Then The Deluge Comes (The Generations Book 2)

by Caryl McAdoo

Had he heard right? “Did you say only one?”

  “Yes. Centurion. The last of his kind. Somewhat poetic. You agree, yes? The last of the host being mentored by the first of the cherubim. Of all the host, he can stand in God’s Presence the longest, but he is not as strong as any of the triplets.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Another story. And I have need of seeing if you can truly defeat me in ten moves.” Namrel smiled and nodded toward the game table.

  1186 years from creation

  “Shouldn’t we be leaving, Father?”

  Lamech glanced at his son. “I’ve decided that you aren’t going.”

  “What?” Noah stopped. “You will need my help.”

  “Perhaps, but I choose to go alone. We don’t know of this wicked land. Nod may not be a safe place, and we cannot afford to lose you, Son.”

  “Father, please. Reconsider.”

  Shaking his head, Lamech held his son’s strong shoulders. “Your mother and I discussed the trip. We are resolved. You will not go with me.”

  Twice more during the preparations, his son tried to convince him that he needed to go along. Then one last time, as Lamech slapped the leather reins over the horses’ backs, he beseeched him. But instead of being angry, he passed it off as the pride of youth. Could he remember his one-thirties?

  If memory served, not a fun decade. He toiled all day with his father then puttered most evenings getting his living suite ready for Laurel. Hopefully, the Lord would soon give him a peace about allowing the marriage of Noah and Hattimas. But neither seemed ready, especially not his son.

  Noah, not taking no for an answer, did not help. The grandfathers, only two left with Enoch gone. Speculations went on for many years that the chariot of God would return, bring him back, but as more years passed, his father, wife, and sons spoke less of a homecoming.

  He clucked his tongue and flicked the reins over the stallion’s and his favorite mare’s rumps. He did not look back.

  Remembering the story he heard at Padam and Meve’s knee, the first five days of his trip east seemed almost familiar, like traveling a known road, then he reached the briars and brambles. The thicket—taller than he—probably surrounded their garden. Shame. He’d love to see those flaming swords guarding Eden.

  From there, he made his way according to his dream. At each place a fork or creek presented a choice or direction, he closed his eyes and played again the vision he’d lived with for so long. Always as he’d seen, his way made clear, he traveled on toward Nod. Would he meet Cain there? Were his descendants aware of Adam’s Valley and its inhabitants?

  Then on the morning of the ninth day, he smelled it first. A stink like no other. Through the scrawny trees—if they could be called trees at all—the tar pit came into view. What an ugly boil on the earth, had to be a part of the curse. For several cubits on all sides, the stumps tried valiantly to grow among the boulders that edged its bank.

  Easing the team around, he backed the wagon to within a double arm’s length of the oozing black muck, set the brake, and went to seeing to his animals. They loved the brushing they’d well earned, and the grain. Though neither would stray far, he hobbled them both and set them to grazing. The lure of a stray mare band might be more than the forty-seventh son of Adam’s horse could stand.

  He dragged the harness back to the first fair-sized tree and hung it out to dry, then went to work. Scouting the forest, he found a nice stand of cedars. After he chopped down several good sized ones, he lugged them back to the wagon then tied the two biggest tops together and secured the bottoms to the wagon’s side with the loops he’d cast then braced the poles with smaller cedars.

  Bless God, the Lord had shown him how to build his tripod and the pull-wheel he attached to its top. Once he strung the jute rope through the iron wheel and attached one end to the pail’s metal handle, he tossed the bucket out into the thick tar and waited. It took a long time for it to sink into the black pool of pitch.

  Seven pulls brought the bucket out, three more got it swung over the first oak barrel he’d positioned below the pull-wheel. He hooked the rod over the pail’s edge and dumped its contents. He repeated the process fifty-four times that day and filled three barrels. He started the fourth, but decided to call it a night before dark set in.

  By the time he finally allowed himself to slip under the wagon, every muscle protested as he waited on sleep. If that first day proved a true mark, it would take him another two days to fill all the barrels he’d brought, and according to the word Laurel had heard so long ago, he’d need wagonloads of the tar.

  “Abba, I know not why I need the pitch, or why You wanted so many gopher trees planted, or what the need could be to cast so many nails and hinges. It would seem we’ve twisted enough rope to last five more generations. And laid by barns full to the brim of grains and fodder. The flood coming must be a part, but how is that to be?”

  If only Lamech could know and understand the plans of the Lord. Inundation indeed. Listening to the songs of the crickets and toads, he pondered his father’s name. Methuselah, when he dies, the deluge comes. Who would call a son by such a name were it not but the bidding of God?

  “If the mist only waters the ground, Abba, are the rivers to rise up? Or is it like Grandfather Jared thinks, and a deluge of babies are going to be born?” Maybe they needed all the building supplies to house all the new families. Who knew the ways of God? He closed his eyes but as so many times, no answer came.

  Instead, a peace—exactly what he needed—settled over him, and he knew he was where he needed to be, doing exactly what he should be doing. That was enough. “Oh, Lord, regardless of whether You reveal to me the answers I seek or not, I will continue to trust in Your Holy Name and obey Your Voice.”

  Behilu the Canaanite had seen the intruder the first day, but after watching him work at filling his barrels with the tar, he decided he might need help with the bearded one. Though he appeared old, at least eighty, maybe even ninety, he labored like a young man—a strong one at that.

  The old stranger should bring a nice price at the market, especially if the right fellow took a liking to him. He’d seen it before, two fancy men wanting to buy the same slave. Vision of a mountain of gold coins filled his inner eyes.

  Waiting until the man slipped under his wagon, Behilu trotted the eighteen furlongs to the city in the dark. Just the right partner was essential, someone big, but not too bright. The stallion alone would bring a good-sized bag of silver. Maybe even enough to buy a girl.

  Wouldn’t that be something? Him having his very own slave. Someone to practice his art on, burn his inks into her skin, pierce her ears to hang his tinted feathers from. He rubbed his hands together. What a great day it had turned out to be.

  Chapter Six

  A good furlong short of the tar pits, Behilu stopped. He leaned in close to his new partner and pointed with his staff. “You go to the right, I’ll take the left.”

  The little man held a hand up. “Wait. Did you not say the old man was filling nine big barrels full of black tar? So, what do you think?”

  “What do you mean? What do I think about what?”

  “Well, about us finding out what he’s planning on doing with so much of it? Might be a smart thing. Why, he could light the whole of Nod with that many torches. Is that what he’s going to do, you think?”

  Behilu had wasted a whole day asking every son of Cain he knew to help him subdue the intruder, and all he’d drummed up was the runt idiot. He planted his stick, grabbed it with both hands, and glared. “Why would we want to do that?” Hopefully, he’d put enough iron in his voice to silence the diminutive man.

  “What if he figured out something new, besides burning it for light? Tar is only good for torches, right? So why does he need so much? Maybe the guy dreamed up a really good use for the stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” The fellow looked off with his permanently crossed eyes. “Hey! Let’s ask him. Want to?
”

  “Then what? He’s a big one. And strong.”

  His new partner—who would be short-lived—pulled a rather long and sharp-looking dagger from his boot top and waved it back and forth. “I can reason with him. If he’s old as you say, can’t put up much of a fight.”

  Not so sure of that supposition, Behilu considered the idea. If he had some new use for tar, then…. “Fine, we’ll talk with him, but be ready. I’d rather sell him than feed him to the vultures.”

  The runt smiled, tapped his nose with the side of his blade, then sheathed the weapon. “Tell me again how we’re splitting the profits? Just to be sure.”

  “Down the middle. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “That’s the seventh, and the last, so let it be so, or the council of lords will hear all about it.” He winked. “And that down the middle does include those animals of his, the wagon, and the tar he’s loaded up so far. Right?”

  Behilu returned the smile. Had he really said equal shares seven times? Maybe he had, but only thrice had he promised not to kill the irritating runt, once the stranger lay tethered in the back of his own wagon.

  Lamech raised the tip rod. The bucket righted itself. Careful not to touch the hot tar, he grabbed the rope above the bucket, carried it to the back of the wagon, jumped down, and tossed the pail into the black pool.

  He turned, then froze. Two men walked toward him. One regular size, the other at least a head shorter and rather stocky with bowed legs. He’d never seen a man shaped like that. The taller one waved then spoke as he neared. “Greetings, I am Behilu.”

  “Greetings, good to meet you. I am Lamech, son of Methuselah. Are you two sons of Cain?”

  “Yes, we are. How’d you know? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “From the the stories. Is he well?”

  The short one stomped the ground. “Ha! How would we know?” He slapped the big man’s lower back. “The old one’s funny.” He bent over laughing then looked up. “Long before our time, the vagabond left. Never came back. Him and his son built a lot of our city. That’s the way the legend goes.”

  Lamech nodded. “The Lord did curse him with the wanderlust. What of his wife? Is Sheriah well?”

  The runt put his hands out and brought his first finger to his thumb, making tight circles, which he placed around his eyes. “Let me see…. Are you mad? Where have you come from? We do not speak that name in Nod.”

  “I live in Adam’s Valley. Why does no one here speak of Grandmother Eve’s first daughter?”

  The bigger man snickered. “Never heard of such a place. There is none. Where have you really traveled from, old man?”

  “Why should you think I would lie? I have not. I guard the truth.”

  The smaller man stepped forward. “Ha. So if you lie not, tell us true. What do you plan to do with all that tar?”

  “I know not.”

  Both of the men broke into boisterous laughter. The little one held up a fist and glared. “Now I know you’re a liar; no one needs nine barrels of pitch.”

  The big man stepped forward. “Either produce a big bag of gold –”

  “Or an even bigger one of silver!”

  “Or....” He nodded to his short friend who reached down to his boot and pulled out a knife.

  “We sell thieves, old man. This pit belongs to us.”

  “Oh, but you err. Earth and the fullness thereof belong to the Lord, and it is He Who has sent me here to fill these barrels.”

  The bigger one pointed his staff right at Lamech’s nose. “On your knees, old man. You’ll fetch a fine price at market.”

  What could the men be thinking? “I will not bow my knee.”

  “Slaves obey. You’ll learn, or you’ll die.”

  “Or beg for death.” The little one cackled.

  Both men rushed at him, the larger with his long stick over his head. Lamech raised his left arm. The staff struck then splintered.

  The runt jabbed with his blade. Lamech moved sideways, grabbed the man’s wrist, then squeezed and shook until the knife fell free. He jerked the little man hard toward the pit and released him at the last heartbeat. He turned. The other one ran back the way he’d come from.

  He spun around. The runt struggled knee deep in the hot tar.

  “You’ve killed me, old man. Arruugghh! Curses on you! May my death send you straight into the flames of torment!”

  Lamech yanked his rope free from the pull-wheel and tossed it to the man.

  He grabbed hold.

  With one heave, Lamech jerked the runt right out of his boots onto the bank.

  The small, strange man shucked off his tunic, still screaming, and wiped his dancing legs. “The pain! The pain!” He fell to the ground, crying. “Why would you save me? I tried to kill you.”

  Lamech didn’t know how to answer. The man had tried to cut him, but did the attempt deserve death? He thought not. “Perhaps one day, you will preserve my life.”

  The runt pointed to his dagger. “Can I have my blade?”

  “If you leave in peace, then take your knife.”

  The naked man with burned bands around both knees eased to where his weapon lay in the dirt. He grabbed it quickly and trotted away. But before out of view, he stopped and turned. “Best get gone, old Lamech, before Behilu returns with help.”

  Hattimas stopped at the front door, set the jug on the porch, then fluffed her hair. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her frock and retrieved the wine. With her hip, she nudged the door open. “Mother, I’m home.”

  The honeyed smell of fried yams set her mouth to watering. Her mother mixed the boiled sweet potatoes with pecans and cinnamon then splashed them with goat’s milk butter before forming the patties.

  Oh, she loved her mother’s cooking. She headed for the cooking room and found her at the firebox. “Evening. Gram sent us a present.” She set the wine on the table.

  Laurel turned, stared a few heartbeats, then nodded toward Hattimas’ hair. “What have you been doing?”

  “Your son and I were helping Gram. And well, Noah–”

  “What? What did your brother do?”

  Hattimas shrugged. “He started it. So, I…well…did you know I’m already older than Great-Grandmother was when she married Father Enoch?”

  “Yes, and she died sooner than any other firstborn.” Laurel waved her wooden spoon at her. “Now back to what you and Noah were doing.”

  “Like I said, he started it. You’d think after living one hundred and thirty years, he’d be a bit more mature, but honestly, Mother.”

  “I know how old my firstborn son is. What I don’t know is what he did.”

  A curl fell over her eye, and she blew it to the side. Her mother would blame her; she always blamed her. Noah got away with anything because he was so perfect.

  “Well?”

  “He started throwing grapes. He started it. Then I accidently hit Gram trying to pay him back. They teamed up against me, and well, we had a grape war.” She smiled. “Your son and mother are purple people now.”

  “You need to get a bath. We do not want your father getting home, and you having to answer any questions.”

  “It’s only been twenty-two days. I thought he would be gone a full month.”

  Her mother’s lips thinned. “He told me eight days there, eight back, and maybe two days to fill the barrels. I hoped.…” She turned away.

  Hattimas stepped closer, and lay her head on her mother’s shoulder. Little sobs broke the silence. She wrapped her arms around her from behind. “Don’t cry, Mother.” Why would she be so upset? “What’s wrong?”

  She sniffed, then blew out a long breath. “He was going to try and find the twins.”

  Hattimas stepped back. “But why? Why would he? They made their choices years ago. I talked to the girls. They all said Noah did everything he could, save chaining their stubborn selves up in the barn. Father’s wasting his time.”

  “It’s true what you say, but they’re
still our babies. We had hoped that, besides the pitch, maybe your father could bring them back. For two days, though, I’ve been concerned about him, worrying over what could happen. We have no way of knowing….”

  “He’s fine, Mother. Abba would never have told him to go if He wasn’t going to keep Father safe and bring him back.”

  “I know you’re right. Still, I hate him being gone, hate not knowing what’s going on with him. I should have gone, or at the least insisted he take Noah.”

  “No, think on it. Father was right to go alone. The Lord showed him the vision and sent him off in the right season. He’ll be fine.”

  “I’m being silly. It’s true.” She wiped her cheeks. “Go get cleaned up. The bread has almost finished rising. You have time for a bath, but don’t dawdle. The cook-fire isn’t going to stay hot too much longer.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Bless God for goat’s milk soap, and a mother who excelled at cooking. Everyone in the valley said she was the best in the whole wide world. Surely the daughters of Cain had never birthed a woman who could even come close to comparing. But why had she mentioned that her father was overdue?

  Where had she ever gotten the notion his trip would take twenty-eight days? She dropped her dress and stepped into the tub’s warm water.

  “Watch over him, Abba, and please tell him that Noah and I should be married. Today would have been such an extra great day if we ended it in his bath.” Sitting down, she giggled. “Together.” She opened one eye toward the ceiling. “Tell me he does have a bath built. Doesn’t he?”

  Was that the problem? Had her brother not finished the new suite? She hated that he had to build his own anyway and certainly did not understand continuing the tradition when so many rooms went unused in the house already. Patience was a virtue, Father had told her, but hadn’t she been patient long enough?

  She thought so.

  “You know me, Lord. I’m sixty years old this autumn, and Noah is twice my age plus a decade. How much longer do we have to wait? Of all the firstborns, only my father and grandfather were not married by Noah’s age.” She shut her mouth. Being a whining crybaby wouldn’t move the Lord. Besides, He knew all that.