadin helped the boy mold several tablets before going out to tend the sheep and goats. He had decided to go to the city that day, to speak to the priests and ask their help in completing the education of his son. Terah had promised to come with him, for Terah was a man well known within the city's walls.
To speak with God, we must seek within our hearts. Abram says that He speaks not with words but instead makes men to feel what He desires them to do. I seek within myself but I am not yet worthy of hearing Him. I believe that among us, God has chosen only Abram.
And so Shamas went on writing the whole day, until the sun began its decline. He then got up and went quickly to the palm grove, where Abram was already waiting for him.
Shamas showed Abram the tablets, and Abram made no sign of either satisfaction or reproach.
"You have done your best, and that is enough, Shamas."
"I will try to do better."
"I know."
The boy sat on the ground, his back against a palm tree and the tablet resting against his legs. Abram began to talk, and his words seemed to emerge out of the growing shadows of the sky.
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: And there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: And God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day. . . .
Abram sat silently as Shamas wrote everything he dictated to him: God's creation of the heavens and earth, the creation of the animals, and the temptation of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The boy had not lifted his eyes from the tablet, and Abram had seen the effort he was making to set every mark, every sign in its horizontal line, the stylus moving right to left, the lines accumulating neatly down the tablet.
Shamas held the tablets out to Abram. Some characters were hard to read, but in general the boy had done an excellent job.
"Most of it is fine, Shamas. Now put these tablets away in a safe place, where your brothers and sisters will not break them and they will not be in your mother's way. Ask your father—he will tell you where to put them. So, what do you think about what I have told you today?"
"I think ..." Shamas hesitated.
"Go ahead; what are you afraid of?"
"I do not wish to make you angry, Abram, but the creation of the world by God is almost exactly like the creation of the world by the very gods of clay we worshipped."
"Yes, but there are differences."
"In what way?"
"For example, in the Enuma Elish that Hi taught you to recite, Marduk creates man by killing the goddess Tiamat and her husband, the god Kingu. But Marduk has also been created. The gods don't create anything; they make man out of what already exists—but who was the First Creator, who created from nothing? God creates because He wishes to, He decides to, and He creates out of nothingness, because He does not need matter from which to continue His creation."
"But what you and Hi have told me are similar."
"Similar, yes. There are those who have had an intuition of the creative principle and have imagined stories of gods to explain it."
"Why have they not learned to hear Him?"
"Because it is not easy to hear Him. We are too concerned with ourselves. God punished us, punished all men—the first men and those who followed and those who will come after us. He condemned us to earn our bread by the sweat of our brow, and to suffer pain and disease, and to wander the face of the earth. And that is why man has little time to seek out God."
"But why did He punish us? And why all of us? I have done nothing wrong, at least nothing very bad."
"You are right, but Adam and Eve—as I've told you, the first two people God created in His own image—sinned, and so mankind was punished."
"That does not seem fair."
"Who are you to judge God, Shamas?"
"But why should I be punished for something I did not do?"
"I will explain more tomorrow. Bring the tablets and the styluses."
The night was falling, so Shamas and Abram walked back to their camp, where the tribe was preparing to rest after the day's labors. Jadin motioned to Abram; he wanted to speak with him
alone.
"My son is not happy."
"No?"
"He misses Ur, even Hi. He wants to learn. I went to the temple with Terah; they will allow him to go there to study, but I fear he will dispense your teachings to others and that that will make difficulties for us. Can you tell him not to say that there is but one God? If such talk reaches the ears of the king, we will suffer the consequences."
"Jadin, do you really think the king would punish us?"
"Yes, Abram, I've no doubt of it. And so we must be prudent."
It had been decided that the tribe would settle in Haran for some time before continuing on toward the land of Canaan, so the men began to raise houses of mud and straw in which to live until it was time to depart again. Jadin offered Shamas a small hole dug in the ground to accommodate his tablets.
Each day, Shamas burned with impatience, awaiting the moment he might sit with Abram in the palm grove again.
By now he knew why God had punished mankind. Adam's foolish act had been unpardonable, the boy thought. God had created a paradise for Adam and Eve in which to live, a place with every kind of tree that was good to eat, and in the middle of the garden He had set the Tree of the Knowledge, the only tree that Adam and Eve were forbidden to approach, for if one ate of its fruit, one would die.
"I cannot understand why they ate it," Shamas stubbornly insisted.
"Because God made us free to choose our actions. Tell me, Shamas, do you remember when Ili would forbid you to jump out of the windows at school because you might hurt yourself?"