He was dying. He knew it. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he couldn't swallow anymore without pain. He tasted blood on his cracked lips. His face was swollen and his eyes glazed over. The waterskin was empty. His mother had given him the last few drops hours ago. She had tied her cloak over a scrubby thornbush and dragged him into the tiny bit of shade that it gave. Then, when she could bear to look at him no more, she went and sat a little way off and began the wailing, mourning cry for the dead.
Her boy was seventeen years old; too young to die. His whole life was still before him. What great things he could have done! And then, there were the promises...
As he lay there, with his life slowly drying out of him, thoughts of his childhood floated into his mind. Thoughts of his Abba, Avraham. How he loved him! He remembered the time when Abba took him out onto the hilltop in the evening, after the sun had set. Overhead, the darkening sky slowly started lighting up with little flickering pinpoints as the stars became visible.
"Look, my boy", Avraham said, "can you count the stars?"
"No, Abba," Ishmael laughed, "you know I can't. There are far, far too many to count!"
Avraham nodded. "You are right. And the LORD God has promised me that I will have as many descendents as there are stars in the sky. Me! An old man of nearly one hundred years. It seemed so impossible when I first heard it."
He placed his arm round Ishmael's shoulders.
"But then, you came. A son for me. Now, maybe, through you, that promise will be fulfilled."
And he smiled lovingly down at the young boy.
Well, there would be no descendants from him now, that much was certain. The sun seemed to get even hotter.
"Imah--ah..." The feeble cry forced itself through his parched lips. Hagar put her hands over her ears and the sound of her sobbing reached him. Into the throbbing pain in his head came another picture.
He was dying. He knew it. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he couldn't swallow anymore without pain. He tasted blood on his cracked lips. His face was swollen and his eyes glazed over. The waterskin was empty. His mother had given him the last few drops hours ago. She had tied her cloak over a scrubby thornbush and dragged him into the tiny bit of shade that it gave. Then, when she could bear to look at him no more, she went and sat a little way off and began the wailing, mourning cry for the dead.
