People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3) Read online

  “Which is why you’re here and not there,” Ham said. “Believe me, the Mighty Hunter understands his men. He knows that after the battle, you would demand Hilda. But that is not his plan, not to Nimrod’s liking. Your will, Spear Slayer, must be submerged to Nimrod’s.”

  “That isn’t what he told me.”

  “Oh. Well, what a man says and what he does.” Ham shrugged. “Don’t think about it. You’re here in Babel. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Odin’s breathing became heavier. “She’s promised to me. Hilda is to be mine.”

  “Good luck.”

  Odin squinted. A shifty look entered his eyes—the cunning of a drunk. “You spoke about a chariot dash to Festival. You will drive me instead to the Army of Babel.”

  Ham laughed. “And promptly be sent home again. Me, because I’m in disfavor. You, for disobedience. No, that’s a foolish idea. Just keep drinking and forget about it. Drown out the idea.”

  The pudgy fingers plucked at the massive beard, much as a shepherd might test the quality of a sheep’s wool. “We must go to Festival.”

  “No. Impossible.”

  “Why?” roared Odin. “Why is it impossible?”

  “It’s too much risk for you. You’d surely back out in the morning.”

  “Me?” Odin slapped his chest. “I trekked to the Far North. I saw the Ice Mountains. Do not speak to me about too great a risk.” He lowered his voice. “I will take my bride to the Far North. There, I shall become a prince, the patriarch of a mighty people.”

  The lad’s ambition astonished Ham.

  “We shall set out tomorrow,” Odin said.

  Ham smiled knowingly. “Let me tell you what will happen tomorrow. You’ll become sober, afraid of Nimrod and tell me that this was simply a drunkard’s thought.”

  “Tomorrow,” growled Odin. He reached under his beard. “So I swear by my rhinoceros horn.”

  31.

  Ham wondered if it was the oath or unbending pride that compelled Odin to attempt the chariot dash. Perhaps it didn’t matter which. But the next morning they slipped out of the city, traveling north along the east bank of the Euphrates. The hard pace wearied Ham. His hip throbbed, and his left foot swelled. Chariot driving churned endless dust, until he craved an icy beer to wash the dirt out of his mouth.

  They sped to the Tigris, beating Kush to the ferry crossing they had built five years ago. The Tigris flowed faster than the Euphrates and, in spring, flooded unpredictably.

  “Now we must push,” Ham said, with his eyes bloodshot.

  Everyday it was the same. Get up at dawn, drive, dig up some wild beets, shoot rabbits along the way, bring down a duck or munch on biscuits and listen to Odin complain that there wasn’t enough to eat. To keep the animals fit, they gave the donkeys a bag-full of oats each evening. Sleep, count on their two dogs to give them warning, get up at dawn and repeat the process.

  The alluvial plain gave way to foothills, the grasses to bushes and the palms to hardwoods and occasional pines. The higher they trekked, the less arid the land became. Deer abounded, auroch too, foxes and rabbits. The Tigris narrowed and grew wilder, faster, the banks rockier. Two weeks after starting, they left the Tigris and followed the Methuselah River. They entered mountainous terrain, although they were north of the Zagros Range, where the trees thickened into forests. Sometimes, they had to take detours.

  “We’re in Japheth Land,” Odin announced one afternoon.

  Ham’s stomach knotted. He almost suggested they turn around.

  “What if she isn’t at Festival?” Odin asked. “Will we travel to Magog Village?”

  Ham hoped not.

  Two more days of rugged travel brought them to open ground. A half-day after that, they watered the donkeys in Japheth’s Lake, the first body of water either had seen after leaving the northern slopes of Ararat.

  “We’re almost there,” Odin said.

  Ham knew because the butterflies never left his stomach. More than any time in his life, he wanted a drink. He left Odin to the camp chores and limped to a boulder, going around to the other side. He slid onto his knees and bowed his head.

  “Lord Jehovah,” he began. Then he shivered and touched his forehead to the rocky ground. He was unclean, dirty, undeserving of the Creator’s help. He knew it, and he knew Jehovah knew it. “Help me, please,” he whispered. “Guide me. I don’t know what to do. I’ve made a mess of everything. Please help me untangle some of it. Don’t let my children be the cause of war, of bloodshed among men. Help me, Jehovah of Noah, Jehovah of Lamech and Methuselah. Help me, or I’ll die.”

  He waited, maybe for the voice Jehovah had used right after the Flood. Nothing happened, though. The wind whistled around the rocky shore. A donkey brayed.

  He worked up to his feet and picked up his cane. Then he touched his stomach. It didn’t seethe as before. Some of the grim nervousness had vanished. He dipped his head, awed that Jehovah would listen to him, and he whispered a short prayer of thanks before limping back to the chariot.

  32.

  The Festival site for the past ten years already contained twenty tents and acres of roped off areas for donkeys, cattle and sheep. There was a broad plain amidst a pine forest. A lake was one side, with a low rock wall on the other. Latrines had been dug long ago, along with a path for footraces. There was a wooden dock, used by those who lived on the northern shore of the lake. Two vessels with sails rubbed against the mooring posts.

  Sons of Japheth hailed Odin, no doubt recognizing one of their own.

  Young girls, asking who else was coming, mobbed them, surrounding them like yapping dogs. They were awed when they found out Ham himself had come, and with only one other person.

  “Weren’t you worried about the wild beasts?” a girl asked.

  Ham chuckled, saying that Jehovah had protected him. He’d never said something like that before without feeling foolish. This time it felt right.

  As casually as possible, he asked if any of his brothers had arrived.

  “Shem,” a girl said. “Those are his boats.”

  The butterflies returned. He thought of twenty things to do, anything but meet Shem. Ham smoothed his beard. He took a deep breath and asked a teenage girl pacing them, “Which tent is Shem’s?”

  She pointed to it.

  “Let me off,” Ham said.

  Odin drew the reins.

  Ham picked up his cane and asked the girl to take him to Shem.

  She chatted. He smiled, hearing nothing about what she said as they strolled under the pines. The butterflies in his gut almost made him groan. He slowed. The girl glanced at him. “I have a bad hip,” he explained.

  “From Ymir?” she asked.

  The question startled him.

  “I think it was brave what you did,” the girl said, “although that’s not how great-grandfather tells the story. Still, who among us has ever challenged a giant? I don’t think even Noah ever did that.”

  “Noah built the Ark,” Ham said.

  “I know, but…”

  Ham hadn’t expected this. Shem’s great-grandchildren not awed by Noah and able to think his battle with Ymir was something heroic. It puzzled him. “Who’s your father?”

  “Hul.”

  “And his father?”

  “Aram.”

  “Ah,” Ham said. “Let me tell you, young girl. The stupidest thing I ever did was face Ymir.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re modest. You old ones always are.”

  Old ones?

  She brushed her hair with a feminine flick of her wrist. She was pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes and fair skin, with a clean sheepskin dress. “It must have been exciting then,” she said. “Wars. Intrigue. The future of mankind in your hands. Oh, how I wish I could have lived back then.”

  Ham blinked in amazement. “The Antediluvian world was evil, desperately wicked.”

  “I know that.” She sighed. “All I ever do is sew, guard the sheep if my brothers are sick and cook f
or them. What was silk like? Was Naamah really as beautiful as the stories say?”

  “Uh, I suppose so. Now, really, I must talk to Shem.”

  “This way,” she said.

  He approached the tent, and as he did, the flap moved and out came…

  “Ruth?”

  The old woman stopped short. She had dark hair, with maybe twenty strands of gray. Her face was less wrinkled than Rahab’s, even though she was seventy years older. The dress was plain, made of linen, and she wore a golden earring in her left lobe.

  “Ham? Oh, dear brother, is it really you?”

  They hugged. This felt strange.

  “Ham,” she said, looking in his eyes. “It’s been much too long.”

  He swallowed.

  “Come in, come in,” Ruth said.

  He followed her into the tent.

  “Shem. Look who’s here.”

  An old man with shoulder-length hair and a hooked nose looked up from the scroll he read beside a lamp. Smiles broke out and Shem leapt to his feet. “Ham!”

  They embraced. Ham was bigger, thicker, older looking, Shem was thin, unbowed and spry-seeming and almost seventy years older. His face was unlined. His hands looked like those of a man of thirty.

  “You look marvelous,” Ham said.

  “So do you. Oh, I’m so glad you came,” Shem said. “Isn’t this amazing?” he asked his wife.

  “Jehovah’s hand guides us,” she said.

  “Sit, sit,” Shem said. “Tell me—”

  The flap drew back. Ham turned, paled and he swayed and might have fallen, but Shem caught him by the elbow and steadied him.

  A big, broad-shouldered man with piercing blue eyes and a white beard entered. He wore the rough garments of a shepherd and held onto a gopher-wood staff.

  “Father,” Ham whispered.

  Big Noah leaned his staff against the tent wall. He was almost seven hundred years old. He hadn’t seemed to age, and yet there was about him a sense of stretching, as if time had thinned his strength but left the outer shell.

  “Son,” the big man said. In two steps, he hugged Ham, thumping his back with hefty slaps. Then he held onto Ham by the shoulders, examining him, peering into his eyes. “It’s good to see you, my son. I’m glad you’re here. It makes the journey worth it.”

  Ham swallowed. Conflicting emotions warred within him. He wanted to ask, Do you remember that you cursed my favorite son? Do you recall? And he wanted to break down crying and tell his father that he was sorry for everything he’d ever done wrong.

  “Father, I…”

  Noah let go and pulled up a chair, easing into it. Yes, he definitely seemed older.

  Shem guided him to a chair, and Ham, too, eased into it. He hated being old. He had to stick out his left leg because the one knee had stiffened.

  “The children say you came alone,” Noah said.

  “With Odin.”

  “Ashkenaz’s son?”

  “His grandson.”

  “Ashkenaz joined you in Babel?” Noah asked, and the way he pronounced the word, it was obvious he didn’t approve of the city.

  “Father finally agreed to leave his retreat on Ararat and come to Festival,” Shem said. “He—”

  “Jehovah drew me,” Noah said. “Just as I suspect he drew you,” he said to Ham.

  It felt too much like before. Noah took charge. Jehovah talked to Noah. Noah didn’t approve of what he did, of the city. Ham tried to hold down the resentment. He smiled, but it was pained.

  “Trouble is afoot,” Noah said.

  There it was. Ham had dreaded this moment and now that it was here, he couldn’t speak. To have failed again… He rose, shuffled one way and then another. He licked his lips and tried to speak. What was wrong with him?

  “There’s grave trouble,” Shem said.

  Ham nodded.

  Noah and Shem traded glances.

  “Tell him about Assur,” Ruth said.

  “What about him?” Ham asked, glad to talk about anything other than the reason he’d come.

  Neither his father nor brother spoke. Ruth cleared her throat. Still no one talked. She said, “After returning from Babel, our son, Assur, talked about founding a city of his own. In the same way do many of Japheth’s children now speak. No one wants to strike out on his or her own as Jehovah said we must. They wish to follow the example of Babel and dwell in urban centers.”

  “Babel wasn’t my idea,” Ham said.

  “Please don’t misunderstand me,” Ruth said. “I’m not blaming you. I simply don’t want you to think that it’s only your children doing this. Ours, too, yearn to gather as one. That’s why father came from his hermitage on Ararat.”

  “One of the reasons,” Noah said. “And I’m not a hermit.”

  “Of course not,” Shem said, who gave his wife a reproving glance.

  Ham faced them. He screwed up his courage and blurted, “I have bad news.”

  He had their attention.

  He sat down, fidgeted and finally said, “Kush marches here for war.”

  “War?” Noah asked.

  The way Noah said it made Ham wince. He blew out his cheeks and said, “Please, let me speak without interruptions. I have a lot to tell you.”

  33.

  Ham hung his head. The butterflies were gone and he felt relieved to have gotten this off his chest, and he felt wretched, too. He wished he were back in Babel, anywhere but in front of his father.

  “So,” Noah said. “War.”

  Shem frowned as he paced. He had started pacing near the end of the tale. He looked up. “That took guts coming here. Thank you, brother.”

  “I don’t want war,” Ham said. “But I don’t know how to stop it.”

  Noah rose. “I do. It’s why I came.”

  “Jehovah told you about this?” Ham said.

  Noah shook his head. “Trouble brewed, that’s all I knew. Now I know what kind.”

  “Father,” Ham said, “I really didn’t want this.”

  Noah searched his face. “I know. But sin has a way of increasing in one’s children if left unchecked. Kush rebels against Jehovah, against Jehovah’s decrees. I’m not sure we can stop him entirely. But this war…” Noah shook his head. “I can change that.”

  “What should I do?” Shem asked.

  “Pray for our success,” Noah said.

  “Will you send Beor away?” Ruth asked.

  “Beor’s already here?” Ham asked.

  “Yes,” Noah said, “with his three prisoners. No,” he told Ruth. “I won’t send Beor away.”

  “Should we leave Festival?” Shem asked.

  “What about those who arrive after us?” Noah said. “No. I must stop Kush.”

  “What do you plan?” Ham asked.

  “To ride with you to the army,” Noah said, “to talk sense into them.”

  “What will we do after that?” Shem asked.

  Noah thought about it and smiled grimly. “After that, we’ll have our Festival.”

  34.

  Noah refused the chariot. Said it implied the wrong message. Ham suspected his father thought along Antediluvian lines, when raiders like Kedorlaomer had plagued the world or conquerors like Tubal-Cain or King Laban had obliterated foes through savage chariotry. But Ham’s four-wheeled, donkey-pulled cart inspired no terror. He tried to tell Noah that. If anything, the men of Babel would recognizance his chariot as a familiar vehicle, thus holding their archery fire long enough for them to yell a greeting.

  Noah shook his head. The intense blue eyes, the long flowing beard and the compressed lips, Noah had elemental force, as if Mount Ararat itself had squeezed into human skin to come and see what the puny mortals did. There wasn’t any arguing with him, but when did that stop any son.

  “I can’t walk more than half a day,” Ham said.

  “Your joints stiffen?” Noah asked.

  “Well, my knee isn’t what it used to be.”

  “My right ankle swells,” Noah said, “ev
en when I’m using my staff. It’s an inconvenience.”

  “Agreed,” Ham said, “although, it’s my hip that bothers me.”

  “The one you injured fighting Ymir?”

  “When the Nephilim threw me and shattered my bones.”

  The blue eyes turned distant and the patriarch of man grew still. Then he drew a deep breath, as if resuming living again. “Their trap failed, eh?”

  “Trap?”

  “Naamah lured you.” Noah sighed. “Ah, well, it failed. It’s over. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “No.”

  “Except that you have a bad hip.”

  “My constant reminder to think before I act,” Ham said.

  “Wisdom,” Noah said nodding.

  Ham looked for the joke, and realized with a start that his father meant what he said. It had been a long time away from Noah, away from his father’s honest ways. In the glow of the compliment, Ham allowed his father to pick a donkey for him. Soon, with blankets draped over the u-curved backs, Noah and he set off to find Kush and the army.

  35.

  Noah reined his donkey on the crest of a hill. He pointed as Ham drew beside him. Far in the wooded valley marched men with flashing spears and shields.

  “The Army of Babel,” Ham said. It felt bizarre seeing the Hamites from this vantage. He almost felt sorry for Shem and Japheth.

  “Are half the stories true about Nimrod?” Noah asked.

  “Nimrod?”

  “Isn’t it his Hunters that core the Army of Babel?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Are the stories true?”

  “You mean the dragon and Black Mane the Lion?” Ham asked.

  Noah grunted.

  “They’re true,” Ham said. “Nimrod is the Mighty Hunter, and his men vie to be like him.”

  “So he’s like a Nephilim?”

  “Demon-spawned?” Ham asked.

  “No,” Noah said, “thirsting for glory, for renown, for immortal fame.”

  “That describes Nimrod and his Hunters.”

  “Not good,” Noah said. He slid off his donkey.