Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  “In this place I will ruin the plans of men and take back from them the breath of life. I will make them fall by the sword before their enemies and by the cup of wrath, and I will give their carcasses as food to the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth. I will devastate this city and make it an object of scorn; all who pass by will be appalled and will scoff because of its wounds. Men will flee in terror of one another and behave shamefully and with their daggers drawn, smeared with his brother’s blood.

  “Then break the jar while those who go with you are watching, and say to them: ‘This is what the LORD Almighty says: I will smash this nation and this city just as this potter’s jar is smashed and cannot be repaired. Unity will forever vanish. Men will look upon one another as beasts, as beasts that bark, whine and snarl, their words confusing and bewildering. Beware! The hour of my wrath is at hand.’”

  Shem groaned, and awoke, sitting up, staring into the darkness. Trembling, without waking his wife, he crawled out of the bed and knelt beside it, praying, asking that this task be taken from him. As he prayed, it was impressed upon him that three times every day he had sought Jehovah. He had prayed in the past that the One, the Redeemer spoken of in the Garden of Eden, would arise from the woman’s seed and destroy the Old Dragon, the Great Serpent, Satan and the Lord of Lies. He had urged Jehovah to deliver them from the bondage of tyranny and from the wicked rule of Nimrod the Dragon Slayer.

  “This is the answer to your prayers,” seemed to say a still small voice.

  Shem wiped sweat from his face and rose, silently praising Jehovah.

  Later, after washing, eating and taking his shepherd’s crook, Shem went outside into the predawn chill. Normally men watched him, he knew. Every day he felt their eyes burn into his back. He walked through the sleeping town and to a wooden fence where huge hounds, shaggy brutes used to hunt lions, paced and sniffed one another.

  Shem glanced at the stars. He stared for some time.

  “What’s the matter with you, old man?” asked Chamoth, a Mighty Man.

  Surprised, Shem regarded the warrior, the lean man in leather hunting clothes. He had a scarred face and a scarlet band tying back his long hair. Chamoth had the eyes of a wolf, savage, ever moving, watchful. He carried a deadly bow.

  “Do you fear Jehovah?” Shem asked.

  Caution entered those eyes. Then Chamoth sneered. “Did Jehovah help you when Nimrod smashed the host of Assur? Get along, old man. Quit bothering the hounds, and make sure your foot doesn’t stray outside these walls.”

  Shem walked down the lane, heading to the wharf. It was still early, chilly, with mist rising from the Euphrates. He walked across the planks as they creaked, as water rushed underneath. Sitting on the far edge of the pier, with his feet dangling, he asked Jehovah how he was supposed to get out of Akkad and alive to Babel.

  “Chamoth and his men will hunt me,” Shem said, “and the hounds will rend me to pieces. I cannot do as You ask.”

  He waited for that still small voice.

  The sun rose. A crane flew across the river, landing in some nearby reeds. On its long legs, the crane stalked frogs, spearing them with its bill, devouring them.

  Sleepy eyed fishermen glanced at him as they pushed their punts into the river, paddling to their favorite locations, to toss nets.

  Sighing, Shem worked up to his feet and walked off the wharf. He had to trust Jehovah. But he didn’t want to die, especially not by the teeth of hounds as they tore and snarled over him, pulling out his entrails. He had seen them slay a gazelle that way.

  He passed the day as he usually did, praying, visiting others, working with his hands braiding rope or making pottery or writing his memories on clay.

  Later, Ruth asked if he was feeling well. He went to bed earlier than usual. He smiled and told her not to worry. But he didn’t tell her what he planned. Jehovah had spoken. He didn’t want her trying to talk him out of it, and in doing so having someone overhear them and running to Chamoth to tell him to beware of Shem.

  In the middle of the night, he woke, gathered his robe, staff, dagger, waterskin and a bag of bread. He crept outdoors into the starry chill. Akkad slept. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think a sentry watched his house at night.

  One did watch, unknown to Shem. But the man had taken that moment to climb down from the neighboring roof where he watched and relieve his full bladder near the corner of a building. The watcher knew he shouldn’t have drunk so much wine earlier, but he’d only be gone from his post a moment.

  Shem used that moment to walk away unnoticed, moving through the shadows. There was no moon tonight and only a single watch fire where two warriors warmed themselves by the main gate. He went to the wharf, to the tied boats. As Opis had done long ago, he borrowed a boat, slipping onto the dark Euphrates, softly paddling away.

  He was amazed it was so easy.

  With sure strokes, he dipped the triangular-bladed paddle into the water, the river swirling, gurgling around him and moving toward the Bitter Sea countless leagues downstream. A cold wind whistled past his ears and caused him to shiver. For several hours, he journeyed and then he worked toward shore. It was too chancy to stay on the Euphrates. It was a main thoroughfare for the Mighty Men.

  The punt whispered against reeds as frogs croaked and crickets chirped. He jumped out, wading in muddy water, pushing the punt deeper into the reeds. He slung a leather band over his shoulder, carrying a waterskin and a pouch of bread, and he scrambled up the bank, spry and strong for a man two hundred years old. With his shepherd’s crook, he trekked inland, until his sandals no longer sank in mud but kicked up dust. He veered south to Babel.

  At daylight, he crept into a stand of dry reeds, his stomach growling as a finicky herd of antelope chanced by. Maybe they didn’t like the way he shook the reeds when he crawled to the edge to investigate. They bounded across the plain and disappeared out of sight. Later, wild dogs trotted past, sniffing in the direction the antelope had gone.

  Shem sipped from his waterskin. Then he dug with his knife until brackish water seeped from the ground. He grimaced and decided getting sick from dirty water bordered on lunacy. Unaccustomed to such exertion, he said his prayers and curled up to sleep. He awoke stiff and sore and wondered if Chamoth was already on his trail. He listened, but heard no baying hounds.

  As the sun crawled out of sight, Shem rose and briskly started in the direction of Babel. Lions and hyenas remained scarce. He dug raisins out of his pocket and ate them one by one, chewing thoroughly. Around midnight, he came upon a stream, threw himself onto his belly and drank until his stomach ached. He felt bloated, but hurried on lest any night predators prowled near.

  Later, he heard distant barking.

  Shem looked back across the plain. Stars painted the night and the landscape dwindled into blackness, but nothing moved that he could see. It was soon going to be light. He told himself running was senseless. Old, two hundred-year-old men couldn’t outrun hounds. He strode fast nonetheless, praying, asking Jehovah to deliver him. He pointed out that he wouldn’t be here but for the vision.

  The barking of deep-throated, vicious hounds grew. It clenched his stomach, and his pace turned into a quicker trot. The dreadful sounds moved closer, closer. He ran. Wild-eyed, he peered over his shoulder. His side ached and he wheezed.

  How had they found him so quickly?

  “Jehovah of my father,” he panted. “Deliver me from the hand of my enemy.”

  A howl sounded closer than before. Shem put on a burst of speed. Then all he heard was the constant thud of his feet and his harsh breathing. The ache in his side clawed with pain, threatening to turn into a cramp that would make him fall. He didn’t want to die. He gritted his teeth and pressed his hand against the traitorous ache.

  As the first rays of dawn streaked the night, a lion roared. It shocked him, terrified him and almost caused him to collapse in fright. A second roar sounded, and the barking changed in intensity. Faintly, it seemed, he heard men shout in a
larm.

  Shem twisted his head north, but he didn’t see anyone.

  Hounds howled. Men screamed.

  Panting, with sweat streaming down his face, he slowed to a walk. He had a blister on his left foot. As the sun climbed out of the horizon, he glanced back, but saw nothing but dry grasses, bushes and waterless ground. As the day heated up, he crawled under a thorny bush. The sounds of battle, between lions and dogs and men, had long ago faded.

  “Thank you,” whispered Shem, and he fell asleep.

  7.

  Days later, around noon, Shem walked through Babel’s Lion Gate. He bore a dirt-caked robe and worn sandals. A nearly empty waterskin slapped at his side. His grimy hair hung to his shoulders and his already intense eyes had taken on a stark stare.

  Mud-brick houses rose everywhere and the lanes were dusty like those in Akkad, only longer and convoluted and with two-story houses breaking up the monotony of uniformity. Sounds of bleating sheep, shouting children, doors slamming and clucking chickens as they searched for insects mingled with the sour-sweaty smell of humanity. A few women gave him a close glance. One or two men shouted a ribald joke concerning his appearance. The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat made his stomach growl. His food had given out a day and half ago.

  The Shemite Patriarch stopped in the middle of a street that led to the Tower. Like a mountain, it rose above the city. It was magnificent, spellbinding in how the eye was drawn to it. At the Tower’s pinnacle stood a blue-colored temple glazed with lapis lazuli and faience. It seemed like a dreamy abode, a cloud that had come down to men, a mystical palace.

  Women with water jugs balanced on their heads strolled back from the Euphrates and past him, eyeing the old man leaning on his shepherd’s crook. A pack of children ran screaming as they kicked a bundle of rags tied into a ball. A chariot rattled past with two warriors headed somewhere.

  Shem took a deep breath, wondering how to gather the needed elders and gain a clay pot before Nimrod’s men picked him up. Then he spied a man hurrying along the street, carrying a large jar.

  “You,” Shem said.

  Lud frowned thoughtfully, in the way men sometimes do when they recognize another but can’t quite remember who he is.

  “What do you want for that?” Shem asked.

  “This?” asked Lud, hefting his clay jar. He hesitated, before admitting, “It’s cracked at the base.”

  Shem smiled, and Lud looked at him even more oddly. Shem dug in his carrying pouch and pulled out a small gem. He showed it to Lud.

  “You want to give me that gem for this jar?”

  “Yes,” Shem said.

  “Who are you? It seems I should know you.”

  “I’m Shem.”

  Lud’s eyes grew wide. He nodded sharply, handing Shem the jar and pocketing the ruby. Lud hurried away, throwing a glance over his shoulder and hurrying even faster.

  Shem thought it profound and an excellent sign that the jar had a crack in the base. Now for the elders… He glanced around, and was amazed—and wasn’t—to see Kush, Menes, Put and Canaan walking together.

  “Elders!” shouted Shem.

  Kush, Menes, Put and Canaan turned. They recognized him, of course. Their shock was obvious. He beckoned them, and reluctantly they came.

  “When did you arrive in Babel?” Kush asked. He wore a bizarre, three-cornered hat and a red robe with a cloth-of-gold belt. Only Put carried a weapon, a wooden bow and arrow case on his back.

  “You must come with me,” Shem said.

  “Come where?” Kush said.

  “Over there,” Shem said, with his head pointing at the Tower.

  They followed, muttering among themselves. He strode briskly and thus kept ahead of them so they couldn’t ask questions. He noticed that the plaza, the large area around the Tower, wasn’t dirty and dusty like the rest of Babel. Baked bricks had been laid down piece-by-piece. Cobbled, Shem thought the term was. Two boys at the other end of the plaza swept dirt from the cobbled bricks.

  A weird feeling touched him. He didn’t recognize the feeling. It was too odd. Then he understood. The cobbled bricks, the Tower reminded him of a lost age, the Antediluvian Age, home. Well, it had been the home of his childhood and young manhood. He recalled that the Old World had been filled with wickedness. With a Flood, Jehovah had washed the Earth of evil. Now, like persistent sand in a desert, evil had reappeared.

  Shem reached the Tower’s base, and the mighty edifice seemed even grander than before. It dwarfed him, made him feel small. He suspected they had planned for that, the architects of this monumental symbol of rebellion.

  While curious people glanced at him, Shem turned and told the four elders Jehovah’s message; he unburdened his vision. When he finished, he lifted the clay jar and smashed it against the Tower, giving them the final warning from the LORD Almighty.

  Menes and Put grew pale. Canaan scowled and Kush squinted.

  “What sort of nonsense is this?” Kush demanded.

  Shem couldn’t believe they didn’t understand. So he raised his staff and shouted, “Woe to Babel! Woe to the city of blood and rebellion! Jehovah has weighed you in the balance and found you wanting. Shave your hair, rend your fine garments and pour ashes on your head. Turn from your wicked ways and repent. The hour of Jehovah’s wrath is near!”

  “I must report this,” Canaan said, lifting his long robe and hurrying across the plaza bricks.

  Kush drifted away frowning and muttering.

  Menes and Put continued to listen.

  So Shem preached. A crowd grew. As it did, Shem took the first five steps up the Tower’s main ramp. The stairs led to the lone temple at the apex. Nothing on all the plain of Shinar stood so high and awe-inspiring.

  As he spoke, a man and a woman descended the stairs from the temple. One was Semiramis, Queen of Babel and Prime Daughter of Ishtar. The other was Gilgamesh, Governor of Erech and friend of Nimrod the Mighty Hunter. Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the mob, an armored knot of Mighty Men with shields and spears shouldered through.

  Shem raised his shepherd’s crook, as men, women and children of Babel looked upon him in growing fear.

  “The Sovereign Lord has spoken to me,” Shem said. “He has sworn by Himself: ‘I will never forget anything they have done.’”

  A low moan escaped the mob. It made the approaching warriors shove harder Fear entered their eyes and their leader, the War Chief, foully cursed. Semiramis and Gilgamesh halted above Shem and leaned their heads together. Gilgamesh pointed at something in the crowd. Perhaps it was Uruk.

  “Jehovah showed me a basket of ripe fruit,” Shem said. “‘What do you see?’ asked Jehovah.

  “A basket of ripe fruit, I answered.

  “Then the Lord said to me, ‘The time is ripe for the people of Babel. I will spare them no longer. In that day,’ declared the Sovereign Lord, ‘the songs in the temple will turn to wailing. I will make the sun go down at noon and darken the earth in broad daylight. I will turn your religious feasts into mourning and all your singing into weeping. I will make all of you wear sackcloth and shave your heads. I will make that time like mourning for an only son and the end of it like a bitter day.

  “‘The days are coming,’ declared the Sovereign Lord, ‘when I will send a famine through the land—not a famine of food or a thirst for water, but a famine of hearing the word of the Lord. Men will stagger from sea to sea and wander from north to east, searching for the word of the Lord, but they will not find it.’”

  Uruk the War Chief with his hulking, bronze-armored shoulders and his man-sized shield shoved lesser folk out of the way. “Come down from there, old man. Quit spouting your lies.”

  Shem lowered his shepherd’s crook. He stood on the fifth step, only a little above Uruk and his helmeted warriors. “Who are you to interrupt the word of Jehovah?”

  “Jehovah?” asked Uruk, shifting his shoulders, causing the fish-like scales of his armor to rub with a metallic shing. “I don’t believe you speak for Jehova
h.”

  “Woe to you, Mighty Men of Babel. For blood shall be repaid by blood.”

  “Cast no more of your spells, old man,” Uruk said uneasily.

  “Let him speak!” cried a man.

  Uruk whirled around. So did his protecting shield-wall of warriors. They too bore man-sized shields. “Who said that?”

  The mob pressed against Uruk, but no one dared admit to saying those words.

  “Woe to you who practice divination and sorcery. The Lake of Fire will be your final destination.”

  “No more,” said Uruk, sweat slicking his beefy features.

  Shem took another breath to shout out yet another warning.

  “Grandfather, why do you stir the people so?”

  Shem glanced over his shoulder. Semiramis and Gilgamesh stood several steps above him. She had spoken. She was beautiful and wore a lovely long gown and a string of pearls across her forehead. Her eyes were green-painted and her lips red. She reminded him of Naamah, the witch who had once stolen his brother’s wits.

  Thunder bubbled in his gut. Shem pointed with his shepherd’s crook. “You will play the harlot no more, daughter of Ishtar! You have led the people in apostasy.”

  Semiramis went pale with fury. Gilgamesh tried to hold her back. She shook off his hands, advancing down the steps. “How dare you insult me? I serve the Queen of Heaven. War Chief, seize him!”

  Uruk hesitated.

  That inflamed Semiramis. She threw up her hands as if imploring the crowd. “He blasphemes Ishtar! He mocks the sacred rites.”