Ark

by J. J. Wilder

  “You are arrogant,” I said, each word crisp and clear. My attempt to get the upper hand only seemed to amuse him further.

  “Yes, I am. And you love it.”

  He kissed me hard and deep, right there in the street, and pinched my backside hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal. I cursed him, slapped him. My hand cracked loudly against his face, leaving a red handprint, drawing gazes and a few chuckles from passersby.

  He just laughed and rubbed his face. “Temper, temper, princess. You’ll draw attention, acting like that.”

  He drew me into a walk, then, and we went to his house and divested each other of our garments and lost ourselves in the now familiar dance of flesh on flesh.

  I thought the matter of my brother was ended.

  It wasn’t that day, nor the next, but nearly a full week later. Dawn, the sky just beginning to lighten from black to gray, the air sharp with cold, our breath frosting in the air as we wound our way from his house back to the palace.

  Less than fifty yards from the side gate through which I normally entered, we were confronted by a phalanx of Nephilim warriors. The captain stepped forward, a small, barrel-chested man with an oily, curled beard and a scar running from left eye to right mouth corner.

  “Japheth, son of Noah, son of Lamech, son of Methuselah. You will come with us.” He pounded his spear-butt into the ground, and the phalanx split apart and surrounded us in a neat, precise maneuver.

  I recognized the captain: he was my father’s personal bodyguard, and procurer—a title Father had given him; a grand sounding title, to be sure, but all it meant was Enkidu had the authority to snatch anyone off the streets and drag him before Father for “questioning,” meaning torture. Enkidu was a vicious, bloodthirsty monster who delighted in the shrill sound of screams and the salty tang of spilled blood. That he was here meant that Japheth had been identified to Father as a worshipper of Elohim. He hadn’t looked at me, yet, so perhaps . . .

  “And you, Princess Aresia.” He grabbed me by the wrist before I could even blink, a motion faster than I would have thought possible. “You, girl, are in trouble. Half the city has seen you with this human . . . this God-worshipper. Your father is ready to rip the city into broken bits, Highness.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Japheth fingering his sappara. I still had my left hand on his bicep, and I squeezed it, tried to beg him wordlessly not to throw his life away; even he couldn’t best this many warriors. He flashed me a fierce grin belied by the glittering hatred in his eyes. Lightning struck then, a bronze gleam in the early morning haze. The sappara buried itself in Enkidu’s neck, nearly severing it, and the hand on my wrist fell away. What a fool—brave and deadly, but a fool. This thing between us was not worth him dying.

  Before the rest of the soldiers could close in, I threw myself in front of Japheth, facing him. “Please, Japheth, don’t do this! I can reason with Father, perhaps get you freed. Don’t throw your life away. Not like this.”

  The soldiers hesitated, knowing their orders were to bring both of us alive. Father liked to torture his victims himself, so he would not be best pleased if Japheth was brought to him already dead. But Enkidu was lying slain in the sand, and they couldn’t let that go unrequited.

  “Move out of the way, Princess,” one of them said, gesturing with his spear. “Move aside, before you get hurt.”

  Japheth stared into my eyes, and I saw desperation in his gaze, something that went deeper. “I won’t be tortured, Aresia . . . not again.” Fear lived there, deep in his soul.

  I wondered what he meant . . . not again?

  I squeezed his hands in mine. “I won’t let that happen. Just go with them.”

  “You can’t stop your father. You know it as well as I.”

  “Japheth . . .” I was selfish; I could not watch him die. I should have moved out of the way, let my father’s men hack him to pieces, but I simply could not. “Please. Please.”

  He breathed in deeply, steeling himself, and dropped his sappara to the dirt. He moved away from me, and I could see panic warring with determination in his face, and I knew then that whatever we had was more than mere stolen moments of pleasure.

  The soldiers stepped forward, grabbed him, and dragged him away. One of them turned back to make sure I was watching, then raised the hilt of his short sword and smashed Japheth on the skull, loosing a ribbon of blood, and my handsome, blue-eyed human slumped in his captor’s arms, unconscious.

  The last I saw of Japtheth was his feet trailing in the sand, his Nephilim captors towering over him.

  The desperation I felt then went deeper than I had ever expected; sometimes, I think, we do not truly understand the depth of our own feelings toward someone until that person is taken away from us. Now that he was gone, his death imminent, I fully realized he meant far more to me than merely a source of forbidden pleasure. If that was all this was, I should not have cared if Father got his hands on Japheth. I might have argued for his life, of course, but . . . this?

  As Father’s personal guards dragged Japheth’s body away, I felt a hollow in the pit of my stomach, a panic in my heart, a blind, unreasoning fear in my brain.

  I knew what Father was going to do to Japheth, and the thought had my heart sinking, had everything inside me rebelling.

  I couldn’t let that happen. Not to Japheth. He’d done nothing wrong but give me what I wanted; why should he die for that?

  I sank back against the wall and prayed to Elohim, begging him to spare Japheth. I prayed to a god I didn’t believe in, but who seemed in that moment more real than any of the gods of my own people.

  I hadn’t meant to pray at all, really, the words merely poured out of me, unbidden: “Spare him, Elohim. Spare him.” The words were whispered aloud. “I do not worship you, because I do not know you. Perhaps you cannot hear my prayers because I am a Nephilim, but if you can, please . . . spare him. If you let him live, I swear to you I will worship you and you alone. Please.”

  I did not feel an answer, did not hear His Voice speaking to me. All I heard was the beating of my own heart, the scuffling feet of passers-by, the harsh cry of ravens and twittering of sparrows. Did He hear me, The One God? Do the prayers of one such as I matter to Him?

  A hand grasped my arm and pulled me into a walk. It was a soldier, barely more than a boy, his thin beard still scraggly and sprouting, his hand trembling. “You must come with me, Princess. Please.”

  Ha! A scared boy this was, afraid to lay hands on the princess. I snatched my arm from him, spat at his feet in contempt.

  “Do not dare touch me, you filthy pig. I will walk alone.” The boy just trembled harder, swallowed, and fell into step behind me.

  My father was furious, of course; I had not expected anything else. The boy-soldier led me through the gate into the palace, and I looked up, as was my habit, at the heads impaled there. Gruesome reminders of my father’s rage, those rotting skulls. Would Japheth’s skull soon adorn the gate next to the thieves and worshippers of Elohim? Ravens and crows fluttered in perpetual flocks, fighting for morsels, cawing for eyeballs and batting at each other with wings for strips of flesh. I had a vision of Japheth, one blue eye lifeless and still vivid, the other pecked clean, flesh cut ragged at the neck and bones showing in patches on his skull. My stomach turned at the vision, and I had to breathe deeply and swallow quickly to douse the urge to vomit.

  I could not, would not, let that happen.

  “Damn you, daughter!” My father’s voice rang out, the harsh boom echoing in the throne room, sending chills down my spine. “I’ve not asked much of you, Aresia. I did not marry you off when it would have benefited the kingdom. I have left you to your own devices, thinking you knew better than . . . than this.” He was no longer yelling, but hissing, whispering, which sent needles of fear spiking through me more than any bellowing.

  “I’m sorry, Father.” Short answers, I reminded myself. Don’t argue with him.

  “Sorry is not nearly enough. Not only do
I discover that you’ve been sneaking out of the palace and crawling around among those vermin . . . those humans . . . but you’ve been consorting with an Elohim worshipper? What else have you been doing? Prostituting yourself with the whores of Inanna perhaps?”

  He was incoherent, spitting mockery of the very goddess to whom he sacrificed every feast-day. He paced from wall to wall, slamming the butt of his spear into the polished stone floor with cracks resounding like thunder. He stopped in front of me, broad chest heaving, and spittle at the corners of his mouth, his eyes narrowed and glaring and incandescent with rage, his fingers tightening on the haft of his spear. My father was a frightening figure under the best of circumstances, standing six cubits tall—a full cubit taller than I, and close to three cubits taller than the tallest human—his arms and chest heavy with muscle even as his hair grayed with age. His flesh bore a maze of scars, which told the tale of many battles fought and won.

  In his anger he was utterly terrifying—a god made mad.

  I wondered if maybe he truly was mad—perhaps the centuries of war had loosed his brain in his skull . . . I did not know. I only knew I was more afraid of him at that moment than ever before. He looked perfectly capable of driving his fifteen-foot-long spear into my belly and throwing me off the balcony. Indeed, this was not fury; this was madness, pure and terrible. I tensed myself for a blow, for the stab of spear-blade.

  It never came.

  He turned abruptly and strode back to his throne, slumping down into the cushions and pillows. A goblet of wine was thrust tentatively into his massive hand, and he quaffed deeply. He was making me wait; this was a favorite tactic of his—the condemned would stand shaking in the coolness of the throne room, listening to the King’s breathing and wine-gulps and belching, all the while wondering what their fate was to be.

  “Bring him in,” my father ordered.

  I nearly fainted, for I knew what he planned. He would not punish me directly, but he would focus on Japheth instead. I wanted to weep at the thought, but I couldn’t . . . wouldn’t. I heard a door slam, then the scrape of dragging feet and the rattle of jangling chains. Two guards appeared from a side-entrance, Japheth between them. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth, his lips were puffed and split, his eyes bruised black. He was limp in the arms of his jailers. This was no act; Japheth was proud and would not feign weakness to glean sympathy.

  I couldn’t stop a tear from escaping, and I averted my eyes.

  Elohim, save him. Save him. The prayer crossed my mind unbidden.

  He was dumped at the bottom of the dais to lie motionless at my father’s feet. The king rose and knelt near Japheth’s head, grabbed a hank of hair and lifted him so Japheth’s swollen eyes met his. “Japheth, son of Noah . . . did you think I would not find out? I would slit your throat here and now, but that would be too quick. Your pain will teach my foolish daughter a lesson.”

  Japheth cracked an eye open, regarded my father with a bleary-eyed gaze, head wobbling. He drew a breath, moaned, planted his palms on the floor and pushed himself up. My father backed off, amused, watching as Japheth struggled to his knees, attempting to rise, only to fall back to the floor. Hands flat against the stone again, his breathing labored, blood and drool pooling beneath his chin, Japheth rose to his knees again, and this time stayed there, facing the king, staring up defiantly at the giant towering over him.

  “I curse you, Emmen, son of Dagon, son of Sargon.” Japheth’s voice was strong and unwavering, his words ringing clearly in the hall; he paused, wiped the blood from his face with a forearm. “You are a maggot before the will of The One God, and you will die like the insect you are, squirming in the mud. You will die, and all your might will not save you.”

  No one had ever, ever spoken to my father like that. There was an odd tone in Japheth’s voice, a hollow, absent note that somehow seemed familiar.

  It struck me in a flash: many years ago, when I was a girl still reeling from my mother’s death, there was an ancient human beggar woman that loitered near the gate to the palace. Old and tottering and blind and frail. Her eyes were clouded gray, her skin hung in wrinkled bags from her bones, and her hair was little more than a few, thin, lank, yellow-white strings. Kichu often used to walk with me to the palace gate, and sometimes just beyond, and he would buy me trinkets from gold sellers and toys from traveling merchants.

  He found the old beggar woman amusing, and would stop to converse with her. He would provoke her, I realized later, until she became irate and cast curses on him, calling down the wrath of her One God on him, prophesysing Kichu’s doom. Usually he laughed at her and mocked her but never caused her harm and would always toss her a coin before he departed. Once, however, her words did not amuse him, and I think he always carried those words with him; I know I never forgot them.

  She had begun with the usual curses, screaming insults and calling on Elohim to strike him dead. “Elohim will punish you,” she wailed. “You will not escape his wrath! Turn away, mighty prince! Silence your mockery!”

  Kichu had just chuckled at this and dug in a pouch for a coin. His hand was arrested midway, however, when her voice changed, and her blind eyes closed, her normally hunched back straightened and her head was thrown back, her mouth stretched wide in a rictus. Words had emitted from her, but they were not in her voice, and her lips had not moved as she spoke.

  “Death will find you, Kichu, son of Emmen, son of Dagon,” she had croaked, her voice low and echoing and guttural and not her own normal shrill shriek. “You will walk this earth for many years to come, and you will find victory among the fields of war. Your wives will bear you many sons and daughters, and you will rule over men. You will stride with arrogance, and life will taste as honey on your lips. But death will find you, and will replace the sweetness of life with bitter gall of tragedy. Death will roll down upon you; the skies will break open and rain horror upon you and upon your people. Your sons and your daughters and your wives will drown before your eyes, their heads will be broken upon the palace roof, and you will watch them die. Death will find you, and your mighty arms will not stay its touch. Call out to The One God for mercy, Kichu, son of Emmen, son of Dagon, for your death is certain.”

  Kichu had cursed in a whisper, striking the old woman with a fist and then dragging me back to the palace where he threw me into Irkalla’s arms. When I had seen him next, his eyes were haunted, and I knew then that the woman’s words had driven a dagger of doubt into his heart.

  Japheth’s words in that moment to my father sounded as that beggar woman’s had, so many years earlier. They were not spoken in his voice, but in the voice of prophecy, the words croaked and guttural and hollow and echoing with deep, thrumming power.

  My father was still for a fraught moment, and then he struck Japheth with the flat of his spear-blade, knocking him to the floor. “Your death will be slow,” my father said, just loud enough for me to hear. “I will make your agony last for days. I will rip out your fingernails. I will tear out your tongue with my bare hands. I will rip the skin from your bones and make a bowstring from your sinews. You will beg for death, and I will not give it to you. You will pray to your god for mercy, but he will not hear you.”

  Japheth only spat a gobbet of blood into my father’s face in response.

  My father placed the point of his spear against Japheth’s throat, drawing a pink spot of blood. I saw my father’s muscles tense, prepare for the push that would rip open Japheth’s neck.

  “NO!” I cried out. “Please, Father, no. I’ll do anything you ask, just spare him, please.”

  My father glared at me, put the butt of his spear against the ground, and regarded me, thinking.

  “Anything?” He smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

  I knew what he had in mind, and I nearly wept at the thought.

  He would marry me to Sin-Iddim, King of Larsa, the most vile man I had ever encountered. Raper of boys and women. Old and saggy of flesh, cunning and vain and cruel . . . and obsessed
with me. He had asked my father a dozen times for my hand in marriage, and always I refused. My father had not forced me to marry him up until now, because I was all he has left of my mother, for my brothers all came from different women, and my father loved none of them. He only ever loved my mother—she was most like the human woman Irkalla spoke of, I think, which was why he loved her, why he changed so much after he killed her: it was the only act he had ever regretted.

  A marriage between Larsa and Bad-Tibira would bring the two cities a more stable peace, and that was what my father wanted more than anything, as Larsa was the one threat to his reign. The two cities had warred intermittently for centuries, and a peace between them would be a valuable thing, to my father.

  Could I marry Sin-Iddim to save Japheth?

  Gods save me.

  The answer was slow in coming, with my father glaring at me, waiting.

  I prayed to The One God in desperation. Elohim, please. Tell me what to do. If you are the God your followers claim, then you can help me.

  I didn’t hear an answer in my mind. There was no voice of prophecy or gods whispering in my ear; I felt only a stillness in my heart, a knowing in my soul—Elohim had other plans for me.

  I knew what I would endure for the sake of loving Japheth.

  I knew, and I wept.

  3

  Filled With Violence

  “Now the earth was corrupt in God’s sight, and the earth was filled with violence.” Genesis 6:11 ESV

  Japheth watched as Aresia wept. He didn’t understand completely. All he knew was she was about to do something to save him, which would cost her greatly. No one had said what it was, but King Emmen-Utu and Aresia both seemed to know without having to put it into words.

  “So it is settled,” the King said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

  Aresia didn’t speak, only nodded, face buried in her hands. Japheth forced himself to his feet, desperate to comfort her. She shouldn’t save him; he wasn’t worth it.