Kole reached the fully-grown cow and turned around to watch the men. They came to a stop even though they were still fifteen or twenty cubits away from him. Kole smiled and seemed to be singing to himself. Irad was turning purple with livid rage. How dare this unknown upstart challenge his authority. He should have caught him himself and cut him down mid-stride. “What are you waiting for?” he yelled at his men.
“Yes, what are you waiting for?” Kole asked quietly to the men who had chased him. They did not say a word nor move an eyelash.
“These animals are ours,” said Kole, “and you will not have them. You were invited to share in this abundance but your pride has insured that you will go hungry tonight. When you return home all your food will be spoiled. Your children will cry for bread but there will be none. Your babies will hunger for milk but every breast will have dried up. Your water will taste bitter in your mouths and your lips will crack from the lack of it. Your women will curse you and the bowels of your animals will loosen. This night for you will stink, in more ways than one, unless you turn to the Lord and repent of this violence that you have conceived in your hearts. Now go, return to your brethren.”
The men came out of their stupors and began to mill around, two of them turning to walk back toward Irad, who was watching with disbelief, the others trying to fight the softly spoken command that Kole had just given them.
Kole turned around and faced the dead hrak. He tucked his horn into the belt that he wore, bent down, and grabbed the animal by its front and back legs. With little more than a grunt, he lifted the huge animal up into the air and swung him up over his head. He balanced the animal on his shoulders with the legs hanging down over his chest. The animal had been gutted but not skinned. The blood of the hrak had smeared across his face, neck, and shoulders when he had lifted it and it gave him a wild, dangerous look. With a final glance at the wasted innards that were left to lie, he walked back toward the groups of men.
Not a word was spoken. No man present could believe what they were seeing; that a man alone could lift a fully grown hrak. It was impossible. The animal weighed at least as much as ten or twelve grown men. Kole walked up and stood before Irad. He said nothing.
The man from the city of Enoch swallowed his fear and hid it beneath his well-polished bluster. “Very impressive trick,” he said, in a surprisingly controlled voice, “but I don’t believe I know you, sir. What is your name?”
Kole answered, with carefully measured firmness. “No, I don’t believe you do know me, sir.”
Taken aback but nonetheless defiant, Irad used his words to push at Kole again. “I am not impressed by this act. Standing there as if that animal weighed no more than a goat. Clearly your legs are about to buckle and your spine to crack. You are strong, I will give you that, but you are no match for my men and their weapons. You and yours are outnumbered by superior hunters and you will give us what we want.”
“Will we?” said Kole softly, shutting his eyes.
“We will take what we want,” said Irad, “whether you give them to us or not. And since you have caused us so much trouble today, we will take your women too. They will make fine wives for our sons, after we’ve taught them a lesson or two of course. After this day, the sons of Adam will remember never to resist a command from the…”
Irad’s voice faded out as he finally saw what the rest of the people standing around him saw.
“Lions,” someone whispered.
Behind Kole, streaking with inhuman speed like two yellow blurs of motion and teeth and claws were the two lions, who had apparently eaten what they wanted from the hrak that they had killed and now had a taste for human flesh. The men all backed up a step or two and watched as the two lions shot through the grass directly at them. They did not crouch or prowl or stalk. They were in full kill mood and they came across the valley floor like bolts of amber lightening.
An evil grin touched Irad’s lips. Kole could not see the lions but the lions could see him. He was the closest one to them and stood there defenseless with a dead, bloody hrak draped across his shoulders. He could not run, and he could not fight. This was going to be good, thought Irad.
“I believe you have made your last mistake, stranger,” said Irad wickedly.
“Do you?” said Kole.
Every eye watched the approaching feline hunters. Kole stood apparently oblivious to their approach. Irad was eager to see the look of surprise on his face that he would wear for only moments before he was torn apart.
The lions were close, twenty cubits, ten. One of the women screamed. The lions leaped into the air and landed at the same time, one on either side of Kole, two snarling, growling, hissing dignitaries of death.
“As you can see,” said Kole in a soft voice, barely loud enough to be heard over the hungry snarling of the cats, “these particular lions are not here for me.”
Irad could not hide his fear this time. He stammered something unintelligible before finally uttering, “What manner of devil are you?”
“Whatever I am, I am the Lord’s,” said Kole. “And He does not sit idly by while evil pursues those He has chosen. Now go, while there is yet time. Take your men and flee to your houses. There will be no sleep for you tonight. No peace. You will not rest until the meat from these three hraks has been entirely consumed. You had best pray tonight that we do not choose to salt and smoke it for later.”
Irad and his hunters just stood there.
“Go,” said Kole, raising his voice and putting power into it.
The men looked around at each other, confused by this sudden reversal of fate. The two lions stood up on all fours and roared simultaneously, a sound that wrings the fear out of a man’s bowels.
They ran.
Irad was far across the valley when his voice rang out one last time. “This is not the end,” he threatened. “We will come for what is ours. We will come to your camp and kill you in your sleep. We will take your food, steal your children, and abuse your women. We will burn your houses and desecrate your bodies. There will no longer be peace between the city of Enoch and the camp of Adam.”
Kole nearly stopped himself from responding but thought better of it. “We have left a gift for the scavengers, Irad. Take the innards of this beast home with you. They are there by your feet. Perhaps if you have the guts, your own women will not despise you.”
Irad could think of no reply. He spat on the ground, turned, and ran after his men.
Jorel, Aben, Lamesh, Shad, and all the men and women with them stared at Kole in wonder and awe. Kole turned to the two lions and spoke to them in soft tones. “You have done well, noble creatures and you are blessed. This valley where pride has been the seed of so much grief will become for you an identity. You will wear it for the children of the Lord. Forevermore your families will be called ‘prides’ and you shall strike fear into the hearts of all who hunt you. Guard this valley and hunt in it. It belongs to you as much as to men. Be swift and strong and fearless, for you are a tool in the hand of your Creator.”
Kole sighed and turned to his brothers. “Let’s go home.”
Lester’s eyes hurt. He finished the journal and set it down. He sat stunned for a minute, overwhelmed. So hard to compare this antediluvian superhuman Kole with his down-to-earth friend Al. That someone like Kole could even be real, much less meeting him for lunch tomorrow just blew his gaskets. He rubbed his eyes, bleary and red-rimmed, they felt like ash. He picked up his miracle cigarette and took a drag. This thing is gonna save me a lot of money, thought Lester, letting the smoke drift out of his mouth and back into his nostrils.
At some point while he had been reading it had started to rain. He hadn’t heard a thing. He looked over at the window and thought he saw someone duck out of sight. What the heck? Lester stood up and walked quickly into the kitchen, his heart racing. Beside the refrigerator was his emergency baseb
all bat and he picked it up. He walked over to the front door and turned on the outside light before opening it. He leaned out and was glad that he had a bit of an awning over the porch. It was pouring. There were already several large puddles lining his gravel driveway. He looked down alongside the house but saw no one. He stared into the hydrangea bushes and pampas grass, half hoping not to see someone crouched there, and he didn’t.
Must have been my imagination, he thought.
Down the street a car started up and drove away. He watched the red taillights, blurred from the rain, as they receded into the distance. The thought crossed his mind to get a flashlight and look for footprints in the mulch under the window, but then a gust of wind blew the rain in under the shelter of the eave and it was cold, too cold to worry about putting on shoes and a coat to satisfy his curiosity. “Probably just kids messing around” he muttered.
Closing the door and locking it, he glanced up at the wall clock and noticed it was nearly three-thirty in the morning. “Sheesh, I gotta get some sleep.” He didn’t have any window-cleaning jobs lined up for the next day, which was good. He wanted to spend tomorrow talking to Al. He had so many questions.
Ever since working at the carwash as a teenager Lester had honed his talent in the service industry. Now as a self-employed window washer, he had built up a steady clientele of regular residential customers. But the weather outside this time of year had started to change and business had slowed down. He probably wouldn’t have too much work again until it got a little closer to Thanksgiving. Everyone wanted clean windows before the family get-togethers. It looked like it might be raining all day anyway so he justified not feeling guilty about it. He set his bat back in its place and walked into the living room. He cleared his dishes and picked up the journal, put it in a bag, and hung it on a hook beside his coat. He turned around and stared at the cigarette in the ashtray.
“Man, I’m not putting that baby out,” he said, taking the ashtray and all into the kitchen. He set it on the counter in a spot where he was sure there was nothing else flammable and marveled at the cigarette once again. It looked as if it had only just been lit, barely burned up at all.
“Good night, Mr. Cigarette. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He turned out the kitchen lights and walked down the hall to his room. Two minutes later, he was asleep.
Morning came one minute later. At least it seemed that way to Lester. He rolled around under the sheets, bunching the pillow up over his face, trying unsuccessfully to pretend the sun had not risen. At last he dragged himself off the edge of the bed and half sleepwalked into the bathroom where he splashed water on his face. Refreshed, he brushed his teeth and relieved himself, going through his morning routine on autopilot. He was pulling on a fresh pair of drawers when he smelled smoke. Instantly he was wide awake.
Lester ran down the hall into the kitchen. It was definitely smoky. He looked around to see what was on fire and noticed the cigarette still sitting lit but unburned in the ashtray. A thin column of smoke rose up from the cherry on the end of it, curling around itself in whorls and meringue crenelations of white vapor. With no windows open the soot-smelling fumes had nowhere to go and had filled up the house. Lester turned on the range hood fan and was intrigued to see the smoke in the room alter its course as it was expelled from the house.
“A magic cigarette is one thing,” he said, “but I’m going to have to leave a window open.”
The phone rang
“Hey, Les, get any reading done last night?” Al asked when Lester answered it.
“Quite a bit actually,” he replied. “I’ve got a million questions.”
“Save ‘em,” said Al. “Meet me for lunch around one.”
“Sure. Where?”
“How about that new vegetarian place downtown, Peaceful Greens. I’m feeling like an omelet.”
“That’s funny because you sound like a ham sandwich.”
“Oh, you crack me up.”
“Are we gonna’ do egg puns all day?”
“Beats me.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Eggsactly.”
Lester hung up the phone, shaking his head, and let out a belated laugh. Good old Al. Nothing gets past him. Come to think of it, an omelet did sound good. Lester glanced up at the clock—a quarter after twelve already. He started the coffee and dressed quickly. He poured himself a travelling cup of black adrenaline, made sure he had the bag with the journal, his wallet, watch, glasses, and house key before leaving, then opened the front door. It was windy out, but the rain had stopped. Good, thought Lester. Leaving the front door open to air out the place for a few seconds, he went back into the kitchen and grabbed the cigarette. “Can’t forget you,” he said to it.
Lester decided to walk the sixteen blocks to the restaurant. It feels good to stretch my legs and get a little exercise, he thought as he puffed on his smoke. Let the lungs fill up with some nature. Let the heart rate rise a little, get the old, cold blood pumping. There weren’t too many people out on the gray overcast day, and when Lester finally reached the diner he looked in the windows before going inside. The place was empty.
There was a no smoking sign on the door. “Oh great,” he mumbled to himself. He set the cigarette on the ledge below the huge, plateglass windows and went inside. He found a little table for two tucked into an alcove up near the front windows, and when the waiter came around to take his order he asked for a menu. The place was Spartan but clean. Each table had a sage-colored cloth on it and a vase of fresh flowers. The floor looked recently refinished, herringbone parquet made from a natural rich, oak wood, inlaid with squares, triangles, and lozenges. The chairs were all of different styles from the late 1950s but had been reupholstered in vibrant, primary colors. Local artwork was tastefully hung on the walls and soft jazz played from hidden speakers.
Nice place, thought Lester.
He ordered the signature scramble for himself and Al, omelet-style with mushrooms, green pepper, and olives, and two glasses of cranberry juice. The waiter had just walked away when the silver bell above the entrance rang and Al walked in.
“Six thousand years of unblemished health and now I think I might have a stroke,” said Al, sinking into a chair.
“What?”
“You got here before me. You must have been hungry.”
“Famished.”
Al had his black, leather satchel with him. He took it off his shoulder and unzipped it.
“I like your purse,” joked Lester.
“I believe the modern vernacular is ‘murse.’”
“Well, it’s kinda gay,” said Lester.
“Happy?”
“Queer.”
“Odd?”
“Homo.”
“Human?”
“Forget it,” Lester surrendered.
“Forgotten. Did you bring back my journal?” asked Al.
“Got it right here,” said Lester, picking up the plastic grocery sack from the floor and handing it to Al. Al grimaced and pulled the journal out of the bag.
“Very classy.”
“Well, it won’t be confused with a murse, that’s for sure.”
“Touché.”
“By the way,” said Lester, “there were a couple of pages missing from it. Torn out. I just didn’t want you to think I did it.”
“What? Where?” asked Al, a genuine look of alarm on his face as he flipped open a journal.
“Near the middle, I think.”
“Oh, that, yes,” said Al, turning to the spot and clearly relaxing, “that’s nothing.”
“Nothing? How can you say that’s nothing? Did you tear ‘em out?”
“Yeah, but I’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?”
“Tearing them out. Alright, look. I was a
bit ashamed of what they said. You read the journal.”
“Yeah,” answered Lester, even though Al hadn’t phrased it as a question.
“Well, that was the part where I wrote down some of the things I’d said while I was praying. Things I shouldn’t have said. I was angry when I said them and I was trying to be true to myself when I wrote them down. But later when I went back and read what I’d written, it sickened me. To be reminded so starkly of my shortcomings and failures made me despise my base-nature. Which is not to say that that is a bad thing. Everyone needs to come to that point. But when I realized, hoped, that one day someone might read my words, it was just too much. I think you can still get the gist of the prayer without all the gory details.”
Lester nodded, letting Al off the hook, and the waiter appeared.
The plates that he set in front of them were beige and square-shaped. The food on them was artistically displayed, colorful, and steaming hot.
“Oh, wow, you ordered for us. This looks great. Thank you,” said Al as he looked up at the waiter.
“My pleasure, gentlemen. Enjoy.”
Al bowed his head for a moment and then the two men were silent as they took their first bites.
“Oh, this is delicious.”
“It does hit the spot,” said Lester.
They ate a few more bites before something clicked in Lester’s brain that had been nagging him for the last several minutes.
“Hey, Al, can I ask you a question?”
“I assumed that was why we were here.”
“Yeah, but this question isn’t one that I had thought to ask until just now.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Bang.”
Al just sat there and looked at him, as if the old joke was just that. Old.
“Alright, well, it just seemed like when I told you there were a couple of pages missing you overreacted. I mean, I understand that you forgot that you tore the pages out yourself, but you seemed like you thought maybe someone else had done it. You seemed worried.”
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