Joshua Valiant

by Brian Godawa

  They were both driven men. Driven by devotion to their nation, but also by unspoken secrets as well.

  Between them, however, there were no secrets held.

  “Yahweh said what?” exclaimed Caleb with a dodge and a swing of his sickle sword.

  “Moses and Aaron will not bring Israel into the land that he promised us.”

  Joshua blocked with shield. They were predetermined forms of technique rather than actual sparring.

  “But why?”

  “Javelins!” barked Joshua. They dropped shields and swords and picked up javelins to use with new forms of workout.

  Joshua answered, “Because they did not believe in Yahweh or uphold him as holy in the eyes of the people of Israel.”

  Caleb huffed through his maneuvering, “He told Moses to speak. Moses hit the rock twice with his staff. That seems like a mistake to me, not a sin.”

  “That is the difference between you and me,” said Joshua. “Battle-axe!”

  They dropped their javelins and picked up battle-axes, swinging in arcs to build their strength.

  “What do you mean?” asked Caleb.

  “You do not understand the holiness of Yahweh.”

  Swing, swing, swoosh, swoosh.

  “There is much about Yahweh I do not understand. He is full of mystery.”

  Swing, swing, swoosh, swoosh.

  They stopped to catch a breath.

  Joshua continued, “Yahweh’s commands are to be followed exactly, just like his law. When Moses hit the rock like it was his power, and claimed he and Aaron brought forth the water, it was not a mistake. It was a vainglorious attribution of Yahweh’s glory to themselves. Moses has become lax in his discipline and efforts at perfect obedience.”

  Caleb countered, “Moses has forgotten where he came from.”

  Joshua knew what Caleb was referring to. Moses originally had a stuttering problem when Yahweh chose him to speak for him and he did not think he was adequate to the task. Yet that is what Yahweh wanted, a leader whom the people would follow but not worship because the power of deliverance could only come from above. Yahweh took imperfect humans to display his perfect glory.

  “And that is the difference between you and me,” Caleb said. “You do not understand the grace and beauty of Yahweh.”

  Caleb picked up his whip sword Rahab and unfurled it. Then he engaged in an entirely different kind of technique with his weapon. Rather than the hard exertion of brute force and will, his technique was the elegant effortlessness of beauty and dance. It was the complete opposite of what Joshua had been performing, and it was clear that Caleb was suppressing his true skill for the sake of Joshua.

  Now, he was releasing himself to his heavenly training, to the Way of the Karabu. And it was evident that he did not teach Joshua everything he knew after all.

  Joshua watched him with wonder as Caleb flowed like a river, the flexible sword waving through the air with rhythmic precision, sailing and snapping, twirling and slicing. Caleb appeared to be carried by the wind, lighter than a feather. It was a ballet of battle, a poem of pummeling.

  And Joshua envied every move Caleb made. He could see the beauty and fluidity of the Karabu Way. But it was also a repudiation of everything Joshua understood about the nature of combat. Karabu was about dance and play versus strength and force. And that he could not abide.

  And so the two of them kept a competitive tension within a bond of brotherly love.

  Caleb stopped to rest, his breathing more steady than previously.

  Joshua said, “I want to bring the Israelites into the Promised Land. I can be what Moses was not. I am disciplined and devoted to the law. I will follow every jot and tittle of Yahweh’s commands.”

  “Well,” said Caleb, “You do not lack for such rigidity. But it is Yahweh’s choice who will replace Moses.”

  “I will do everything within my power to persuade Yahweh. To show him that I can be his perfect vessel.”

  “That is a tall order to fill,” said Caleb. “You may find yourself becoming a broken vessel.”

  Joshua boasted, “At least Yahweh is the only one capable of breaking this vessel.”

  Caleb thought for a second. Then he said, “Can I show you something?”

  “What?”

  “I want to demonstrate a Karabu move.”

  “Caleb, we both have our own way of fighting. I respect yours, but I operate differently. Different approaches with the same results.”

  Caleb threw his weapon aside.

  “Show me your approach without a weapon.”

  Joshua was younger and stronger. Caleb was nearing eighty years old. He was a strong eighty but nowhere near the capacity of Joshua’s muscular sixty-year-old strength and vigor. Even Joshua’s height was superior at six feet tall to Caleb’s five feet eight inches.

  Joshua sighed and tossed his weapon down.

  Caleb said, “Attack me.”

  Joshua protested, “If we grapple, I clearly outweigh you.”

  “Attack me any way you like.”

  “You asked for it.”

  “I did indeed.”

  Joshua balled his fists, raised them and launched a punch that would have knocked out a camel.

  But what he was not prepared for was Caleb’s dodge that threw Joshua off balance.

  Joshua responded with an immediate series of punches. If one would not connect, the succeeding one would, or the two and three after that. Joshua would overwhelm Caleb with sheer force and power.

  The only problem was, none of the punches connected.

  Caleb artfully evaded some, and others he redirected causing Joshua to spin and twist, which drove Joshua into an increasing frenzy of frustration.

  It made him lose his control.

  Then Caleb stepped toward Joshua’s body and using his thumbs lightly jabbed Joshua’s neck on both sides.

  Joshua blacked out.

  When he came to, Caleb was sitting beside him on the ground with a smile.

  “What in heaven did you do to me?” griped Joshua.

  “Now you are learning,” said Caleb. It was indeed of heavenly origin.

  Joshua sat up.

  Caleb said, “I used your force against you. Your fury distracted your concentration.”

  “What about that trick on my neck?”

  “Knowing your enemy’s weakness is far better than facing his strength. Karabu is the way of faith, not force. A small amount of faith can move a mountain, so a small amount of pressure can topple the mightiest of gibborim.”

  Caleb got up.

  He offered Joshua his hand.

  Joshua grabbed it, and let Caleb hoist him up to his feet.

  “I understand,” said Joshua. “My smallest command could demote you to a common soldier.”

  Caleb paused at the implied remark.

  Then Joshua said with a touch of levity, “As your Chief Commander, I order you to teach me this move.”

  Chapter 6

  Two years had passed for Arisha of Banias since she had been initiated into the sisterhood of nymphs. She had been trained to dance and to serve, but had not yet been given the full responsibility of a nymph.

  She had become quite close to the other women, who nurtured her and treated her with respect. Her mentor Sisa had much affection for her. Being seven years her elder, and not quite as fair of face, Sisa was impressed with Arisha’s maturity that seemed to exceed her age. She saw strength in her that she knew would cause trouble, so she taught Arisha to feign submission and keep her growing doubts hidden.

  What Arisha did not realize was the effect she had on Sisa, who had never been troubled before by such thoughts as those that buzzed around in Arisha’s head. She was contagious, and Sisa had been infected.

  Why would the satyrs teach them to reverence and worship the earth and all living things, then treat the humans under their care with such disdain and disrespect? If everything was created, why worship the created things? Would there not be one who was not created but
who created everything?

  But there was a certain logic to it. If you think that humans are like a disease on the earth, then it would follow that you would oppress them in the name of the higher sacred right of the earth. If you thought that the earth was not created to be a servant to humanity, but humanity was created to be a servant to the earth, then treating humans as servants and slaves would not be outrageous at all.

  Killing them might even be a good thing in this view. Perhaps this was also why the satyrs went to great lengths to protect the births of animals in the flocks but regularly caused miscarriages in her fellow nymphs, killing any infants that accidently survived.

  But Arisha was a human and she had never done anything terrible to the earth. Most of the people she knew were not like that either.

  What were they not telling her?

  She was grateful that Izbaxl was not that way to her though. He had always been kind and respectful toward her. He was different from the others. Maybe he would one day share his secret with her.

  And another thing perplexed her. The sexual coupling that they taught her to be a natural fulfillment of natural urges did not seem natural to her at all. Humans having sexual unity with animals, siblings with siblings, men with men and women with women, adults with young children and infants, everyone with everyone. It seemed to her that the only sexuality they discouraged was one man and one woman in an exclusive marriage relationship—the one coupling that seemed most natural to her.

  Which reminded her of her parents, and she would start to cry because she was not allowed to live with them anymore, and could only see them occasionally. But then Sisa would quiet her with a motherly affection and it made her pain a bit more bearable.

  She had to hide all her thoughts and questions. She was no scribe or wisdom sage and did not have the luxury of pondering and pontificating. She had to fulfill her duty and station in life.

  And she was fourteen years old now. It was time for her to become a sacred nymph.

  It was to be an evening of bacchanalia, a celebration of sensual enjoyment and indulgence. The sacred grotto was lit up with torches and set with a feast of every fruit, vegetable, edible root, and plant known to man and satyr. The farmers had been required to sacrifice from the best of their crops in order to provide a cornucopia of excess for the satyrs and royalty who lounged and played in the grotto this evening.

  And all of this played out before the golden statue of Azazel.

  They had also invited some Rephaim from nearby cities and villages. To Arisha, these were ugly giants who towered over everyone else and had ugly looking heads with reptilian gray skin, scary eyes, and extra fingers and toes.

  One of the things they hid from the villagers of Banias was the meat that they added to the feast. Rephaim were meat eaters and the satyrs were too. They just did not let the people know of their hypocritical behavior.

  It was not such a secret though. The villagers could smell the grilled scent of roasted pig, fowl, and other game that now filled the spread of food before the revelers. They had learned to live with hypocrisy as a value of their overlords. The elite always live by a separate standard more favorable to their vices.

  The music that filled the cavernous grotto was extravagant. Lute, timbrel, and percussion, washed over the audience like waves. The haunting vibrations echoed out into the surrounding countryside and could be heard miles away. Satyrs were not merely flute players with their pan pipes, they were accomplished musicians whose musical skills would have hypnotic effect, putting themselves and their audience into a trance of sensual abandonment.

  And it led to the dance.

  Arisha and several other of her virgin nymph initiates followed their sisters in the Sikinnis dance that now accompanied the erotic strains of the players.

  The Sikinnis was the dance of the satyrs. It was a mini-drama played out with passion, panic, and desire that would end in an orgy of sensuality. Arisha had learned and practiced its rhythms and movements for a long time until she had become one of finest of the new crop of neophytes. She always became the best at what she did. She was ambitious.

  And her ambition flowed through her now as she undulated with orgasmic fluidity. Her nubile young breasts and blossoming vulva could be seen through her transparent flowing dress, providing glimpses of desire for satyr, royalty, and Rephaim alike.

  Her makeup was exotic and extreme, another talent she had perfected to enhance her already flowering beauty. Arisha had matured quickly. Sisa had told her she was becoming quite the voluptuous siren.

  And she seemed to drive her audience wild. She was the obvious star of the dance. She commanded their souls. She controlled their desires.

  The dance reached a fevered pitch resulting in a frenetic climax that was the license for satyr, giant, and man to rise and imbibe their inflamed passions upon the nymphs.

  A group of men encircled Arisha tearing off their clothes with abandon. But a strong firm hand grabbed Arisha and stood protectively in front of her.

  It was Izbaxl, her savior. After all these years, she had never seen him so aggressive and bestial. It was as if a brute force had risen from deep within him. A satyr could be the fiercest of creatures with a hidden reserve of preternatural power. They could even induce panic in their adversaries. No one was going to violate his will at this moment. Unless they wanted to perish.

  Another satyr stepped up behind him, backing him up. It was Izbaxl’s brother, Xizmat. These two were ready to take on the mob.

  But Izbaxl’s grip tightened on her arm and began to hurt her. He barked at the crowd of assailants, “She is mine first. Then Xizmat’s. Then you may have your turn with her.”

  Arisha looked with fright at him, and whimpered, “Izbaxl?”

  But he did not dignify her with a response. He turned to her and grabbed her garments to rip them from her body. And she saw in his eyes a bestiality of indifference. As a predator looks at its prey before consuming it.

  And she suddenly knew it was his true nature. It was the true nature of the temple of lies that she had been living in.

  It was the true nature of the world around her.

  And it was evil.

  And evil raped her innocence that evening.

  Under the watchful eyes of the golden statue of Azazel, the god of Banias.

  • • • • •

  Some of the initiates from that evening had died from abuse at the hands of their violators. The survivors would be nursed back to health by their sisters with compassion and empathy, and return to their responsibilities as sacred nymphs as soon as possible.

  Arisha had survived. But barely. She had gone into shock at the trauma and had taken days before she came out of her comatose state. Sisa had tended to her with heartbroken pity as Arisha healed from the physical damage done to her body.

  But she was alive. She had survived. Underneath her beautiful femininity was a strong and unbroken will. She would not allow her abusers to have the last word. She would pick up the pieces of her shattered innocence and overcome their violence with victory.

  That fateful night had changed everything. Though she had no conscious memory of what happened, her mind was intruded upon by flashes of heinous moments like nightmares implanted into her brain. Monsters had violated her body. But she was determined that they would not violate her soul. She knew now that her intuition about this world was right. The Seirim were not her people, the satyrs were not her saviors, they were her captors and torturers.

  And she was going to escape them.

  She was just waiting for the right moment.

  Izbaxl had visited her to see how she was doing. He had returned to his kind and gentle self, and even sat with her at times, stroking her limp hands with soft affectionate concern.

  But he was not repentant.

  And she now understood the world.

  She knew now what he truly was, and what they all were, the satyrs; They were goat demons.

  She had prepared to take nothing w
ith her but a change of warm clothes for the desert nights, and a sacrificial dagger as both a tool and protective weapon. Sisa, her sacred nymph sister, had taught Arisha how to please her patrons’ every carnal desire, how to be a slave to the will of others. And that often meant some nymphs died as helpless victims of a patron’s evil fantasy or outbreaks of rage.

  But Arisha had never accepted that extreme. She had always maintained a small part of her soul for herself. It created a tension in her mind, like she was two people at war with her identity. One, a compliant slave who sought the acceptance and love of others through self-denial; and another, a sorceress, who determined to fight her way through to find the secret truth of the heavens and earth.

  The only problem was, she had never used a dagger. She had seen it used on the humans in the roots of Gaia, as well as on older nymphs at the altar before Azazel in the grotto. When nymphs became too old or too damaged by their patrons, they would be offered to Azazel in atonement. She had watched the life bleed out of their choking, gasping bodies. It had sickened her. The ritual was supposed to be done in secret, but her unstoppable curiosity had found her hiding out in the sanctuary area on forbidden nights when the satyrs engaged in their blood ritual.

  But she was not sure she would have the courage or skill to use the dagger should she need to.

  She had waited until it was late and everyone was asleep. In a day or so, she was about to be released back into the fold of nymphs to begin her sacred duties. She was not going to be around for that to happen. She was going to leave tonight.

  But she had not anticipated Izbaxl’s eagerness to see her again.

  In fact, he had already slipped into the nymph’s living quarters deep in the cave and was on his way to the healing area. He was going to release the lust that had been building in his mind as he awaited her recovery. He could not hold back anymore. He could not wait another day. He wanted her again. Tonight.