People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Read online

  Later, while shaking his head, Yorba sidled next to her. “I don’t understand him anymore. He talks like someone I no longer know.”

  Yorba meant her father. Beor had absorbed something elemental from Noah. At first, she had approved because her father seemed happier, no longer brooding. Then he seemed almost monomaniacal about talking about Jehovah, as if nothing else interested him.

  “I used to know what we were about,” Yorba said, lifting his bow. “Gaining vengeance against Nimrod. Now your father talks about the devil, about defeating the evil one’s plan.” Yorba glanced at her. “At first I thought it was a clever idea, a disguise for his real motive. Now I think your father is serious.”

  “He is serious.”

  “But it’s Nimrod who is the problem. He cheated the sons of Canaan. Are we to forget that?”

  Hilda shrugged.

  Soon, with his sleeve, Yorba wiped his brow and moved on.

  In time, they came to a long wall of logs seven cubits high. A horn pealed, and a gate creaked on bronze hinges, swinging inward.

  They had reached Shem’s Valley. The houses were scattered randomly, log cabins plastered with reddish-colored mud and surrounded by low stone fences and milling sheep and goats. A higher stone fence cordoned off the valley center. There, booths and stalls orbited a huge log building with small windows on the second floor and a tiny door at ground level. Eber, their guide, called it Elder Hall.

  They unpacked, and before Hilda knew it, her father had stepped onto an overturned tub in the marketplace. There, he launched into a sermon. In a voice once used to command hunters, Beor spoke about King Lamech of Nod, how he had sought to build a civilization without Jehovah. A crowd gathered. Some young men arrived, men who after Festival had visited Babel. They jeered when Beor tried to explain that the Tower builders were just like Lamech’s sons.

  “Nimrod builds the Tower to the glory of Jehovah,” a youth shouted. “He sacrifices every morning.”

  “Yes,” Beor said. “He sacrifices to the angel of the sun, not to Jehovah.”

  “It’s the same thing,” a different youth shouted. “You just hate Nimrod because he beat you.”

  “Yes,” a third youth said. “He beats you every time you compete against him.”

  Beor tried to explain otherwise, but they continued to mock him.

  Hilda grew worried as she recognized the old signs of anger and resentment. Her father lost his serenity. His eyes hardened and his beard bristled. Several youths produced rotten vegetables, pelting her father. Beor roared, with green mush staining his forehead. He leapt off the tub and felled a youth with his fist. The rest scattered.

  That evening Beor found himself summoned to Elder Hall.

  “Let me go with you,” Hilda said.

  Beor shook his head, leaving her with Yorba at the hall’s small door.

  Time passed. Yorba grew bored and wandered away.

  Hilda waited and waited. What was going on in there?

  “He should be out soon.”

  Hilda whirled around, and she bowed.

  Shem smiled at her as he rubbed his chin. “The elders like to make speeches, and I’m certain the idea of a Hamite preaching to Shemites grates on them. Ah. Look. Here he comes now.”

  Beor squeezed through the small door. He looked angry. The sight of Shem surprised him.

  Shem inquired on the proceedings as Beor apologized for causing trouble.

  The patriarch waved that aside and pulled Beor down a lane, toward a modest log cabin. “I want the two of you to join us for dinner.”

  “After what I did?” Beor asked.

  “I want to hear what you have to say about King Lamech of Nod,” Shem said.

  “Why?” Beor asked. “You surely know more about him than I do.”

  The smaller, older man studied Beor. “You’re a preacher, and I’ve been having a strange dream.” Shem smiled, a troubled thing. “Will you join us?”

  Beor nodded, and Hilda could tell that he was bewildered.

  For supper, Ruth served lentils and beef. Afterward they sat around, speaking pleasantries. Finally, Shem said, “The dream is why I wanted to speak with you.”

  Beor sat up, expectant.

  “My dream is of a strange bird that lives in a faraway land, a desert. Why, I don’t know, but I realize that it’s lived for five hundred years. This bird, a most beautiful creature—its plumage is partly golden and partly red and shaped and sized like an eagle—dies, consumed by fire. I see then that it has died by fire in Babel. Then I’m touching the ashes, and the bird, a phoenix, arises, new and well, living once again.”

  Beor sipped water, waiting. “And then?”

  “That’s it,” Shem said. “I wake up. Can you tell me what it means?”

  “Me?” Beor asked. “How should I know?”

  “Does the bird represent sin?” Ruth asked. “Is it sin consumed by the Flood and now reborn in Babel?”

  “Or does it mean that I’m to go to Babel,” Shem asked, “and there revive something that is being or has been slain?”

  Beor stroked his beard. “Which do you think most likely?”

  Shem shook his head.

  “I told him he should go to Babel and find out,” Ruth said.

  “But if I go, I’m afraid that in my absence my sons will decide to move out of the valley,” Shem said. “Those who went to Babel after Festival were deeply moved by what they saw. They yearn to help lift us out of primitivism and back into civilization.”

  “They want to move to Babel?” Beor asked.

  “Either that or start a sister city beside the Tigris River,” Shem said.

  Beor brooded, shrugging in the end. “I wish I understood. But your dream befuddles me.”

  Shem seemed downcast, dispirited.

  “Ask him,” Ruth said.

  Shem scowled, shaking his head.

  “Ask me what?” Beor said.

  Shem seemed embarrassed, but Ruth nudged him. Finally, he said, “I need someone I can trust to go with me to Babel.”

  Hilda saw the unease in her father.

  “That Noah walked alone into danger I’m well aware of,” Shem said. “But I’m not Noah. So I’ve pleaded for Jehovah to send help. Who better to help me than a preacher of righteousness?”

  Beor swallowed, causing Hilda to wonder how he’d get out of this, and to wonder why Shem didn’t simply take one of his sons. Then her father surprised her by saying, “I’d be honored to go.”

  8.

  Changes had taken place in Babel and changes troubled Ham. All winter long, he’d been exiled with a team of youngsters, working, digging, making a reservoir for an extended canal system.

  Because of what Nimrod had done at Festival, the people followed him as War Chief. High Priest Kush strived against him for his old authority. Yet even with Deborah’s wisdom, Kush fell behind.

  The War Chief had an advantage due to the constant influx of immigrants, who looked to him for leadership. Some came from Japheth Land. The ex-Scouts of Beor joined the Hunters, having an affinity for that kind of service. Others moved from Shem’s Valley.

  Kush’s failure, his loss of nerve and the drubbing from Noah proved choice items of gossip. What gave Nimrod even more power were the Hunters who followed him with greater allegiance, even backing him against their own kin. New bronze armor—patterned off Beor’s fish-scale—gave the leaders among them a regal appearance. They seemed like heroes, men of renown, while Nimrod outshone them all. His lists of feats seemed legendary: wrestler supreme, dragon slayer, lion killer and leviathan hunter. No one had a better record than the Mighty Hunter.

  Thinking about Nimrod, Ham sighed as he thrust a shovel into a bank of mud. His back ached and he shivered from a chill wind.

  No one called his time here exile. Nimrod was too crafty for that. The War Chief said the youngsters needed a guiding hand, someone with proven ability, someone they admired. All winter long, Ham and Odin endured wind, rain and cold. They also guarded aga
inst hyenas and wild dogs. Odin rotated the duty, showing the lads how to hurl javelins and twirl slings. Ham guided the actual project.

  The workers shoveled clay until the wooden pails brimmed. A lad put a carrying pole over his shoulders and staggered up a ramp, dumping the mud and occasional stones onto the rim of the growing embankment. Nimrod wanted the grand Babel Reservoir, as he had named it, to be the town’s storage lake. In times of drought, they would tap the reservoir for water. It was a good plan but grueling work.

  It meant Ham was fitter now than at any time in the last twenty years. The work also hardened the lads, which was part of the idea. As spring approached, the lads eagerly awaited the floodwaters to boil into the reservoir. They pestered Ham to give them a celebration. They also suggested that Odin return to the city. He should beg Nimrod to dedicate the reservoir to the angel of the sun. They wanted a party and they wanted to see the Singers.

  Ham straightened, thrust his shovel into the mud and stretched his back. The youngsters kept working, the sound of their shovels striking earth a constant sound. Ham coughed. He’d picked up a cold. For the last few days, he’d lain in his hut, resting. He still felt achy today and decided to call it quits.

  He trudged up the creaking ramp and limped along a path strewn with swaying reeds. Several leagues later, he neared the Euphrates with its high banks and obligatory date palms. There, he came to an open area with a wall of thorns. It was the protection against hyenas and wild dogs. He limped to a cluster of reed huts, weaving around piles of pottery shards, bones and sniffing guard dogs. The huts were crude, although they kept out the wind and rain. He untied his sandals, crawled onto a reed mat and fell into a troubled slumber.

  Barking dogs woke him later.

  His throat hurt worse than before, but he tied on his sandals and threw a cloak over his shoulders. He ducked outside just in time to see the gate open and a chariot pull in. Ham whistled at the dogs, calling them. Then he noticed the fancy charioteer. It was Canaan, who had come alone.

  Canaan wore a soft square hat of leopard-skin, a scarlet robe, a golden belt and tiny sliver bells on his boots. Canaan hurried to him, the bells tinkling all the way. A black piece of obsidian, polished so it shone and circled by copper, dangled from his son’s throat. Ham didn’t know if it was an amulet, talisman or a new badge of office.

  “Canaan,” Ham whispered in way of greeting. His throat hurt too badly for him to talk any louder.

  Canaan clasped his hands. As he did, tears leaked from his son’s eyes. “You must come quickly, Father.”

  “What’s wrong?” Ham whispered.

  “Mother has swooned. It happened three or four days ago.”

  “What? You only came now?”

  “Everyone thought she would revive. She has before.”

  Ham gripped his son’s smooth hands, so unlike the rough paws a winter of digging had given him.

  “She breathes but remains unconscious,” Canaan said, dropping his gaze. “I can’t raise her. Neither can Kush, Nimrod or Semiramis.”

  “Raise her? What was he talking about?

  “Please. You must come before it’s too late.”

  In a daze, Ham climbed aboard the chariot. Canaan lashed the donkeys, and the chariot rattled along the dirt road. A growing headache and a welling fear for his wife made it a dreadful journey.

  As they drove, Canaan told him that Rahab had been sick for months. They prayed for her often, and tried to raise her spirits. She had swooned several times before, but had never remained unconscious for so long.

  “What’s that mean?” Ham asked.

  A wary look made Canaan seem like a ferret. “Well, she didn’t swoon exactly.”

  “What then?” Ham said. “Make sense.”

  “There were times we couldn’t wake her.”

  “That’s not swooning, but something else entirely. What’s wrong with you boys? Why wasn’t I fetched right away?”

  Canaan studied the path.

  Ham grabbed a fistful of the fancy robe, ready to tear it off.

  “Nimrod felt—”

  Ham roared at the name, releasing the robe, barely keeping himself from hurling Canaan off the chariot and lashing the donkeys until they bled.

  The leagues passed in silence. The wild terrain gave way to cultivated fields and pleasant groves. Finally, the proud city of his sons rose up. Horns pealed from the walls. Soon, they drove through the Lion Gate. Some of the houses seemed bigger than before. They took a turn down a different lane and Ham’s eyes widened.

  The Tower was huge. It stood in a wide plaza, a vast open area, really. They had already raised the first level over five cubits high. Thousands of bricks—hundreds of thousands of glazed, kiln-burnt bricks—Ham blinked, staggered at the work this represented. Were they mad? This thing was a monstrosity. The base was square with brick piled on brick. Even now, men staggered up a ramp with baskets, the headbands helping to stabilize the load on their backs.

  At five cubits high, the Tower already dominated the city. It made everything around it seem like a hovel of huts.

  Ham tore his gaze from the thing. He noticed people going past that he didn’t recognize.

  “Festival worked,” Canaan told him. “The others have already started immigrating here.”

  Meaningless, meaningless, motes scattered by the wind, thought Ham. What was wrong with his wife?

  Canaan cracked the whip and took another turn. Children screamed, running out of the chariot’s path.

  Ham frowned. Canaan didn’t drive him to his house, but aimed at a large clay cube he’d never seen before. It too had been constructed out of glazed bricks. The cube was square, two stories tall and wide.

  Canaan yanked the reins and the donkeys almost collapsed as they halted before broad clay steps leading into the cube.

  “This way,” Canaan said, tugging Ham.

  Ham grabbed Canaan. “This isn’t my house.”

  “We brought her to the temple,” Canaan said. “We thought to revive her by our arts.”

  Unease filled Ham as they hurried up the steps into the cube, running through a small door, the only entrance he could see. They hurried down a dim corridor that smelled of incense and then stepped into a torch-smoky hall. It was big and spacious, with bizarre paintings on the walls. Angels with wings bore swords, pictured bulls with man-faces and eagle’s wings soared around the moon. Painted stars glittered everywhere, while a man-creature with a jackal’s head held scales, one end of the scale clustered with people, the other with a bleeding heart.

  “What are those?” whispered Ham.

  “Powers and principalities,” Canaan said in a hushed voice. “We’ve learned so much, Father. You would be amazed.”

  Ham groaned. Rahab lay on a brick slab, a blanket pulled up to her chin. Porphyry-stone the color of burning coals made up the tiles around the slab. He staggered to her, touching her cold cheek, her clammy forehead. Like a prune, wrinkled and sucked dry of life, she slept as a wraith of what she had once been.

  “Oh, Rahab,” Ham whispered. “Won’t you sit up and greet me with a kiss?” Tears trickled down his cheeks, sunburned by a winter in the reservoir.

  “We called to her spirit,” Canaan whispered.

  Wiping his eyes, Ham peered at his son, at the costly garb and the…powers and principalities painted on the walls. The feel reminded him of Antediluvian Chemosh.

  “Did you try praying to Jehovah?” Ham asked.

  Canaan winced as if slapped.

  “We used our arts, Father, I promise you that. We called…” Canaan moistened his lips. “It’s been a busy year. You built the reservoir, while Nimrod and Semiramis have taught us much. Not even the eternal fire could warm mother’s blood. Then, despite what the others said, I knew we must summon you.”

  Ham shuddered, and he avoided looking at the painted angels and bull-men. Weariness filled him. Noah had been right. When had his father ever been wrong? He drew aside the blanket.

  “What are you
doing?” Canaan asked.

  Ham scooped up his small wife. She breathed shallowly, and a flutter indicated her heartbeat. It was so soft, much too frail. She was skin and bones, nothing more than a wraith. Tears dripped from his eyes as he carried her, with Canaan dogging his side.

  “No, Father. We must ask the War Chief’s permission to take her.”

  “You ask him,” Ham muttered.

  Canaan clutched an elbow. “I caution you. She’s your wife, but our mother, the mother of the Hamites.”

  A hollow, hurtful laugh—searing his tender throat—caused Canaan’s hand to drop away. Ham carried Rahab out of the evil hold. He turned down dusty streets with small mud homes, heading for his own. As he neared it, puzzlement filled him.

  “There used to be houses here,” he told Canaan, who had remained with him.

  “We tore them down to make room for the Tower,” Canaan said.

  Ham glanced around, searching. “Where’s my house?”

  Canaan looked away.

  Ham realized then his offspring had torn down his house with the others. He ground his teeth. They had stolen his home while he’d toiled in the reservoir. Where had Rahab lived? Where had she slept? Indecisive, holding his dying wife, Ham turned away as sons, daughters and grandchildren and now great-grandchildren ran after him. They called him. He couldn’t hear their words, what they actually said anyway. It was just noise washing against him. He took one step at a time, recalling Noah’s words: “Take who you can out of Babel.”

  He headed for the Lion Gate, with a host trailing behind him. They whispered among themselves, although no one dared to bar his path.

  “Grandfather.”

  Ham recognized Nimrod’s voice. It sounded quite imperious. For a moment, Ham could have sworn the face of Ymir appeared ghostlike in his mind’s eye.

  “Leave me,” Ham said as he clutched Rahab to his chest. He staggered out the gate, going a hundred paces beyond. There he sagged to his knees, weeping over his wife, tenderly smoothing her silver hair.

  Her eyelids fluttered.

  “Rahab?” he asked.

  “Ham,” she whispered.