A third box to the right of the door contained utensils, blades, spoons, forks, bowls, plates, and assorted pots for cooking. The storage bin beside it held the vegetables picked fresh from the field and various herbs, which Vashti could list in a heartbeat and would take Jubal time to think about. The oven, outside under a shelter, was made of squared stones. The log dwelling, even water-proofed with pitch, had small chance of standing against the flood waters, but Jubal imagined the oven, though it may be muddied during the event and in need of a thorough cleaning afterward, would still be usable after the river receded.
He sighed, feeling sad while eyeing his surroundings. He could not stop thinking about the labor invested and the dreams of what the tiny dwelling might have become. Would he and Vashti rebuild in the lower area? Probably not, which meant they would build anew on higher ground. They had been given no time to discuss the matter, no more than any other couple, and would make the necessary decisions when the time came.
Vivian’s final words at the end of the meeting weighed heavily on his mind. On the one hand he was deeply saddened about the shortened lifespans and on the other hand, he had to admit to himself, becoming a guardian of the less powerful races intrigued him. The changes brought on by the shifting of the earth would have to be dealt with as they occurred, but if the future events were anything like the coming storm, men and women were going to have many struggles for survival ahead.
He turned at the sound of the door latch lifting and at the broad man suddenly filling the entranceway. “I just received my orders from Ra,” Roddy announced while stepping into the room and taking a seat on the couch beside Jubal, barely giving him time to swing around and sit up. “I will soon be leading my people south to higher ground.”
Jubal crossed his arms, taking a few extra moments to stare at his cousin before responding, “Did it occur to you my wife and I could have been involved in an act of intimacy?”
Roddy chuckled while shaking his head, clearly taking the response as a joke. “Vashti is working with Oden. I knew you would be here and alone,” he replied with his usual confidence. “I came because Ra told me my caravan will be ready to go in three hours, until then I am to get some rest. It is destined to be at least three days of hardship in the wilderness, possibly more, and then a good deal of labor when we return,” he explained almost as if Jubal might not have considered the condition the settlement would be in after the water receded. “Some of us have been ordered to rest while others work so we can be alert to the hidden dangers of the wildlands.”
Jubal nodded his head. “I have the same orders from Zeus, except Artemis will be leading our group,” he replied without bothering to mention the likely future condition of the log house they were sitting in. “I don’t feel much like sleeping even though I am a bit weary after everything that has happened since I woke up this morning. Speaking of what happened; how is your back? That lion must have given you a bruising.”
Roddy folded his hands behind his head and leaned back. “We are of the same mind. I also am too flooding excited to sleep. Who can sleep after learning of our new role? The crisis with Zeus, Ra, and Oden in charge will end, but leadership will pass into the hands of the fittest once things settle down, and matters are back to normal, until the next crisis. According to the priest we will be facing many of them in the future,” he stated and with each word his eyes had seemed to light up with the possibility of who the person guiding all humanity should be, and then he shrugged. “As for the bruises, they are of no moment, and nothing I will allow to slow me down.”
Jubal knew what he was supposed to say. “Who could possibly be fitter to lead than the chief Weapocarn?” It did not hurt to humor his talented cousin.
“I knew we would be of the same mind,” Roddy replied with a broad grin.
Jubal did not feel like discussing politics, in fact rarely did, and so pointed to the box in front of the couch. “I have composed a new melody, would you like to hear it?”
Nimrod nodded eagerly and opened the box. “Do you want to play flute or lyre?”
A pair of stringed-lyres was on the inside left and three flutes were on the right. The first wind instrument had different-sized wooden cylinders fitted together from smallest to largest. It was designed by Pan, a great composer, and a skilled player of Aakatools. The other two were long shafts with holes on the tops. “I’ll take one of the long flutes,” Jubal replied, preferring the type he had crafted.
Roddy took out a long wind instrument and handed the other to his cousin. “I have composed an Aaka of my own. The inspiration came to me a short while ago in a pattern of tones coming together in such a way as to express my feelings,” he said and then nodded as if coming to a decision.” You play yours and then I will perform mine.”
Jubal smiled, being pleased by the news. “I think it is absolutely wonderful you have gone from being a player of notes to actually arranging them. Maybe you should go first. I can hardly wait to hear what you have come up with.”
Roddy nodded acknowledgement of the words, then shook his head and promptly waved the notion away. “Your arrangements are always pleasing to the ear and so I would have you play the new one for me now,” he insisted, not being a man who changed his mind easily.
Jubal brought the instrument up and blew into it. His fingers went from hole to hole, producing the different tones and rhythms in a light and fluttery manner that reminded him of butterflies winging from flower to flower, which had been his inspiration. It pleased him when Roddy grinned at the end.
“That was a beautiful Aaka. Be sure to write the notes in clay so other players can know how to perform the composition, for I am sure the rest of the population would enjoy hearing it,” the chief Weapocarn stated and then brought the flute to his mouth. “I can play the notes and read them but these tones and rhythms seem to flow from my soul, not by visualizing the Aaka language you created, so please pay close attention and see if you can record it all in clay.”
“I promise to listen closely and write precisely what I hear,” Jubal replied, eagerly awaiting the performance.
Rather than being delicate like butterfly wings, the tones coming out of the flute Roddy was using were bold, demanding attention, and seemed to shout, “Look up at me!”
Identifying notes by sound came easy to Jubal; he listened to each tone, the whole notes, eighths, quarters, and sixteenths. The volume increased, which meant adding a crescendo, and the piece reached a high C for four beats, and then something peculiar happened when Roddy finished the first stanza and began the second, a soft yellow light, like the breast of a hooded-warbler, radiated from him and grew brighter with each note. His eyes were closed so it was doubtful he was even aware of the radiance.
Jubal sprang off the couch as Nimrod began to rise into the air. “You, you, are floating!”
Roddy’s eyes popped open, darted right, left, and then up and down. “Oh,” he uttered, breaking the Melody, causing the glow to vanish, and him to drop onto the couch. He blinked rapidly and spoke not a word. It was rare to see the man stricken speechless.
Jubal knew his eyes were wide and his jaw had dropped open, but floating in the air was even more amazing than watching the man strangle a lion. After the initial shock wore off he swallowed and then asked, “How, how did that happen?”
Roddy shook his head and sat staring at the flute as if he had never seen one before. It was the first time he seemed unsure of himself, and for Nimrod that had to be an altogether new and unpleasant experience. “I played the notes while thinking of what it will be like when all Nephilim look up to me,” his lips stretched into a closed-mouth smile, “it was those same feelings that inspired the composition. This was the first time I played what was in my heart,” he explained and then looked anxiously at Jubal. “Do you remember the Aaka? Can you write it in clay?”
The notes were imprinted in Jubal’s head and under the circumstances he doubted anything could make him forget the melody. Rather than speak, he cho
se to demonstrate. Bringing the flute to his mouth, he began playing exactly what he had heard. As the bold notes reached the crescendo, a stirring within him seemed to issue forth, building up like a cistern filling with more rainwater than it could hold, and then at the last note of the stanza, energy gushed into him, filling him with might.
He had never felt so powerful in all of his life, as if he could shake the earth through the sheer force of his will. Indigo, like the blue of a bunting, lit up the room as he continued to play and, like Roddy, floated into the air. Up Jubal went, well above the floor, and slammed his head against the ceiling.
“Owe,” he blurted, ending the melody along with the feeling of being almighty, and dropped to the floor. At least he landed on his feet. “That felt great!” he exclaimed, “I mean the power, not the bump on the head.”
“No one else’s Aakas have that effect,” Roddy noted, proudly, and stood up. “I too feel great,” he added, although the man probably felt that way most of the time. He began pacing back and forth as if in so doing the answer to the mystery would come to him.
“It is a talent unique to you,” Jubal agreed while lifting his foot and taking a peek at the bottom to be sure the impact had not restarted the bleeding. No red stained the bandage, for which he was grateful. “Vivian warned us about letting our powers as Nephilim cause us to become arrogant,” he paused, thinking but not saying, more arrogant than we already are, and then finished out loud with, “I thought she meant our greater endurance and longevity, but maybe the great lady had something more in mind.”
“For you and I at least,” Roddy replied and began rubbing his hands together. “We must explore this further, when time permits. Now, quickly, write the Aaka in clay while I go find Semi. She is going to be so thrilled,” he instructed, then dropped the flute on the couch, ran through the door, and out into the night in search of his wife.
Jubal was about to do as instructed, but first decided to close the door, which had been left open. He walked over and was pulling it shut when a fair-skinned but strong hand grabbed hold of the wooden board. “Who,” he managed to get out before the person pulled the door wide.
The hooded garment was white as new snow with an emerald green band around the waist. Ancient eyes stared out of an ageless face and were the color of a cloudless sky at noonday. “I would have words with you,” the priest said in a tone indicating refusal to listen was not an option.
Who would dare refuse him entrance?
Was he here to discuss the outburst at the meeting?
Jubal did not know the answer to the last question, but knew he was not daring enough to tell the man to go away. It seemed he was going to pay for the hasty words spoken earlier.
Anxiety spiked in him and for a few moments he did not know what to do, until his brain kicked into action. He gestured with his hands for the man to come in, which the priest did and then Jubal found his voice. “Can I get you a bite to eat, some refreshment?”
The seemingly ancient yet apparently young man stepped inside, and after a brief eyeing of the one-room dwelling, chose to respond. “I am in no need of food or drink at present. Harken to my words.”
Jubal stood up straighter, shoulders back, head held high, and replied, “I am ready to receive instruction,” giving the formal response, and expecting to be thoroughly reprimanded, at the least.
The priest acknowledged with a single nod of his head and then proceeded, “This morning you were only a Weapocarn. This evening you have become something more, the first Aakacarn, and therefore able to wield Melodies to supernatural effect. Many more Nephilim will gain this ability.”
Roddy had only exited moments before, yet knowledge of what had happened seemed to have gotten to the ears of the priest, unless he had received divine guidance. Jubal did not know what to think of the revelation. “Priest, Nimrod composed an Aaka and he began to glow while performing it for me and then floated off the couch. Roddy is the first Aakacarn,” he explained, wanting to set the record straight, even if saying so got him into deeper trouble.
“Correction, he is the first Aakasear, a Melody crafter or composer, if you will, and has the ability to create Melodies that tap into the life-energy of the being performing the Aaka. Your compositions are enjoyable to hear, but his go far beyond entertainment,” the blue-eyed man replied.
Jubal wiped perspiration from his brow while fighting several emotions at once. Fear, relief that he was not in trouble, and awe, battled for a little while within him and then practicality came and gave him the ability to give a coherent response to the message. “I suppose Roddy and I could strap on a few people and float up above the flood waters, but I doubt either of us could play our flutes continuously for three days.” He could think of no other use for the Aaka.
The priest rubbed his jaw, perhaps thinking of a more effective use to suggest. “Call me Mel,” he began after coming to some inward decision. “Nimrod will compose many Melodies of power. You and he are not expected to use his first Aaka in the manner you suggest. There is much to learn about summing and focusing life-force energy before you can truly gain the skill to wield the summoned potential effectively.”
Jubal knew it was an honor to be permitted to address the priest by name, yet doing so was a little beyond him at the moment. “I know so little about my new designation the words, summing and focusing life-force energy, are beyond my understanding, not so much the words but the actions they represent.”
Mel nodded as if he understood completely. “Performing the Melody on an instrument or in your mind will summon the energy. If that potential is not focused it will radiate from you in all directions, as it did a short while ago. I suggest you spend the next few hours thinking of the Aaka and concentrating on where you want the energy to be focused,” he explained in a manner Jubal often used when teaching a new hunter how to light a campfire, then added, “Your survival of the coming event will depend upon how quickly you learn and yet trying to do more than you are able will also result in death. Somehow you must strike a balance between haste and restraint,” he told a man known for being hasty.
Jubal often acted on impulse rather than careful deliberation, yet understood he would have no choice but to make a change and try to stifle any sudden urges to go beyond his limit, whatever that was. He knew so little about his new ability it was impossible to make any sort of personal evaluation. How fast was too fast? “I will take your word on the matter and be careful, even though I have no idea as of yet what I am capable of. What exactly is the danger?”
“A reason for caution,” the priest continued, “is all Nephilim possess an ever-growing and replenishing pool of potential within them, some in greater amounts and some in far less. The Anakim and the vast majority of ordinary men have a finite amount of energy within them and summoning potential that cannot be replaced will shorten their lifespans, if not kill them instantly. The exceptions among them who enjoy a larger pool of life-force energy have the potential to live longer lives, but still possess a finite amount, and wielding Melodies would reduce their lifespans.”
Jubal pondered the information. “I see. It is risky for the Nephilim to summon the life-force energy you spoke of, but fatal for most anyone else.”
Mel nodded his head. “The summoning would indeed be fatal for the Anakim and the rest, yet the draw could kill a Nephilim. If you drain your pool of potential and pull more energy than your rate of replenishing, the life-force will drain out of your body, leaving you a dried out husk. For this reason I suggest you practice while exercising great care and be sure to drink plenty of water.”
Suddenly the urge to summon the energy and feel almighty again became less attractive. Wielding a Melody was dangerous and not to be taken lightly.
Jubal decided to think of his new ability the way he would about an obsidian blade, spear, or bow and arrow. The Melody would be his weapon, one of his weapons, and like any other armament the wielder must practice with care or risk being injured. “All will be a
s you say, yet I cannot help but wonder why you came to me rather than Nimrod, unless you have already spoken with him.”
Mel smiled; the first time Jubal had ever seen him do so. “I have not yet spoken to the great hunter and may not speak directly to him for quite a while. In time you will understand why I came to you and not him,” he replied, and then his blue eyes peered directly into Jubal’s dark. “Nimrod will continue to excel at what he does and so will you. The Nephilim will need his inspiration, and while he is a composer, an Aakasear, your cousin is no instructor; that task falls to you, the Instructor of Aakacarns. Your other task will be to point the way. Beginning with the current crisis and in times to come, the difficulty in accomplishing those responsibilities will increase, and require you to take great risks.”
While it was true Jubal had created the written form of Aakas, taught it to anyone willing to learn, and often taught the newly recruited hunters the use of their weapons, he had never thought of himself in terms of being an instructor. The elders and crafts-folk, who took on apprentices, were sometimes given the title of Instructor. He had no such title, yet the word accurately described what he did. “I will accept the responsibility of teaching, beginning with myself,” Jubal solemnly replied. “You may have noticed, my impulses already put me at great risk, so that is nothing new to me. However, how can I point the way when I do not even know the direction?”
Mel nodded, clasped his hands together, and his blue eyes seemed to suddenly stare beyond ordinary sight. “In the course of time circumstances will give you an impulse to do a certain thing or go in a particular direction, act upon those impulses and then watch and see how events unfold.”
Most people tried to discourage him from giving in to impulses, calling him rash. He chuckled. “Does this mean I will never get lost or make the wrong turn?”
The priest shook his head and refocused his gaze on the person in front of him. “No, you are capable of getting lost and making poor choices, just like anyone else. The kind of impulse I am talking about will be nearly irresistible and could never be confused with a fanciful thought. You will know it when you feel it; that is the most I can tell you.”
Dawn Of The Aakacarns Page 5