Have you seen my son, Yahu? He’s fought with his father again and gone off in a huff. He’s always had a temper, that one; storm gods usually do, it comes with the territory. And my husband El isn’t evil, he just deals with people in bad faith, which makes everything worse instead of better. He has a cruel streak, which I hope Yahu hasn’t inherited.
He’s probably gone east again, into the mountains. When he’s out there you’ll see thunderclouds gather about the tallest peaks and the shepherds will tell each other to stay indoors. But once he’s cooled down he’ll come back to the city and resume life here as though nothing happened.
El does notice, though. The prophet Balaam ben Beor wrote once that the god of the wilderness sought to overthrow the King of the Gods and stitch thunderclouds across the sky, casting the world into darkness. My El is not easily cowed by such threats to his authority, but still he keeps an eye on his sons and daughters, and on me.
Have you seen my son, Yahwu? His temples, which once were found only out in the wilderness, humble shrines at a crossroads or a lovingly built cairn atop a mountain, now can be found even in the largest cities. I hear they are building one now in Jerusalem.
I’m proud, because in his youth he was a bit of a tearaway and now he’s really making something of himself. He deals with his supplicants’ prayers carefully and generously, working hard to make sure their houses stay upright and their sheep hale and fat. He has his father’s fire, which means he won’t stop until every last prayer is dealt with, even if it takes him all night, even though he only has two hands.
He certainly doesn’t get it all from me. I am generous to those who pray to me, but I’ll admit I have a backlog, and sometimes I just can’t handle everyone. It’s a busy job, being Queen of the Gods.
Women come to me to pray and leave offerings: flowers, the smoke from a burning stick of incense, a whispered secret, and my favourite: fish.
Their husbands are usually absent. I deprioritise the ones who don’t come. I’m efficient, see, and there are only so many hours in the day.
Though their prayers are as plentiful as stars in the sky, there tend to be a few themes that come up again and again, and chief among them is sex. I am an expert in this. My husband spends a lot of his time ruling in the land of thoughts and minds, so anything involving the body is left to me. Honestly, I’m not sure if he’s a little afraid of the topic, which is why whenever I try talking to him about an exciting new development in the area he wanders away muttering about divine mysteries which are better left unearthed.
Like life, I am innovative. I find ever more ways to help women conceive. For some it is a particular herb or plant. Others need a more substantial change to their diet, like eating more oily fish. My mother always told me that everyone needs to eat fish for a healthy constitution, and she was right.
For others I’ll find even more clever ways. I give women courage and help them with pain. I find neighbours with whom they have a better chance than with their husbands, and I nudge them together. For the ones who have tried over and over and still cannot seem to conceive, I tinker with the finely written letters that make up their bodies, smoothing out the creases and darning over the holes. Did you know the calligraphy of the self comprises only four letters, which are North and South, East and West? Yahwu’s temple priests say there are twenty-two, but they’re wrong. Typical men, over-complicating things. With those four letters you can inscribe everything that is in a person. I told this to my son when he came to visit last week and he said, that’s funny, my name is four letters. YHWH. I can write it down here. Are these the letters that make up the world? Yes, dear, I said. He didn’t really get it.
Have you seen my son, Yawe? He called a meeting of the council of gods today and proclaimed himself almighty. For sure a ripple of unrest ran about the chamber, and many of them looked to me. Where is my husband? What happened to him?
But Yawe put a stop to these mutterings with a wave of his enormous hand. I have killed El, he said, and eaten him. An outcry met his words. Many cried out in sorrow and shock. I, though, was silent.
He set out his proclamation that all would refer to him as God, and El’s name should be heard no more; well, I can tell you how well that went down, and one loud-spoken deity of stonemasons whose name I forget cried out, “But El’s name is carved into the stone of every one of his temples, in the very rock! His name is there in the nation of Yisra-el! Do you think people are just going to forget?”
At this the sky grew dark, and thunderclouds whirled about the sun, and everyone grew quiet. And Yawe said: OK, perhaps El’s name will not be so easily expunged. In that case, I am El. I am he and he is me. If anyone asks, people used to call me El, but now I prefer Yawe, which is the name my mother gave me. (Everyone looks at me and then back to him.) Got it? Now go forth and tell everyone.
Don’t worry about this whole “one God” thing, he told me, as everyone else filed from the chamber after this announcement. You’ll be safe. I’ll make you my wife and you’ll sit at my left hand. It’ll be as if nothing has changed.
I smiled and tousled his hair, but I did keep an eye out for that stonemason god, and never saw them after that.
In the end, it wasn’t my son at all, but his priests who threw me out.
“Mother of God?” they cry. “God is eternal, God is the first and the only. How could He be so great if he was born of a mother?” Honestly, it hurts when they say that, not because they say it, but because Yawe doesn’t do anything about it, doesn’t lift a finger to defend his wife/mother from their tongues and their fists.
They call my handmaidens prostitutes and shave their heads in the street. They tear down my statues and burn my temples. One by one the queens of the Levant take off their crowns and offer them to their husbands. Behind it all Yawe’s face stares down. He bears a cruelty that reminds me of his father. El, did you ever really die?
Woe are we mothers of cruel sons.
Have you seen my son, Yahweh? He doesn’t seem to be around much any more. The only ones who say they see him are his temple priests, but I’ll be damned if he’s spending himself cooped up indoors. He’s always preferred to wander through the wilderness, going on long treks through the steppe alone or with one of his male friends to talk to.
Perhaps he went on such a trip and has not come back. I picture him now in my mind’s eye: lying at the bottom of a ravine with a broken ankle, crying out for help, though he’s so far away the only things that hear him are goats and vultures. Please – you’ll look for him, won’t you? He might be a tyrant but he’s my son.
Have you seen my son, Jehovah? I ask the women who pass me on the docks. You might know him by another name. He’s had a lot of names. And it’s been an awfully long time.
They smile and shake their heads. I can’t say I blame them. I’d probably think me mad, too. Sitting here mending fishing nets asking them questions about God. Like, when did God get a capital letter? I must’ve not been paying attention.
My spot is at Ugarit, which is called Latakia now. It’s just down the road from where my temple used to be, but in recent years there’s been a war, and even the ruins are gone. I remain, for old times’ sake. There are people in the city who take heart in the fact that though many have fled west I’m still here.
Sometimes women come to me and ask for help with their pregnancies, or with conceiving, or with their husbands. I put a hand on their stomachs and do what I can. I tend to try harder for the ones whose husbands accompany them, though.
At night I walk out across the surface of the waves and I watch the storms out to sea. From a distance I see shafts of heavenly light strike the ocean, but for all the rage in those clouds, the ocean perseveres.