Covenant
And Abraham called the name of his son that was born unto him, whom Sarah bare to him, Isaac. (Genesis 21:3)
"Isaac!" A sweet, though faint, voice came floating from the house. "Isaac! Your meal is ready!"
Isaac, the boy born to parents far past natural conceiving age, was a great contrast to his aged and bent mother and father. His handsome head bore a nest of thick, dark curls, with eyes to match in colour, and his body was beautifully proportioned, long height balanced by a pair of broad, strong shoulders.
He turned those shoulders now, and called, "Yes, Mother."
He faced the land again, and smiled. His bronze torso gleamed in the afternoon light; he loved the gentle warmth and caress of the sun on his skin, and seldom wore more than loose-fitting pantaloons, which his mother wove and stitched for him.
After memorizing the beautiful landscape before him, Isaac ran to the house, his bare feet pounding against the hard dirt ground; it had not rained for a spell.
"It smells fantastic, Mother," he said breathlessly as he arrived at the front door.
"Shush! You say that every time." Sarah smiled. "Sit now. It will get cold."
Sarah, wife of Abraham and mother to Isaac, was not a young woman. She was at the very least a century old, though she looked younger; her hair had gone snow white and every day she braided it and put it up, as she did in her earlier days.
She was almost always tired, and needed to sit in her chair in the corner for periods of time before she could stand and move about again. But for her son she persisted. For her glorious son, she persisted.
A frown furrowed her brow now; she leaned out against the door, and called again, "Abraham; Abraham, you rascal! If you hurry not, your meal will be eaten up by Isaac!"
A small figure approached in the distance, she saw, a leg on each side of a knobbly ass. She shaded her face with her hand, and smiled, the action creasing the corner of her eyes. "Abraham!"
The old man, husband to Sarah and father to Isaac, waved; Sarah laughed.
As Abraham neared, he descended from his mule, and after securing it with a rope, gave a hug to his wife. She kissed his ear, saying, "The meal."
He smiled. "Aye." He entered the house with his wife, asking, "Good day to you, Isaac; what did you this morning?"
--
That night, after another fine meal courtesy of his wife, Abraham slept in his bed, with Sarah at his side – and he dreamed.
He dreamed he was standing in a field of ripen grain, lit by a round, shining sun. An unseen breeze plucked at his flowing beard and robe, and cooled his heated skin; he tilted his face up to enjoy the glorious day. Then, opening his eyes again, he marvelled at the grain's golden colour, and touched it.
"Abraham."
He withdrew his hand, and stared ahead, where a light was slowly gathering.
"Abraham." The light grew stronger now, and brighter, and faster. "Abraham."
"Here am I," he said, trembling.
"Abraham; there is something to be asked of you."
"What … may that be?"
"It has been asked of you to give thine son, to him."
The man's mouth went dry.
(In his bed, Abraham moaned quietly, but did not wake.)
"My son?" his dream self said, bewildered. "Isaac? But why?" Immediately, he regretted the question, ashamed he should query divine instruction.
But the voice only answered, "Sacrifice thine son, to God, for he has asked for him." Then, it was gone, and he stood alone, in that golden field.
And Abraham woke, in his bed; he was breathing rapidly. He lifted a hand to his forehead, where beads of sweat had gathered; he patted at them with his sleeve.
Beside him, Sarah stirred, and stroking her eyes, turned over to look at him. She saw his expression, and sat up. "Abraham? Abraham, are you all right?" She touched his cheek. "Did you have a nightmare?"
He shook his head, wetting his dry lips. "I had a vision." His voice was coarse; he coughed.
"A vision?" Sarah dropped her hands.
He nodded. "From God."
There was silence for a moment. "And?" she asked quietly.
Can I tell her? Can I? he asked himself. Can I tell her that God has told me to sacrifice our son, our one son, our one, virtuous son?
"And…" He struggled a moment. "And he told me that we have been good people." That was true enough.
Sarah smiled gently. "Is that all? But then why were you so frightened?"
"He … he also told me that our ewe will die within the week." Abraham bowed his head, ashamed of the lie.
Sarah, however, mistook this as a sign of sorrow for the impending loss of their beloved ewe, of which she was so fond. She pressed a hand to her mouth. "Oh, how terrible! Poor Maram." So caught up in the news was she that she did not notice that it would be odd that God himself, or one of his messengers, would take the pains to appear in a dream with such a mundane message.
"Yes."
"You were right to be upset; such a misfortune. And she just had a lamb, as well." She wiped a tear from her eye. "But he decreed it, and it shall happen. We can only hope for the best."
"Of course." Abraham embraced his wife, and said, "We must sleep now. Morning approaches."
"Poor Maram," Sarah murmured; soon she was asleep.
Abraham did not return to sleep as easily as his wife, but stayed up for another hour or so, grieving. Once or twice, he rose to weep, away from Sarah, so she would not know. But at last, when the stars began to fade, he slept.
--
The next morning, after a light breakfast, Abraham, with a kiss for Sarah but nary a word, saddled his ass, and went to town.
In the town, he found two young men for hire and with a coin each, told them of his pending task. At first, they were doubtful, but when reminded that it was to be divine work, the pair agreed to assist the next day.
After purchasing the wood needed for a burnt offering, Abraham left it with them, and returned home, where he spoke to no one until supper, the last meal of the day.
At this meal, he said to Isaac, over the quiet table, "Tomorrow, Isaac…"
The youth lifted his dark head. "Yes, Father?"
"Tomorrow, we shall go out, to make a sacrifice to God, and honour him." And that was all.
"Aye, Father."
--
This morning dawned pale, and grey; clouds had begun to gather when Abraham and Isaac, met by the two hired young men at home, set out for the small mountains that lay just beyond the valley.
In the sky, the clouds hid the sun at its golden perch, making it impossible to accurately guess the time of the day; the air was hot, and thick with moisture. Isaac wiped at his dark curls, which were damp with sweat.
"Where is the lamb, Father?" he asked as they scaled the great rocks. "There would surely be no sacrifice," he said with an affable smile, seeing his father's long face, "unless we plan to send sticks to heaven." He gestured towards the two young men behind them, who carried on their backs bundles of wood.
Abraham did not answer immediately; he said at last, slowly, as though with a heavy heart, "God will provide the sacrificial lamb, my son."
Isaac hesitated at his father's grave tone, but nodded and turned towards the sandy summit of the mountain, which lay not far now. It disturbed him that his father was so dark, but as a good son, he said nothing of it.
And he said not anything else until they reached the top, when Isaac turned to help his father over the ridge. He did not find his father at his back, but farther behind. "Father?" Something was wrong.
Abraham nodded to the two young men, who, setting down their burdens, moved forth, and seized Isaac by the shoulders and wrists.
"What…? What is this?" Isaac looked wildly at the two grim faces beside him. "What are you doing?" As Abraham came down from his beast and moved closer, Isaac saw his father's sad face. "Father? Father, what's the matter?"
The pair bound his limbs and his torso with the rope they had brought hidden under their wooden loads.
"Father!" Isaac screamed as he struggled to resist his captors; the young man was strong, but not strong enough. "Father!"
Isaac strained against his bindings; his flesh rippled with effort, glistening with sweat; it began to bleed where the coarse rope chafed against skin, while Abraham and his two hirelings lay out the wood for the sacrificial pyre.
He screamed and screamed; his cries seemed to echo through the entire valley, but nobody – nobody who would save him – heeded the desperate call. Soon though, his throat felt like sand and he could barely whisper.
The clouds were thick now, and thunder rumbled in the distance, though no rain fell.
When Isaac had been laid onto the sticks on the rough stone slab that was the altar, Abraham, his back straight and his white beard streaming in the wind, raised the bright blade high above his head, where it gave a flash like a star.
The boy cried, quietly.
At this, it seemed for a moment the old man faltered, but it was only a moment; as he prepared to thrust the knife into Isaac's heart, that there came a parting in the dark clouds, and from it, Abraham saw, spilled a thin, golden light; within this light came a gentle voice, calling in his mind, "Abraham. Abraham."
The old man's face cleared in recognition; it was the voice from his dream. "Here am I," he said, in awe; the two young men looked at the clouded sky strangely, wondering to whom he spoke.
"Release the blade in thine hand, Abraham," the voice said.
The old man dropped the blade immediately, and fell to his crooked knees, covering his face with his hands; he wept openly.
Isaac rolled from the altar, onto the ground.
"Abraham, you have proven thine merit for it is known now that thou fearest God, seeing as thou hast not withheld thine son, thine only son, from him.
"Rise, Abraham."
The father rose to his feet, and saw a ram, one he had not noticed before, tangled in the scrubby bushes nearby. It was a fine ram, covered in pale curls of hair, and his horns were dark yellow, and coiled around his ears.
"Behold. Take the ram, Abraham, and sacrifice it." Though there was no body to the voice, Abraham sensed it had left, as though it had one.
Abraham nodded. "Take the ram; it has been sent by God."
Still marvelling at the mysterious appearance of the ram, the two young men grasped the animal by its horns and led it to the altar, where it did not struggle. Abraham picked up the blade, and with a swift motion, sliced the ram's throat, from which crimson blood poured in a stream. Isaac stared from where he knelt.
As the carcass lay on the altar, Abraham came, and undid Isaac's bindings – underneath, the smooth flesh was marred by red marks – and turning the boy, ran hands along his son's face. "Isaac. Isaac. Oh, my son, forgive me for the wrong about which I was about to do unto you. It was God's will; forgive me." Abraham began to sob. "Forgive me. It was God's will, my son, it was God's will!"
At last, the bronze youth who so loved the sun looked at his father – his old, weak father – and said nothing. As Abraham watched in wonderment, Isaac reached up, and pressed his lips against his father's forehead.
The aged man only cried harder.