“I find that impressive,” Japheth said. “Don’t you also find that impressive, Beor?”
“The lad’s a skilled hunter,” Beor said. “I’ve always said so.”
“He’s the Dragon Slayer, they say,” Japheth said.
Beor turned away.
Japheth winked at Chin, smiled at Hilda and then, with his grandsons, took his leave, heading back to the village in the distance.
On their return journey to Javan Village, Chin asked Beor, “Do you never wonder about the curse?”
Hilda drove the four donkeys pulling the chariot. The small beasts blew white mist from their nostrils and occasionally glanced back at her. They plodded through a narrow pass, with high mountain walls on either side of them.
Beor took his time answering. “It’s in the back of my mind, of course. And, if you’re like me, whenever I speak with Lord Japheth, I think about it more than otherwise. When I first arrived, I thought about it so much that I journeyed to Mount Ararat.”
“Only to the range’s northern slopes,” Hilda said. “You never did trek up the mountains to show me the Ark.”
“Yes, I stand corrected,” Beor said with a smile. “The point is that I spoke with Noah, and one night I asked him about the curse. I wanted to know if I was in danger, living in Japheth Land.”
“What did Noah say?” Chin asked.
“Noah said that only Jehovah knows. Yet he said that often the curses of Jehovah are long in coming, with many opportunities for repentance.”
“Can the curse be avoided then?” Chin asked.
“I wondered the same thing,” Beor said, “and I Noah asked that. The ancient patriarch shook his head.”
“Javan won’t enslave us,” Hilda said.
“Not outright, anyway,” Beor said.
“You don’t trust Javan?” asked Chin.
“Out of everyone in Japheth Land,” Beor said, “who bargained with you the most sharply?”
“That’s easy,” Chin said. “Javan did.”
“Yes,” Beor said. “Javan.”
For a time they traveled in silence, until Chin glanced sidelong at Beor.
Hilda caught it, and she waited for the question plain on Chin’s face.
Chin asked, “Why do you live in Javan Village? It seems there are…nicer people in some of the other villages.”
Beor shrugged. “One place in Japheth Land is as good as any.”
As the donkeys plodded through the snow and worked their way down into a pine forest, Hilda pursed her lips. She could have told Chin the reason why. Deep in his heart, almost locked away from himself, her father still loved Semiramis. Hilda knew it from the hidden things he did. There was a copper locket with a long strand of Semiramis’s dark hair hidden under Beor’s straw mattress. Other items of hers, a comb, a pin or a buckle from an old belt, Hilda had seen her father late at night when he thought she was asleep. He sat in his chair in front of the fireplace and, with his thumb, rubbed the pin or comb, with his eyes unfocused, as if he saw into another, happier time.
Hilda pitied her father, for she knew that Semiramis was cruel and vindictive. Oh, how her stepmother had terrified her as a child. Nimrod and Semiramis deserved each other.
18.
Chin and his companions departed and life went on in Javan Village. As Rahab had suspected, the amber necklace wove a spell over Hilda. She often took it out, wearing it in her room, gazing at herself in her slate mirror. She finally went to Tarshish, the father of Semiramis, and in his house wheedled a gown from one of his daughters. In her room, Hilda wore the gown with the necklace, moving about and practicing walking like a woman. A month before spring, she waltzed into the main room for supper. Eyebrows rose and her father smiled.
“From which cloud did you descend, my fair princess?” Beor asked.
“Father,” she chided. But she sat at the table, delighted. It gave her the boldness the next day to go outside in the dress. Heads turned. It was caused as much from her loveliness as the treasure hanging from her neck.
Beor warned her two weeks later. “People are gossiping. I’ve heard it, and so have the others. You must put the necklace away and only wear it on special occasions.”
“The other girls wear nice things,” Hilda said.
“Certainly,” Beor said. “I’m not against that. The amber necklace, however, isn’t just a nice thing. It’s the greatest treasure in Japheth Land. That makes people jealous. Remember, we’re guests here.”
“Guests, Father? After all these years? We’re no longer just guests.”
“That isn’t how people think,” Beor said.
“Many of the Japhethites have married Hamite women,” Hilda argued. “They’re not just guests.”
“It’s different for women, Hilda. A woman and man become one flesh. She becomes like a Japhethite, just as a woman from here, married to a son of Ham, becomes a Hamite. For me and the Scouts, however, it’s different.”
“Javan has welcomed you with open arms,” Hilda said. “He’s said so many times.”
“That’s what he said, I agree,” Beor told her. “But at times, they still resent us.”
“They ask you and the Scouts to lead the most dangerous hunts and to help them make the most intricate bronze-work.”
“Another reason not to like us,” Beor said. “Because they need us.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“True. But that’s human nature nonetheless. So I want you to put the necklace away and only wear it for Festival.”
“Yes, Father.”
Beor patted her on the cheek, no doubt thinking the problem solved.
Hilda, however, wore the necklace whenever he took a Scout as his charioteer instead of letting her drive. Those days, she donned the dress and proudly wore the necklace, turning heads and making others jealous.
Some of the most spiteful women went to Minos, the younger brother of Semiramis. He was a lanky fellow with curly, dark hair and handsome, olive-skinned features. He was the most handsome man in the village. He wore fine clothes, with linen undergarments and golden rings on his fingers. He disdained stone weapons and tools and wore on his belt a silver dagger, one of his many vanities and joys.
He listened to the harping of the jealous women: that a daughter of Beor should show them up and strut about their village as if she were its queen.
“Your sister was driven to distraction by Hilda. Surely, if Semiramis learned that you taught Hilda the price of arrogance, it would warm her days and cause her to remember you even more fondly than she does.”
Minos pondered that, and he saw that although Hilda was young, under age, that she was yet pretty, even if rather innocent. He spoke with his thuggish cousins, Thebes and Olympus, muscular youths who bragged they were much better hunters than the Scouts were. When they sensed the drift of his thoughts, they, too, urged Minos to play a prank.
“It isn’t as if you’re hurting her,” Thebes said. “Not truly.”
“Yes, we don’t counsel you to anything as foolish as that,” Olympus said.
“Isn’t she asking for it by wearing that necklace? ‘Look at me,’ she says. And the way she entices us with her stride and those coy glances over her shoulder.” Thebes shook his head. “It simply demands a reaction.”
“Besides,” Olympus said. “What woman can resist you? You’ve told us yourself that you need merely crook your finger to make any woman come running. Hilda will count herself lucky to have even been noticed by you.”
“Yes,” Thebes said. “I, as well, recall that boast, about your crooked finger. It can’t possibly be true, of course.”
“Oh, it’s quite true,” Minos said. “Believe me.”
“You’re just bragging,” Thebes said.
“If I prove it, who will protect me from Beor’s wrath?” Minos asked.
“What will Beor have to be angry about?” Thebes asked. “In fact, after you’re done, he may give you the girl in marriage. Then you’ll own the necklace.”<
br />
“I don’t want to marry her,” Minos said.
“Why not?” Olympus asked. “If, later, another girl takes your fancy, marry her, too. I’ve never understood why we only marry one woman. Especially fellows like you…”
“That’s very strange,” Thebes told Olympus. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Minos walked away deep in thought, to the soft chuckles of Thebes and Olympus.
A week later, as the snow began to thaw and Beor went on an extended trip, Minos came to his cousins and said, “I’ve been accused too often of being a fool, of leaping before I think. This time and against Beor, I refuse to go. Unless…”
“Yes?” Thebes asked.
“Unless you two join me in the prank,” Minos said.
“Join you?” Thebes asked. “I’m not sure. Then Beor might have real cause for rage.”
“No,” Minos said. “I’ve thought this out carefully. If the three of us do this, the girl will surely be too ashamed to let anyone know what happened, least of all her father. The stigma of it will keep her silent.”
Thebes and Olympus glanced at one another in surprise.
“I believe the handsome devil is right,” Olympus said.
“It’s brilliant,” Thebes said. He clapped his cousin Minos on the back, staggering him. “To tell you the truth, I’ve had my fill of these haughty Scouts. Do you know that Beor had the gall to tell me the other day that I shouldn’t stagger about drunk in public? A Hamite trying to tell us about drunkenness. If he wasn’t such a mound of muscle—a freak, I tell you—I’d have knocked him to the ground.”
“This is your chance,” Minos said. “We can hurt him where it will hurt most and without having to worry about retaliation.”
“Yes,” Thebes said. “Count me in.”
“Me, too,” Olympus said.
19.
The allure of the necklace kept drawing Hilda, that and how the village girls looked at her. They used to make fun of her, that she seemed more like a boy than a girl. They didn’t say that anymore.
She donned the gown early one morning, slipping on the necklace and sauntering outside. Father practiced archery with the Scouts and wouldn’t be back until noon. So she didn’t need to fear his discovery.
As she moved between houses, she lifted her chin and pretended not to notice as women stopped, stared and whispered among themselves. Minos, the lazy shepherd, whistled and when she looked, he waved to her.
She giggled, waving back.
“I’ll compose a song about you,” Minos shouted. “And about the necklace that brings out the luster in your hair.”
Hilda blushed. Her father said she was too young for boys. But she noticed them more this year. Minos often took a harp with him to the fields, plucking strings when he should have been watching for lions or wolves.
Hilda turned a corner and halted as her stomach knotted. Father drove through the village gate. Luckily, his head was turned. So she backed up and ducked out of sight, racing for home. In her room, she ripped off the gown and stuffed the necklace into her strongbox. Putting on her knee-length dress and lacing on heavy-soled sandals, she went into the main room and began dusting furniture.
Just as her breathing evened, the door opened. Father clumped in, with his peg leg knocking on the floorboards.
“Hilda.”
She looked up, her face filled with innocence.
He didn’t glare or frown or glower, but his eyes seemed to bore into her soul.
She hung her head as her cheeks burned.
“Did you just disobey me?”
“Yes, Father.”
He sighed, clump-clump-clumping until he sat in his chair.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still looking down.
“Now you are, because I caught you.” He sighed, putting his heavy hands on the table. “I planned to let you drive for me next week when I left for Shem’s Settlement.”
Her head whipped up and she to burst into tears. She loved Ruth, Shem’s wife, who reminded her so much of Great Grandmother Rahab.
“As punishment, you’ll have to stay behind,” he said.
Tears welled in her eyes. Hilda hung her head again, nodding, before dashing into her room to cry.
20.
The week passed. Early in the morning, Father left with the Scouts while Hilda remained behind. She swept the house, debated wearing the necklace now that her father was gone, but decided she didn’t want to turn into a rebellious child.
A little before noon, she went outside carrying several javelins. She headed to the practice field. Once outside the village, she glanced about. Patches of wet snow clung here and there, while greenery sprouted everywhere, and the sound of trickling water seemed universal. From the mossy palisade spread slushy wagon, cart and chariot tracks. In the direction she headed rose a forest belt, the pine branches swaying in the breeze. She felt eyes on her, but saw no one. Father had taught her to trust her instincts so she kept turning, searching, until a crow cawed.
She laughed and soon hiked over a flower-carpeted rise and entered a shallow, though rather wide, depression, with many soggy spots. Hay-backed targets stood in a row. There, she target-practiced, hurling javelins until sweat lathered her face.
“Hilda!”
Hilda whirled around. Stumbling toward her from the forest ran a girl two years older than she was, who also happened to be her worst tormenter.
With a javelin in hand, Hilda waited.
Breathless, hair-disheveled, Ariel clutched Hilda’s arm as tears trickled down her cheeks. “Oh, Hilda, help me. Help me.”
“What is it?” Hilda asked.
“A wolf has torn Minos. He’s at the rock in the glade. He’s bleeding. Quick, run to him. Watch over him with your javelin while I get help.” Without another word, Ariel stumbled for the village.
Hilda gulped as fear wormed into her belly. A wolf had torn Minos. What might the wolf do to her? But she gripped the javelin and sprinted toward the forest.
In time, she came panting to the rock in the glade. The lichen-covered boulder stood taller than a man, and it was surrounded by forest. A spring seeped with water beside it and the boulder threw shadows on the tall, waving grass behind.
“Minos!” she called.
Silence. Hilda glanced around. Just like before, eyes seemed to watch her. Goosebumps rose on her arms. They were evil eyes, malicious, wishing her harm. They studied her, gauging, waiting.
“Minos?” Hilda called in a quieter voice.
She approached the rock as she kept her javelin cocked over her shoulder. If a wolf waited and tried to pounce…
“Hilda, over here,” came a hoarse whisper.
Her heart thudded as she crept to the high grass beyond the rock. Perhaps Minos had crawled into them for concealment. She didn’t see any trail of blood.
“Help me, Hilda.”
“Minos?” she asked.
The grass rustled. Minos rose. His dark hair shone luxuriously, perfectly combed. No dirt smeared his cheeks. He grinned and seemed unhurt.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, with laughter in his voice.
“Ariel said a wolf tore you.”
“A beast did, yes,” he said.
Hilda glanced about, confused. “Is it near?”
“Very near,” he said.
She raised her javelin as her heart beat wildly.
“There,” he said, pointing with his chin.
She pivoted. He parted grass, approaching her. She frowned. “You’re unafraid,” she said.
“Now I am,” he said.
Where he had pointed, grass now rustled.
Hilda yelled, and she stamped forward, with her muscles quivering as she readied to throw.
“No!” Minos shouted. “It’s Thebes! Don’t skewer Thebes.”
In bewilderment, Hilda stared at Minos. Thebes indeed rose out of concealment.
“Here, let go of that,” Minos said. “Don’t stick us.” He drew the javelin out of her grasp.
“Good thinking,” Olympus said, rising behind Hilda.
She blinked, more confused than ever. “Where’s the beast? Where’s the wolf?”
Minos tapped her on the shoulder.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re the beast,” Minos said.
“Me?”
Thebes and Olympus closed in, grinning, evil chuckles bubbling out of them. She felt dwarfed and suddenly in terrible danger.
“You tore my heart,” Minos told her. “So doesn’t that make you a beast?”
Hilda became uncomfortably aware that she was alone with them in the woods. She tried to grab her javelin.
Minos shook his head.
She backed away from him until Thebes dropped a heavy paw onto her shoulder.
“Let go of me,” she said.
Thebes laughed and Olympus reached for her.
Hilda squirmed. Fingers tightened, cruelly digging into her flesh. She flinched and grabbed for her belt dagger.
Minos pinned her wrist. “You’re not going to cut us, little Hilda.”
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered, more terrified than the time Gilgamesh had shot her father with an arrow.
Minos breathed in her face as Thebes held her arms. “You strut about the village with your amber necklace, thinking you’re our queen. Well, you’re not. You’re a wicked little girl trying to entice us.” Minos leered. “Now, I’m enticed, little Hilda.” He gripped her blouse and yanked hard.
She screamed as the three men laughed, closing around her.
Minos ripped again, exposing her from the waist up.
“Hilda!” a loud and familiar voice shouted.
“Daddy!” she screamed. “I’m by the rock!”
The three youths stared at one another in shock.
“You said Beor was gone,” Olympus hissed.
Minos flung a hand over her mouth as Hilda sucked down air to shout again. “Down,” he whispered.
The three youths sank into the tall grass, pulling Hilda with them.
“Hilda!” Beor shouted. “Where are you?”
She squirmed until a dagger touched her throat.
“Silence,” Thebes whispered, his eyes promising death.
People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3) Page 6
