People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Page 8

  Thousands of sun-dried bricks found their way into the ovens. Forests of trees were floated down the Euphrates and turned into charcoal to fire the ovens. The ovens produced hardened, burnt bricks. Glazed with bitumen, they resisted water absorption. They also formed the Tower’s base and outer shell. Artisans under Anom’s direction used black, blue and green bricks to form different-colored levels.

  Anom the Chief Architect, together with his father Menes, insured the walls were sloped and that all horizontal lines were slightly convex. “It will make them less rigid to the human eye,” said Anom. “It will draw the eye upward, to the top, to the temple.”

  “Up to heaven,” Nimrod said, approvingly.

  Ham marveled at the sheer size of the monument. It rivaled anything built in Chemosh in the Old World. True, in Chemosh, they had built with stone, the most impressive buildings being vast pyramids with smooth sides. Many of those marble or limestone blocks had weighed tons and had taken fantastic engineering to move, raise and set into place. With the Tower, it was the opposite. Small, easily fashioned and carried mud bricks formed the building. Yet in the end, small mud bricks made just as impressive a monument as stones weighing tons.

  Bitumen, mud, straw, manure, wood for charcoal and charcoal for burning and strong backs and cunning hands, that’s what made the Tower of Babel.

  16.

  An unkempt scarecrow of a man paddled a weather-beaten canoe through bulrushes. He had stringy hair, a dirty headband and a shaggy beard. The clothes on his back were worn, soiled and rank. His cheeks had a starved, sucked-in look. As he paddled, his belly rumbled. He ignored it. He had learned to enjoy the pangs of hunger, the gnawing in his gut.

  With a thump, the canoe slid onto a hidden sand bar.

  He sat still, listening to frogs croak. A crane swooped low. It had no doubt heard the frogs and had come to hunt.

  The bitumen coating on his canoe had begun to crack. He needed to scrape off the old coat and apply a new one. Water leaked through the cracks. With a leather scoop, he now bailed.

  He knew Opis had died. For weeks, he had found no sign of her. Earlier, after leaving the island of reeds, he found a strand of hair and a fluttering cloth snagged to a broken floating oar. Opis, dear, dear Opis, tender Opis, frail, soft, so full of love Opis…she surely rotted as a corpse. Perhaps a crocodile had killed her. He had debated hunting crocodiles until he died, which would be soon now.

  He blamed himself for Opis’s death. He shouldn’t have listened to Semiramis. He had been a fool to destroy his honor, to lie and steal in Japheth Land, in Magog Village. But why did Opis have to pay for his blunders?

  He climbed out of the leaky boat onto the sand bar. The wet sand felt good as it squished between his toes. The thump of his craft, as reeds slid against it, he liked the sound. The sun had a positive effect. It burned his back. It had turned him a dark, nut brown.

  He slid the boat into scummy water, pushing it farther as he waded up to his waist. He climbed in, only after a time, peeling leeches from his legs. He dropped each over the side, plopping them into the marsh. Let them live off his blood, soon he wouldn’t have any need for it.

  Malaise didn’t cause his desperation. Rage consumed him. Not boiling rage, but fuming against Jehovah anger.

  “How could you let her die?” he croaked.

  With suppressed fury, he picked up his paddle. He kept his strokes mild, under tight control. Too often, he had flailed at the water, striking it while screaming until his throat turned raw. Some nights, he howled like a demented wolf baying at the moon. Hunger kept the madness in check. Exhaustion seemed like the only cure to insane outbursts.

  He had been taught that Jehovah loved mankind, loved each of them individually to such a degree that He often worked events out to a person’s best interest—if that person faithfully served Him. Oh, he understood that he had let Jehovah down. He had lied in Magog Village and he had stolen the amber necklace. He had been punished for that. He accepted the justice of it. But why had Opis paid for his mistakes?

  “How is that fair?” he asked, staring at the sun.

  He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. For talking like that, he expected lightning from heaven. Jehovah was sovereign. Jehovah was all-powerful. One raged against Jehovah at his peril.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that Opis is all I wanted out of life. But why should I expect to get what I want? I know that You can do exactly what You want to do, and that it’s right, it’s just. But sometimes it’s hard to accept that.”

  Gilgamesh shook his head. Defeat pressed him from all sides. “I can’t keep on living like this, Jehovah. It’s no good for a man.” He frowned. Suicide was evil. Nothing he did seemed right.

  His bowstring had rotted, although he had his lance, the slender black pole of elm-wood, with the thin and very sharp bronze head. It was enough for his needs. With it as he stood in the boat, he was able to spear fish. He ate them raw. At his side, he carried a dagger with a bone handle.

  Much as he wanted to, he refused to draw it now and thrust it into his gut. He had thought many times of doing so. He shook his head. He would die like a Hunter, slaying some beast. A crocodile seemed best.

  First, however, as he had promised, he would rendezvous with Ramses at the place where the stream flowed strongest toward the Bitter Sea. After the debacle in Magog Village, he had vowed to always keep his word. He had vowed that to Jehovah.

  He let his head sink lower. For weeks, ever since he had determined that Opis was dead, he had raged against Jehovah.

  “I can’t beat You,” Gilgamesh whispered. “Who am I but a gnat compared to Jehovah.” Bitter tears welled. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

  Because he was hungry all the time, his thoughts seemed to shift toward Jehovah more than usual. He wondered if that was bad or good, or if it was sane. He didn’t know.

  “I want to die,” he whispered. “I don’t want to live without Opis. But I don’t want to fight You anymore, Jehovah. Most of all, I don’t want to go to Sheol when I die. I know that You judge men, judge their lives, their actions, and send them there if they deserve it.”

  He shivered as the bitter tears welled, as salty drops spilled into his leaky boat, mixing with the swampy water.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me, O Great Creator.”

  At that point, with the hunger, fatigue and exhaustion, he collapsed, drifting alone in the great southern marsh.

  17.

  A flap of wings stirred Gilgamesh. He was groggy, his mind slack. Something sharp stabbed him in the back.

  He shouted, twisting around, his arm lashing out. A startled vulture squawked in fear, and the back of Gilgamesh’s hand connected with the carrion eater. The vulture flapped wildly as it crashed against reeds, striking a log. Only it wasn’t a log. For the log opened its mouth and had sharp teeth. The teeth snapped shut and the vulture vanished in a spray of feathers, a few of which floated on the waters.

  With a shout, Gilgamesh realized it was a crocodile. Instinct took over. Before he understood it, the paddle was in his hands and his back muscles strained as he rowed. The boat shot through the reeds and plowed into open water. He stopped paddling, letting the boat glide. He turned. Here was just the beast he needed.

  Gilgamesh picked up his lance and stood in his boat, waiting for the crocodile to appear. It didn’t. Nor in the end, did he go back into the reeds. He had to keep his word to Ramses.

  He sat down, picked up the paddle and rowed for hours. His head swam as hunger wormed in his stomach. Let it. Starve, you liar! Starve, thief! He laughed, and he wondered at his sanity.

  Then he stiffened as his eyes widened in amazement. “What in the…”

  Something huge and serene moved through the marsh, through the open water, the channel that led to the Bitter Sea. Men moved upon the thing.

  “Is that a ship?” he asked aloud.

  A vast, triangular sail billowed
with wind. It was beautiful. The sail propelled the large wooden vessel.

  Gilgamesh shaded his eyes from the sun. Something that sounded like a bell clanged. A fat red-bearded man—

  “Odin?” whispered Gilgamesh.

  Odin yanked a cord from where he stood on the stern. He rang a bell. Odin’s voice boomed across the water. Men looked up. Most of them were stripped to the waist. Sailors ran upon the ship, pulling ropes. They began to reef the three-cornered sail, which seemed bigger than its vessel. A thrown anchor splashed into the marsh and Ramses’s voice rang clearly.

  “I see Gilgamesh!”

  Reluctantly, mechanically, Gilgamesh paddled for the vessel. A short talk with Ramses should fulfill his obligation. He hesitated with his next stroke. They wouldn’t dare hold him against his will. The thought was ridiculous. He was a captain among the Hunters.

  Gilgamesh noticed a few of them staring. That made him uncomfortable, and it made him aware for the first time in weeks that his garments were in tatters. He needed a shave.

  “Gilgamesh!” shouted Ramses.

  His hands tightened around the paddle. Why did his friend peer at him so oddly? Did he really look that bad?

  He glided against the larger boat, bumping against it. Ramses threw down a rope.

  Gilgamesh clambered aboard, his stomach knotting at the sight of so many people. Perhaps ten or twelve men were aboard. They had much more room per person than on the Odyssey that had made the voyage to Dilmun, the Blessed Land.

  The boat was called a dhow. It had no decking other than in the stern by the tiller. Like a fisherman’s reed punt, no nails bound the dhow together, although it had planks in an Ark-like sense. Instead of nails, palm tree fibers were threaded through the carefully bored and very small, tarred holes. The thread uniformly tied the ribs, keel, planks and washboard together. Unlike the Ark, the dhow was an open boat. It had a low prow, a high stern and a belly full of room for shipping.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Odin shouted, moving toward him.

  Gilgamesh shook hands, and he noticed that several chests were piled in the center of the ship together with jugs and various leather-wrapped items.

  “What do you think of our beautiful vessel?” Odin asked.

  Gilgamesh didn’t know what to think.

  “Have you seen any sign of Opis?” Ramses asked.

  Gilgamesh shook his head.

  “You look starved,” Odin said. “Get him some bread,” he ordered.

  “I’m fine,” Gilgamesh said.

  “Fine?” Odin asked.

  “Where are you headed?” Gilgamesh asked, sounding a bit more like his old self.

  Two men had clambered onto his canoe. Gilgamesh frowned at them.

  “They’re going to tie your boat to our ship,” Ramses said.

  “No,” Gilgamesh said. “I’m leaving almost right away. I just wanted to see you one more time. I wanted to keep my word.”

  “You can’t leave,” Odin said. “We need your expertise.”

  It took Gilgamesh a moment. He wasn’t used to conversations. “You need me for what?”

  “We’re headed back to Dilmun,” Ramses said.

  “That’s right,” Odin said. “We want to gather fish-eyes from the sea.”

  The words shocked Gilgamesh, and he wondered why he suddenly felt angry.

  “Semiramis wants the fish-eyes,” Odin explained. “She requested that you help us gather them.”

  “You’re going to Dilmun?” Gilgamesh asked.

  “Nimrod was against it at first,” Ramses said, “for fear of the leviathan.”

  Odin snorted. “For fear that one of us will slay it and match his feat.”

  Ramses turned back to Gilgamesh. “We need your help, my friend. You know the way to Dilmun, and it’s said you have experience harvesting the fish-eyes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gilgamesh said. “I can’t help you. I have to leave. I have to keep searching for Opis.”

  Ramses grabbed him. “Gilgamesh, you know that she’s…” Ramses’ voice trailed off.

  Gilgamesh stared at Ramses in mortification. He didn’t know it, but under his tanned skin, Gilgamesh had turned white, and he trembled.

  “I have to keep searching,” he whispered.

  Ramses and Odin glanced at one another. Subtlety, other men moved near.

  Gilgamesh felt surrounded, trapped. “I must leave,” he said, moving toward the side of the ship.

  “Wait,” Ramses said, holding onto his arm.

  Gilgamesh tried to pry off the fingers.

  “Grab him,” Odin shouted.

  Before Gilgamesh could struggle free or swing his fists, men pounced upon him, bearing him down onto the hard wooden ribs.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Odin said, as he produced stout cords. “But I’m under orders. You’ll thank me for it later.”

  “No!” howled Gilgamesh, struggling, trying to squirm his way to the ship’s side. “I have to keep searching for Opis. Let me go.”

  They didn’t. Pleading, tears and rage failed to move them. So Gilgamesh glowered in silence, trussed up like a beast, plotting his revenge.

  18.

  Later, after a bad dream, Gilgamesh struggled against his bonds. He yanked, pulled and snarled in frustrated rage.

  Odin squatted beside him. “What’s the use of that, eh? You’ll only wear yourself out and maybe pull a muscle. My advice is to relax. Wait until you have a chance to do something.”

  Gilgamesh panted as he glared at the ribs of the ship.

  “You’ve become like a beast,” Odin said. “Look at you, starved, wretched and acting like a trapped wolf. Your months in the swamp have unhinged you, that and your grief, I suppose. We mourn Opis’s loss. It is a terrible pity. But you’re young like me. In time there will be another woman.” Odin paused. “Believe me, I understand about losing the woman you love. It’s a wretched feeling, and I’m sure you feel your loss more keenly than I did mine. You were to be married. And yet…even that pain can be overcome, or so they say. Look around you. Let the healing begin today.”

  Gilgamesh refused to listen. The words were blasphemy to the memory of Opis.

  Odin poked him with a thick, fat finger, digging into his side.

  Gilgamesh snapped up his head.

  Odin smiled, and he waved his hand at the sail. “Listen to it crack. Look how the wind fills it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Gilgamesh frowned, noticing how huge the sail was. From time to time, a shift in the wind caused the sail to snap, to shudder. Perhaps it was lovely. He wasn’t sure.

  “Feel the ship’s sway,” Odin said.

  Gilgamesh did. The ship rose on the waves, thumping down. Spray shot up at the prow. Gilgamesh straightened. He glanced to the north and south. There was green sea everywhere. To the west sat an ocher-colored shore of low dunes.

  “We make good time,” Odin said.

  Gilgamesh tilted his head, and then all at once he thought of Opis. He struggled again to free his hands, to free his feet. He snarled and spat.

  Odin rose, with his pudgy fingers plucking at his beard. He motioned to Ramses. “What’s wrong with him? Why won’t he listen to reason?”

  “He grieves,” Ramses said.

  “No,” Odin said. “It’s more than that. He’s become a beast.”

  “Gilgamesh,” Ramses said.

  Gilgamesh didn’t answer. He was too busy struggling against his bonds.

  “Have you ever noticed how a Hunter stands taller when he dons a suit of bronze armor?” Odin asked.

  “I can’t say that I have,” Ramses said.

  “What about a woman,” Odin said, “as she wears fine clothes and jewelry, with eye-shadow and henna? Have you noticed how they comport themselves differently while wearing such things?”

  “I have,” admitted Ramses.

  Odin grunted, and because of the rise of the ship and its downward thump, he moved unsteadily toward the stern.

  Some men slept in the waist, cur
led up in cloaks. Others sat and spliced rope or chatted together. One or two watched the sail, while another kept lookout. Everyone had a spear or bow and arrows beside him. They had often talked about how Nimrod had reacted the instant he spied the leviathan. They told each other that they too must act just as quickly.

  A few moments later, Odin shuffled back, with two other men in tow. “Gilgamesh,” Odin said, “I’m not going to hurt you. But if you resist it will go worse with you.”

  Gilgamesh glared at the fat man. He noticed a razor in Odin’s grasp. Then the two men grabbed him, holding him tight. Gilgamesh struggled just the same.

  “Don’t,” pleaded Ramses, who had crawled behind him. Ramses yanked Gilgamesh’s head back, his fingers intertwined in the long, matted hair.

  Gilgamesh’s eyes went wide as Odin shuffled near, the razor inching toward his face. Sunlight glinted off the metal. Gilgamesh froze. They were going to slit his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut. Better to get this over with quickly.

  But Odin didn’t slash the razor across his throat. Instead, he scraped off the scraggly, shaggy beard and mustache. He did it without cutting flesh.

  After the shave, they cut off the dirty headband and much of his matted hair. Soon thereafter, they soaked his head with seawater, Ramses lathering it with soap and then another bucket of cold, salty seawater. Finally, with Odin apologizing, they tore off his rank clothes, tossing them overboard. They untied his feet and forced new, clean breeches on him and then they retied his feet and undid his hands to put on a woolen tunic. After all that, with Ramses and Odin talking to him softly, as if he were a wild wolf, they fed him jerked beef and convinced him to eat figs and drink water.

  It made him groggy.

  When Gilgamesh woke later, he felt different. The hunger pangs were gone. The wind felt strange on his bare cheeks. The clean clothes…he frowned.

  “Ah, you’ve woken up,” Odin said. “How do you feel?”

  Gilgamesh shrugged.

  Odin jumped behind him and untied his hands. “Go ahead, untie your feet.”