Here is the draft of the first chapter of our exciting book! Abe.

Isaac (whose name means ‘laughter’)

Long ago and in various ways, histories of some of the first families on earth were told by fathers and mothers to sons and daughters.  Stories of the past were spoken to the next generation. Truth was preserved and valued as more precious than silver or gold.

            At the foot of a great

mountain, north of the land between two rivers, a large family camp of more than a hundred tent dwellers settled beside the west bank of the Euphrates River.  Smells of baked bread and barbequed foods were carried on the breeze and ribbons of smoke rose from cooking fires. Men walked with staffs, herding goats and sheep, women carried young as they worked, washing garments in the river.

            The ancient father had hair as white as a cloud on a sunny day. He sat threading a weaved rope, his hands surprisingly nimble. Bright hazel eyes rimmed with long grey lashes looked up from his weaving and with some difficulty he slowly rose to his feet, laying the long-threaded rope on the wooden bench. He dusted off his long stone and brown striped tunic and turned into the elaborately decorated tent doorway. 

‘Sarah dear, the lamb smells good; are we ready to eat?’ His rich voice bore authority with compassion which matched his features.             The aroma of the cooking had already drawn some young farm hands to a water bowl stationed near to the entrance of the large tent, where each washed their hands, re-filling it with fresh river water from a large stone jar.

‘Miriam deserves the praise.’ The elderly lady, named Sarah, stood stirring the large pot, her long creamy linen garments covering her regally tall frame. Even in her later years her skin radiantly glowed in the dim light.

            ‘Yes, my husband, we’re ready - gather everybody - Isaac!’ She called in a sing song voice. ‘Come to the table! Here dear, can you serve?’ She gave the tall, wiry young man a stack of earthenware bowls.               ‘Mmm… I’m so hungry!’ He smiled at his mother. Isaac bore a shock of thick black hair which was tied into a curly knot at the nape of his neck. His face, darkened by the sun, from shepherding, he was known for his generous laughter.            The Father took a spiral ram’s horn from where it hung on the wall, gingerly stepped outside and blew it heartily three times.  ‘Coming Abba!’ faint shouts called out from the nearby valley flat fields.             Voices overlapped as the large family gathered around a cooking fire, one after another, settling on mats to eat the meal. In those days’ mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunties, uncles and many animals all lived in one place, close to each other.             They gave thanks to God for the food - broke the freshly baked bread and handed it around. Family and servants chattered together as they ate. Once satiated, Sarah instructed the servants, who had eaten with them, to clean up.

            ‘Thank you, my sons and daughters.’  Shouted the elder as he retired to his bench.  As usual, young Isaac, the beloved son, sat closely, and asked:

            ‘Tell me Abba, from the beginning…’  His Father chuckled to himself; his son had brought him joy in his old age.  Isaac loved to listen to the family history until the shadows of the trees grew long. Equally, Abraham loved to tell as much as the boy yearned for more. Other youngsters gathered to hear the elder and Isaac lit a small campfire in the cool of the evening.            ‘This story is as wide as the creamy sands of the vast desert and deeper than the dark starry sky above,’ he began. ‘Many moons ago, a new beginning unfolded.  It was twenty generations from our first father, Adam and the night sky above was bright and clear when a boy child was born in the city of Ur of the Chaldees, in the shadow of towers and temples.’

‘It was said I that I was called by the Most-High God to bring change into the Earth.  Terah, my father, was High Priest and served the formidable king Nimrod in the great and mysterious city of Ur, which stands tall between the two ancient rivers of Euphrates and Tigris.’

‘My mother, the lovely Amathlai, had already brought Nahor and Haran, two older brothers into the world and I heard her say to her friends that it was a miracle she had survived my birth as my shoulders were so broad.’

Isaac looked to those gathered and caused a laugh to ripple around the circle of friends.

‘We shall call his name Abram,’ father declared.

My Ama enquired: ‘’Exalted Father’ …is such a high meaning? Did the all-seeing magi see something?’            Terah had just returned from a meeting with his superior about my birth. He told Ama said that Nimrod had retorted:             ‘Magi have shown me the child’s destiny in the stars. He is to be a king to many peoples; bring him to me so that we may bless him together.’              Terah reported the good news back to his wife: ‘My love, it is in the constellations - our son is to be a great man, a leader of many peoples.  Our king wants to bless him - here let me take him to do so.’            Mother clung to me more tightly, her long black hair covering me as I was tucked into the folds of her shawl.

She exclaimed: ‘We cannot send baby Abe to Nimrod. I saw a dream last night – of a little one being thrown into a great fire. No Terah. On my life, how can we trust Nimrod?

She continued. ‘You have seen how he has acted with such jealousy, how he treated young Erdu – treating children as throw away products. He has changed - he used to be such a generous leader…and now we cannot always trust him. My dream is a warning from the gods; please…please I beg of you, Terah, let us offer another sacrifice and ask counsel from Nana before doing anything?’             Terah was not often in agreement with his wife, however, there was a growing admission within himself that Nimrod had changed. Nimrod’s protection of his position of power through jealous motivation had been growing.

‘I will go to temple, to worship - you look tired dear - do not fret, but rest.’  Relieved, Ama retired to her bed chamber with, her tiny but blessed son.             My High Priestly father did his duty by burning expensive sweet incense to the moon god, Nanna, though he received no counsel; the statue stared blankly ahead. ‘Thank you for the dream,’ he chanted in monotone as he offered his best grain and burnt it before the static deity. ‘I will take it as a true warning.’               Little did father realise that it had been the one true God, Yah, the God of his Fathers, The God of the whole universe, who had given Ama the dream which would protect me from the irrational, jealous king Nimrod.