Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Lord Jehovah!” Noah cried. “I beg thee to show them a sign. Let them draw back from this abyss. Give us another chance to obey Your Divine decree.”

  A jagged bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. It was a fiery bolt, huge and terrifying. Thunder boomed next. Wind howled as if released from the depths of space.

  Men trembled and dropped whatever they held. Teeth chattered. At the second lightning stroke, everyone but Noah and Nimrod fell to their knees. Many lay prostrate, Ham and Kush among them.

  Noah’s garments flapped. “Fall before Jehovah, Mighty Hunter. Repent.”

  Nimrod leaned into the wind and stared eye to eye with the old patriarch.

  From upon the ground, Ham lifted his head. In Noah, he saw an old bull yet filled with hoary strength pitted against the new one almost in its prime.

  Beside Ham, Kush glanced wide-eyed at the heavens, at the roiling clouds that billowed in fearful majesty. Kush shuddered. He buried his face against the sward, and his frame shook as if he sobbed. When he looked up again, his eyes were red and his features haggard, worn, used up. He pointed at his throat.

  “Speak,” Noah said.

  As the wind lessened, Kush struggled to his feet, helped up by Nimrod. Kush considered the prostrate army. He scanned the sky. No more lightning flashed. The thunder had ceased and the wind was dying. The clouds stilled their billowing and returned to their apparent motionlessness. Kush seemed to shrink, as if he was a leaf sucked of juice, turning brittle and old.

  “We made a mistake,” Kush said, his voice hoarse.

  At his side, Nimrod stiffened, and he looked at his father, his eyes yet ablaze. Nimrod seemed to study, to calculate and to weigh.

  “Will you accept us in peace at Festival?” Kush asked, the fight drained from his voice, drained out of his stance.

  “Do you come in peace?” Noah asked.

  “As Jehovah is my witness, we do now,” Kush said. He glanced at Nimrod and then turned away from his son, spreading his hands before Noah. “Thank you for staying our hand, for drawing us back from a misguided path.”

  Nimrod stared in wonder at his father.

  “I think you will find that Beor is ready to deal evenly with you,” Noah said.

  Nimrod stepped in front of Kush. “What about my men, Noah? What about Gilgamesh, Enlil and Zimri? Am I supposed to leave them in bondage?”

  Noah leaned on his staff, regarding Nimrod.

  Ham shivered at a feeling of déjà vu. So Noah had once looked upon Ymir.

  “Beor will treat with you,” Noah said.

  Nimrod laughed, shaking his head. “Treat with us? No, Noah, that isn’t good enough.” He tapped his chest with the vine baton, his badge of captaincy. “My men—Hunters—are prisoners, so-called slaves of others.” With his baton, Nimrod waved at the sky. “Lightning may flash and thunder roll, but I will not desert my men. No man of mine will ever stay enslaved.”

  “If you pay fair compensation for thievery and bloodguilt for men that lay in ambush of others,” Noah said, “then your men may be returned to you.”

  “It was a Hunter that was slain,” Nimrod said.

  Noah produced a rag, mopping his leathery face. With the aid of his staff, he slowly walked to Nimrod, to inches from him, staring him eyeball to eyeball. Noah whispered so only Nimrod could hear.

  Nimrod retreated, with eyes like a wolf burned by fire. “We come in peace,” he shouted. Then he pushed through his men, as if to escape the old patriarch.

  37.

  Stars shone. Owls hooted. In the camp, the last fires flickered, with cloak-wrapped men sleeping around them. Ham and Noah slept in a tent, one of three. Hounds and spear-armed sentries prowled around the army perimeter. They ignored a man with apelike arms, who entered two of the tents, soon exiting, and who knelt by certain sleeping men. He shook their shoulders, whispering, soon moving on. One by one, these individuals slipped out of two of the tents—not the one where Ham and Noah slept—while others rose from around glowing embers. Each of these men left the army bivouac, unchallenged by the sentries, although the hounds bristled, until nudged by their masters. These men trekked through the woods and to a lone campfire surrounded by tall firs, well away from the main army. The crackling flames cast lurid, dancing shadows against the trees. They showed a dejected Kush sitting on a tree stump, with his hands clasped between his knees as he stared into the fire. His eyes were dull and his features torpid.

  Menes, Put and Canaan joined him, as did Ashkenaz and Javan. Finally, Uruk came, the one who had wakened each.

  “Are you well, brother?” Canaan asked.

  Mechanically, Kush lifted his eyes. They looked haunted. Just as slowly, he lowered them, to stare at the flames.

  The last man entered the fire’s light. He was athletic, strong, well knit, with a proud bearing.

  “Hail, Nimrod,” Javan said.

  With his vine baton, the Mighty Hunter saluted Javan, the grandfather of Semiramis. He nodded in turn to each of the elders and to the clan heads.

  “What’s the purpose of this meeting?” Canaan asked. “Why the skullduggery?”

  Nimrod turned to Kush, and gently said, “Father?”

  Kush regarded him.

  “What now, Father?” Nimrod asked. “Do we draw our daggers and fall upon Noah and Ham in their sleep, or should we toss fiery brands onto their tent and let them burn to death?”

  Kush’s face threatened to crumple. He shook his head. “No, no, don’t even say such things.”

  “I agree,” Menes said. “Why do you wish to slay Noah? I don’t understand.”

  “If we slay Noah, we’re free,” Nimrod said. “Free of Jehovah and his stifling restrictions.”

  Kush trembled. He shook his head more vigorously. “Don’t you understand? Jehovah protects Noah. We must leave Noah alone. At your peril, try to harm him.” Abruptly Kush stood. His eyes were no longer dull, no longer torpid, but wild and fearful. He blundered out of the firelight, crashing into the darkness, possibly heading back to camp.

  Menes also rose to his imposing height. He was the tallest of the sons of Ham, smooth-skinned and slender, with large eyes. “This meeting is a farce. I’m going as well.”

  “Wait,” Nimrod said. He studied the elders, the clan heads. “I don’t really suggest we slay Noah.”

  “Then why did you just say that?” Menes asked.

  “To show you the state of my father’s thinking.”

  That surprised them, made them shift and made them edgy.

  “All right,” Menes said. “The depth of Kush’s fear does seem excessive. Yet what we saw today was frightening. It certainly frightened me.”

  Several of the others grunted in agreement.

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t frightening,” Nimrod said.

  “Then what are you saying?” Menes asked. “Perhaps it’s time you got to the point.”

  “My father led us here,” Nimrod said. “He marshaled my Hunters and called out the levy of able-bodied men, marching us to Festival, taking us to war. On his authority he began this.”

  “He is our leader,” Menes said. “He is our High Priest. He felt that it was right to do so.”

  “He is our High Priest,” Nimrod said. “I’ll grant you that. But our leader…” Nimrod shook his head. “My father has lost his nerve. Oh, I’m not saying that tremendous pressures weren’t placed upon him. As our leader, the man with sole responsibility, I’m certain that dire forces came to rest on him today. Noah practiced an awful spell. We all saw it. It was unfair and underhanded of Noah to do that. But the point still is that at this most vital moment, my father wilted. He has surrendered his will to Noah.”

  “Wait a moment,” Canaan said. “I heard you shouting ‘peace, peace’ just like Kush did. So let’s not take such a high-minded tone. It’s unbecoming.”

  “Nimrod didn’t fall to his knees this afternoon,” Uruk rumbled. “He alone faced Noah unbowed. When every one of us fell to our knees or onto our faces, N
imrod stood tall. Perhaps he bore then on his shoulders the weight that defeated Kush.”

  The elders and the clan heads stared at the monstrous Uruk. Perhaps they were surprised he spoke so earnestly, so well, so to the point.

  “I attest to what Uruk says.” Old Javan grinned. “Our hulking Hunter doesn’t look like a speechmaker, I’ll grant you. But an observing mind rests behind his seemingly thick skull. Nimrod remained standing, just as Uruk says. Nimrod alone stood against Noah.”

  Canaan blinked several times, taking a deep breath, as if he regained resolve. “So what? So Nimrod stood. Is anyone saying it’s significant?” He glanced at the others and then at the War-Chief. “I’m not trying to slight you, Nimrod. But Kush is our High Priest. He is our High Priest to the angel of Babel. That makes Kush our leader, a leadership that isn’t swept away because of a possible moment of weakness.”

  “Wait a moment,” Uruk said. “The angel first appeared to Nimrod. I was with him. It was terrible. The glory of heaven shone upon us. And just like today, Gilgamesh and I collapsed, while Nimrod stood between us and the angel, between us and death.”

  Canaan sneered. “Are you suggesting that here, this afternoon, Nimrod stood between us and death?”

  “No,” Nimrod said. “Not death. But I did stand between Noah and you, between his designs for us.”

  “Which is peace,” Canaan said, looking to the others. “That’s what Noah said. Who here calls Noah a liar?”

  Nimrod laughed. “You’re no simpleton, Uncle Canaan. You know that Noah means different things than we do when he says peace. What he really means is an abandonment of Babel, of our Tower, of our building a name for ourselves and of building a new civilization. You know as well as I do that Noah pushes for our splitting into small family groups and hiking to distant lands. For reasons I cannot fathom, he’s jealous of what we’re achieving in Babel. Or perhaps he wants his famous curse to stick, thereby showing us how close he is to Jehovah. I shouldn’t think you’d want that, Uncle—the curse in effect, I mean.”

  “Noah is close to Jehovah,” Canaan said. “This afternoon proves it. And to answer your question: no. I don’t want to be anyone’s slave. But it’s foolishness to kick against Jehovah. That’s what this afternoon showed, why perhaps Kush has become… Why he frets the way he does.”

  Nimrod nodded, glancing at the elders, at the clan heads. “I’m not suggesting you kick against Jehovah, as you say. I’m not suggesting anything dangerous—at least not dangerous for any of you. I plan to take all the risks.” He let that sink in. “My father is the High Priest. Well, so be it. Despite what Uruk hints at, I have no desire for priesthood. I think, frankly, that religion has failed us in our hour of need. Where is our angel now?” Nimrod shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I am the War-Chief, the captain of the Hunters. I’ve learned that begging others for what you want is a poor second to taking it yourself through courage and boldness.”

  “That’s madness,” Canaan said. “We don’t dare fight now. Noah made that very clear.”

  “Did I say you should fight now?” Nimrod asked.

  “No,” said Put, who watched Nimrod with his hawk-like gaze. His lean hands held a supple bow. He sat very straight. “You said we wouldn’t be taking any risks.”

  “Exactly,” Nimrod said. “Let me face the dangers. It is clear my Uncle Canaan doesn’t want to. That’s fine with me. Facing danger is what I’ve trained for. It’s what I do. You elders and clan heads have learned the arts of law, of commerce and of farming and artistry, while I have hunted the deadly beasts. I have slain them, mingling my blood with theirs. Danger and death are nothing new to me. I am inured to the threat of it. Perhaps that is why I stood this afternoon when everyone else fell. The day the leviathan attacked us by surprise it was I who moved while everyone else stood frozen.” Nimrod shrugged. “It is my particular ability to be strong when others are weak. Thus, I will take the risks.”

  “What do you plan?” Canaan asked, sounding subdued, no longer sneering.

  “I am a Hunter,” Nimrod said, and with his Black Mane cloak, he seemed indeed like a lion, a king of beasts.

  “You are a warrior,” Javan said.

  Nimrod nodded. “A warrior must be flexible, ready to meet any challenge. I don’t know exactly what I’ll do, Uncle Canaan, or should I say how I will do it. But this is my goal: to free my men and win to Babel new immigrants.”

  Canaan thought about it, finally saying, “Reasonable. But why this meeting, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Nimrod grinned. “For what I attempt, I need power.”

  “Power?” Canaan asked.

  “The power of leadership,” Nimrod said. “I am the War-Chief. Alas, our High Priest, our former leader, has failed us in our moment of crisis. Now what will you elders, you clan heads, do about it?”

  The older men considered his words, studying the fire, glancing at each other. Put rose, tall, lean and scarred. “We’ve learned the value these past few years of following a strong man, a leader. The canals of Babel have taught us the worth of it. Many hands working under the guidance of one mind. But a leader must be strong-willed, filled with purpose. Such Nimrod seems to be. So I propose that Nimrod guide us here at Festival. That he wields the power of sole leadership.”

  “And after Festival?” Canaan asked.

  With his thin lips, Put almost smiled. “Let us see the outcome of Nimrod’s leadership. He has promised not to risk us, yet at the same time to free his men and gain more people for the city. Let us see if a War-Chief is superior to a High Priest.”

  “I’m for it,” said Javan. “I’ve nothing against Kush, but it seems to me that he himself has laid down the reins of power. Let Nimrod pick them up.”

  “Yes,” said Ashkenaz. “Agreed.”

  Menes nodded. “Nimrod will lead us at Festival.”

  Canaan looked around and finally shrugged. “So be it.”

  38.

  Back at Festival the next morning, as the sun rose, Odin unwound his sabertooth cloak, stretched and picked up a pole and line and headed to the lake. After a breakfast of fresh fish, he drifted back to the chariot, watching people stir. He sat on the chariot edge, took out a rag and began to polish his spearhead, looking up from time to time, a line creasing his forehead.

  “Are you worried about what to do, about which side to take?”

  An old woman with a shawl regarded him. He rose, dwarfing her, and bowed in respect for Ruth, the wife of Shem.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “You sit apart. Do you fear to become tainted by us?”

  “Uh, no, but…”

  “But you don’t want to be found mingling when Nimrod comes. Is that it?”

  He peered at her, surprised. “You are wise.”

  She chuckled. “It is elementary deduction, as my husband would say.” She grew serious. “Do you think Nimrod will slay Noah?”

  He scrunched his thick eyebrows and soon shrugged.

  “I believe it’s unlikely,” she said. “That being so, Noah will talk them out of their blood rage. So there will be no fight. So your worry is pointless.”

  “Suppose Noah is slain by accident?”

  She drew the shawl tighter. It made her seem smaller. “In that case, some of my sons will surely die, as will sons of Japheth and Ham.” She regarded him more closely. “You are a Japhethite but have lived with them. Where will you stand?”

  “I am a Hunter,” he said.

  “One of Nimrod’s Hunters?”

  With his pudgy fingers, Odin dug in a pouch slung around his belly, drawing out a leather cord, with a nine-inch tooth dangling on the end.

  “Is that a fabled dragon tooth?” Ruth asked.

  “That’s right. Taken from the beast slain by Nimrod. I earned this, bleeding many times and facing danger against wolves, lions and bull elephants. It was given me in trust, and I took an oath.” Odin might have pursed his lips; it was impossible to tell under his bushy mustache. “Int
o Japheth’s line I was born. Through an act of will, I have become a Hunter of Babel.”

  “Then let us hope Noah hasn’t been slain,” Ruth said.

  “Agreed.”

  “May I ask you a personal question?” she asked.

  Odin dipped his head.

  “Why did you warn us? Nimrod will surely not be pleased by it.”

  Before he could answer, a loud clattering and a horn sounded. The horn blew low, flat, and long, and the sound came from behind the pines standing nearest the clearing.

  Men shouted. People ran out of their tents, some with spears and others with bows. Dogs barked and children squealed.

  The horn blew again, and from around a bend of pines, a four-donkey team ran pell-mell, dragging a bouncing cart. A woman flicked the reins. Her blonde-braided hair writhed like snakes, and her teeth flashed in a wild grin. She wore a short dress to her knees, with her arms bare. Beside her hulked a black-bearded brute, bigger than anyone Odin had ever seen. The giant wore a great sloth cap and a strange suit that winked golden whenever the sunlight touched it. The giant blew the horn a final time.

  “Hilda,” whispered Odin, his eyes on the slender driver.

  “And her father, Beor,” Ruth said. “Do you know them?”

  Hilda brought the team to a skidding halt. Camp folk hurried to Beor, who jumped out of the chariot and clumped with a peg leg to a wooden platform.

  “I met her at Mount Ararat,” Odin said, “several years ago.” He wrapped the leather cord around his fist, letting the dragon tooth hang across the back of his hand. Then he escorted Ruth to the growing excitement.

  “They march to us,” Beor said, grim-faced, standing on the wooden platform, speaking to a growing crowd. His strange, reddish-golden suit seemed to be fashioned of copper, armor that hung past his waist, like something out of Antediluvian legends. He seemed powerful, incredibly warlike and wise in the ways of battle. The image was strengthened by the unstrung bow in his left hand, a huge weapon, fully six feet long. Odin had seen Beor use the giant bow before at Mount Ararat. When he shot it, Beor stuck out his left foot, his only foot. He rested the end of the six-foot bow against his foot, using it as an anchor, and he drew the bowstring, firing arrows fully three feet long. Such deadly arrows could penetrate shields, could splinter any three of them put together. Only a powerful warrior could wield such a terrible weapon.