Eye of the Oracle

by Bryan Davis

  As they closed in on the city, details in the tower grew clear. It rose layer upon layer, seemingly without end, each layer slightly narrower than the one below it. Dozens of people scurried along its external staircases, some hustling up with armloads of timber and straw and others scrambling down empty-handed. One person slipped and fell to the next level, but no one else seemed to notice. They just kept crawling, like a thousand ants moving sand grain by grain to the top of the hill.

  “They are busier than usual,” Mardon said. “That means my father will be here soon.”

  Mardon strode ahead, and Mara followed, glancing frequently at the edge of the sky as it grew brighter and brighter. She pulled out her coif and tied it on, tucking her hair underneath and grinning as the endless sky began to reveal its lovely blue canvas. The chill of dawn didn’t bother her a bit. Her own excitement pumped warmth to her fingers and toes.

  As the top of the sun peeked over the horizon, Mardon approached the city gate and nodded at the gatekeeper, a bearded young man, taller and fatter than Mardon. The guard turned a wooden dial at the gate’s latch, and Mara counted its quiet clicks. The gatekeeper stared at her while he worked, so she stayed close to Mardon’s side. Finally, the latch clanked, and the iron-barred fence swung out with a terrible whine.

  “A fresh treat for the worshippers, Mardon?” the guard asked. “She’s pasty white, but the men at the Luna temple won’t mind. They like the young ones.”

  “Quiet, fool!” Mardon pulled Mara closer and whispered. “Never mind him. He’s just an ignorant commoner.”

  Mara spread out her fingers and compared her skin to Mardon’s. His was quite a bit darker, brown instead of her pinkish-white hue. In the dimness of her home, she hardly took notice of skin color. She turned toward the rising sun, pulling her veil down as the rays began to sting her eyes. She had read about sunlight changing skin tone temporarily, but could its light be harsh enough to make everyone this brown?

  They followed a path of rough-edged stones, sharp enough to prick Mara’s toughened bare soles. Wearing leather sandals, Mardon ignored the obstacles and quickened the pace. Easing each foot down, she managed to keep up, and the path eventually smoothed into larger, flat stones that cooled her aching feet.

  When they arrived at the base of the tower, a crowd had gathered in a semicircle around a cavernous entryway, a portico that led to the tower’s main doors. A man and a woman dressed in flowing silk strode to the center of the portico and embraced. As gentle drums tapped a slow rhythm, the couple stepped elegantly to the exotic beat, moving gracefully on the polished floor from one edge of the circle to the other. Two lyres joined in, and the man twirled the woman, making her colorful dress spread out into a spinning flower.

  When he caught her in his arms, Mara gasped. How beautiful! That man and woman seemed so . . . so friendly!

  A hand touched her chin and pushed it upward, closing her gaping mouth. Mardon chuckled. “Haven’t you read about dancing before?”

  Mara shook her head, unable to speak. She had never been so mesmerized in all her life. Something about that couple sent a warm sensation into her heart unlike anything she had ever felt before, and she wanted it to never go away. Could she ever dance with someone like that, someone who would take her in his arms and make her spin in a rainbow of colors? But who could ever want to make something beautiful out of Mara, an underborn slave girl?

  When the couple finished their dance, several children dashed back and forth across the portico’s floor. One scurried to the huge wide-open doors that led to the tower’s anteroom. From where Mara stood, she could see a ring of statues inside the first floor, all facing some kind of monument in the center. “Is that the shrine?” she asked.

  Mardon shook his head. “The first floor is a museum. All the knowledge of the world, whether literature, art, or music, is collected there in scrolls. Our goal is to keep the world’s people together under one authority, so they won’t split up into warring factions. Having an education center here demonstrates that King Nimrod’s domain is the focus of all intellectual pursuits.”

  The tower mound was high enough to allow Mara to gaze out over the city’s endless expanse of buildings and farms. Beautiful vineyards and orchards painted the distant landscape with lush greenery, but, closer in, scars spoiled the city’s marble-coated streets. Black smoke ascended from two enormous pits on either side of her view. Sweat-drenched men dressed in loincloths hauled bricks up the slopes on their bare backs. Red welts striped their shoulders as they trudged under their loads. Another man walked behind them, cracking a whip at one of the slower workers.

  Mara cringed with each stroke, thinking about Nabal’s whip and how he ripped the backs of girls and beat Elam’s friend to death. She shivered hard and moved her gaze closer in, studying the stone columns that lined the outer courtyard. Carved with scowling faces, they seemed to watch over the people who paused to kiss the lowest cheek as they passed by. A girl with a handbasket threw flower petals at the column’s base, and a woman left an object on the petals, something small that glinted in the sun.

  Mardon turned Mara back toward the museum. “Look.”

  Three heralds carrying curved horns marched through the doors, and the children hurried back into the throng. After the horns blared a triplet of loud notes, a sword-bearing soldier led six bare-chested men onto the portico from the direction of the city gates. The six wore heavy shackles on their wrists, and chains linked their ankles.

  Mardon nudged Mara. “Here comes my father.”

  A taller, lighter-skinned man stepped up to the portico, fully dressed, yet wearing the same kind of clothes the gatekeeper wore, an undecorated gray jacket and black breeches. Mara pulled on Mardon’s elbow. “You wrote that he wore a purple robe.”

  “This is the solstice ceremony, a battle ritual.” He pointed at the first six men. “Watch. Those are rebels the king’s men have captured since the previous solstice.”

  After the soldier unlocked their manacles, the prisoners huddled, putting their hands together in what seemed like a child’s finger game, similar to one Naamah had taught the girls. Then, the soldier unlinked one of the prisoners’ ankles, and the other five bowed to the freed man and marched back to the crowd where other soldiers met them and refastened their wrists.

  The king handed the chosen man a sword, then withdrew another from his belt and held its shimmering blade aloft. The rebel’s eyes grew wide, and he stepped back, holding his sword in front of him. His biceps quivered, and his legs shook.

  The king’s sword reflected a beam from the rising sun, and the blade seemed to catch on fire. His opponent’s knees buckled, and he fell backwards, dropping his weapon. The king swung his blade, but it didn’t slice through the fallen man. The reflected light from the sun seemed to brush his body, radiating around his skin like a coat of fire. His eyes bugged out, and his mouth opened in a silent scream as the light transformed into sparkling dots that sizzled across his body, devouring his flesh from head to toe. Seconds later, nothing remained but his sword and a silver earring.

  Mara’s throat clenched. She squeaked out, “Where did he go?” But a cheer from the crowd drowned out her tiny voice.

  King Nimrod bowed low, pressing his hand against his trim waist. When he rose back up, his gaze met Mardon, then shifted to Mara. He seemed puzzled at first, but he smiled broadly and shouted, “The prince has returned from his journey!” He slid his sword into a sheath that hung from a belt and extended his arm. “Come, my son. Tell us about this pale foreigner you have brought.”

  Mardon grabbed Mara’s hand and hustled her to the center of the portico. As she stepped out of the shadow of a statue, the sun’s rays shone through her veil, making her flinch. Fortunately, the roof of the portico blocked out the light again as they hurried across the cool, smooth floor.

  Mardon stopped and bowed to the king, and as he rose, Mara felt his hand squeeze her shoulder. “Lift your veil,” he whispered.
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  Mara brushed her veil up over her head and watched King Nimrod, tall and handsome, stride right up to her. He stooped and gazed into her eyes. “What kind of goddess is she?” he asked, his smile revealing a brilliant set of white teeth. “Her eyes are bluer than sapphires! I have never seen such jewels in all of Shinar!”

  A low murmur arose from the crowd. Many had departed, but a hundred or so milled around the portico, apparently to get a close look at this strange visitor.

  Mardon laid his hand on Mara’s covered head and spoke in a low tone. “She is an underborn, Father, the oldest surviving female we have in the lower realms.”

  The king pinched the tie of Mara’s coif. “May I take it off?” he asked.

  Mara nodded, mesmerized at the king’s gentle face and manner. As the covering pulled away, her hair spilled down to her shoulders. The king nearly fell backwards. “Mardon! Her hair is whiter than pearls, whiter than hailstones!”

  The crowd murmured again, louder this time, as they began to press closer.

  Mardon waved for the guards to push them back, then, with a gentle touch, combed his fingers through Mara’s hair. “After she was uprooted, we altered the hybridization scheme, but once I learned how intelligent she was, I tried to reproduce her. Every attempt failed in the embryonic stage.”

  “You cannot repeat perfection!” The king caressed Mara’s cheek and lifted a hand toward one of the columns in the courtyard that surrounded the tower. “She is a goddess sprouted from the earth, flourished in the pull of magnetic harmony, and blossomed in the light of spectral promise!”

  Mara noticed splotches of dark red on the king’s fingers. As he withdrew his hand, the king gazed into her eyes again. “What is your name, precious jewel?”

  “Mara.”

  “Mara?” He looked up at Mardon, frowning. “What kind of name is that for an angel?”

  Mardon pinched closed a hole at the shoulder of Mara’s outer tunic, covering the bloodstain underneath. “We give all the laborers names that reflect the sadness of their lot in life. It only makes sense.”

  “Well, that will change.” The king’s gentle smile returned. “Child, you will be called Sapphira Adi, for your eyes are sparkling gems, as blue as the endless expanse on the clearest day. Even your pupils blaze like sapphires.”

  Mara let that name roll around in her mind. Sapphira Adi. It sounded . . . lovely.

  King Nimrod stood and brushed his hands together, rubbing reddish powder onto the floor. He lowered his voice as he turned to Mardon. “We have to squelch an uprising in the mountain tribes, so I’ll need more . . .” He glanced back down at Mara. “I’ll need another suitable donor.”

  “Understood, Father. Do you have one in mind?”

  “No. Just find a pregnant prostitute in the temples. They’re always glad to . . .” He glanced at Mara again. “Let’s just say they’re willing to stay in a more profitable physical condition.”

  A strange smile crossed Mardon’s face. “While making an embryonic donation to our cause?”

  The king brushed more of the red powder from his palms. “Exactly.”

  Mardon laid a hand on Mara’s shoulder. “Mara . . . I mean, Sapphira, is carrying something that might make further conflict unnecessary.”

  “Indeed?” The king’s brow lifted. “What is it?”

  Mardon gently nudged her forward a step. “Show him.”

  Mara withdrew the Ovulum from her pocket and held it up in her palm. Nimrod leaned over and eyed it closely. “And what is this?” he asked.

  Mardon pushed it with his finger, making it tilt to one side. “I unearthed it when we dug the foundation for the new fountain, and I thought it little more than a trinket until I took it to the lower world. When I arrived, it spoke in odd verse, declaring that it needed the hands of an intelligent maiden if we wanted to hear from the lips of God.”

  “The lips of God?” the king said. “Do you mean Elohim?”

  “I assumed it was Elohim, so I wanted to be sure to follow his instructions and avoid his wrath.”

  “Why didn’t you seek a suitable girl here?” The king spread out his arms toward the surrounding buildings. “Are there no intelligent maidens in my kingdom?”

  “You allow the nobles’ daughters to be educated,” he said, flashing that strange smile again, “but it would be difficult to discern which ones are true maidens.”

  The king rubbed his chin. “I see what you mean.”

  “But Sapphira has proven an extraordinary intelligence, and until today, I am the only human male who has ever laid eyes on her. She is a maiden, indeed.”

  The king picked up the Ovulum and brought it close to his eyes. “Did this trinket speak to her?”

  “In an extraordinary way. I believe it is truly the mouthpiece of Elohim.” He gazed up at the tower and angled his arm toward the top. “Imagine it sitting in the temple at the pinnacle of your tower. Everyone from every land will proclaim us the capital of the world. With you holding the gateway to the god of the flood, who would dare oppose you? Your kingdom will be established forever!”

  The king handed the egg back to Mara. His eyes widened, and his two canine teeth overlapped his bottom lip. “Make it speak again!” he barked.

  Mara stepped back clumsily. The king seemed to be a different person now, gruff, almost maniacal. She held the Ovulum close to her lips, her hands shaking. She wanted to sound like she knew what she was doing, but she had no idea what to say. After clearing her throat, she spoke slowly. “Elohim, god of the flood, speak to us now and” she licked her lips, her eyes darting between the two men who watched with their jaws hanging open “and grant us wisdom regarding how we might please you.” She bit her tongue and glanced up at the king. His eyes were locked on the Ovulum, nearly bulging out of his head.

  The red fog appeared again inside the glass shell, forming slowly into an eye. It gazed at her, its pupil a soft crimson hue, but when it turned toward the king, the entire eye seemed to blaze with fire. A loud, deep voice erupted from within.

  To Nimrod, hunter, ruler, king,

  The man who built a tower,

  A jackass heeds a whip and rope,

  But you heed only power.

  So like a jackass, you’ll be whipped;

  Like straw your shrine will burn,

  For God has warned from up on high.

  But you refused to turn.

  Excising children, torn from wombs,

  They cry for murder’s cost;

  Defiling maidens, forced to serve,

  They mourn their virtue lost.

  So now the justice due your deeds

  Will come in fire and smoke,

  To burn your shrine and all your wealth

  And clasp you in a yoke.

  For when you die, entrapped you’ll be

  Within the bowels of Earth,

  Until the day the Lord recalls

  Your soul to fiery birth.

  Nimrod’s lips bent into a vicious frown, and his hand curled into a shaking fist as he raised it to the sky. “No!” he screamed. “You cannot win! I control the hearts of the people! We will fight you from the top of the tower and make heaven rain with the blood of your hosts!”

  The fog had disappeared inside the egg, so Mara slipped it back into her pocket and stepped away slowly while King Nimrod raged on.

  “If you send fire, I will pierce you with a spear! If you clasp me with a yoke, I will dress you in a mantle of your own blood!”

  Suddenly, a stream of fire rained from the roof of the portico, and a flurry of huge wings ripped past the opening.

  “Dragons!” Mardon shouted. “Guards! Get ropes and spears!”

  The king grabbed a spear from a soldier and ran out to the courtyard. Lunging forward, he hurled the spear into the air. He then ran back to the portico, his face twisted in rage as he screamed toward the tower’s main door. “Herald! Sound the alarm! Call out every soldier.” He snatched up Mara’s coi
f from the floor, strangling it in his fist as he shook it in front of her. His voice thundered. “You brought Elohim’s curse on us! Dragons are his winged soldiers!” He threw the coif at her chest, and it fell into her hand.

  Withdrawing his sword, the king gripped it with both hands and stared at the blade. As he watched it glimmer in the sunlight, the furrows in his brow deepened, and his cheeks flushed scarlet. Raising one hand, he spread out his fingers and screamed, “Mardon! I need more blood!” His maniacal stare fell on Mara, and he stalked toward her. “Yes, of course. A maiden’s blood will do just fine.”

  Mardon pushed Mara behind his back. “There are infants in the crowd, Father. I beg you to choose any one of them. I need Mara for my work.”

  A blast from a horn made both men spin around. Shaking uncontrollably, Mara quickly retied her coif and pulled out the candlestone. Maybe it would distract the king. Another horn echoed the first from far away, and a third answered, even farther away.

  The king shoved Mardon aside and grabbed Mara’s shoulder, squeezing her wound so hard, pain shot down her spine. “I will deal with you soon enough. The temple worshippers would love to get their hands on you.” He shoved her into Mardon’s arms. “Put her in the stocks.” He pivoted and stomped toward a mother with a baby in her arms.

  Mara extended the gem in her open palm and cried out, “Look! The lady in black told me to give this to you!”

  Nimrod pivoted again and marched back. Mardon grabbed Mara’s wrist and snatched the gem. Both men gazed at it curiously. Light seemed to spin toward it in a whirlpool. “Could it be?” the king whispered.

  Mara swallowed through her tightening throat. “Morgan called it a candlestone. She said the king would know what to do with it.”

  Nimrod grabbed the gem and clasped it in his fist, a wicked smile forming on his lips. “This is dragons’ bane!” he yelled. “We shall see whose god wields more power, Noah’s or Morgan’s.” He pushed Mara back into Mardon’s grasp. “Lock her in my chambers. I will deal with her personally later.”