People of the Flood (Ark Chronicles 2) Read online

  Nor was it amazing that Noah remembered such old knowledge, at least not amazing considering his strict memory training as a youth. On the first day of creation, Adam had named all the animals. In several regards, it was a breathtaking accomplishment. Firstly, the coining of apt names was an art. Adam was the master of it, for Jehovah had created him without flaw. Adam saw a beast and named it. Perhaps as impressive, he remembered what he had named it. The gift of instant and precise memory, like a perfect painting, was at Adam’s command. With man’s fall, such perfection was lost. But the high standards of such gifted memory reigned among early man. By Noah’s time, the art of memorization had been at its keenest pitch. Writing occurred, but infrequently. To unroll a scroll and find a quote without page numbers proved tedious. It was easier to remember facts.

  Seth, the son of Adam, as he did so many things, codified and outlined the process of memory. To train the mind to remember, a person selected physical locations and formed mental images of the things he wished to recall. He stored the mental images in these places and in a certain order. For instance, in a house, he might put an imaginary spear on a doormat and a dove on the table, in that way recalling later to speak first of war and then peace. Such a system worked for all kinds of memory. Continual practice allowed a vast amount of knowledge to be retained by early humanity, feats unimaginable in later ages.

  As Enos had once said, “Memory is the mother of all wisdom.” Methuselah had put it: “Memory is the treasure and guardian of all things.” Whether a person was a poet, singer, physician, law keeper or priest, he needed memory.

  Noah now passed his stored knowledge to Japheth, Shem and Ham. With stone, bone, ivory and wood, an assortment of weapons and tools become possible: polishers, mortars, axes, planes, scrapers, drills, lamps, knives, chisels, choppers, lances, anvils, etchers, daggers, fish-hooks, harpoons, wedges, awls, pins and many others.

  Not as hard as stone but more resilient, deer antlers became a prime source for tools. With a flint graver—a stout chisel with a sharp edge—Ham, Shem or Noah cut twin grooves in an antler, slicing out a long, thin triangle fragment. The bottom flat edge or base Ham pried until it snapped, and then he held an antler splinter in his palm, which was never longer than the span of his hand. With a fine flint point that he rotated to-and-fro near the splinter base, Ham bored a hole into the future needle, where Rahab would later tie flax thread. He scraped the antler splinter against a block of sandstone, smoothing it until it was polished like the best metal. Only then did he give it to Rahab, who rubbed the needle tip against sandstone until, as the saying went: “It was needle sharp.”

  Needles, harpoon tips and mattock or hoe edges were all fashioned this way.

  Japheth, Shem and Ham also used the antlers as picks. In late fall, with the crops in, and before the harshest weather howled down from the north, they packed several donkeys with supplies, gathered their oldest boys and trekked deep into the Ararat Mountains. Steep scree slopes just below the snowline held boulders of rhyolite, a tough stone, perfect for what they desired. Unpacking the donkeys, setting up camp and giving strict instructions to the boys, Ham and Shem trudged up the slopes. At the selected site, they swung the antler picks against the boulders, chipping off slabs of stone.

  These slabs they carted to an overhang, sitting cross-legged and laying the rhyolite over harder anvil rocks. With a well-worn hammer-stone and with shrewd, hard-learned blows, they struck off flake after flake. The flakes they put into leather bags, to fashion arrowheads later. Shem wore gloves. Ham, with horn-like calluses on his palms and fingers, forewent the gloves. He said they interfered with the work, and because of his choice, blisters always formed on his skin.

  A day of swinging a hammer-stone made his arms ache with fatigue. Still, his stone axe-heads were smoother and sharper than his brothers’ were, and he ruined less of them. The trouble was that one wrong blow could chip off too much stone and destroy the entire project, be it arrow or axe-head. The knapper—as a stoneworker had been called before the Flood—used different weights or materials and altered the strength and direction of the blow to vary the depth of his chip into the stone. Last of all, a bone or stone point was used to push off small spalls of stone to give the axe-head its final shape.

  A day’s labor usually proved sufficient for their meager needs, never more than two days. The brothers then packaged each finished axe-head in wool, filled the woven basket saddlebags with them and the myriad stone flakes and journeyed home.

  For flint knives, chisels and picks, they journeyed to the Chalk Mounds leagues west of the northern slopes. The best flint came out of a hole ten feet deep. Quarry fresh flint was lighter and more quickly worked than stones weathered by wind and sun, and thus worth the extra effort to acquire. Digging out the flint was hot, sweaty work, and as the boys grew older, their fathers introduced them to the various stages of the job. Kush’s first task was holding onto a large flint piece. Ham then chipped it with a bone chisel and hammer-stone, explaining the procedure to Kush as he went along.

  As usual, Ham wondered if there were easier ways to do it. Japheth and Shem simply accepted that if Adam, Seth, Enos and the others had done it this way, it was good enough for them. The others worked at perfecting their skills. By experimenting, Ham learned that baking certain flints improved their flaking quality. Japheth raised his eyebrows when told about it, shrugged, and soon thereafter baked flints like Ham.

  With rhyolite axes, they felled trees; with flint-edged sickles, the sons of Noah harvested the crops. With polished stone adzes, they worked wood and with ground stone bowls that held burning grease, they lit their tents at night. Obsidian teeth inserted into a length of wood made a saw. Scraper-stone shaped like a shell became a shovel or hoe. Rough-edged stones turned into files, and a stone in a sling proved one of the best weapons. Bone and ivory pins and broaches held their cloaks. Pincers, grindstones, pulleys, ladders and levers, their tool-chests grew, as did their armories. Ivory combs, shell necklaces—the shells scattered about the mountains—polished ornamental antler handles, amber and ivory figurines and buttons, the uses of these plentiful substances proved almost as endless as the imagination.

  Their former garments also vanished with time. Soon the woolen tunic reaching Ham’s knees, which he belted at the waist, came from the fleece of his flocks. They sheared them in summer, washing the animals thoroughly two days before the event. That allowed time enough for the fleece to dry and restored some of the sheep’s natural grease, which helped later in the spinning process. When all the wool was collected, it was combed or carded to get rid of the impurities and to align the fibers. Then the wool was put onto a distaff, a long wooden stick, with a weighted whorl attached to the bottom of the stick. With a distaff and whorl, Rahab and the others spun wool. Soon the oldest girls were also doing this, and with the wool, they fashioned the many garments, blankets, and such.

  Over his woolen tunic, Ham wore a cloak, fastened at the shoulder with a bone toggle pin. Around his throat hung a necklet of copper beads, and usually he wore a broad-brimmed hat made of woven straw. Vegetable dyes—yellows, greens and blues—colored his tunics and cloaks, and those of his wives and daughters. The women wore half-sleeved blouses and an openwork skirt well below their knees, with seashell necklaces and knitted lace hairnets.

  Perhaps the biggest surprise to Ham was the lack of boredom. Although the world held only a handful of people, he had plenty to occupy himself with. Too much, he sometimes thought. Then he shrugged and limped to his next task.

  7.

  The years passed, and Kush turned into a sturdy-limbed fifteen-year-old, a handsome youth with a square jaw and a stubborn way of carrying his shoulders.

  Ham spied him one afternoon in an apricot grove arguing with Gomer, Japheth’s tall, fair-haired boy. The two youths shouted, gesticulated and almost seemed ready to shove one another.

  Ham retreated, strolled with his head down to the sheep pen and laid his forearms on the gate, staring tho
ughtfully. Rahab, with two-month old Libya in her arms, joined him fifteen minutes later.

  “Why so solemn?” Rahab asked. “You’re like a statue.”

  “Hmm?” Ham asked.

  “What are you brooding about? Couldn’t you find Kush?”

  “He’s in the orchard.”

  Rahab rocked Libya, cooing to her. “I thought the two of you were going to sheer sheep this afternoon.”

  “Later, maybe.”

  “Ham. What is it? What has you so occupied?”

  He told her about Gomer and Kush.

  “Why didn’t you stop them?” she asked.

  “Break up their argument?” he said.

  “Yes. They might come to blows.”

  His brow contracted. “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking about.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Japheth and Shem,” Rahab said. “They’ll support you for breaking up a fight. And if they don’t, Noah and Gaea will.”

  “You think I was too scared to break it up?” he asked, amused.

  “Isn’t that what you’ve been brooding about?”

  A smile touched his lips. “Look at that ram.” He pointed at the sheep milling in the stone corral, at a big ram with curled horns that bleated louder than the others did.

  “He’s a young one,” Rahab said.

  “Young, and my best breeder. The other rams don’t like tangling with him, and do you know why?”

  Rahab shook her head.

  “Because he learned how to fight like his old father. I swear, he uses the same moves and has the same determination.”

  Rahab stared Ham as she cradled Libya. “You better be careful, Ham. Don’t start something that will ripple throughout time.”

  “What?” She had his attention.

  “Gaea said it, and it makes sense. We’re like pebbles thrown in a pond. The ripples keep going long after the stone has sunk out of sight.”

  He lofted his eyebrows.

  “All I’m saying is that you better be careful what you teach your son. Rams are supposed to butt heads. Jehovah wants people to live in peaceful.”

  “Ah, of course,” he said.

  “Ham.”

  “Don’t worry. I want to live in peace just as much as the next person.” He leaned over the bundle in her arms and wriggled Libya’s pouting lip. His tiny daughter opened her eyes and flailed clenched fists.

  “She looks hungry,” he said.

  “You should go back to the orchard and make sure they’re not fighting.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I should wage my boy’s battles for him. Turn him into a weakling so Europa’s boy can walk all over him later. Do you know she teaches them to think of themselves as kings?”

  “Ham!”

  “Oh, don’t fret. I’m only teasing.”

  But nine days later, Ham secretly took Kush into the woods. As they walked, Ham told Kush a fable he remembered from Methuselah: “So many people trod on a snake that it went and complained to Jehovah. ‘If you had bitten the first man who trod on you,’ Jehovah said, ‘the next one would have thought twice about doing it.’”

  Kush pondered that, glancing now and again at his father.

  “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  Kush licked his lips. “That I should pray to Jehovah more?”

  Ham rolled his eyes. “No. Well…yes, I suppose that’s a good idea. But that isn’t the story’s moral.”

  Kush kept silent.

  Ham couldn’t decide if mulishness kept the boy’s mouth closed, that he didn’t know the answer or that he had the wisdom to hold his tongue. “The moral is that those who stand up to the first assailant make others afraid of them.”

  “Ah,” Kush said. “You mean Gomer.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” Ham said. They walked in silence the rest of the way to a hidden forest clearing. There, Ham wrapped long, leather straps around his knuckles and bid Kush do likewise. Then he hit a heavy bag filled with sand hanging from a branch. He taught Kush the jab, the right cross and the upper cut. He also showed him how to block with his shoulder and keep his fists in front of his face.

  “The untrained fighter flails wildly,” Ham explained. “There isn’t any force in his fists because it’s just arm-power. It’s as you twist your torso, your hips, that you generate force. And notice how I place my feet.”

  Kush paid close attention. Soon, he thudded heavy shots against the bag, the thwack of his fist hitting leather satisfying both father and son.

  “Remember,” Ham said, “a wise fighter doesn’t let others know what he can do until he knocks them down.”

  “I understand.”

  “Now put this on.”

  Kush slipped on a thick leather helmet padded with wool, tying the knots under his chin so the cheek-guards fit snug against his face.

  Tall trees rustled their leaves, while the sun shone golden in this hidden clearing.

  “Are you ready?” Ham asked.

  Kush nodded.

  “Hold up your fists.”

  Kush did, while Ham eyed the stance.

  “Move your left foot back. There. Raise your right hand higher so it covers your chin. Excellent. Now, we’ll spar. It’s useless to be able to hit and not be unable to take a blow.”

  Kush nodded, although his eyes widened, perhaps in fear.

  “Protect yourself,” Ham said, jabbing straight-armed, half-speed shots at Kush’s face. Still, that evening Kush walked into the family tent with puffy circles under his eyes.

  “What happened to you?” Rahab asked.

  “We had an accident,” Ham said, taking his place at the head of the mat. “We ran after a deer. Kush turned and shouted back at me and didn’t see where he was going. So he ran full tilt into a tree, using his face to stop himself.”

  “Kush,” Rahab said. “You must be more careful.”

  Mari laughed from where she ladled stew. “That was stupid of you, brother.”

  Kush readied an angry retort.

  “Hush, girl,” Ham said, perhaps harsher than he’d meant too. “I don’t want anyone to speak about it. Do you hear me?”

  Rahab frowned, while Mari bit her trembling lip. His oldest daughter seemed abnormally sensitive about his tone of voice. But at least she didn’t tease Kush anymore and thus inadvertently cause him to blurt out the secret.

  Io sewed quietly in the corner, but Menes pestered Kush about the hunt. Finally, Ham promised Menes he could tag along tomorrow with his sling if he quit jabbering about Kush’s accident. Menes shouted joyfully. For the rest of the evening, he told his sisters how he could hit anything with his sling, even flying crows.

  Several days later, Kush and Ham found time to slip away again. “Do we have to spar, though?” asked Kush, as he slipped on the padded helmet.

  “Until you get it right, yes.”

  The sparring developed into the rhythm of Ham turning to face his nimble son, who stepped in to launch swift assaults but found himself confused by the jabs licking his face. Finally, Kush roared and waded in flat-footed, trading toe-to-toe blows.

  “No!” Ham said. “Not just by arm strength. Snap your torso. Put power into your punches. You’re not going to hurt me like that.”

  Tears leaked from Kush’s eyes. He panted and rained blows like a windmill, his fists bouncing harmlessly off Ham. Ham scowled and snapped a hard jab, accidentally catching Kush as he walked into the swing. Kush’s eyes rolled up as he crumpled to the ground.

  Ham let his arms drop. A moment later, he exhaled and began to unwind his leather straps. Maybe he pushed the boy too hard.

  “Ooohhh,” Kush said, his eyelids fluttering.

  Ham squatted beside him. “How do you feel?”

  “What happened?”

  “You walked into my jab.”

  “My jaw hurts,” Kush said, testing his chin with his fingers.

  Ham sighed, holding out his hand.

  “No! I’ll stand up myself.”

 
; Ham rose with a secret smile, approving of the independence.

  Kush pushed himself upright, swaying, his eyes glazed. “Let’s do it again.”

  “Not today,” Ham said, taking Kush’s arm and leading him near the heavy bag. “Sit. Gather your wits.”

  Ham considered camping out, but Rahab would worry. Another deer story…he decided to say it was a man thing and bull it through on that.

  Two weeks later, Ham learned more. He strolled near the family tent after putting up the oxen. The bloated sun sank into the horizon, and a cool breeze dried his sweat.

  He walked behind the tent and overheard eleven-year-old Io inside: “I think there’s going to be a fight, Mother.”

  “Oh?” Rahab said also from within the tent.

  Ham stopped, glanced about, moved closer and knelt as if tying his sandal. His ear almost touched the back of the tent.

  “Deborah teased them again,” Io said. “She was flirting, the hussy.”

  “Io! I don’t want you talking like that about your cousin. Slander is evil in Jehovah’s eyes.”

  “But it’s true, Mother. The way Deborah laughs and tosses back her head, letting her curls flounce. She bats her eyes at Gomer or smiles slyly at Kush, and she praises one or the other. She told Gomer today what a huge catfish he caught.”

  “It was nice of her to compliment him,” Rahab said.

  “You should have seen what a pitiful little fish Kush had just caught,” Io said. “The others made fun of him, and he called everybody names.”

  “I’ll have to talk to your father about that.”

  “Deborah laughed louder than any of them, Mother. She teased Kush, saying that if his fish was small, other things of his must be small, too.”

  “She said that?”