People of the Flood (Ark Chronicles 2) Page 13

  “This way,” Beor roared, who dragged him along.

  Forced pell-mell by a power he couldn’t understand, Nimrod was suddenly dashed against a branch that the other two had ducked. He fell back, with stars in his eyes as his forehead throbbed with hurt.

  “Nimrod!”

  “Will you leave him?”

  “And tell his father Kush that I did? Not I.”

  The name “Kush” cleared Nimrod’s thoughts. He blinked, staring up at Beor in his ridiculous great sloth-cap and at Geba with his drooping mustache that failed to hide his cousin’s foxy slyness.

  “Take my hand,” Beor said.

  Nimrod saw the thick fingers. He reached out and felt himself yanked upright. “Where’s the dragon?”

  Through the forest a man screamed shrilly, the sound abruptly cut off.

  “He’s over there eating our cousins,” Geba said.

  “Never mind recriminations,” Beor snarled. “Run.” And he did, like a bull, powerful, without grace but with determination. Geba and Nimrod followed. Each could have outpaced Beor. Each, however, stayed close on his heels, as if afraid to leave the protective circle of Beor’s courage.

  “I’m sorry,” Nimrod sobbed minutes later, as guilt overwhelmed him.

  Geba said, “Tell that to Rosh and the twins.”

  Boom.

  Terror crawled up Nimrod’s spine. “It’s following us.”

  “Yes,” Beor said, much too calmly, his huge arms swinging in rhythm to his blundering charge.

  Behind them sounded the splintering of trees, the nine-ton tread and a bellow of purified fury.

  For several heartbeats, they ran, with the play of sunlight peeking down through the forest leaves and then the accompanying shadows making everything seem like a blur. Labored breathing was harsh in their ears, as well as the pounding of feet.

  “We should split up and meet back at camp,” Beor panted. “That way some of us will live to warn the tribe.”

  “I’m staying with you,” Geba said.

  “Nimrod?” Beor asked.

  Nimrod knew he lived because Beor had dragged him along. He also knew that unless Beor died, he’d never have Semiramis for his own.

  “I’m not sure, Beor.”

  “Think of the tribe,” Beor said. “At least one of us must survive to tell the tale.”

  It felt to Nimrod as if his life, his soul was being squeezed out of him. He struggled with concepts he didn’t have time to ponder. Then it came to him, what he was going to say. He groaned silently, fighting it, shaking his head. He clenched his teeth, telling himself he wouldn’t say it, he didn’t dare.

  “Yes,” he said. “The news must get back to the tribe.”

  Within he howled, or a part of him did. The other half throttled such weakness, seeing it for the sentimentalism it was. Heroes had to make the hard choices. It’s why they were heroes and not ordinary weaklings.

  “Good luck,” Nimrod said.

  “Go with Jehovah,” Beor said.

  Geba’s face was pinched, almost suspicious seeming. He remained silent.

  Nimrod peeled away and ran harder than he’d ever run before. He wasn’t like Beor, built only for strength. He was lithe and athletic, and he moved, he fairly flew through the forest, dodging trees and leaping fallen logs. A glorious power filled him. He exulted in his speed, in the way trees flashed by. And a new hardness filled him, and with the hardness came the realization that he needed every edge today he could find. So under his breath, he prayed to his father’s spirits. He’d use them as they tried to use him, and he vowed to himself to free mankind from unseen spirits of any kind. Soon, the incredible happened. He left behind the wretched sound of the dragon’s tread.

  Later, he gasped, and sweat poured from his face and soaked his clothes. He burst into the clearing where his grandfather sat on a rock and twisted little Eel crouched low beside him.

  As Ham rose, an exhausted Nimrod staggered into his arms.

  “What happened?” Ham asked. “Where are the others?”

  Nimrod had to work his lips twice before he whispered, “We found the dragon.”

  11.

  Rahab had become uneasy ever since her talk with Semiramis. She didn’t know why the atmosphere seemed so charged, as if a storm of awful intensity, with hail and lightning and therefore blazing forest fires, was building, ready to fall upon the clan.

  A few clouds floated in the sky. The men worked the fields. Women in their yards scraped hides. Children screamed and raced around the dirt lanes, a few falling and skinning their knees. Dogs barked and chased cats. Goose girls herded honking, waddling geese. An impatient ram bleated from his pen.

  Outside the settlement, it seemed as ordinary.

  Rahab scanned the forest in the distance, the one surrounding their cleared fields. There couldn’t be any charioteers ready to spring to the assault. No Red Blades existed anymore. Ymir and his Slayers would never walk the Earth again.

  Why, then, did it feel like the old days, as if an invasion was imminent?

  Troubled, unable to shake the feeling, Rahab went inside to the hearth. She kneaded dough, swept the floorboards and counted the number of remaining candles. The awful feeling remained.

  “I’m a fool,” she whispered.

  She worked to her knees, her joints not what they used to be. Then she put her folded hands and her head onto the rocking chair.

  “Dear Jehovah in Heaven,” she began, unburdening her heart to the One who knew all, asking Him for aid and for help in this time of trouble. She ended with a plea to look after Ham, and to see that nothing happened to Beor, Nimrod and the others.

  “O Jehovah of Noah, please help them make wise decisions. Help them return to us safely, I beg thee.”

  12.

  Ham told the boy it wasn’t his fault.

  “What about you, Grandfather?” Eel asked. “You knew dragons are murder.”

  Ham had no rebuttal for that. Dejected, walking the hitched donkeys in order to save their stamina, he maneuvered the solid-wheeled chariot out of the tree line.

  Bees floated everywhere, buzzing to a thousand flowers. An eagle wheeled high overhead. The weather was on the verge of warm, and Ham led them upslope through waist-high grasses. He had no plan. He didn’t know what to do other than get away.

  Nimrod woke from his dull stare. He cocked his head.

  “What?” Ham asked.

  “That way,” Nimrod said, pointing upslope to a clump of lichen-covered boulders. “Hurry.”

  They waded through the grasses, bees zooming away from them.

  “It’s evil,” Nimrod said, his eyes bright. “It… It’s possessed.”

  Ham scowled.

  Nimrod ran a sleeve over his sweaty face. “I know what I’m talking about. I saw it. Right before it attacked, its eyes… It was like sunlight glittering off bronze.”

  “You said it was feverish,” Ham said. “That sometimes makes an animal’s eyes look—”

  “—It is possessed!” Nimrod shouted.

  Ham halted, forcing the donkeys to stop.

  Nimrod fidgeted. He seemed burdened, guilty, as if he wanted to talk.

  “It ate my grandsons, an evil act.” Ham glanced at Eel, who stonily eyed the ground. “Some think that’s my fault. Why do you think spirits haunt it?”

  Nimrod looked up, his face filled with anguish, with glistening eyes. He opened his mouth—

  “Look!” shouted Eel. “Look at that!”

  Ham followed the pointing finger. Two men staggered out of the tree line. One of them was so huge he had to be Beor. The other was obviously Geba.

  “What in the name of… What’s that?” Ham asked.

  It seemed as if part of the forest moved. An entire section of it shifted, as if several trees had decided to uproot and take a walk. Then a bipedal monster limped out of the tree line after the two. Snot drooled from the impossibly huge nose, while the limp was pronounced.

  “The dragon,” whispered Nimro
d.

  Ham had never seen a dragon like that. It dwarfed those of old. It took incredible strides, as fast as Beor and Geba ran. “They’re not going to make it,” he said.

  The transformation in Nimrod was electric. “Eel,” he shouted, “follow me! Grandfather, don’t let the donkeys flee.”

  The dragon, the monstrosity of flesh and bone and leathery hide, bellowed, but the cry was hoarse, as if the monster was bone-weary, exhausted. Its limp was worse than Ham’s. He noticed a spear stuck in the hip. That had to be Beor’s, and sticking it there had surely been a hero’s feat.

  Nimrod shouted, pumping his legs. Eel struggled to keep up. Beor dragged Geba uphill, even as the bees continued to work the flowers. The limping dragon closed on the two doomed men, crushing grass, leaving huge footprints.

  “Almighty Jehovah,” Ham said, “I don’t deserve Your help. But I’m asking for it. Please, Jehovah, give my grandsons strength. Don’t let the dragon kill them.” Ham licked his lips. Could he bargain with the Creator? “I’ll try and stop drinking, too.”

  The dragon didn’t seem to move fast—it was so huge that any movement seemed deceptive—but suddenly the monster was almost on top of the two fleeing men.

  Nimrod sprinted ahead of Eel. Small Eel, he with the lion scar on his forehead, knelt on one knee, almost hidden in the grass, as he strung his bow.

  Nimrod charged the monster that made him seem like a mouse. Nimrod fairly flew down the hill, and he passed a white-faced Beor and Geba. He charged head-down, a spear clutched with two hands.

  Drool dripped from the dragon’s jaws.

  With grace, with smooth beauty, Nimrod grasped the spear in a classic javelin-casting hold. As he ran, he heaved. The heavy spear flew in a perfect arc. It hit the monster’s throat, sticking fast.

  Impossibly, the dragon stumbled, although it righted itself. Then the dragon tilted its bulky torso. The jaws opened like a trap.

  But Nimrod wasn’t Rosh. Vast teeth hovered over him. Fear coursed through him like a current. His limbs tingled and a strange ecstasy filled him. Reeking dragon breath gagged him. He wanted to bellow, shout and rage. Instead, he darted from those saliva-dripping teeth. They snapped together with a CLICK! Nimrod snarled with glee and sprinted between the dragon’s legs. He reached out his arm and touched the scaly hide, and he dodged the tail, realizing a swipe of it could crush his bones.

  The dragon rose, roaring in bafflement. The swiftly running youth raced downhill. The beast grunted, and it seemed as if large, unwieldy gears clattered and clanked in its tiny brain.

  Protect Eggs!

  Stop the men!

  Kill!

  The dragon resumed its march uphill.

  Nimrod changed direction, following the beast.

  Beor said something to a sobbing Geba. In the thunder of the dragon’s tread, maybe neither of them heard the words. But Beor and Geba turned. They couldn’t outrun the monster. That was obvious. Shaking, trembling, Geba took the bow from his shoulders and put an arrow to the string. The arrow slipped free. Beor jerked out his flint-studded club and charged the beast.

  Geba picked up his fallen arrow. It flew true, but bounced off dragon-hide.

  “Aim at its eyes!” Ham shouted.

  Beor swung his club, but his timing was off. The dragon, which appeared not to notice him, was in the process of taking another of those monster strides. The leg connected with Beor, sending him thirty feet back the way he’d come, to roll and tumble through flowers and grass.

  Despite his painful hip, Ham vaulted into the chariot and shook the reins. He didn’t know if he could make the donkeys obey, but he could try.

  As the dragon tilted for Geba, who cried out and leaped to his feet, Ham turned the chariot downhill. The donkeys brayed at him as if he were insane. “Go! Hiya!” Ham screamed, shaking the reins. The little beasts peered at him with their giant-sized eyes. Then they bent their heads and dashed for the fallen hunter in that breakneck way that only donkeys can.

  The dragon rose, with Geba’s kicking legs sticking out of its lips. The monster gulped and the legs slid out of view.

  Nimrod and Ham reached Beor simultaneously. Beor shivered on the ground, white-faced and sweating. Out of his right thigh stuck a jagged, bloody bone.

  The dragon, its teeth gory and red-blooded with devoured Geba, twisted its head about.

  “Go,” Nimrod shouted, as he dragged Beor into the chariot. “Go, go, go!”

  Ham lashed the donkeys as the dragon lurched toward them. The donkeys brayed in terror and they dug their hooves into the soil. They fled the wicked beast, their stubby legs a-blur.

  The solid wheels struck rocks and uneven ground and the cart threatened to break apart as it bounced. Each jerk and lifting of the wheels caused wretched moans from Beor. He hung on and Nimrod hung onto him. Ham drove with all the cunning accumulated over one hundred years. His cousin Laban would have been proud. They pulled away from the dragon, the frightened asses, for the moment, winning the race.

  13.

  They sat around a dark campfire. The dragon, with its exhausted limp, had followed them up the mountain pass but had fallen behind. Somewhere in the darkness, it was out there: prowling, hunting for them, hungry for their blood.

  “It isn’t natural that it follows,” Ham said.

  Nimrod spoke no more about possession. Since his amazing exploit, he had turned quiet and reflective.

  Beor shivered under a blanket, sweaty, drinking lots of water. Ham had set his bone, but the big man had become feverish.

  “I agree with you, Grandfather,” Eel said. “The beast isn’t acting naturally.”

  “Which means it is acting unnaturally,” Ham said, “or supernaturally.” He glanced at Nimrod.

  In the darkness, the handsome youth tested his arrows, saying nothing.

  “Will it follow us all the way to the settlement?” Eel asked.

  “I don’t see how,” Ham said. “And yet—what did you mean before when you said it was possessed?” he asked Nimrod.

  Nimrod shrugged.

  “That’s no answer,” Ham said.

  The youth put his arrows away. “I told you what I know.”

  “Have you?” Ham asked. “Everything?”

  Nimrod’s blink seemed slow and snake-like. “What else could I know?”

  “We don’t dare lead it back to the settlement,” Eel said. “One of us will have to stay behind and trick it.”

  “Two of us,” Nimrod said.

  “I’ll do it,” Ham said. “I know more about animals than anyone. You and Eel take Beor home.”

  “No,” Nimrod said. “You have a bad hip. You can’t outrun the dragon. So you must take Beor home.” He peered at the stars, and it seemed he would say more.

  But what more was there to say? Ham reluctantly agreed with Nimrod’s logic and set out that night. He reached the settlement a half week later and told them what had happened and what might possibly happen.

  That’s when pandemonium broke out.

  14.

  Kush and Deborah prayed at a midnight altar. They sacrificed pigs and goats and pleaded for direction. The stars glittered in the darkness, bright motes in the blackness. Trees swayed and owls hooted. Kush’s knife rose yet again, and more pig’s blood ran. Soon, pork-scented smoke billowed.

  “Why won’t they answer?” Kush growled. “They must heed us.”

  “Perhaps we have displeased them,” Deborah said.

  “No. I followed their directions.”

  “And yet, Beor still lives,” Deborah said.

  Kush wiped his blade, sheathing it. His haunted eyes took in the slaughter. Had he been deceived? “Why won’t they at least give me the ingredients for brimstone?”

  “They have.”

  “I mean the exact measurements to make it.”

  Deborah removed her calf-hide apron, one smeared with fresh blood. “Something hinders our prayers.”

  “Or Nimrod is right, and they play their own hidden games.”<
br />
  “No, Kush. The fallen ones aid us because Jehovah has cursed us both. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Maybe we’ve taken the wrong path,” Kush said. “Maybe instead of kicking against the curse, we could plead with and cajole Noah to revoke it.”

  “You know he said otherwise. Noah said he spoke for Jehovah. Unless you are satisfied to be a slave of Japheth and his sons—”

  “No!”

  “Then we must prepare to meet the dragon,” Deborah said. “To defeat it.”

  Kush turned haunted eyes on his wife. He had never meant to unleash such a terror on them. The dragon was supposed to kill Beor, thereby smoothing his path to power over the tribe. “How can you be so calm? It’s your son out there facing the dragon. The beast that surely comes to destroy us.”

  “To destroy those who hinder the road to Shinar,” Deborah said.

  Was that true? Kush wondered. Why then had the dragon devoured so many of Put’s sons? That weakened them for the day they fought Japheth and his clan.

  “We must sacrifice more goats,” Deborah said. “Slaughter more pigs until the aroma awakens them to our plight.”

  “No,” Kush said. “No more sacrifices. Instead, you must bend your guile to unlocking the secret of brimstone.”

  “But the fallen ones aren’t answering us.”

  “My father knows the secret. Think. Tell me how I may trick my father into telling us.”

  15.

  Ham limped out of the palisade and relieved a twelve-year-old great-grandson of his wooden spade. All around the palisade, in the flickering torchlight, hundreds of men and boys picked and shoveled the stony soil into waiting wheelbarrows, which other boys drove back into the settlement. Under the direction of Anom, the son of Menes, they dumped the dirt against the inner log wall.

  As he worked, Ham recalled the day he had seen the demon enter Ymir and come out again to fight the angel. Did evil spirits enter beasts? He had heard a story once in Antediluvian times of spirits entering hogs, making them act insanely, to plunge to their deaths over a cliff and into a lake.