Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  The massive Ark rose beside them, almost all the sides now clothed with outer planking. It was bigger than any castle that Ham had ever seen. The Ark was an incredible three hundred cubits long, fifty cubits wide and thirty cubits high. A cubit was the length from Noah’s elbow to the tip of his middle finger. When finished—Noah had been working on the Ark for over a hundred years—the giant box of a ship would have three decks, the insides composed of thousands of rooms and stalls for people and animals.

  As a young man and well into his four hundreds, Noah, with his wife Gaea’s help, had built an incredibly lucrative farming industry. He had almost been a city-state unto himself. Then Jehovah had spoken to him. Since then year by year Noah had sold off sections of prime farming land or vast herds of cattle, all to pay for Ark construction.

  A wooden fence, five cubits high, surrounded the sprawling ark-construction yard, with two gates, one to the north and the other to the south. A parapet or walkway had been built behind the fence, so whoever had guard duty could patrol with safety. Inside the yard were fire pits to dry the logs. Then many types of sheds—tool sheds, storage sheds for the pitch, which was kept in barrels, sheds for the various and laboriously made boards, sheds for the uncut logs and a shed to hold nails and gopher-wood pegs. There was a smithy to make new augers, saws, mallets, axes, hammers, spears and arrowheads, and of course the thousands upon thousands of bronze nails. There was a mountain of logs to fuel the many fires. There was a barn for ropes, one for the cranes and a kennel to house the shaggy hounds. The beasts roamed the yard at night. An armory also stood on the premises, in case they had to take up swords or spears against raiders or launch arrows dipped in naphtha and set afire against the larger beasts, those that had the size, teeth and inclination to stalk behemoths. They had a bakery, a special shed where Noah kept the plan of the ark and one to house the cubits upon cubits of leather awning.

  The problem with gopher-wood was its incredible hardness. It destroyed the expensive saws and bent nails with furious regularity. Ham had once asked his father why he didn’t use softer wood.

  “Because Jehovah told me to use gopher-wood,” Noah said.

  From bitter experience, Ham knew there was no arguing against that.

  So this morning Ham pushed and pulled an ever-duller saw across a stubborn gopher-wood log.

  Ham wore a short-sleeve woolen shirt, breeches and boots and a leather apron for protection. He had become a broad-shouldered, muscular man with big, rough hands. He shaved his beard and had a swarthy, handsome face, with dark hair and piercing brown eyes. He was stronger than his brothers were, although not yet as strong as Father. The truth was that this endless drudgery and toil had made Ham powerful and tough, unlike most people, who took their ease and enjoyed life.

  “This saw is too dull,” Jubal panted.

  Ham ignored him. He mulled over an idea he’d been pondering lately. Was there a way to know whether Jehovah was really who Noah said? Ham dreamed of running away and finding Eden, there to see the cherubim—if they existed—to see the flaming sword flashing back and forth before the east gate. If cherubim were real, however, creeping so close to Eden would be dangerous. Yet if angels weren’t real or if there wasn’t any Eden—if Methuselah and Lamech were lying about that just to make Noah happy—why then, Ham would know that he wasted his youth working on Noah’s folly.

  Then the saw jammed and Jubal lost his grip, stumbling backward.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Ham said, thrusting his shoulders, pushing the saw forward. “Get back to work.”

  “We should sharpen the teeth first.”

  “We only have three more logs to go,” Ham said, still sawing.

  Jubal stared at him a moment longer. Then he grabbed the handle, almost stumbling again as Ham yanked the saw across the hardwood.

  Noah marched up. He wore a rough, gray cloak and sandals. Old Noah listened to the saw and then held up one of his leathery hands. “Lift it up.”

  Ham hesitated only a moment, yanking up the long saw-blade.

  Noah fingered one of the bronze teeth. “Sharpen them before you go on.”

  “Yes, Father,” Ham muttered.

  “I told you,” Jubal said.

  Ham clenched his teeth.

  “When you’re finished here,” Noah said, “I want you to lift the boards in shed five up to the number ten scaffolding.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And double check the crane ropes. Make sure they aren’t frayed.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Noah clapped him on the shoulder. “We don’t want a load of lumber breaking loose and raining on the Ark.”

  “Yes, Father. I shan’t forget.”

  A hint of a frown touched Noah’s lips. Then he strode away.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jubal asked.

  Ham dug a whetstone from the pouch slung at his belt and took the saw under an awning. With the prized bronze blade between his knees, he filed with sharp strokes.

  For the rough grinding of blades, one used a whetstone of gneiss, a type of granite. Now he used softer banded slate, merely wishing to put back the saw’s edge. Ham scooped water from a nearby pail, flinging droplets onto the saw edges as he scraped the slate over them.

  “I’m going to eat an early lunch,” Jubal said.

  Ham ignored him as he filed with harder jerks, and before he knew it the stone slipped off a tooth and his palm swept over the sharpened bronze. With an oath, Ham glared at the pumping blood, and he ground his teeth in growing frustration. He plunged his hand into a bucket of water and wrapped a cloth around the palm. Oh, this was going to work fine. Blood already soaked the cloth. So he went to the linen shed and wadded up some, sticking it under his crude bandage. As he walked back to the saw, and while wondering if he should stitch the cut, the ram’s horn blew.

  Ham looked up as the horn sounded a second time. Shem high up on the Ark pointed down excitedly at something outside the north gate.

  2.

  The caravan master from Havilah, a small, sinister old man with cunning eyes like a hyena, smacked his lips with approval. “A fine wine, sir, a fine wine indeed. But do you have any with bite?”

  “Only for ailments,” Noah said.

  “Ah! Of those, I have many, sir, many indeed. Sore joints are an ailment, and a back stretched from sitting far too many days upon a donkey. Is that not an ailment of the first order?”

  They sat underneath a hastily erected awning, this sly ancient caravan master and several of his clan, together with Noah and his sons and several of their cousins. Leather sheets had been thrown upon the ground and two stools brought out, one for Noah and the other for the old caravan master of Havilah. The small nomad wore a thick quilted jacket, baggy pantaloons and fine mammoth-hide boots, with a golden ring upon each of his talon-like fingers. Dangling from his left ear hung two golden loops that clashed every time he turned his head. The caravan master, Kedorlaomer by name, wore a blue silk turban and had shrewd, slanted eyes. The eyes reminded Ham of a hyena that used to slink about the construction yard, one that would slip near and snatch your bread-sack if you weren’t watching closely enough.

  Behind the old nomad sat several of his grandsons in a semi-circle, all of them near Noah’s age, which was to say approaching six hundred. Lean and tight-lipped, with long mustaches and equally long glances, as if sizing up the yard for a raid, there hardly seemed to Ham a more distrustful and villainous crew. They hung decorated bow cases and quivers from their backs, and fingered jeweled daggers.

  Noah had wisely ordered the rest of the caravan to remain outside, although several husky servants carted water from the construction-yard well to their braying animals. Ham was certain they were slaves. Their heads looked recently shaved—one bore an evil-looking scab—and they shuffled and their shoulders slumped. A pretty woman scandalously dressed in a quilted jacket and pantaloons paced beside the servants. She threw Ham a smile once or twice.

  Kedorlaomer cleared his throa
t. “It has been such a dusty trail, sir. Quite an adventure, I’m afraid, leaving a man thirsty for something with more…spirit.”

  Noah sent Jubal running, who hurried back with a jug and clay cups. Noah pulled the cork and poured for Kedorlaomer and his grandsons. Grinning, the old, caravan master raised his cup and was about to bring it to his lips, when he frowned and made a sharp snorting noise through his nose.

  The grandsons lowered their cups, their eyes narrowing as they burned silent accusations at Noah.

  “What of yourself, sir?” Kedorlaomer asked. “Is it not wrong for us to drink before you do?”

  They weren’t merely suspicious, Ham realized, but insultingly paranoid.

  Noah splashed wine into several more cups and handed them to his sons and nephews. Ham gulped his. It was little more than enough to wet his mouth. But that seemed to satisfy suspicious Kedorlaomer.

  “Ah, yes, thank you, sir,” the old, caravan master said, while drinking. “Splendid indeed. Excellent!”

  “You’re most kind,” Noah said.

  “No, no, this is a rare vintage indeed, sir. I understand now your reluctance to waste it on the travelers from afar.”

  “Has it been a hard trail?” Noah asked.

  Kedorlaomer swirled the last contents in his cup, his lips pursed, before he tossed it down and smacked his lips.

  Noah offered them buttered bread and pears, and platters of almonds. They shelled the nuts and chewed loudly, holding their cups out for more of Noah’s excellent vintage. He gave them another fill. Then he corked the jug and told Jubal to take it back to the shed.

  “No more of that wonderful wine, sir?”

  “Drunkenness is offensive to Jehovah,” Noah said, not with a prim twist to his lips but in the same way that he might ask for more nails while hammering planks.

  Kedorlaomer raised his eyebrows, while his grandsons traded knowing smirks.

  And so Ham knew that these nomads out of Havilah, these sons of Cain, had heard about Noah. How, in fact, could they sit in the shadow of the Ark without commenting about it unless they had already been primed beforehand as what to do with this ‘Jehovah-crazy fool?’

  “Please,” Noah said, “tell us about your journey.”

  Ham gave his father this: he liked news just as much as the next person.

  Dusting almond shells from his lap, Kedorlaomer began his tale by saying, “It was a hard trail indeed, sir.”

  Jubal grinned ear to ear. Ham cracked his knuckles, leaning forward. Even Japheth paid greater attention, so much so he petted the hounds less. One of them nosed its big snout back under his older brother’s hand.

  According to Kedorlaomer, the trouble started even before the trek. As was well known, seventy-five years ago several clans of giants, Nephilim, had entered Havilah. For a time the creatures had joined forces with the men already in possession of the land, helping to repel the many raiders drawn to Havilah like ants to a honey pot. Although surrounded by the mighty Pishon River, Havilah was noted for its pure gold, its onyx stones and its precious gum spice from the bdellium tree.

  Yet clans grew, those too of the giants, Kedorlaomer told them. Quarrels didn’t patch as easily these days and drunkenness, despite what Jehovah didn’t or did like, fueled more than one shouting match until knives were drawn. Old Kedorlaomer sadly shook his turbaned head, telling them about younger giants plotting to overthrow their fathers. The young ones unfortunately incited reckless young men until bands of marauders prowled around the gold and onyx mines and the groves of bdellium trees. Sometimes sons or grandsons led the bands into the very compounds of their fathers, so the night erupted with shrieks and spilled blood. It was a savage, bitter time in Havilah, and gathering a caravan-load took skill and a fierce determination to hold onto valuable possessions.

  “Well, sir,” Kedorlaomer said, as he paused for breath. “Life has always been hard, has it not?”

  “Hmm,” Noah said, his deep blue eyes filled with that far-off look that sometimes overcame him.

  “Oh,” Kedorlaomer said, “I’ll grant you that lately things seem to have gotten out of hand. That there is greater savagery than ever…” The shrewd eyes darted toward the Ark, back to Noah and then to the huge hounds with their mangy heads upon their paws as they looked up with sad eyes. “There’s madness in the world, sir.”

  Noah nodded.

  Kedorlaomer glanced at his grandsons. The one with his fingers on the golden hilt of his dagger smirked. The others stirred.

  Ham was glad now that he’d tucked a hatchet through his belt, one he used to chop branch-stumps off logs. Maybe the skill of the archers of Havilah had become something of a proverb, but if these villains tried anything strange today, he would be on his feet and bashing their skulls before they could slip their famed bows out of their cases.

  These were hard times indeed, Kedorlaomer told them. He traded and dickered for goods and broke his hardiest colts to the train. Then they loaded up and wended their way to the banks of the Pishon River. The fees had increased, outrageously so. But the Pishon was wide and pirate galleys swooped down at the oddest times. There were spies everywhere and unless a man was your relative, you could never be sure. Even then, it was often a risky proposition. It depended on how much you let him in on the profits. “Clan Kedorlaomer believes in sharing. You share in the work, the danger and then in the profits. That makes good sense. Yes?”

  Noah nodded.

  Kedorlaomer sniffed, and that seemed to stiffen his grandsons, to make their mustaches bristle.

  So Ham pretended to yawn, and he stretched his back. He stood and shook one of his legs as if he was tired of sitting so long. He folded his thick arms across his chest and planted himself spread-legged, and he stared at the ill-tempered grandson who couldn’t keep his fingers off the hilt of his dagger.

  Kedorlaomer glanced at Ham, and the old nomad told them how they had paid the river fare, and how watchdog galleys had guarded the barges full of their braying donkeys and precious cargoes. He explained how his grandsons had prowled the decks with strung bows, while their sons took to sitting cross-legged and sharpening their knives. Fortunately, they crossed the river without incident. Yet each of them had sensed upon landing on the further bank that now they were no longer in Havilah. The weary days of vigilance took their toll. Donkeys sickened, as did trail hands. Sometimes at stops men bartered fairly, sometimes they tried to slip you poisoned drinks. Oh, one could never be sure, never be safe unless you expected the worst.

  “Is that not so, sir?” Kedorlaomer asked.

  Noah shrugged.

  “Let me assure you that it is so.” Kedorlaomer pointed to the thick-limbed servants waddling from the well with a bucket in each hand. The nomad girl still paced them. “Do you see those men, sir?”

  “They’re hard workers,” Noah said.

  Kedorlaomer laughed and so did his grandsons. “They had better be hard workers!” Kedorlaomer shouted. “If they slacken they will be whipped.”

  The water-carriers shuffled faster, while the nomad girl drew a quirt and seemed ready to slash it against the back of their legs. She appeared to reconsider, and with a flourish jammed the leather riding crop back under her belt.

  The cloudiness left Noah’s eyes as he watched the interplay.

  “Oh yes,” Kedorlaomer said. “Not so very long ago these men hid themselves behind leafy fronds beside a river. They waited with long spears in hand, their bronze tips smeared with viper poison. As my caravan wound past, they howled a most dreadful war cry. A few stabbed unwary trail hands. These, however,” Kedorlaomer swept his golden-ringed hand to his grinning grandsons, “these stalwarts brought out their bows and played a deadly tune on their strings. Barbed arrows dampened the attackers’ ardor, until most took to their heels. We captured several, and now they repay in toil for those they slew.”

  “These are sad times,” Noah said.

  “No. These times are filled with justice,” Kedorlaomer said. He looked up at Ham. “
What about you, sir? You seem uneasy. Have I upset you?”

  Ham shook his head.

  Noah, however, snapped up his head, as if seeing Ham for the first time. “Sit down,” he said.

  Ham raised his eyebrows and glanced meaningfully at Kedorlaomer’s grandsons.

  Noah scowled and motioned Ham to sit down.

  Turning red—it would serve them right now if these bloodthirsty sons of Cain killed them—Ham dropped onto the leather blanket.

  “You are a wise man, sir,” Kedorlaomer told Noah.

  “I am a man of peace,” Noah said.

  “Indeed, sir, I’m glad to hear it. You don’t know how rare that is these days.”

  “But I’m afraid I do,” Noah said.

  “Ah, I see. So is that why you’ve built…” Kedorlaomer jerked a thumb at the Ark.

  “You’ve heard of the ship?” Noah asked.

  “Oh, but who hasn’t, sir? What a beauty she is, and so big. A stunning creation. But…”

  “But?” Noah asked quietly.

  “Very plain, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Noah appeared surprised, as if he hadn’t heard that one before.

  “This is your life’s work, is it not, sir?”

  “Well…”

  “For over one hundred years people say you’ve been building it.”

  “That’s true,” Noah said.

  “Then it must be a life work, sir. A most formidable project, I must say. Perhaps you have been asked this before, sir, but where do you plan to sail it?”

  Noah smiled, so did Japheth and Shem.

  Ham rolled his eyes. There was no lake or river for leagues around. Where he planned to sail it was one of the commonest questions around. His father often used the question to launch into preaching.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Kedorlaomer asked.

  “If others have told you about the Ark,” Ham said, “then you know very well where he plans to sail it.”