The Days of Peleg

by Jon Saboe

  He shrugged and pointed to the far corner. “And you may pour yourself some tea, or feel free to go out for something to eat and return later. I’ll be sure to tell him that you called.”

  It was obvious that the offer of tea was to be the extent of Haran’s hospitality. He hadn’t even offered to serve it. Shem pushed aside his resentment at the young man’s rudeness and nodded, indicating that he would wait.

  He began walking among the inventory, sipping the harsh herbal tea, as a powerful feeling of dread and oppression began to spread over him. He was surrounded by carved manifestations of the very forces that desired to supplant the Creator. They sought to focus the minds of people on created things, rather than on the Creator Himself. He shook off the feeling, allowing the Creator to remind him that he was doing His will, and that his objective was, once again, to reestablish the lineage of the Zeh-ra.

  He suddenly realized that his objective ought to be Haran, since he was Terah’s oldest. He turned back to Haran, only to realize that the young man had disappeared, abandoning Shem with what could only be a deliberate and callous statement of disinterest. Shem decided not to pursue him. Somehow, Shem simply had no desire—or patience—to speak with this rude individual. He looked around and slowly wandered into an adjoining room.

  The brilliance of this next room surprised him, as he saw shelves filled with shining brass statuettes and busts, along with numerous delicately etched vases. He surveyed the room, actually impressed with the fine workmanship, and soon he saw who was responsible for their care and maintenance.

  Two small boys were working in the room, moving from one piece to the next, carefully dusting, and polishing each article before placing it gently on the shelf and continuing on to the next. One seemed to be about five or six, while the other could not have been more than four. However, the younger one (who stood directly in front of Shem) seemed to be working confidently around the shop, while the older one (who was working partially obscured on the far side of the room) moved slowly, looking down at his feet; but whether it was from insecurity or boredom, Shem could not tell.

  Haran suddenly appeared behind Shem, startling him.

  “My son, Lot,” he said.

  Shem turned to look into Haran’s face where he saw a father’s pride coming from the same eyes that, earlier, had seemed so indifferent.

  Lot glanced up.

  “Hello Father,” he said politely. “Who is this?”

  Haran looked at Shem with subtle contempt, yet disguised so his son would be unable to decipher it.

  “This is someone who wants to visit your grandfather,” he answered. “His name is Shem, and he is going to look around while he waits.”

  Lot looked up at Shem.

  “I am very pleased to meet you,” he said with a slight bow, as sweetly and properly as a four-year old possibly could.

  Haran grinned in pleasure at his son, but then turned to Shem with a scowl and a shake of his head. It was clear he did not approve of this awkward, strangely dressed man.

  Shem decided to try for one more exchange.

  “And who does the other boy belong to?”

  Haran looked past Shem at the older boy who was carefully returning a large vase to a high shelf just barely within reach.

  “Oh,” he said, “That’s just my little baby brother.”

  Haran stared back into Shem’s eyes, daring him to ask more questions.

  Eventually Shem looked away, and Haran turned and exited the room with a slight huff. Shem brushed off the disrespect, and turned back to look at Lot.

  Shem was quite taken with the youngster’s poise, but a rushing waterfall of excitement was overtaking him as he began to consider who this child might actually be!

  Could he be the one?

  This child might be the final step in his search for the lineage of the Zeh-ra! The firstborn of Haran—who was Terah’s firstborn! He knew from his experience with Eber and Peleg that the principle of the ‘firstborn’ was not always true, but he allowed himself to be carried away with the joy and relief of coming this far—after all these years.

  His next step was to explain the message of the coming Seed to Lot—but his excitement abated slightly as he considered the prospect of imparting truths about the Creator and His redemption to a four-year-old.

  He would have to share his message with someone older. However, he still did not feel comfortable engaging Haran, so he resigned himself to waiting for Terah.

  In the meantime, it would not hurt to develop a rapport with this fine boy. He moved alongside Lot and hunkered down. He winced as a stab of pain shot through his knees with the grim reminder that he was aging—and he remembered how Peleg had complained of similar aches during their travels. It was his turn now, and at the age of four hundred and fifty-five, he wasn’t getting any younger. He again suppressed the hope that he might see, or at least hear, something of Peleg.

  Lot watched him from the corner of his eye, but dutifully continued polishing. The other boy had disappeared around the far row of cabinets, but could still be heard shuffling items around on the shelves.

  “So your name is Lot,” Shem stated lamely, hoping to build some camaraderie with the child.

  Lot nodded, but said nothing.

  After a few moments of awkward silence, Shem tried again.

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  “I have one sister, Karin-gan,” he answered quickly. “She does sewing.”

  “And the rest of your family?” Shem pushed.

  “Well, you met my Father, and I have several cousins.” Lot finished polishing the urn he was working on and set it aside. He turned to face Shem and finally decided it was all right to speak to this stranger.

  “My grandfather’s name is Terah, and his son is my father, and his other son is my uncle Nahor who was born right after my great grandfather Nahor died, and that’s who he was named for, and then his other son is my uncle Abram who I like to play army with, and I think that Uncle Nahor is going to marry my friend, Thanod’s, sister because I think my grandfather likes her, and…”

  “What are these items that you are cleaning?” Shem interrupted Lot’s breathless, run-on sentence to try and redirect the conversation.

  “My family sells Anunnaki icons and accessories,” he stated, obviously reciting a business slogan. “The spirits of the Anunnaki reside in our fine-handcrafted carvings and sculptures.”

  Lot gave a definitive nod, proud of his diminutive sales pitch.

  Shem nodded his approval of the delivery, but hid his disapproval of the message.

  “Tell me about the Anunnaki,” he asked innocently. “Are they wiser and more powerful than people?”

  Lot nodded confidently, but somewhat confused at the older man’s ignorance.

  “Yes, they bring you luck, and will give you success in health, wealth, and love.” It was another slogan.

  “And how do their spirits get into your products?”

  Lot’s confidence ceased abruptly as he pondered a question that no customer had ever mentioned before. His little mind churned to fabricate an answer.

  “Well,” he began slowly, “Maybe they, probably, are invited in after they are made.” It was more like a question, as if Shem were giving him a test. But Shem pressed on.

  “And can one Anunnaki reside in more than one item? After all, I see several busts of Nergal. Does his spirit live in all of them, or does he take turns visiting each one?” Shem pointed to a shelf lined with the familiar lion’s head with a sword protruding from its mouth. Nergal was actually the bringer of plagues, but supposedly his appeasement dissuaded him and actually promoted health and well-being.

  Desperation spread across Lot’s face as his little mind contorted to find an answer. Shem let him suffer for a moment, but was impressed when he finally came up with a valiant reply.

  “I think that, maybe, they are always listening and return to the sculpture when someone wants them.” He looked at Shem hopefully, no
t sure if he had said anything to diminish the value of his products.

  Shem nodded, finished with this line of questions, and Lot smiled at him, relieved.

  As Lot moved to his next item, Shem shifted his weight, wincing again as his aging knees protested, and moved on to his next question.

  “And you say that the Anunnaki are wiser and stronger than we are?”

  The boy stopped in mid-reach and nodded, again wondering about the education of this stranger.

  “Of course.”

  “Then I have another question for you.” Shem shifted again to reposition his aching ankles.

  “Why can’t the Anunnaki make their own statues? Why don’t they design and create the busts and figurines? Why don’t they carve and forge and smelt the wood, stone and metal, and why is it that they can’t clean, polish, and care for their own dwelling places?”

  He stopped abruptly as the little four-year old mind labored with issues he had never considered. Shem waited, determined to make the child respond. On the far side of the room, he could hear shuffling as the other boy clambered up to a new level of shelving to continue his polishing.

  Ultimately Lot did not disappoint as he offered a possible explanation.

  “Maybe it’s because they need our hands,” he said slowly, “or maybe our tools.”

  “But if people are able to do what they cannot,” Shem continued, “Doesn’t that mean that we are stronger and wiser? I think that proves that we are more able and more creative than they are.”

  Shem was finally forced to stand in deference to his knees.

  “What do you think?” Shem asked.

  The intrigued eyes twisted upward to follow the stranger’s ascending face. Again Lot tried to conjure an answer, but in the end he simply shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Well, let me ask you one more question,” said Shem. Lot looked up with an equal mixture of expectation and dread. The rustling at the far end of the room had ceased.

  “Where did the Anunnaki come from?” asked Shem. “And I don’t mean, from the stars or from the netherworld. I mean, how were they made. Who formed them?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he spread his arms to embrace the contents of the room. He was speaking passionately now, forgetting about the four-year old in front of him.

  “After all, everything was made by somebody. These icons were created and designed by artists and craftsmen, and the more elaborate an item, the more intelligence was required.”

  Lot continued to stare up at the tall stranger who seemed to have gone crazy. Shem suddenly remembered the boy, spun around, and stooped down to look him squarely in the eye.

  “Everything must have a source!” he said, much too intensely for the young, trapped audience of one. “You are much more complex than these trinkets you sell. You know who created them. But who created you, and the trees, and the stars, and everything else?”

  Lot’s eyes were glazed over as if squinting to hold back tears. He wanted nothing more than for this agitated, unpredictable man to go away.

  “The Creator, that’s who!” Shem triumphantly answered his own question, caught up in his own oration—not considering the youth of the person in front of him. “His name is Yahweh, and he made you!”

  A large finger swung around to point directly at Lot’s heart. Lot glanced down at it, and then looked up past Shem to the doorway where his father, Haran, had exited earlier.

  “Father!” Lot called out, not loudly; but more like a strained whimper, with a sense of mounting panic.

  Shem was shocked back to the reality of his surroundings, and lowered his voice.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said hurriedly. “Remember, these icons can do nothing for you. You must trust the Creator to be both your councilor and your provider. Only the Creator can fulfill all of the needs of your life. These trinkets are worthless pieces of rock and metal, and all they can do is …”

  A strong hand grabbed Shem’s left elbow and yanked him bodily from the room. He was forced to jump from his stooped position into a flailing, off-balanced landing that twisted his left ankle and brought his right shin smashing excruciatingly into a small stone table just inside the other room. He yelped uncontrollably at the sharp pains as small woodcarvings rattled and fell over on the tabletop.

  Haran was glaring up into Shem face. There was no empathy for his injuries.

  “How dare you speak to my son in that manner!” He was yelling breathlessly, and seemed to be trying very hard to keep from striking Shem. “And how dare you degrade our merchandise and demean its value!”

  Shem was shaken and trying to ignore his pains, but he was also suddenly aware of how right Haran was. Shame and self-indictments flooded his thoughts, and all he could feel was immense anger at himself for getting so carried away.

  “Please,” he stammered, “I am so sorry. You are correct. I had no right. I was just…”

  Haran raised a fist, but it was only to silence Shem.

  “Whatever business you may have had with my father,” he said, “You may consider it concluded.”

  Before Shem could say anymore, Haran spoke with finality.

  “I suggest you leave this place, and this city. There is nothing for you here.”

  He was still holding Shem’s elbow, and with a slight twist, he propelled the tall graying man through the outer doorway and out into the street. He released Shem with a small push, and then wordlessly turned his back on him.

  Shem slowly retraced his steps back towards the western gate, looking back only once. Soon he passed through the gate and began his three-week journey home.

  He should have been hungry by now, but he had no appetite. Somehow, no matter how wonderful the opportunity, something always went wrong, and this time he couldn’t even blame the Creator.

  He had sensed His warnings throughout the entire tirade, but had ignored Him. He should have waited quietly for the opportunity to talk with Terah—which had been his original objective. Now, it was all lost.

  During the next few days he was often tempted to turn around and run back, but there was no possibility that either Haran or Terah would listen to him now. He wondered, despairingly, if he would have to wait another generation until Lot’s offspring would be ready, but he didn’t know if he would last that long.

  He had strived his entire life, attempting to complete this one mission, and again its success had slipped away from him.

  This is My plan, not yours.

  Shem jumped, as if the voice had been audible. Again the Creator was trying to comfort him, but this time Shem submitted to His voice, although fearing a well-deserved rebuke.

  But there was none. Shem meditated upon the words and began to realize that an all-powerful, all-knowing Creator would not risk His all-important plan by relying on poor, frail, weak, impulsive Shem. “Manic” was the word that Peleg had once called him. He also began to realize that since the Creator knew the future, He also knew—in advance—that Shem was going to fail. And surely, an all-powerful Creator could plan around such failures.

  Slowly, his mood brightened, and by the time he was nearing the end of his first week of travels, he was actually enjoying the idea that the Creator could work everything together to accomplish what He willed. That night as he curled up under a small fig tree, the Creator spoke to him again.

  Obedience is its own reward.

  Shem fell asleep that night, happy (however unreasonably) for the first time in decades. He truly felt rewarded—but the reward was based on the bountiful grace of his Creator, not on his own, feeble efforts.

  During the third week of Shem’s return to the Community of Peace, the Creator suddenly revealed to him during meditation that neither Haran nor little Lot was in the lineage of the Zeh-ra. In fact, Terah’s youngest son, Abram, would be the founder of a new line from which the coming Seed would emerge. Haran had called him “just my little baby brother”. Or as the child Lot had said, “My uncle Abram”. Once
again, just as in the case of Joktan and Peleg, the Creator had chosen the youngest instead of the eldest.

  Shem found himself laughing at his earlier anguish, amused at his worries about not succeeding. He had actually felt ashamed for failing to convince a four-year old about the truths of the Creator!

  Somehow, he would contact Abram and try again. Someday.

  But as he began to contrive great and exciting plans for this new future mission, he was suddenly stopped by the lesson he had just learned.

  It was up to the Creator. Perhaps Shem would be the one, or it might be someone else. The Creator would provide.

  As he approached his home, he realized he was happier than he had ever been in his life. A mountain of worry and strain from a lifetime of trying to accomplish the Creator’s will had washed away, and, although his body was beginning to feel the onslaught of time, his heart was as light and as joyful as a care-free child.

  His newfound gladness was challenged when he returned home, however. His informant from the Citadel had sent news which had arrived while he was gone.

  Peleg had died.

  He had actually passed away seventeen years earlier—one year before Nahor—but since Nahor was a famous entrepreneur and successful businessman, the news of his demise had spread throughout all of the known lands—along with the added fears of one dying at such a young age.

  The effort to remove Peleg’s name from history was almost complete—just as knowledge of the Great Discovery had been purged. But Peleg’s contribution was more monumental than just about any other person. The truth of the Coming Seed had been buried in fear, hidden underground for more than one hundred years, lost and forgotten by the rest of the world. And Peleg had found it. He had revitalized Shem’s faith, and then set in motion the events that would allow the message to be restored to humanity—and to the lineage of the Seed.

  Shem smiled to himself. Ultimately, Peleg had accomplished more for the Creator without trying than Shem had accomplished with over four hundred years of striving.

  Somehow Shem would be sure to include a special note about him in the Amar—if the Creator allowed it.