Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  Hilda gasped.

  Ham saw his own horror reflected in the child’s eyes, and he noticed that Semiramis retreated, keeping her hand over her nose.

  Heat radiated off the leg. Something green clotted the bandages. “Hilda. Get me scissors, a washbasin and a lancing needle. Hurry.”

  She fled the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Semiramis asked.

  “What do you mean what’s wrong? Look at his leg.”

  “I can see that,” Semiramis said. “I mean, why is it like that?”

  “Did you change the bandage?”

  “Of course.”

  “When?”

  She shrugged. “Soon after he was brought in.”

  “You seem unconcerned.”

  “Do I? I’m sorry. I’m trying to remain strong for the child’s sake.”

  Ham examined the foot. Swollen and discolored purple. The toes seemed dead, bloated like a corpse. “Has he been eating?”

  “Yes. Broth and bits of soaked bread.”

  “What kind of broth?”

  “Chicken, maybe beef.”

  Ham felt the pulse again, noting how swollen and lumpy the throat was. It made no sense, but Beor was dying. Beor had been feverish in the chariot, but Ham had been certain a few days in his own bed would cure Beor, should have cured him.

  “What has he been drinking?”

  “Wine,” Semiramis said. “He keeps begging for it.”

  “And you give it to him?”

  “It helps dull the pain, doesn’t it? He looks like he’s in lots of pain.”

  “You don’t give a feverish man wine. Water! You give him plenty of water to flush out the poisons.”

  “As you will,” Semiramis said. “I’ll do that from now on.”

  He couldn’t understand such calm. She seemed impassive, as if they discussed what color tunic he should wear. “Do you really hate him that much?”

  “Hate is a strong word, Grandfather.”

  “That may be. But it also begs the question.”

  “I love him,” Semiramis said, with her hand over her nose.

  Ham touched the bandages, feeling the heat. He didn’t want to cut the gory wrappings. “Tell the others that he’s to drink no more wine, only water. Or are you really the only one who feeds and gives him water?”

  “I’m his wife. Isn’t it my duty to look after him?”

  Hilda rushed in with big bronze scissors. Miriam, in her turban, came in with the washbasin and rags.

  Ham took the scissors, hesitating. “Miriam. Stand on that side of him. Semiramis, I want you on this side. Hold him down.”

  “Are we strong enough?” asked Semiramis.

  “In his state, yes.” Ham put his hand on the upper thigh. Heat blazed, and it was incredibly swollen.

  Miriam pressed against Beor’s arm. Semiramis gingerly touched the other one.

  “His chest,” Ham said. “Press down on his chest, both of you.”

  They did.

  Ham cut. Beor thrashed, and the stench… By force of will, Ham refused to gag. The bandages didn’t part, as they should. They stuck as if glued. Ham began to peel them off.

  Beor’s eyes opened as he gasped and as sweat poured out his skin.

  Ham blanched. Miriam hissed, and Hilda stumbled backward onto a stool. Only Semiramis remained unchanged at the sight.

  The stitches had pulled through the edges, and the wound had turned black and spurted vicious pus. Red lines streaked up the leg, the infection obviously spreading. Below the wound, the flesh was black, dead or dying.

  “What…what are you going to do?” whispered Miriam.

  There was no healing this. It had rotted fast—as if poisoned.

  “Hilda!” he said. “Get Canaan. Hurry.”

  Once more, Hilda fled the room.

  “Father,” said Miriam. “What—”

  “We have to amputate,” Ham said.

  “No,” Miriam said. “No. That will destroy him. He’s a hunter.”

  “Do you want him dead?” Ham asked.

  “I want him alive,” Miriam whispered.

  “Then we must amputate.”

  “But, but…” Miriam was dazed.

  “Father is right,” Semiramis said. “Losing a leg… Isn’t it better to risk his life in an effort to heal the leg?”

  “Look at it!” Ham shouted. “Tell me how to heal what is dead.”

  “It will destroy him, being half a man,” Semiramis said.

  “He won’t be half a man,” Ham said. “Beor will simply have lost a leg.”

  Miriam wept.

  Then Canaan was at the door. For once, he had lost his ability to speak.

  Nevertheless, Ham saw the accusation in his son’s eyes. Beor’s leg hadn’t been like this when he dropped him off. Then it came to Ham as he glanced at Semiramis. Wicked, wicked woman. He didn’t know how, but he was certain she had infected the wound. Yet how could he accuse her without proof?

  “We need to move him first,” Ham said.

  “First?” Canaan said.

  “Before I amputate.”

  White-faced, Canaan slumped against the door.

  “Move him to where?” Semiramis said, still calm, still stately, practically serene.

  “Move him to my house,” Ham said.

  “No,” Semiramis said. “I want him here. I want to be able to look after him every hour of the day.”

  “That is a wife’s duty,” agreed Ham. “But Beor’s condition will be critical after I operate. I will watch him.”

  “You may come here any time you want,” Semiramis said. “But I insist he stay.”

  “And I’m overruling you,” Ham said.

  “I appreciate your concern. But…” Semiramis licked her lips. “I hesitate to say this, but would this have happened if his leg had been better treated during the chariot ride?”

  “You listen to me,” Ham said with quiet fury. “It was here the wound worsened. And who looked after him here? Only you, Semiramis. Why not tell us what you did that caused this.”

  “Me?” Semiramis asked, with cool disbelief. “You can’t blame this on me.”

  “Silence!” Canaan hissed. “Beor’s to lose his leg, and you two squabble like hens.” He squinted at his son, and he said a moment later, “We’ll move him to father’s house.”

  “I can’t be held responsible if Beor is moved,” Semiramis said.

  “He’ll be my responsibility,” Ham said.

  Canaan nodded. “Save him. That’s all I ask.”

  “Yes,” whispered Hilda. “I’ll never forget it if you do.”

  “We shall all remember,” Semiramis said.

  22.

  Ham amputated. It was a grisly affair. He drank that night. In the morning, bleary-eyed, he looked for Kush, finding him hard at work.

  The smithy shed was gloomy, with a hot glow from the furnace and sparks flying as Kush wielded his mallet with metallic clangs. Two of his grandsons blew through tubes, keeping the furnace hot.

  Ham went to the pitted table and picked up a bronze arrow. Both the shaft and the head were made of bronze.

  Kush dourly eyed him before tapping out the next arrow, picking it up with tongs. Hisses rose from its water-bath.

  “I take it these are for the dragon,” Ham said.

  Kush grunted an affirmative.

  “No one will be able to shoot such arrows far,” Ham said.

  Kush told the boys to go outside. When they had left, he said, “What does that matter to a brave man?”

  Ham waved the arrow. “Outside of thirty paces, these will be useless. Twenty would be better.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ham snorted. “Easy to agree to in a smithy. In the dragon’s presence, it’s another matter.”

  “Not if you’re brave.”

  “Dragon-awe overwhelms even the brave.”

  “Heat and a beating makes good bronze. In such a way adversity creates heroes.”

  Ham regarded Kush in his h
eavy leather apron, with his white beard and broad dark face. Kush was strong, ox-like in his movements and usually so in his deliberations. Stubbornness formed the core of his personality, and he listened, Ham knew, to the ideas and plans of his wife Deborah.

  “Tell me this,” Ham said. “Are the arrows for you?”

  Kush stared as an ox might. His thoughts were hidden. One wondered if he had any at all. But that was deception.

  “Put wishes to use them,” Kush said.

  “Ah. And I suppose you’ve encouraged him in his quest for vengeance. You need someone to sacrifice himself. To run in close and shoot these into the dragon’s belly.”

  “If the brimstone fails and the dragon breaks through the wall, we will all go down fighting.”

  “Why are you so certain the dragon is coming?”

  Kush’s flat nostrils flared. “Didn’t Noah once know the Flood would come?”

  “Jehovah spoke to Noah,” Ham said. “Has Jehovah spoken to you?”

  It took three slow blinks before Kush said, “I have work to do. So if you could come to your point.”

  “Tell me how you know the dragon is coming, and I’ll be on my way. Or is this simply one of your wife’s plots?”

  Kush considered his words. “The dragon approaches. That is my premonition. I prepare, and I urge everyone else to do likewise.”

  “I see. May I take several of these?”

  Kush nodded.

  Ham selected the straightest and then took his leave.

  23.

  Ham left the cultivated fields and traveled beyond the regular pastures. Over hilltops and past forests, he wanted to get away from thoughts of amputation and lost grandsons. In time, the donkeys plodded up a stony slope. He was far from the settlement. The chariot topped the rise, and before him spread a ledge which dropped all the way to the valley floor.

  Hobbling the donkeys, and as gusts ruffled his beard, he stretched. The view was fantastic. Below, wisps of clouds spread out forests, lakes, swamps and streams. Dot-like creatures, deer perhaps, moved beside the largest river. A bigger animal, a great sloth he suspected, shambled across a plain. Eagles wheeled below him.

  He thought about many things. Then he squinted. He shaded his eyes and peered more carefully. Off to the left, far, far away, two goats crawled up the cliffs. Only, since when did sunlight flash off goats as from metallic weapons?

  It was difficult to make out, but it seemed as if two men scaled the cliffs. There, reflected sunlight flashed again, like a spark. A polished bronze axe-head might have done that, or a dagger. If they weren’t Nimrod and Eel, then the pair came from either Japheth or Shem. Yet it didn’t seem likely that visitors from afar would choose such a difficult route. This was something two men trying to shortcut a dragon to the settlement might do.

  Ham ran to the donkeys, took off the hobbles and traveled along the ledge until he saw that, indeed, a dark-skinned fellow and a smaller olive-colored one scaled the cliffs.

  He waited, marveling at their daring. The cliffs weren’t vertical, but they were steep and chalky, crumbling at times to the touch. He didn’t hail them. He didn’t want to break their concentration. At last, Nimrod threw a brawny arm over the edge.

  “Hello,” Ham said, who sat cross-legged, waiting.

  Nimrod almost lost his grip and fell back. Then he heaved himself onto the ledge and lay there panting. A moment later Eel levered up. He looked worse than before: haggard, with his forehead-scar white and dark circles under his eyes.

  “Water,” whispered Eel.

  Ham ran to the chariot and uncorked his jug.

  Eel’s hand shook as he drank. Both their garments were torn and dirty, stained by sweat and blood. When he was finished, Eel handed the jug to Nimrod. Nimrod guzzled, and he flashed that famous smile of his.

  “It isn’t wine,” he said.

  “What happened to the dragon?” Ham asked, corking the jug.

  Eel and Nimrod exchanged glances.

  “You have your chariot, I see,” Nimrod said. “Might we catch a ride?”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Ham said.

  Nimrod grunted. He seemed as hale as ever; a little tired perhaps, but nothing more. He gave an exhausted Eel a hand up.

  “Should I hurry?” Ham asked, as they clambered into the vehicle.

  “It’s time to ride like the wind,” Nimrod said.

  24.

  The sun, bloated, squat and red like blood, sank into the mountainous horizon. Strange colors warred in the sky, pink, wispy clouds that bled into an orange background. The first stars appeared, perhaps aided by the breeze that blew in the dusk. There, on the far edge, night crept nearer.

  Riding under this skyscape, the chariot crested a rise, barley fields on either side. The panorama leaping into view surprised the old graybeard driver. He drew rein. The smaller man beside him groaned. Nimrod whispered, “We’re too late.”

  The dragon, the nightmare monster, lumbered toward the settlement. Its tread shook the ground. Its roar—dogs ran with their tails between their legs and a little girl stumbled in a parody of a run. Looking back, screaming, falling, getting up, falling, crawling and sobbing for her mommy, she tried to flee the monster.

  The palisade’s main-gate opened. Three men dashed out and ran a board over the trench. One of them sprinted across the board for the little girl. He hollered. But she couldn’t hear and didn’t see him.

  The dragon bellowed, insuring that the little girl sat transfixed like a rabbit, watching and waiting for her doom.

  “We must attack,” Nimrod said.

  “Attack with what?” Eel asked.

  Nimrod spied Ham’s black bow. He strung it and flipped back the chariot quiver’s flap. His brow rose as he drew a bronze arrow. “This will work.”

  On the plain, the father reached the little girl, scooping her into his arms. She hugged his neck and he turned and ran with his prize beyond price cuddled next to his chest. Behind him roared a monster.

  “Get out, Eel,” Nimrod said. “We have to travel light.”

  “No,” said Eel. “I’ll drive. Grandfather can sit this one out.”

  Ham took hold of Eel’s mismatched shoulders and threw him out. “Hiya!” shouted Ham, flicking the reins.

  The donkeys bolted down the slope.

  “What do you plan?” the patriarch asked.

  “To win glory that will never fade,” Nimrod said, with his eyes gleaming.

  Ahead of them, the father sprinted across the board and through the gate. Four men dragged the board from the trench and retreated. The huge wooden gate swung shut. On the wall’s upper walkway stood a hundred archers and javelin-throwers, eyes stark and staring.

  The dragon roared. It raved. It came upon the settlement like an avalanche.

  The men on the walkway shook their weapons and hurled abuse.

  “It’s so huge,” Ham whispered.

  The dragon dwarfed the wall, although it slowed as it neared the trench. Arrows arched and rebounded off its hide. Like rain, they came and, like rain, the dragon ignored the showers. It dipped its vast bulk as if examining the trench. It screamed, not in rage or bafflement but a seeming challenge to these puny humans. For in a great bound it leaped across the trench. Its nine tons crashed against the wooden wall. Like matchsticks, the gate splintered and tore open. Men fell from the walkways as others drilled arrows at the monster’s eyes and nose. Bronze-made javelins stuck. A leathery ball struck the monster in the chest. The package thumped and slid down the dragon’s crocodile-like torso. Then the ball exploded with flames.

  The dragon screeched like a banshee.

  It seemed to flop back, to stagger as flames licked its belly. It stumbled out the gate and into the trench. It screamed again, in pain and hate.

  It twisted in the trench, righting itself, and its vast hind legs propelled it out onto the open side of the trench. Yet at that instant, another leathery ball arched out the broken gate. Whoever governed the onager must have shortened th
e wick. It burst into fire mid-flight. Blazing flames struck the dragon’s head as it scuttled out the trench.

  On the walkway, men and women witnessed a bizarre sight. It seemed, for an instant, as if the dragon breathed fire. It shook its head, flinging the fire from it. It threw back those awesome jaws, roaring and hissing to the heavens.

  Meanwhile, an athletic youth jumped out of Ham’s chariot. The donkeys refused to go any nearer. Nimrod sprinted toward the beast, the monster, the howling and blinded dragon. The hunter skidded to a halt less then twenty feet from it. Before the settlement, before those on the walls, Nimrod took a wide stance and notched a bronze arrow to the heavy black bow. He drew, shot and the dragon shuddered.

  Nimrod twanged again, using all four of the quiver’s bronze arrows. Each shot thudded into the dragon’s chest where its heart should be.

  The soot-smeared eyes blazed murder-lust.

  Nimrod turned and ran.

  The dragon, with blood leaking from its chest, staggered off in chase.

  Ham couldn’t hold the donkeys. They brayed in terror and bolted. But Nimrod sprinted like a man possessed and jumped, catching the rail as the two little beasts ran for their lives. In a large circle they galloped, in a large circle the dragon gave chase. The monster ran slower and slower and blood trickled from its jaws, staining some of its sixty teeth. It coughed worse than before, and one eye had closed shut.

  Nimrod slapped Ham on the shoulder, shouting. Ham nodded. He aimed the chariot back at the settlement. The dragon followed. Nimrod got ready and jumped out, waving his arms before the beast as Ham veered away.

  The dragon centered on Nimrod, following its tormenter. Nimrod ran and leaped into the trench, gesturing rudely at the beast towering and swaying above him.

  “Are you afraid?” Nimrod shouted. “Do you fear me?”

  The dragon, peering at him with its good eye, tilted its vast bulk, opening huge jaws to devour him.

  Nimrod darted along the deep trench, and the dragon, perhaps dizzy, sick or disoriented, tried to lunge to snatch him. In that instant, the dragon slipped as dirt crumpled under its weight. It toppled into the trench.

  Through the broken gate ran Kush, Canaan, Put and Seba and several others. They dashed along the trench on the wall side. As the dragon struggled to right itself, they drew their bows and fired heavy bronze arrows into it. The dragon screamed, with its jaws pressed against the bottom of the trench and the sound muffled and reverberating off the dirt sides. Zidon and his brothers hurried near. Zidon held a torch. His brothers each carried a leathery ball with a wick. One by one, they thrust their ball near Zidon. He lit each wick. They dashed near and hurled brimstone upon the struggling beast.