People of the Flood (Ark Chronicles 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  So, in the depths of the valley forest Beor urged his hounds to the attack, and he carried his flint-tipped spears in the crook of his arm. The barking dogs circled the dining monster.

  Old Slow swiveled his gargantuan head, with his eyes blazing like an enraged drunk. He roared, saliva spraying, the sound deafening. The hounds leapt back, barking even harder than before.

  Beor grimaced. The great sloth’s musk was sickening. The beast seemed invincible, peering down at him, and it had monstrously huge arms. In this forest glade, far from camp, Beor launched the first spear.

  Old Slow grew rigid, with the spear sticking in him. And for the first time in his life, he moved. A sweep of his arm knocked out the spear. Then it seemed as if he pounced. In actuality, Old Slow dropped from his upright position and onto all fours, and he clawed a dog to death.

  The rest of the hounds howled as two darted in to nip the beast from behind. Old Slow whirled to slash them. Beor heaved a second spear, but the flint tip shattered against Old Slow’s tough hide. Then there began a terrible dance of death. Old Slow shuffled on the sides of his feet. The frenzied hounds darted in to bite and slash with their teeth, although the shaggy hair combined with the nearly chain-mail strong skin made the hounds’ attack more irritating than deadly, although their wild barking distracted the giant monster. The spears hurled at close range hurt Old Slow, inflicting wounds that bled.

  Soon, Old Slow bled from six wounds. But five dogs lay dead or dying. And then Beor threw his last flint-tipped spear. With sweaty palms, he grabbed his special weapon. It was thicker, longer and had a heavy head of bronze. Grandfather Ham, the patriarch of the clan, had called it a pike.

  “Die, beast!” Beor roared.

  Old Slow roared back, and dogs worried his bloody pelt. Then eight thousands pounds of infuriated great sloth moved on two hind feet to the assault, his dagger-sized claws clattering. Like a giant drunk, he swayed and shuffled on the sides of his feet, swinging his shaggy arms.

  Beor drove the bronze point into Old Slow’s chest. The great sloth reared back, bellowing in agony. For a moment, Beor hung onto the pike, rising off the ground as the great sloth rose to his imposing height. Then Beor let go and rolled, and he scrambled on all fours behind the nearest tree.

  Old Slow stared at him with those hot red eyes, while his jaws worked as if he tried to speak. He took a tentative step. Then Old Slow toppled sideways, crashing to the ground.

  A month later, with his great sloth cap and the giant claws dangling on his chest, Beor drove a herd of sheep one hundred leagues to Japheth Clan. Beor was too anxious to wait until next year’s Festival. He sought out Tarshish, the son of Javan.

  Tarshish hungered for the sheep, yet like all Japhethites, he told Beor that first Europa must bless the marriage.

  The next day, shedding pike, hat and great sloth claws, Beor was ushered into a sprawling tent, partitioned with linen curtains. The sound of feminine laughter made him uneasy and caused him to wonder if they secretly spied him and mocked his baldness. Yet he squared his shoulders, determined to win over Europa, the matriarch of Japheth Clan.

  After a long wait, a curtain drew back and a young girl beckoned him deeper into the tent.

  He entered an area warmed by a heap of charcoal in a giant stone brazier. The charcoal glowed and radiated heat. Beside it, on a wooden dais and in a large cedar chair, sat Europa. The chair had intricately carved arms and a high backrest, practically a throne. Europa was swathed in flowing robes and had the whitest skin Beor had ever seen. Blue eyes gauged him, wise eyes measuring his worth. The matriarch of the Japhethites, said to be older than Grandmother Rahab, looked younger, with fair beauty for one approaching two hundred years of age.

  “Step closer, Beor.”

  That she knew his name made her seem even wiser, although he told himself it would have been a simple matter for Tarshish to have told her. Prepared for the meeting—this Japhethite custom was well known—Beor bowed and said, “I have a present for you, my lady.”

  “Have you now?” she said, studying him with even greater care.

  Beor forced a smile and, from his pouch, drew a fine copper pin. “I forged it myself, my lady. It is my best work.”

  She indicated he approach. And she took the pin from his massive hand, inspecting it. Then she set it on an armrest. “Have you taken refreshments?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Tell me about your journey, Beor.”

  He did, describing the various beasts he’d seen. And he told her how he had slain a lion, snatching a lamb from its jaws. Another time, he’d slain a bear.

  “You are brave.”

  “Jehovah gave me the courage,” he said.

  “Ah,” said Europa. “And it seems that you are well-trained, giving glory where it is due.”

  Beor smiled, with strong white teeth in a black beard. “My grandmother has seen to that.”

  “Rahab?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  Beor did, glowingly. He was fond of Rahab, and he honored Ham.

  Europa rose from her chair, stepping down from the dais, moving serenely to a stand. She poured from a stone pitcher, bringing him a cup of wine. She toasted, and they sipped.

  To his amazement, Beor found that Europa stood as tall as he did.

  “You’re a massive man, Beor, perhaps the biggest of your clan.”

  “Some say so, my lady.”

  “And you’re brave and courteous and honor your grandparents.” She smiled for the first time. It brought lines to her face but made her more beautiful. “You have the bearing of a king. Like many of your line, you strike me as exceeding resourceful. I like you, Beor.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Thus, I must ask you to reconsider this marriage.”

  His smile vanished. He appeared perplexed and groped for words.

  “I suggest rather that you court Hera, a girl worthy of a king, more in keeping for a man like you. Or, if not her, then choose Freya.”

  Beor bowed his head. “I appreciate your suggestion, my lady. Yet it was for Semiramis that I slew the great sloth and drove my sheep these hundred leagues.”

  “Semiramis is very beautiful,” Europa murmured. “And she has ambition. But I do not foresee good for you if you marry her. It will be a trial for you.”

  “You are wise, my lady, and—”

  Europa held up her hand. “No flattery, Beor, please. For I see that my words effect you not at all. You yearn for that which burns.” She set aside her cup and resumed her place on the cedar chair. “What if I said no?”

  Uncertain what to say, Beor swallowed, at last holding up his palms.

  “Hmm, quiet strength even.” She seemed sad, resigned. “I am reluctant to say yes, yet I think it is unwise to tell the great sloth slayer no. True nobility lies in you, Beor, power that it is dangerous to thwart. So I will grant your request, providing Semiramis agrees.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “We shall see,” Europa said. “For the end of a matter can never be seen at its beginning.”

  When told of the matriarch’s decision, Tarshish assured Beor that his daughter would say yes, which proved true. Thus, Semiramis became Beor’s second wife. The first had died of sickness several years ago.

  On his return home, Semiramis the Beautiful added to Beor’s luster. Beor, the strongest man on Earth, the greatest hunter and the wearer of the great sloth cap, now had the most beautiful wife. His father Canaan was proud and gained stature through Beor and a rise in clan leadership.

  Neither of them, however, counted on Kush’s dour lust for dominance.

  2.

  Kush loathed the curse of Noah almost as much as he hated the sons of Japheth. He seethed at the idea of being anyone’s slave, let alone of the man who had ruined his wedding. He was certain the curse was directed at all Ham’s sons. That by singling out Canaan, Noah had meant from the youngest to the oldest will be cursed.
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  “You must wait,” Deborah cautioned. “You must hide your feelings.”

  “I want to arm my brothers, march into Japheth’s camp and kill him as he stares at the clouds. My father’s right about one thing: Japheth and his clan are an airy band of dreamers and big talkers.”

  “They’re also cunning,” Deborah said. “I suspect that’s Europa’s doing. She taught them to think like kings. That’s why Gomer led you to his hidden club and goaded you into a fight.”

  Kush scowled and spat on the floor.

  Deborah rose from the kitchen table and wiped the spittle from the wooden planks. “You’re muscled and headstrong and tireless in a fight, my lord. But to pay back Japheth for his insult, you need patience and guile.”

  “Do you think I’m a fox or a weasel?” Kush banged his fist on the table.

  “You are lion, my lord. But even lions must step carefully if they walk through high grass slithering with vipers.”

  Kush regarded his wife, and he remembered his father had said that Deborah had guile, and that he should use her guile for the furtherance of the family. Kush knew he wasn’t as quick-witted as others were, that others laughed at jokes he didn’t understand. Still, anyone smarter than he was, like his Uncle Japheth or cousin Gomer, or even his sly brother Canaan…if they picked up clubs to fight, they would be the ones stretched out on the ground. Maybe others thought quicker, even deeper than he did—he scowled at the idea, hating it—yet there was one thing he did understand that some of the sharp ones never did. A wise man learned from those smarter than he was. So he told his wife, “Teach me guile. Teach me patience, and show me how to outwit the clever.”

  As the years went by, Deborah noticed Ham’s red eyes and that he often slept too late or disappeared early into his house. She noted, too, how Ham’s household depleted wineskins and beer kegs faster than anyone else’s did—this was in the years when Ham first hid his drunkenness. So she urged Kush to help his father, to relieve him of certain onerous tasks, especially those that took hard work. Kush excelled at hard work, and he gained the nickname: Kush the Ox. Through his seemingly eternal labor and the incremental passage of time, the duties of elder were borne in him and matured. Deborah bore him many children, and by the time their children married and bore them grandchildren, Kush had replaced his drunken father as the chief decision-maker. Early on, Deborah had counseled him to get her opinion before making decisions, and that keeping his mouth shut where others pontificated gave Kush the appearance of wisdom and added to his dignity.

  Then one day, after Deborah had sworn she was too used-up to bear any more children, she became pregnant again. This pregnancy wearied her more than the others. And in the fourth month of it, she worried about a choice Kush had to make. He worked hard in the fields, directing and helping clear an area of firs and underbrush. She feared because Canaan had gone with them, she believed, with the sole intention of urging Kush into a choice she didn’t approve of.

  So she went outside with the idea of walking to the clearing. But merely going outside winded her. She wasn’t the young beauty of yore, which galled her. Men no longer paid her heed, other than Kush, her children and grandchildren, but not in the ways of old, not in the way that men did to pretty, young maidens.

  Beside their log house stood an old oxcart, a simple platform of wood with two huge wooden wheels. Because she was in a hurry and oxen plodded so, she had two daughters hitch donkeys to the cart.

  “Should I go with you, Mother?” asked one. “You look peaked today.”

  Without answering, Deborah twisted a wide-brimmed hat onto her head, so the sun didn’t give her more wrinkles, and she settled onto the buckboard. The donkeys trotted out the settlement and onto a dirt track. She flicked the reins, wanting to get this chore over with now.

  “Hurry, you lazy beasts,” she shouted.

  They hurried. Then a wheel hit a rock, and the old oxcart, which had sat beside the log house for a reason, broke its axle. The oxcart skidded and tipped to the side, throwing a surprised Deborah. She saved herself by rolling, but one of the donkeys panicked. It kicked its back legs, and one of the hoofs clipped Deborah in the mouth.

  She flipped back, moaning. And in shock, she felt her mouth. Her two front teeth… in a daze, she crawled near the oxcart, and she saw her two front teeth lying in the dirt.

  She was bedridden for weeks. The loss of her two front teeth devastated her, and in her sorrow and self-pity, it made her bitter. Afterward, she only spoke with a hand in front of her mouth, or she spoke from behind a fan. She felt most comfortable, however, when she’d turned her back. She loathed the disfigurement. In time, she blamed Jehovah for letting it happen.

  Some thought later that this bitterness was imparted to the baby in her womb. In any case, five months after the terrible accident, Deborah bore a chubby, strong baby boy.

  Kush stood by the bed, silent and looking wise.

  Still sweaty from labor, Deborah nestled the baby in her arms, with her mouth pointed at his little head and out of sight of her husband. “You shall call him Nimrod.”

  Kush frowned. It was a husband’s right to give the name.

  Deborah had aged these past five months, and, worse for everyone, she knew it. “Do you wish to know what the name means?”

  Kush fingered his beard, which had already begun to turn white.

  She looked up at him.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  She looked at the baby’s head. “His name means Rebel.”

  “Why that?”

  She brushed Nimrod’s head. “He shall break Noah’s hold on humanity.” She rocked him gently. “At an early age, this one must go with you to your shrine.”

  Kush’s face remained impassive. At his wife’s insistence, three months ago, he had taken a grave step. She knew much about the Old World from Noah, but since her accident, she lusted to know more, to gain deep wisdom. The bene elohim… they had seen all that occurred in the Antediluvian Age. Thus, she had goaded Kush into gaining occult lore, into speaking with the dreaded dark powers, promising him that, through their secrets, he could gain his vengeance against the Japhethites.

  She now rocked her baby, crooning to her little rebel.

  Kush retreated from the bedroom, and he announced that he had chosen the boy child’s name: Nimrod, son of Kush.

  As Nimrod grew, his mother told him tales and stories of yore, the ones she had learned in the crook of Noah’s arm as a child and later at Noah’s side. But the twist, the accent of the stories was different. He learned about Killer Cain who had refused to meekly accept second place. Lamech of that line had slain a man for wounding him, and that Lamech had taken to himself two wives. Ymir the Nephilim found his way into the stories, together with the exploits of Slayers and Tubal-Cain, the king of Nod.

  At six, Nimrod became an avid hunter. He slung a rabbit for Deborah, begging her to put it in the cooking pot. Her praise sent him after other rabbits, crows, squirrels and foxes. If he saw it, and if he could creep close enough, Nimrod twirled the leather strings and let fly. At eight, his father gave him a bow and arrows with half-moon-blades. With the bow, he waded through ponds and the edges of lakes, bringing down ducks-on-the-wing, geese and swans. He loved it when swans died! Everyone commented how beautiful they were, how graceful and elegant. Not when they were dead, they weren’t. With grimy fingers, he dragged the swans through the dirt and to the cooking pot.

  Seeing this, Deborah urged Kush to accelerate the boy’s training. So Kush took Nimrod deep into the woods at night to sacrifice at the secret altar. It wasn’t as Noah’s altar, made of unmarked stones. Kush had cut each stone with a hammer and chisel, making them smooth. At his hidden alter, Kush had waxed in occult wisdom and had grown in the knowledge of the stars.

  “We will not be slaves,” Kush said.

  “Never,” eight-year-old Nimrod chirped.

  “We will rule. We will dominate.” Eerily illuminated by the altar-fire, Kush seemed like the personificati
on of determination. “You are a hunter, my son, a killer and a predator.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You must swear never to tell anyone about our secret offerings.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the time is not yet ripe,” Kush said.

  “When will it be?”

  “When we reach Shinar.”

  “Where?” Nimrod asked.

  Kush shook his head. “Your mother and I agree that you aren’t yet ready to learn about that.”

  At twelve, his parents gave him a javelin and he stalked deer, antelope and young auroch calves. At fourteen, Kush gave him a composite bow and trained him in the use of hounds. Soon thereafter, Nimrod dragged home a slain elk or the choicest cuts of a bull auroch. At fifteen, he noticed how people held Beor in awe. He questioned the big man, but found Beor reluctant to speak of it. Since that time, Nimrod swore to only hunt dangerous game and build a reputation like Beor. It was a vow about which his mother offered endless praise.

  3.

  At present, the Hamites lived in the Zagros Mountains, an upland hill country. Wheat, barley and flax grew in the cleared areas. Cattle, sheep and goats grazed on the slopes, while sturdy log cabins dotted the area, although the majority of the tribe lived in the log-walled settlement. Sheds stood past the creaking gate, while sheep milled in tiny, stone corrals. The extended families lived in long, rectangular houses with timber frames and wooden lattice walls coated with clay. Rows of posts supported the thatched roofs, and most had hearths.

  Ham sat in the back of his house as he brushed his beard with gnarled fingers—a beard much too gray. It had been forty-five years since Noah had cursed Canaan, forty-five years since he’d left the mountains of Ararat. Ham shook his head. His face was leathery, wrinkled far too much for a man a little over one hundred and twenty-three.