People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Read online

  “I love you,” he said, brushing her cheek. “I’ve always loved you.”

  She gazed into his eyes, hers filmed. The light-of-life in her eyes flickered lower. A smile curved her cracked lips. Then, her eyelids closed and her breath stilled as she died.

  9.

  At midnight, Ham and Kush reeled around the Tower, with stars glittering in the heavens. A leathery jug with a wooden stopper passed between them. Palm-wine trickled down their throats as, in turn, they upended the jug.

  “Leave me some,” Ham said.

  Kush was very drunk. He grinned as he drank. Wine spilled against his teeth, staining his beard and dripping onto his robe.

  Scowling, Ham snatched the jug from him.

  Hiccupping, Kush said, “Don’t worry. There’s more if we want.”

  Ham guzzled. He didn’t know what to do now that Rahab was gone.

  Kush solemnly raised his head, pointing at the night watchman peering down from the Tower-in-construction. “What do you want, boy, a taste?”

  The night watchman and his lantern retreated out of sight.

  Drunkenness tried to hold Ham’s emptiness at bay. What lingered threatened to cause him to scream at the heavens, to grab a sword and hew all Babel to death. Instead, to drive away the pain, he said, “I thought they forbid the watchman to come down at night. That on oath, whoever is watchman must remain up there until morning.”

  “That’s right,” Kush said.

  “Why?”

  “Because the Tower is sacred.”

  Ham glared at the Tower. He yearned to kick it, to leap upon it like a beast and rip away brick after brick. He guzzled more wine instead, panting as Kush tore the jug from him.

  “Leave me some,” Kush said.

  Ham swayed as Kush drank.

  “The night watchman paces the Tower section by section,” Kush said, rambling. “He keeps his lantern close to the bricks, scraping up pigeon droppings and depositing them in a pouch. We must prevent pollution, you understand. In the morning, the watchman gives the pouch to Canaan or me, who hand it out as holy manure, guaranteed to increase a field’s yield.”

  Ham grunted. It sounded like a sham worthy of the Tower.

  They stumbled over stray bricks left by the workers and knocked shoulders. With tears leaking from his eyes, Kush took Ham’s arm and told a story about Rahab.

  The boy had loved his mother. Who hadn’t loved Rahab? If anyone ever spoke ill of her, Ham vowed to stick a knife into the man’s guts. Even Nimrod had spoken glowingly of her. The War Chief had presided over Rahab today, making it a citywide occasion. Tomorrow they would burn her on a pyre, her ashes saved in a jar.

  Ham was glad now that after the ceremony Kush had pulled him aside and pleaded he come to his house to toast Rahab’s memory. Kush had said that tonight they should forget their differences.

  The boxing story resurfaced as they reeled around the Tower. After that, they staggered in silence. The last dregs sloshed at the bottom of the jug, but both men seemed disinclined to end the night by draining it.

  Panting, Ham leaned against the baked brick wall and cradled the jug like a baby.

  Kush swayed, blinking, a weird smile appearing and then disappearing.

  “What?” Ham slurred.

  With his finger, Kush brushed the side of his nose, as if he knew a great secret. His full white beard and its streak of wine-stain and, with his palm-softened features, he seemed wise, philosophic and sage.

  “You look like a mongoose with a mouse,” Ham said.

  Kush glanced both ways before he said, “Listen.”

  “What?”

  Kush shuffled closer, his eyes glazed. “A secret,” he whispered. “It’s hidden knowledge.” He licked his lips, looking about before he bent nearer. “Using it, I could have predicted my failure versus Noah. The foray was doomed from the beginning.”

  Ham found it difficult to concentrate. “That’s nonsense,” he said.

  “Listen,” hissed Kush. “We’ve cracked the code.” His eyes shone. “I’ve cracked it. The marvel is that none of the old ones ever did. Makes you wonder. In fact, I suspect they knew all along but selfishly kept it to themselves.”

  Ham glared drunkenly at his boy.

  Kush blinked owlishly, stroking his wine-stained beard. Drunkenness had stolen the harshness from his features, leaving him looking ocular and profound.

  “What do you see?” Kush said, pointing at the crescent moon.

  “The night sky.”

  “Right. Stars, planets and other heavenly bodies.”

  “So?” Ham asked, drooling because of numb lips.

  “So? he says. Listen. That isn’t really what you see.”

  Ham squinted up at the stars.

  “The heavens are filled with outlines of men, women, animals, monsters and other objects. Each of the outlines holds a set number of stars.”

  “Ah,” Ham said. “You mean the constellations.”

  “Yes. Forty-eight star groups, forty-eight figures and forty-eight constellations.”

  Ham continued squinting. He knew the legends, had been fed on them since he first started talking. In the heavens, the sky, the Sun took twelve equal steps throughout the year, changing the positions of the nighttime star-groupings. This zoad or walk or going by steps, like a ladder, had been named the Zodiac. Each month a different group of stars came into prominence, hence the twelve signs. It began with Virgo the Virgin and showed the figure of a prostrate young woman, with an ear of wheat in one hand and a branch in the other. The fourth sign was Scorpio the Scorpion: the figure of a gigantic, noxious and deadly insect with its tail and sting uplifted in anger, as if striking. The last, the twelfth sign was Leo the Lion: the figure of a great lion, leaping forth to rend, with its paws over the writhing body of Hydra, the Serpent, which was in the act of fleeing.

  Each of the major signs had three decans. The decans of Sagittarius the Bowman for instance were Lyra, an eagle holding the lyre, as in triumphant gladness; Ara the Altar, with consuming fire, burning downward; and Draco the Dragon, the old Serpent, winding himself about the pole in horrid contortions. The decans of Aries the Ram were Cassiopeia, the woman enthroned; Cetus the Sea-Monster, closely and strongly bound by the Lamb; and Peruses, an armed and mighty man with winged feet, who carried away in triumph the cut-off head of a monster full of writhing serpents.

  After Adam and Eve’s terrible fall from grace, Jehovah gave them special revelation. The Serpent and its seed would war throughout the ages and lose against the woman and her seed. This knowledge, Jehovah wished everyone to know. What Adam learned, and what he observed in the heavens, he passed on to Seth and he in turn taught his descendant Enoch. Long lives allowed them to study the night sky at leisure, and living at the same time for hundreds of years, they pooled their knowledge, observations and revelations. They invented the Zodiac as a primeval and constant source of the great story of man’s coming Redeemer.

  Even drunk to the point of idiocy, Ham could recite the Zodiac and what the various decans meant. Three “Books” made up the story. Each book contained four chapters. Thus, Book One was The Redeemer Promised. Its chapters were Virgo, Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius. Each decan along with the main sign meant that four points made up each chapter. Book Two was The Redeemer’s People, made up of chapters Capricorn, Aquarius, Pisces and Aries. The last book was Redemption Completed, the chapters Taurus, Gemini, Cancer and Leo.

  In essence, the story foretold a coming Savior who would be bruised but victorious, defeating Satan, and then taking His people with Him to Heaven.

  “Oh, the Antediluvians were clever,” Kush said. “Adam, Seth and Enoch, they hid as much as they revealed. But others watched. Others saw what happened and listened in on conversations held long ago. Not all secrets have been buried under the mud of the Deluge.”

  Ham wiped spittle from his beard and shook the jug, wondering if he should drain it.

  Kush chuckled, absorbed with his guile. “Nimrod an
d Semiramis delve deeply. So does Canaan. But I, ah, I have long sought the hidden things. So to me has been revealed…secrets.”

  “Secrets?” Ham slurred. “What secrets?”

  With his superior smile, almost a smirk, Kush brushed the side of his nose. “The old lore tells it like this. Jehovah said, ‘Let there be lights in the expanse of the heavens to separate the day from the night, and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days and for years.’”

  Ham nodded, reciting drunkenly, “Jehovah is the Maker of the Bear and Orion, the Pleiades and the constellations of the south.”

  “Yes,” Kush said. “It is deep lore. Yet there is deeper still. As Nimrod has learned, and I in my secret studies have learned, angels are given tasks. One of those tasks is to move the stars, the planets and thus the constellations.”

  Ham shrugged.

  “No,” Kush said, “don’t dismiss it. It means everything.”

  Ham shook the jug, listening to the last dregs slosh.

  “Angels move the stars and the wandering planets,” Kush said. “They are under Divine injunctions. The moments have meaning. More than that, which star a man is born under controls his fate. What he does on certain days is fixed by which constellations are in ascension. But don’t think anyone can decipher such lore. Oh, I have scrolls, Father, carefully written, deeply studied and now compared against the knowledge of the ancients. The angel of the sun teaches us, he teaches me.”

  Ham blinked, wondering if any of this was important.

  “Charts, lines, stars and birth-dates,” Kush said. “It all has bearing.”

  “Bearing on what?”

  “On a man’s horoscope,” Kush whispered.

  Ham shivered, and for a moment, he seemed swathed in darkness. He rubbed his eyes until he saw the stars again and Kush’s evil grin.

  “Astrology,” Kush said, with a drunken wave indicating the heavens. “The old ones understood the power, but they only revealed to posterity bits and pieces. Now we’ve unlocked their secrets.”

  “You’re babbling.”

  “No. I studied Nimrod’s chart. He’s a Leo, the Lion, the King and the Conqueror. Yes, I’ve delved deeper into the art than any one else in Babel. I’ve studied my own chart. I never could have succeeded against Noah during the weeks before and after Festival, or during either. The stars predicted failure and predicted Nimrod’s rise.”

  Ham frowned, with a sharp pain in his belly. He massaged his gut.

  “Neither Nimrod nor I have made the secret known,” Kush said, “but we will, in time. Only the inner circle knows about it now. Astrology is one of our secret powers, one of the reasons why we will win. The others will flail at the wrong times, while we, from now on, will strike at the best moment. And when the Tower is finished…” Kush squinted. Wheels moved slowly in his mind, it seemed, changing Kush’s features at each turn. “You can keep a secret, can’t you, Father?”

  Ham belched, the air-bubble finally escaping his gut. “What was that?” he asked, as drowsiness threatened to take him.

  Kush smiled wisely. “You won’t remember any of this, will you?”

  Ham swayed as he peered at the moon. Even for him he’d ingested an amazing amount of wine. He slid against the Tower, his chin sinking onto his chest.

  “No,” he heard Kush say. “You won’t remember a word.”

  10.

  Ham was too sick to be enraged. His eyes were bloodshot and his face puffy. Early this morning granddaughters of his had found him in the street, shaken him awake and helped him up. Long years of drunkenness and its aftermath had kept him from puking. They led him into a spacious home, Canaan’s he realized dimly. There he had been purified and given a fine robe, boots, his hair and beard combed and a hat placed on his head. Canaan had led him back to the cube-shaped temple.

  As before, he halted on the steps. He swayed and his vision blurred. It felt as if he might be sick after all. A tired smile cracked his lips as he envisioned puking on the steps. That seemed like the right thing to do.

  “Are you well?” Canaan asked.

  Ham rubbed his dry mouth. “What are we doing here?”

  “Mother lies within.”

  Ham recoiled, and anger stirred. His head throbbed. He rubbed his forehead, willing himself better. “I took her out of here.”

  “It was decided that she should rest here before the final journey.”

  Ham squeezed his eyes shut. Why did his children use such odd terms? What was final journey supposed to mean? Everyone knew a soul left the body the instant of death. Rahab was already gone.

  “From dust she was formed,” Canaan said. “To dust she shall return.”

  Ham groaned at the dreadfulness of the words.

  The hand on his elbow tightened. “Come, Father. You are to help us carry her to the pyre.”

  After what seemed an age, Ham nodded. It hurt his aching head. He trudged up the stairs with Canaan. In the temple, he found Kush, Menes and Put. They wore costly long robes, hats and boots. Each seemed somber. They mumbled words of consolation to him as he gaped at Rahab laid out on a stretcher. She wore a fine gown and hat, and her face had been painted with cosmetics.

  “It is time,” Canaan said. “Father, you will lead us.”

  Ham stared at his beloved. He couldn’t believe she was dead. He refused to believe. He staggered to her, kneeling, touching the cold skin. He bit his lips and stroked her forehead.

  “Father,” Canaan said, with his hand on his shoulder. “You will lead us.”

  Ham looked up at his handsome son. “No,” he said. “I will be a pallbearer.” All his life he had worked. He had helped build the Ark. He had plowed the first fields in the New World. He had made the first bow. He had smelted ores and forged many things. He did. He used his hands, getting them dirty. He didn’t make windy speeches or dream up airy ideas. So at his wife’s funeral…he would work. He would carry her.

  “If you’re a pallbearer,” Canaan said, as if speaking to a child, “who will lead the procession?”

  “I will,” Ham said, “as a pallbearer.”

  “There are four sons here,” Canaan pointed out.

  Ham stared at his youngest son, studying him. In many ways, he was a good son. “You will follow behind,” Ham said.

  “Me?” Canaan asked.

  “You.”

  The superior attitude slipped from Canaan. “Why not have Put or Menes trail in back?”

  The reason was obvious, Ham thought, but he didn’t want to say it.

  “You’re hung over,” Canaan said. “You’re not thinking right. You will lead us to the pyre. The four sons will be the pallbearers.”

  Ham took a deep breath. He didn’t want to quarrel, not here, not now. “No, my son, you must listen to me. You must obey your father.”

  With that trapped ferret look, Canaan glanced at his brothers. “I’m to be a pallbearer.”

  “Grant him his request, brother,” Kush said. “Consider the occasion.”

  Canaan laughed; it had a shrill quality. “Oh, no, no. I’m not going to be pushed aside that easily. We all agreed it would be this way.”

  Ham rose. He was weary, tired, with little fight left in him, and his hip ached. He put a gentle hand on Canaan, who flinched and stared at him. “Let us show respect for the dead. Let us not quarrel. Accept my judgment, my son.”

  “But why me?” Canaan cried. “I came to fetch you from the reservoir, remember?”

  “Yes,” Ham said. “I remember, and I thank you for doing so.”

  “I’m the youngest son,” Canaan said, “but that’s no reason for excluding me.”

  Ham looked away.

  A wild look entered Canaan’s eyes. He shook his head. “There’s no other reason for me not to be a pallbearer.”

  “There is,” Ham said, and it hurt him to say it. He loved his son. In many ways, he was a good boy.

  “What?” Canaan said. “What is the reason?”

  “Come,” Ham said to his o
ther sons. “It is time.”

  “No!” Canaan said. “I’m to be a pallbearer. I will not be demeaned before the people. I will not walk behind.”

  “You must,” Ham said, gently.

  “But there’s no reason.”

  Ham took a deep breath. This was hard, so very hard. “You are cursed,” he said.

  Canaan staggered away, his eyes wild, wide, stark. He looked at his brothers, then back at Ham. He worked his mouth. Finally, his shoulders deflated.

  “I’m sorry,” Ham said.

  Canaan turned away and his shoulders shook.

  Ham, feeling more wretched than ever, took one end of the bier, nodding to his other sons. They approached, and at a signal from Ham, they lifted the bier, hoisting Rahab to their shoulders. Marching down the narrow corridor and squeezing through the small door, they moved down the temple steps and toward the Tower. In the distance, he saw that all the people of Babel stood in the plaza, milling, talking and waiting for the ceremony to begin.

  As they moved down the lane, Ham saw the giant pyre. It seemed for a moment as if it became a living thing, eager to devour his beloved wife. On the hastily built wooden steps before the pyre, Nimrod waited in splendid robes. He wore a bronze band like a crown, with a single horn jutting from the front.

  Ham didn’t want to wrestle the bier through the crowd. He didn’t think he had the strength to do so. He said, “Turn left, we’ll use the lanes to come behind the pyre.”

  With leaden steps, he and his sons marched through Babel, taking various lanes to work their way behind the pyre and to avoid the crowd. The weight of the world seemed to descend on Ham. Tears threatened, but he fought them back. Oh, Rahab… he had never thought it would end like this. She had been such a good wife and he had often been such a terrible husband.

  “Take the next right,” tall Menes said, who held the pole behind Ham.

  Ham did, and he staggered a half step.

  The houses beside him were two-story. The lane was narrow so two laden donkeys might find it hard to pass one another. The buzz of the waiting crowd was muted because of the tall homes. None of those things surprised Ham. Two men barred the way. They didn’t stand in a threatening manner. One held a long staff. The other one breathed heavily, with huge thumbs hooked in a broad leather belt, an axe thrust through it.