People of the Flood (Ark Chronicles 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I don’t think you do know the story,” Nimrod said. “Gilgamesh, what happened?”

  Gilgamesh stopped coughing long enough to say, “Beor son of Canaan stalked a great sloth.”

  “And?” Nimrod asked.

  “Beor slew the great sloth,” Gilgamesh said. Stars glittered in the dark and the fire cast dancing shadows over the hunters and the background trees behind them.

  “Then?” Nimrod asked.

  Gilgamesh shook his head. “I don’t follow you, Nimrod.”

  “What if I said that I think Beor made up the tale? What if I said Beor was a great liar and had never slain a great sloth?”

  “Everyone’s seen his cap,” Gilgamesh said. He didn’t understand why Nimrod singled him out like this. All the other Hunters watched. They and he knew that his days were numbered in the Hunters. He just couldn’t seem to get well.

  “Ah,” Nimrod said. “That’s good, Gilgamesh. Perhaps you’re not as strong as some people are, but you think. Thinking is important. So tell me, what does the cap signify?”

  Gilgamesh’s eyes shone with delight. “Beor proved his deed by his great sloth cap.”

  “Exactly,” Nimrod said. “Just as we should be able to prove ourselves at a glance. Even more than that, we should be able to rank ourselves that way.”

  “How could we do that?” Uruk asked.

  “By our caps,” Gilgamesh said.

  Uruk glared at him. “What caps? I don’t see any caps.”

  “Like Beor’s cap,” Gilgamesh said. “He skinned the great sloth and wore its head like a totem. That way, everyone knew at a glance his prowess as a hunter.”

  Uruk scrunched his hairy eyebrow, a thick and singular one over small, narrowly placed eyes. “But we have no caps.”

  Several hunters laughed, until Uruk silenced them with a scowl.

  “We must earn them,” Nimrod said. “A hunter could only wear the head of a beast he’s slain.”

  Uruk thought harder. “That would be our rank?”

  “Yes,” Nimrod said, his smile gone and his eyes now intense on Uruk.

  “But I’m the strongest,” Uruk said, returning the stare. “So I should be ranked highest no matter what kind of silly hat I wear.”

  Everyone fell silent as Nimrod said, “Stand up, Uruk.”

  The big man did.

  “Does anyone doubt that Uruk is the strongest?” Nimrod asked in a quiet voice.

  No one spoke.

  “Gilgamesh,” Nimrod said. “Is Uruk the strongest?”

  The hairy man glared at Gilgamesh.

  “I think he might be,” Gilgamesh said, coughing.

  “Chamoth, do you agree?”

  “Yes, Nimrod.”

  In the crackling light of the campfire, the athletic dragon-slayer gazed on his Hunters. He was broad-shouldered and lean-hipped and his eyes were magnetic as he flashed his white-toothed grin. Beside him, Uruk hulked like a bull, hairy, dull and fierce-eyed.

  “It seems that you’re acclaimed the strongest,” Nimrod told Uruk.

  “I am the strongest,” Uruk said.

  “So you should be first?”

  Uruk shuffled his feet and scowled. “I’m the strongest. None can best me, although some may run faster and catch swifter game.”

  “Ah,” Nimrod said. “That’s good, Uruk. You’ve thought before you committed yourself, unlike the other day in the woods when you struck a girl, when you struck Opis.”

  Uruk glared at Gilgamesh.

  “I’m talking to you,” Nimrod said.

  Uruk turned hard eyes on him.

  “That was a foolish thing to do, Uruk.”

  “I’m a Hunter,” Uruk said. “I take what I please. You’ve said so yourself; that’s how we’re going to live. Are you a liar?”

  A tiny smile played on Nimrod’s lips. “I’m not a liar. I am Nimrod, and I am first. What’s more, I can prove it.”

  “Because you’re the dragon-slayer?” Uruk asked.

  “No,” Nimrod said, “because I’m going to thrash some sense into you.”

  For a moment, Uruk said and did nothing. Then he roared and charged, with his head down and his mammoth hands outspread.

  Nimrod sidestepped, clouting Uruk a heavy blow to the head. Uruk staggered, and Nimrod leaped behind him, twisting one of the thick arms. Uruk bellowed, and Nimrod tripped him, throwing Uruk onto his belly and pushing his face into the dirt as he jerked the arm cruelly behind the broad back.

  Uruk gnashed his teeth as he struggled.

  Nimrod jerked the massive arm harder.

  Uruk groaned and his face paled.

  “Should I break it?” Nimrod asked.

  “No, no,” Uruk said.

  “Are you a fool?”

  “I am,” Uruk said.

  “You will not harm Hamite girls, Uruk. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Nimrod held tight as sweat pooled on Uruk’s heavy features. “Now, tell me this, friend. Who is first?”

  “You are,” whispered Uruk.

  “Louder. Let everyone hear.”

  “You are first, Nimrod! You are first!”

  Nimrod let go, leaping to his feet.

  Uruk rolled over, eyeing him narrowly as he panted.

  “Do you still wish to become a mighty man?” asked Nimrod. “Do you still wish to make a name for yourself that will shine throughout the ages?”

  Uruk stared at the surprised, frightened faces around him. He stared at Gilgamesh watching openmouthed. Uruk looked to Nimrod and nodded.

  “Then take my hand and know that Nimrod admires your valor and your fierce rage. Those are good things.”

  Uruk reached up an outsized paw.

  Nimrod gripped the big hand, and his eyes flashed. “As long as you also realize that I am first.”

  “Nimrod is first,” Uruk said.

  The athletic dragon-slayer drew the big man to his feet, slapping him on the back. He turned to the others, missing Uruk’s look of hatred at Gilgamesh. “Tomorrow we’ll be hunting for totems,” Nimrod said.

  2.

  The months passed. Beor healed slowly and eventually moved back into his father Canaan’s house, although Hilda remained with Rahab. And Ham, who had secretly vowed to slow his drinking, came over one day as Miriam brewed beer.

  The recipe for the amber liquid was already ancient. In earthen jars, Miriam first soaked barley until it germinated and began to sprout. Then, like other brewers, she nibbled select grains, testing for sweetness, and at the right moment, she spread the sprouted seeds out to dry. This was the most vulnerable point of beer making, when any brewer had to keep a close watch over the greenmalt.

  Soon, Miriam crushed the malted grain, flavored it with secret spices and honey, and pressed it into malt bread. With a shovel, she next mixed it in a pit with sweet aromatics. After that, she mixed hulled grains with the malt-bread and warmed it in a slow oven until she judged the texture just right. The goodness or sourness of a batch depended on this judgment. The readied mash she spread on a large cooling mat, adding to it in order to aid fermentation. Then she poured water into a vat and added the mash. The vat had a perforated base, and the water-mash mix, the beer, dripped into a second pot below the first, which contained the finished prize.

  Miriam caught Ham listening to the dripping beer in the brewery shed, and although he at first declined, he left finally with several jugs.

  His conscience reminded him of his secret vow, and at first, it was only a cup of beer to help him sleep at night. Then the thirst tormented him. So he sat with Zidon and swapped stories, letting his grandson fill his cup as they bragged about their dragon-killing exploits. Finally, one day, he took a jug and guzzled until he was roaring drunk.

  Rahab scolded him for yelling at Hilda while drunk. The young dear had fled weeping into her room. Ham knocked when sober and told Hilda he was sorry. She smiled and kissed him on the forehead. The second time Rahab said nothing and Hilda told him it didn’t matter, s
he was used to being yelled at. The third time, Hilda moved back into Canaan’s house.

  “I didn’t yell at her,” Ham said.

  “No,” Rahab said. “But once you started on your first cup, Hilda said it would be better if she moved back. She said her father missed her and that even Semiramis had asked him when she was coming home. So, while you sang, I helped her pack.”

  Ham’s head ached, and he felt wretched. He shuffled into his workroom and picked up his latest piece of ivory. As he carved, the stiffness left his fingers. For several minutes, keen concentration kept his mind blank. Then contrary ideas seeped in about poison, Beor, Semiramis, Hilda and his inability to stop drinking. He began to turn maudlin. Fortunately, a knock brought him around.

  “Husband,” Rahab said, peeking in. “Nimrod would like a few words with you.”

  Ham straightened his clothes and limped into the sitting room. “Nimrod!” he said. He tried to recall the name of the slight youth with him, a pale, fine-featured boy, who wore a wolf-cap and couldn’t stop coughing.

  Ham snapped his fingers. “Gilgamesh.”

  “Yes, Great Grandfather.”

  Ham couldn’t remember who Gilgamesh’s father was. So he simply said, “How’s your father?”

  “My father?” Gilgamesh squeaked.

  “Rosh is his father,” Rahab said. “You remember. The dragon slew him.”

  Ham cleared his throat, patting the boy’s shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry. Rosh was a good man.”

  Gilgamesh looked stricken.

  Ham sat across from them and wished somebody would change the subject.

  Nimrod did, telling him the Hunters were off on a western expedition. “But, before we go, I wanted to give you this.” Nimrod passed over a leather-wrapped object. Ham showed Rahab.

  “A present,” she said. “How thoughtful. What’s the occasion?”

  “Open it,” Nimrod said.

  Ham untied the strings and withdrew a dragon tooth with a leather thong so he could wear it. He held it up for Rahab as he thanked Nimrod. They chatted as Nimrod expounded on the purpose of the Hunters. Finally, the two young men said they needed to get ready, hugged Rahab and shook Ham’s hand and left.

  “Will you look at this,” Ham said, handing over the dragon tooth.

  Rahab handled it gingerly. “I’m very proud how you helped slay the dragon. Everyone saw how brave you were.”

  Ham slipped the thong over his head, laying the tooth on his tunic. “I really didn’t do anything, just a bit of driving around.”

  “Just driving around with a dragon breathing on you, and mixing the brimstone that killed it. No,” Rahab said. “Not much at all.”

  “I still haven’t gotten a clear answer from Kush, whether any brimstone is left. Maybe I should talk to Canaan about it.”

  Rahab chewed her lip.

  After a hundred years of marriage, Ham recognized the sign. “What is it?”

  “I know you’re fond of Nimrod, and it was polite of him to give you a dragon tooth. But I suspect the real reason was politic.”

  “Regarding me?” Ham asked. “The elders make the decisions.”

  “That’s not completely true. You know it makes everyone feel easier if you agree with Kush and Canaan.”

  Ham adjusted the tooth. “Are you saying I didn’t earn this? That Nimrod gave it to me to keep me… happy?”

  “Of course you earned it,” Rahab said. “And yet, doesn’t Nimrod make broad statements by the very act of handing them out?”

  “His father approves.”

  Rahab hesitated. “I wonder if the tooth is idolatrous.”

  “Huh?”

  “They call it a totem.”

  “This?”

  “A totem, Ham. In the Old World, they were filled with magic. We both know what Jehovah thinks of magic.”

  “This isn’t magic.”

  “It isn’t used that way yet.” Rahab sat beside him. “Maybe if our children prayed more, worshipped Jehovah more, I wouldn’t be so worried.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You should teach our children how to worship, how to pray.”

  Ham could envision his children laughing at him as he tried to lead them in prayer. “Here,” they might say, “have a mug of this while you’re at it.”

  He stood, nodding sagely.

  “I’m serious, Ham.”

  “I agree in principle. You know I do.”

  Rahab folded her hands, and after a moment, she nodded. “Thank you, Ham.” With a sigh she rose, picking up cups and dishes and heading into the kitchen.

  3.

  For forty-five years, Rahab had tried to hold the sprawling clan together, ever since that fateful day Noah had cursed Canaan. She lay awake at nights much too often, and she prayed then, seeking Jehovah’s wisdom.

  The Hunters… she frowned the next day as she boiled beeswax in a pot over the hearth. The honey had already been extracted from the honeycomb, leaving just the wax. She added another lump and waited with a wooden spoon. As wax rose, she ladled it into a jar. Later, she would melt the beeswax again and filter out more impurities. Then, melting the wax a last time, she would first place flaxen string into the middle of a mold and pour the beeswax around it. Once the wax cooled, she’d pry out the new candle and repeat the process until either the wax or the roll of flax string ran out.

  The shutters hung open, and a cool breeze admitted the settlement noise of children screaming as they played tag outside. The screaming entered the house, a boy chasing a girl. Hilda burst into the hearth area, with young Enoch hot on her heels.

  “Oh my,” Rahab said. “What’s going on?”

  They skidded to a halt, sweaty and laughing, the boy dipping his head, and Hilda curtsying.

  “We’re playing tag, Great Grandma,” Hilda said.

  “Are you it?” Rahab asked.

  “No, Enoch is. He can’t catch me.”

  “Tag!” screamed Enoch, slapping her back and darting out the kitchen laughing like a madman.

  Hilda hugged Rahab. “Thank you for letting me stay before.”

  “Is your father feeling better?”

  Hilda’s features hardened with concentration. “I’m not sure. He yells more.”

  “Yells?”

  “At… He yells at Semiramis.”

  Rahab, who had begun to ladle rising beeswax, regarded Hilda.

  “I know I should call her Mother. At least everyone says I should.” Hilda fidgeted. “She doesn’t treat me like a mother.” Hilda looked even more cross and stared at the floor. “I’m not supposed to say that.” She looked up. “You won’t tell, will you?”

  “Tell who, darling?”

  “Semiramis. Mother!” Hilda corrected. “I mean my mother, or step-mother.” Hilda’s face threatened to crumple into tears.

  “Of course I won’t tell.”

  “Thank you, Great Grandma. And I promise not to come running in here anymore.”

  “But I want you to.”

  Hilda blinked. “You do? You’re not just saying that?”

  Rahab’s mouth firmed. “Did somebody say you were bothering me?”

  “Uh…”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Do you promise you won’t tell?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Semiramis did. Is it all right if I don’t call her mother?”

  Rahab studied the young dear, who clutched the front of her dress, leaning her weight from leg to leg. “You have to listen to your parents, my dear.”

  “I know,” Hilda said, hanging her head.

  “But while you’re with me—just the two of us alone—then you can call her Semiramis.”

  Hilda brightened, and it seemed as if tears of happiness would spill.

  Anger bit into Rahab, that such a simple action could bring such strong reactions. “I love you, Hilda. And I love it when you visit. You must promise to come over tomorrow and the next day after that.”

  “I will, Great Grandma.” H
ilda smiled. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why does Semiramis put on perfume only in the afternoon? She smells beautiful then. But as soon as she comes home, she soaps herself thoroughly, washing off the nice smell.”

  “Maybe I’ll have to ask Semiramis tomorrow when I take a stroll.”

  “You won’t tell her I said it?”

  “Of course not, dear.” Rahab caught movement by the door and smiled at the sight of little Enoch peeking around the corner. “I have to finish boiling the beeswax. So why don’t you go play with Enoch, and come and see me again tomorrow.”

  “I will,” and Hilda turned and leaped at Enoch.

  He screamed in delight, dashing away. Hilda sprinted after him and out of the house.

  Rahab ladled wax into a pot, and her features grew stern.

  4.

  Tall Semiramis whistled off-key as she strolled along the forest trail. Her dark hair shone luxuriously. It had been fixed into curls so they framed her face. She wore a yellow dress that swished around her knees and soft deerskin boots that reached as high. The sway of her hips always turned heads, while the bewitching power of her green eyes…

  As she wiped a cobweb from her shawl, Rahab stepped out of the underbrush, with two hounds beside her.

  Semiramis halted wide-eyed. “What are you doing out here, Grandmother?”

  “Me?”

  The wind whispered, rustling leaves. A few songbirds trilled, while a lone cloud drifted overhead. “Surely you’re not out here alone,” Semiramis said.

  Rahab’s wrinkled hand settled on the head of the nearest hound, a shaggy dog with a wolfish snout. She stood only as tall as Semiramis’s shoulders.

  “Are you lost?” Semiramis asked, with insincere-sounding worry.

  “No. But I wonder if you are.”

  Semiramis’s features sharpened as if someone had slapped her. She looked about again, and she nodded briefly as if to herself.

  “I sent Nimrod home,” Rahab said.

  “Did you now? What was he doing out here?”

  “He waited nearby,” Rahab said, “just leaning against a tree, doing nothing.”