Kenton Barr: Lot: Or the righteous man's guide to incest

The people would throw things. When they should stone them all-all the sinners-the people of Sodom would not. They'd only throw rotten fruit at Lot. He knew it.

It had happened too many times to the only righteous man in the city.

Somehow he made it home. His wife was alone in the front parlor. His daughters-where were they? So late? Who could let the two go out so late. He looked at his wife angrily. She saw the look on his face. Smiled. Something to take the edge off of him now. To cool the dark passions. She knew him so well. Too well.

“Where are our children?” asked Lot, thinking first of his oldest daughter, she must be married soon, that one. She would be, if only he could find a bride price. And the Youngest, the one only now to bud into womanhood, he'd seen her around the house of late. That one, too. No. She should not be long for the home either. Where to find a dowry?

“Oh, they've gone out to the center square for the evening,” his wife was saying.

Lot turned to scold her for this.

“Oh don't you worry. They're not alone. With the priests from the temple, and a host of young women. There will be a ceremony this evening. Women only with the priests. Young men have their day tomorrow.

“It's not so good,” said Lot.

“What?”

“To leave them with priests. It's not so good a thing. You've no idea what they can get up to, those men with their scrolls, their solitude, their rules-their rules for themselves, and not for us!

“Calmly, good husband. Our neighbors watch for them. We are a community.”

“A community of what-everywhere, in the marketplace, lust, deceit, theft. Even this day I saw-you've no idea what I saw, I-”

“I know what you see, good husband. I wonder if you will forget it for a moment.”

“Forget-how can I?”

“You wife is here with you now. Your children are gone. We are alone now. Alone.”

She reached forward to touch Lot, run her hands softly against his brow. On the rude table of the cottage sat a fine repast of figs, fresh olives, cheeses from their favorite dairy.

“Won't you sample a morsel, husband?” she asked, reaching toward his lips with a grape in her hand. Lot tensed for a moment at the touch of her fingers. “Husband?” she repeated. The thoughts whirling, a dust-storm beneath his brow. “Husband?”

Lot ate the grape, pulled away from her touch slightly.

“Husband…” she repeated again. That look in her eyes. Hurt. Reproving. How dare she? How could she not know-the sin in the world. The dark, dire sin.

“Where are our daughters?” he asked.

She pulled away. Tears now.

“I'll take you,” she said nervously.

Lot's wife tensed with every step towards the church. He'd been getting like this more and more with each day. The business at the stand was fine. Not bad; not good. They prospered. There was food for their daughters. It was family.

Lot did not agree. Somehow he wanted more. A better business, once, he'd had. But so many ventures failed, caravans that did not return, merchants, smarter, more experienced, less decent than her husband, who'd taken the pair's money and gave back cloth of a lesser value, sacks of grain with dead mice added to tip the scales.

And still they tried, but, in this beautiful city, with no fear of the barbarians, with the gentle breezes of the plain, plentiful foods, fresh water at the well and a good king, what was there to fear? Should they go somewhere else? Away, closer to the sea? Perhaps over the mountains, and visit the bandits? No, a good home; a safe place, a stall in the center, selling wine. Perfect for the family.

She was not always displeased when her husband's business ventures failed. Anything to keep out of the desert-the rocks and cliffs everywhere. The wasteland, stretching twenty miles to the mountains, terrified her. Was it so bad, to no longer have the shepherds and flocks? The servant girls, so hard to manage? The temptations for her husband out in travel?

And Abraham himself had come to them! Had told them of the blessings of the Lord. Abraham! Who would have sacrificed all! Was it so bad, then, to live in this little house, near the edge of the city, to sell wine, and dine on figs and grapes?

It was not.

They'd reached the certain of town. Before her, she felt her husband tense, stiffening like the rocks of the mountain.

“What? Husband? What?”

“Don't you see?” he hissed.

She looked ahead. In the town square, segregated by sex, people stood watching as the religious procession occurred. Their daughters were to one side, with chaperones to protect further. Young men were at the far end of the gathering.

“See! Abomination!”

She continued looking. What was there-what could be so wrong? Was there wine among the youth? Someone looking untoward at her daughters? Her daughters looking untoward? The girls were barely “There!” he shouted, storming angrily towards their children. “There!”

The crowd turned, faces irritated by the distraction. On stage, in white gossamer, a priestess of Astarte knelt. With her a young muscular man. Behind, a row of women stood, chanting. Then young man proffered an amulet as Lot reached his daughters.

“Away! Away from this blasphemy! Away!”

“Father!” said the Eldest. “It is not the day for giving. We are here to watch.”

“There will be acrobats soon,” added the Youngest.

Lot paid their cries no heed, taking the Eldest by the shoulder, the Youngest by the hair, and forcing them before himself as he stomped away from the courtyard.

The crowd, disinterested in the play, jeered.

“What? He can't watch it then.”

“That's Lot. I've heard he watches it all.”

“Won't let his daughters have fun then?”

“Silly old man.”

Wincing, Lot's wife followed the trio home.

Over the cries of his wife and daughters, Lot shut his family into the house. He stood there in the doorway, glaring coldly for onlookers. There were none. The whole of the city stood in the courtyard, waiting to enact the marriage rites, choosing brides, handing over amulets as symbols for protection.

Blasphemers. They knew not the law of Abraham. Nor, indeed, did they care for his uncle's wisdom. Hadn't, those years ago, when his flocks taken, his body beaten, he'd shown up at the gates of this town. Entrance, only. And make something of yourself. No charity here.

No charity!

No help for his goods. Not a thing to aid him. Oh, look over there, Lot. A spot for a stall. Find something to sell. Sell it. Never bother us.

Horrid people. A plague on humanity. All of them. How could they not help a stranger? This city with its shining walls, its bright fountains, the pipes beneath that brought water and carried filth. Not help a stranger? It was within them.

He went to the wine stall. Closed now. No worries of theft. Everyone watched his own goods here. Everyone. Those without goods or professions were banished quickly from the town. As Lot would have been. To wander the plains with his family.

“Work at something, Lot, or else the desert. Perhaps they'll let you beg at the gates of Zohar!”

And the townsfolk laughed. Good-naturedly. But they laughed. Laughed at his plight. At his losses. At his God. Horrible city.

He drank of the wine. An older bottle. Unsellable. Vinegar to the taste. The only brews worse had that strange worm-eaten seal. He'd not been sure where they came from now. Not to be sold, those. Well, his family could drink it next time there was company. Lot sat now. His god to be mocked. And what of their many gods? With the harlots out front? The harlots who entertained so many?

Nothing for them today. Other entertainments. What did the priestesses do on a day like today? He should go to them and laugh. See how it was, an empty religion, without even the people to honor shallow spectacle.