The mean-eyed grandson, the one fingering his knife, glared at Ham. Kedorlaomer merely leaned back on his stool to give Ham another look. “Yes…” Kedorlaomer said. He turned back to Noah. “As I was saying, such a mighty ship as this shouldn’t be so plain. It needs… Well, for instance, sir, how will it see?”
“What?” Noah asked.
“It has no eyes,” Kedorlaomer said. “The galley master on the Pishon River had eyes painted on his ships, even the ugly barges—Not that your barge is ugly, sir.”
“No,” Noah said.
“Its titanic size gives it a strange grace all its own. But as I was saying, sir, the galley master explained to me that all ships must be able to see. They are living things, I was told. And as we crossed the Pishon and I felt the ship move under my feet, why yes, I realized that it was indeed alive. Now for your ship, sir, painted eyes are much too ordinary. May I thus recommend two flawless rubies, huge gems that I’m sure you’ll agree would work very well as eyes.”
Like a magician of Nod, Kedorlaomer opened his hand to reveal two huge rubies. They glittered with a bloody, red color and were as big as chicken eggs.
Cousin Jubal sucked in his breath.
“Envision these as the eyes of the ship, sir,” Kedorlaomer crooned, clacking the rubies together. “Oh, then you would need never fear any collisions, sir. Your ship would see every danger and avoid every shoal.”
“They’re beautiful,” Cousin Jubal whispered.
“Indeed,” Kedorlaomer said. To Noah he said, “Surely these belong on your ship, sir.”
Smiling, Noah said, “No, no, I’m afraid not.”
“But to just paint on eyes, sir, that—”
“There won’t be any eyes,” Noah said.
“What?” Kedorlaomer asked. “No eyes?”
Noah shook his head.
“Then what of you, sir?” Kedorlaomer asked Jubal. “You seem like a man of taste.”
“Could you loan me the money?” Jubal asked Noah.
Noah shook his head.
“Uncle,” Jubal said. “I-I promise I’ll pay you back first thing. I-I need those rubies.”
Yes, thought Ham, in order to purchase the favors of an easy woman.
“Indeed, indeed, it would be a sound investment,” Kedorlaomer said, raising his eyebrows as he glanced at Noah.
Noah shook his head again.
“Ah, unfortunate,” Kedorlaomer said, making the rubies disappear by a deft twist of his wrist.
Jubal lurched forward, and in that instant, the grandsons seemed to pulse with life, to tense like wolves. Jubal hesitated, licking his lips, his fingers convulsing.
“I-I could pay half now and half on the return leg of your journey,” Jubal said.
Kedorlaomer didn’t even appear to have heard. He spoke to Noah. “Surely then you wish to buy pure Havilah gold in order to fashion an idol of your god to put at the prow of your ship. Think, sir, of how pleased your god would be as he watched—”
“No!” Noah said.
Kedorlaomer blinked, while his grandsons bristled at Noah’s tone.
Ham grinned.
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, sir,” Kedorlaomer said. “What I meant to say—”
“Don’t you realize that idolatry is what has brought us to this pass?” Noah asked.
“Sir?”
“Idolatry. Serving others gods.”
Kedorlaomer glanced at his grandsons, and he seemed to collect himself as he twirled the end of his drooping mustaches. “Do you mean the bene elohim, sir?”
“Idolatry is serving any god other than Jehovah,” Noah said.
“You mean He who was said to have created Adam and Eve?”
“Yes,” Noah said. “Almost two thousand years ago Jehovah fashioned Adam out of the dust of the earth and breathed into him the breath of life.”
“I have heard the fable, sir.”
“But it is no fable,” Noah said.
“Come now, sir. You and I, we understand how the world works. First was the darkness of eternal water, long eons of water, and then did the gods and goddesses form themselves out of the void. I know this to be true, sir, for I have spoken to one of the bene elohim. He was there at the beginning long ages ago, sir. Oh, what a frightful experience it was speaking with such a being of power.” Kedorlaomer shivered, and for a brief moment fear shone in his eyes. “But, no matter, no matter. You, it seems, have also spoken with a god.”
“I have spoken with Jehovah,” Noah said gravely. “And I know that in your heart beats a knowledge of Him. You know, Kedorlaomer, and your grandsons surely know and understand that in the beginning, Jehovah formed them male and female, and in His love, He gave us a garden paradise. But sin entered in, brought by the dread tempter. But this ‘son of Jehovah’ that you apparently spoke to—he is a liar like the rest of that evil host.”
“Evil is a relative term, sir.”
“No,” Noah said. “Evil is disobedience of Jehovah.”
“Surely you jest, sir. I see no Jehovah. In fact…” Kedorlaomer leaned forward, his dark eyes bright. “Let Jehovah strike me dead this instant if He lives. Now! Here! Before this ship that it’s said He commanded you to build.”
Everyone paused, holding his or her breath.
“Ah-ha,” Kedorlaomer said. “You see, Jehovah is not real. For if He was, surely in His dreadful power He would strike me dead for such daring.”
Unmoved, Noah said, “Do you notice the sun, Kedorlaomer?”
“Eh? What?”
“Look up at the sun,” Noah said.
Slowly, as if suspecting a trick, Kedorlaomer did.
“Now look at your hand.”
“Is this a joke?” Kedorlaomer asked crossly.
Noah thrust out his hand, a big, seamed leathery thing. The way Noah twisted and moved his hand made it seem like a marvel, like a thing of wonderful design and utility.
“Now what about the Ark?” Noah asked.
Kedorlaomer shook his head, his suspicious eyes burning.
“I have built it these many years,” Noah said.
“So people say.”
“As I have built the Ark,” Noah said, “so Jehovah has made the sun, although much more quickly. In fact, Jehovah fashioned the sun in a single day.”
“Well, of course a god built the sun,” Kedorlaomer said. “The Sun God built it and now he lives there, warring against the others gods and goddesses and demanding sacrifices from us so he will continue to shine his light upon us. But I think that you are wrong to say that he built it in a day. Over long ages, sir, was the sun made. Thus the illustration of your ship is in this regard more precise than you think.” Kedorlaomer grinned. “After all, you didn’t build this ship in a day.”
“Tell me, Kedorlaomer, how did this Sun God come about?”
“I have already said, sir. He formed himself out of the eternal water.”
“But that is sheer nonsense,” Noah said. “I might as well say that my Ark has formed itself from the ground. Things do not make themselves. They are fashioned by an outside entity.”
“Who made your Jehovah then?”
“No one,” Noah said. “He always was.”
Kedorlaomer laughed sharply.
“Either eternal water always was or Jehovah always was. To say that water or any matter just formed things, that it—” Noah snapped his fingers “—that it just started creating itself, that is sheer and laughable nonsense. Any event needs as strong a cause to have started it. For instance, the Ark is being built. I am the cause. That ruby you showed me has been cut. You didn’t find it in such a state, but a skillful jeweler shaped it. The sun and the world and the bene elohim you spoke with, all those need a cause greater than themselves, and that cause is Jehovah.”
“Where is your proof of this, sir?”
“The fact of our existence proves it.”
“You spout sophistry, sir.”
“Your knowledge of good and evil also tells you that this is so
,” Noah said.
“My good or your good, sir? For everyone knows that good and evil are relative terms.”
“Jehovah’s good, which since He has put that knowledge in both our hearts we both understand.”
“I’ve already told you that I don’t believe in Jehovah. Or rather that He is one among many.”
“Then you are a liar, Kedorlaomer,” Noah said without rancor.
The old nomad’s eyes grew round indeed while his grandsons scowled.
“Why do you bristle?” Noah asked. “In your heart you know I’m right.”
“You-you impugn my name and then dare to ask me that?” Kedorlaomer shouted.
“Is it wrong for me to impugn your name?” Noah asked.
Kedorlaomer’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I will avenge my name with blood.”
“First be certain that you aren’t lying,” Noah suggested. “If we both have different concepts of good and evil how can my differences bother you? Or is it rather you know that you lie when you say you don’t believe in Jehovah and that my bringing it to your attention pricks your conscience? After all, a hardened heart loathes to be reminded that its first allegiance should be to Jehovah, the Creator of everything.”
“Enough!” Kedorlaomer shouted, springing to his feet.
The three big hounds also sprang up, their fur bristling as they growled. Noah’s sons and their cousins scrambled to their feet, as did Kedorlaomer’s grandsons. No one had drawn weapons, but a fierce energy sizzled among them.
Much more slowly and in a dignified manner, Noah rose. He gripped his gopher-wood staff and settled his deep, blue eyes upon the wizened son of Cain. “This day you are to be warned, O Kedorlaomer, you and your grandsons. Know that Jehovah has grown wroth with humanity. But as importantly for you, O Kedorlaomer, Jehovah watches what you are about. Never doubt that He sees your treacheries, your sly deceits that you practice on the unwary. Yes, that you gained your cargo through death and thievery is plain. You think to entice young Jubal to your camp and there enslave him. That will not happen, I assure you. What you must now consider, O Kedorlaomer, is the price you wish to pay for your sins. Turn, I say, from theft, turn from swiftly drawn daggers and from your base cunning. Draw near to Jehovah. Beg Him to forgive you your many sins. Then stay with me and help me work on the Ark. And when the dreadful day arrives you will have a berth and survive the coming flood.”
“Flood?” Kedorlaomer fairly screeched.
“There is a flood coming, O Kedorlaomer, a worldwide deluge that will destroy all mankind, together with the beasts of the field, the birds of the air and all creeping things.”
“You’re mad!” the old nomad hissed.
“Though your sins be as scarlet,” Noah said, “the Lord will yet forgive you.”
Kedorlaomer snatched up his dagger, the razor-edge glinting in his hand. Before anyone could move, he darted like a snake at Noah.
Noah seemed to step lazily out of the way, and his gopher-wood staff spun in his hands. It all seemed to happen in slow motion: Kedorlaomer lunging forward, his knife-hand outthrust—the end of the gopher-wood staff cracking against the nut-brown wrist—the curved dagger tumbling end-over-end onto the leather mat—Kedorlaomer reeling backward into the hands of his grandsons.
“Go,” Noah said. “Depart this place while you are able.”
A mewl of pain escaped Kedorlaomer as he cradled his broken hand. The grandsons glared with rage. But with the hounds growling and baring their teeth and with Noah towering, holding his staff crosswise…
“Don’t think that—” began the meanest looking grandson.
Noah lifted a single admonitory finger. “No more words unless you wish to repent of your ways to Jehovah.”
The narrowness of their eyes showed the likeliness of that. They turned to go.
“Of course,” Noah said, “you must leave without the slaves.”
Kedorlaomer whirled back around and stared at Noah in wonder. “Now you would cheat us of our property?”
Noah leaned upon his staff and gazed calmly into the nomad’s eyes.
Kedorlaomer dropped his gaze. “I will not forget this, sir.”
“I know,” Noah said. “But I hope you will leave these parts without any acts of vengeance. Surely, you have felt Jehovah’s presence here. So if you would live out the days granted you then you’ll do as I say.”
Kedorlaomer hissed to his grandsons, and they hurried from under the awning and toward the north gate.
Ham stepped up. “You’d better release the hounds before they turn around and take out their bows.”
Noah made no response.
“They’ll slip back during darkness and slit our throats,” added Jubal.
Noah shook his head.
“You can’t know that,” Ham said. “They might do it.”
Noah studied his youngest son.
Ham flushed. He admired his father’s courage. And he was proud of how easily Noah had disarmed the sneaky nomad. Few could best his father in a fair fight. Yet…he didn’t understand his father’s overwhelming moral authority.
“Let’s get back to work,” Noah said.
“What about the men you freed?” Shem asked.
“I’ll talk to them,” Noah said. “Oh, and don’t forget to haul up the lumber,” he told Ham.
“I know.”
“The ropes need checking, too.”
“I remember!”
Noah paused. Then he nodded and headed for the freed slaves.
3.
Gaea, Noah’s wife, smoothed the pleats of her long dress, taking a deep breath, reminding herself that Europa couldn’t help herself. Once a king’s daughter, always so, and Europa had been the oldest born, taught the ways of royalty and to look out for her brothers and sisters. It didn’t matter that her father’s small castle had been sacked and burned, and the tiny kingdom destroyed many years ago. Europa strove to bring her brothers and sisters together, to first free them from slavery, and second to find them wives and husbands, and third, if possible, to rebuild what her father’s vainglory had so disastrously lost.
Slavery was wicked, certainly, and Europa had to be commended in her efforts in freeing her siblings. Yet a greater servitude enthralled a world. Blackest sin had multiplied to outrageous proportions and enraged a holy Jehovah. His wrath promised doom: a doom imminent, certain and dreadful.
Gaea composed herself, glancing out the window. Small Rahab—a girl barely in her teens—was dark, raven-haired and had a shy manner like a rabbit hiding from foxes. She held wheat in the fold of her skirt, tossing tiny handfuls to each chicken in turn, laughing at the strutting roster, talking to him. Gaea smiled. Dear little Rahab, she was an orphan with a terrible past. Gaea knew because sometimes at night when she came to tuck Rahab in the poor thing tossed in her sleep, mumbling strange nightmares. Gaea wished Rahab would speak about these things, but she understood why Rahab didn’t and why she looked frightened most of the time.
Gaea moved to the window. “Rahab!”
The girl whipped up her head, wide-eyed.
Gaea berated herself. She mustn’t shock the poor dear. “Rahab, when you’re done feeding the chickens I want you to come inside and card wool.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Now, Rahab,” Gaea said, “you know I want you to start calling me mother.”
Rahab dipped her head, keeping it dipped, while tossing bigger handfuls of grain and faster than before.
Gaea sighed and once more smoothed her pleats. She had strong hands, worn now at her age, with too many wrinkles and veins. When her hands had been soft like Rahab’s, bronze shears hadn’t yet become universal. Over a hundred years before Gaea’s birth the discoveries and inventions of Tubal-Cain the Master Smith—that of smelted ores and metal daggers, swords, spears and sheers—had exploded out of the land of Nod. Yet even before that time, there had been wool to card and spin. Sheep before Tubal-Cain’s time had been sheared with flint knives. Gaea suspected that long af
ter she passed away countless young girls would spend many otherwise idle hours carding wool as they had when Eve first invented the process.
Carding was the method of arranging woolen fibers after sheep had been sheared, readying the fibers for spinning. Two boards with teeth, similar to dog brushes, were used. Wool was distributed on one card and brushed with the other until the fibers all lay parallel and uniform, rid of all debris. The batt was taken off the cards and rolled into a rolag. The rolag could then be wound onto a spindle.
A pile of wool lay in the corner. The carding boards lay on the big wooden table behind Gaea, where Europa arranged baskets full of sweet-smelling narcissus, hyacinths, violets and yellow crocus, while the most radiant of all, the crimson splendor of wild roses. Earlier this morning, Europa had taken the serving girls into the fields, picking flowers. When they were done, moments ago, she had trooped them into the house and ordered them where to set each basket.
Even though she knows, I never allow the maids into the house. It was a harsh precept, but in these terrible days, it only made sense. The evil one was full of subtlety, while the hearts of humanity had become blacker than pitch. Thus, Gaea strove to create a sanctuary for her family.
She smoothed her pleats a last time, facing fair Europa, the wife of her oldest son Japheth.
Europa studied the flower baskets. She was tall, with blonde hair spilling past her shoulders and with a crown of garlands on her head. The garlands matched her long white dress and fit her beautiful features, imperious, queenly and self-assured. A mere sixty years of age, the girl had the aplomb of one of six hundred.
Gaea wondered sometimes what Europa had seen in Japheth. He was a bright lad, but given to airy speculations and bouts of rhetoric. Perhaps that’s how pagan kings acted and Europa had found familiarity in it.
“My dear,” Gaea said, “these are lovely flowers.”
Europa smiled softly.
“But you know how I feel about the maids tramping through the house.”
Europa grew still.
“It may seem like a strange rule,” Gaea said, “but… these are dangerous times. The hearts of people have grown dark and unpredictable.”
Wives of the Flood Page 4