I obeyed, when the Lord spoke.
You are high above all others, He had once told me, in his slithering voice, not because of your looks, or your skill as a merchant, or even your goodness. But because you submit, Abram. You obey me without question, and that will be enough to raise you to the father of nations.
Father. Sarah (Sarai, still, then) and I had spent decades childless, and no amulet or herb or sacrifice was enough to spawn them— until when my bones ached and cataracts clouded my eyes, when the Lord gave me two. Had promised me thousands upon thousands of descendants, some day; for now, two. But what the Lord giveth, he taketh away. It was always tests, with him— how far was I willing to go for the glorious rewards he promised me? How faithful could I be? How much would I debase myself to prove my loyalty? Bring your favorite son, your only one, whom you love, yea, Isaac, he commanded. Bring him to Moriah and kill him. I created him, and now I want him returned. Will you do that for me, Abraham?
And I obeyed, when the Lord spoke. But as I watched Isaac buckle under the wood for the altar, fumble for it with his coltish awkwardness, I remembered (privately, if anything was private from Him) that I had once had another son, a son who could have yoked the earth and found it malleable, who had born burdens meant for men twice his age without flinching. Yet Ishmael had been cast aside for Isaac to inherit, as the Lord demanded— Isaac was the blessed one, the chosen one, and Sarah had raged at the thought of some Egyptian concubine's bastard sneering down at him. It was righteous that Ishmael and Hagar vanish into the desert, no matter how much grief felled me, I told myself many, many times. Of course the Lord preferred Isaac, his greatest gift; wanted me to keep him precious, keep him holy. Of course the Lord knew me, my desires, better than I knew myself.
He did not speak much, the entire dusty journey, except to ask where the lamb for our sacrifice was without the slightest trace of suspicion. Isaac was a stupid boy, I thought with a shred of guilt, but not nearly enough. Old age had shrouded my memories of Ishmael, leaving nothing more than brief flashes of callused palms and a set jaw, but Ishmael was cleverer at thirteen; he never would have swallowed a dismissive reply about God providing his own lamb whole. If Ishmael were with me, he would have demanded to know the answer to the paradox, or noticed the grim way I refused to look at him and smashed my head open with a rock before I could reach out and—
(Perhaps that was why the Lord did not select him. Perhaps that was how Isaac and I were most alike: in being lambs.)
He still did not speak, as I assembled the makeshift altar. He was fragile, delicate, almost womanly; his wrists trembled under the weight of the world like he belonged above it; I fought to stifle a laugh at the beads of sweat pooled on his forehead. Always, he twitched nervously whenever he stood near me, as though he suspected somewhere deep down how this would end between us. Will you forgive me, I came close to asking him, my son? I did not want to kill him. I did not love him, because he was like staring into the bottom of a well and finding my own face, but he was still part of me; I did not want to kill him.
Ishmael had resembled his mother more with each passing day, I remembered with a pang; hardworking, slow to smile, painfully sharp-tongued. Isaac was nothing like his, the woman who followed me eons into the desert without flinching and raked her nails across Hagar's face for spawning Ishmael first, the woman who laughed in the face of God when He said she would bear any child at all. Sarah had iron built into her spine and fire spewing from her lungs; Isaac asked no questions as I bound him supine to the altar, while bile rose hot and acidic in the back of my throat, the rope slipping through my sweating hands. I did not want to kill him, and especially not when he blinked at me with eyes as wide and trusting as a calf's. Whatever strange game Father was playing, he assumed I would not make it sting.
How dare you, Sarah spat at me, her ancient back straightening in her fury; her form shimmered before my eyes like a mirage, somehow more potent than any of my visions of the Lord. Is being a stupid boy punishable by death, now? I would tie myself to an altar and plunge a dagger through my own heart before I allowed my son to suffer a scratch— even an animal protects its young. What kind of god would make you lower than a camel or a vulture? What kind of man are you, Abraham, that you did not even begin to protest? Isaac was her favorite, after all. She had cast out Hagar for daring to slight her boy with Ishmael's presence. She would have burned down the entire world to spare him— but my visions had to be greater, less sentimental. I knew my duty, as uncomplicated as chopping down wood. I must become like God.
(Once, I had wanted Ishmael to inherit; a father always loves his eldest son best, holy or not. It was the only thing I could remember wanting, by myself, in a very long time. Maybe if the Lord had asked for Ishmael gutted, I would have begged on my knees for Him to take me instead, too.)
I raised the knife, blinded by the way the sun gleamed off the blade, because I obeyed when the Lord spoke; it was what made me high above all others. Worthy of fathering nations for a thousand years.