People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Read online

  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 alarm.

  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 th
e 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 Jehovah.”

  “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.”

  “Kill the old one!” a woman cried, by her makeup, beauty and costly apparel, a Singer.

  “Nimrod will surely reward the person who first stones Shem,” a man shouted beside the woman.

  “No,” said someone else. “He speaks for Jehovah. Leave the patriarch alone.”

  “Semiramis speaks for Ishtar, a goddess!” another person cried, one with a conical hat, signifying her as a priestess.

  Gilgamesh slipped past Semiramis and whispered to Shem. “You’ve stirred up a riot. Is that what you want?”

  Shem’s shoulders deflated as he shook his head. “It’s no longer a matter of what I want. You’ve seen to that. This is in Jehovah’s hands.”

  “You’re wrong,” whispered Gilgamesh. “It’s always in our hands.”

  “Take him, Uruk,” Semiramis said. “Bring this blasphemer to my husband. Let the Mighty Hunter judge him.”

  The War Chief hesitated a moment longer. Then he bellowed at his men, “Shield wall!”

  The big men faced the crowd and locked shields as they drew long-bladed knives. Uruk took the remaining steps and reached for Shem.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” warned Gilgamesh, his hand on an ornate dagger hilt.

  Uruk recoiled, his upper lip curling, revealing yellowed teeth.

  Several people in the crowd cheered Gilgamesh.

  “The Queen has commanded me,” Uruk said.

  “Gilgamesh,” Semiramis said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Stand back. Let the War Chief do his duty.”

  Gilgamesh frowned.

  Shem and he traded glances. “I’ll go with him,” Shem said. “Otherwise, I think there will be a riot.”

  Gilgamesh yet hesitated.

  “I said stand back,” Semiramis said.

  Stubbornness flared in Gilgamesh’s eyes.

  Uruk dared to put a hand on Shem, “Are you coming peacefully?”

  Gilgamesh growled low under his breath.

  “No,” hissed Semiramis, softly. “As you love me, stand back.”

  Shem’s eyes widened. This woman was indeed Naamah reborn.

  Gilgamesh wilted, and he nodded, taking a step up from Shem.

  Shem turned to Uruk. “I’ll go with you. But you had better unhand me or a riot will start for certain.”

  Uruk glanced at the crowd. Many glared at him and shoved closer. He removed his hand and hissed at the patriarch. Shem stepped among the warriors of the shield wall, and together they waded through the crowd. The warriors marched through twisting lanes and up wide brick steps, into a palace. Soon Shem stood before King Nimrod, who judged the case from his Dragonbone Throne. Kush sat in council with the king, together with Javan, the War Chief and Canaan the Magician.

  “You’ve heard the charge of blasphemy against the gods and admitted to all of them,” Nimrod said.

  Shem shrugged. He looked haggard, with bags under his eyes. The power of his words seemed to have left him.

  “I still don’t understand why you didn’t stay in Akkad,” Canaan said. “You broke the terms of your parole.”

  “He already told you why,” Kush said. “He thinks Jehovah spoke to him. That he had to obey the Voice.”

  “Undoubtedly, Jehovah did speak to him,” Nimrod said. “It’s a last gasp before the end.”

  Shem looked in wonder. “How can you be so foolish? Go to Mount Ararat if you don’t believe the Deluge destroyed the Earth. Examine the Ark.”

  “Destroyed?” Nimrod asked. He glanced about. “This room doesn’t look destroyed to me. What do we walk on daily if not the Earth? Besides, we aren’t debating the actuality of the Deluge. We know it happened.”

  “How then can you dare to stand against Jehovah?” Shem asked.

  “Didn’t Jehovah promise never to send a Flood again?” Nimrod asked. “Isn’t that why we have rainbows?”

  “Yes,” Shem said. “But even that isn’t the point. What happens after you’re dead? When your spirit departs the husk of your body, when the flame of life leaves your outer shell? Jehovah will judge you and send you to Sheol, the Lake of Fire.”

  “So you say, old man. My gods say otherwise.”

  “Then it’s true,” Shem said. “You’ve spoken to Satan, or to other fallen angels.”

  “Of course it’s true,” Kush said. “I know you’ve heard how Bel appeared to the king before Babel was built. Why do you pretend to show surprise?”

  “How could you boys have been so foolish?” Shem asked. “You know what happened in the Antediluvian Age. What you’re doing is insanity. It will bring the judgment of Jehovah upon you.”

  “Enough!” Nimrod eyed him haughtily. “You say Jehovah is first, and I suppose you think He’s omnipotent. I say He’s been able to play a trick or two, but that isn’t the e
nd of the game. If Jehovah is all-powerful, why does Satan still stand? Why does your Jehovah allow evil to exist, as you call it, if He has the omnipotent power to destroy evil? Either He desires to destroy evil and lacks the power or He’s lying about the wish to destroy it.”

  Shem shook his head. “I can’t give you a complete answer, but you’re wrong. It’s a mystery why Jehovah allows evil for a little time.”

  “A little time?” Nimrod sneered.

  “Perhaps not as we mark time—but perhaps as we will mark it later in eternity. Think on this. Jehovah always was. Surely, to One such as Him time is very different than for us. Evil…” Shem shook his head. “It is a mystery why a holy Jehovah has allowed evil for this span of time. I suspect the possibility of evil was allowed, to allow us the freedom of choice. For if evil was impossible, how then could there be a choice?”

  Nimrod snorted. “That’s an illogical answer worthy of a mystic. Mystery. Freedom of choice. Bah. Jehovah has lied to us. Jehovah claims He is holy and cannot stand sin, yet He allows it to exist. That is a sign of less than total power to anyone with the understanding to see. If I hate something, I stamp it out. Then there is this notion that Jehovah loves us, or He loves you his special ones, at least. And yet, Jehovah has allowed Babel to thrive. Why didn’t Jehovah protect you and yours during the Battle of Nineveh? The reason why is simple. There’s a war in the spiritual realm and Jehovah is losing. How can I tell? Babel thrives, as I’ve said. I have conquered you and not you me. And we have thrown off the yoke of Jehovah’s tiresome ways. Bel and Ishtar guide us, and Lucifer the Light Bearer will win and we will thereby win with him.”

  The color drained from Shem. “You have sealed your doom, Mighty Hunter.”

  Nimrod rose from the throne and snatched up his mace.

  “It’s dangerous to kill him,” warned Canaan.

  Nimrod hesitated.

  “You are the dread sovereign of Babel,” Canaan said, bowing. “His words cannot harm you.”

  Kush said, “Perhaps it would be wisest to send him back to Akkad, with a warning that if he ever sets foot in Babel again, certain of his favorites will be impaled. In another few years, after the people are fully accustomed to the new ways, then put him down if you still desire it.”