Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  He pounded up the stairs, Rahab behind him. They zigzagged through the maze. For years, he had worked on the Ark, so he knew exactly where he was going. As his chest heaved, as he gasped for breath, he led his wife up another flight of stairs and to the walkway by the cubit-wide windows.

  “I’m frightened,” she said.

  So was he. He thrust a lever and opened a widow. Together they peered at a hellish scene.

  Rain poured. It fell in a downpour, in sheets. Further away great gouts of water spewed hundreds of feet into the air. Already water flooded the land. People rode on wagons as if they were boats, screaming as they sped faster than a chariot. Others floated face-first. A few ran, pumping their knees as high as they could go. Then an uprooted tree smashed them from behind, caving in heads or chests. Here and there, on a knot of higher land, men and women fought with spears, chains or swords. They shoved the defeated into the swirling water, desperately struggling in a life-and-death battle of king of the hill. People stretched out their arms to the Ark. Their mouths were black holes. They must be screaming. Many clawed over others, some swam—all vainly struggled to get here, to safety, to crawl into the Ark that each of them had once mocked and jeered.

  Ham snapped the shutter closed.

  “It’s horrible,” Rahab whispered.

  Ham jerked around and stared at his wife. Was he as white-faced as she was? He felt numb, sick and terrified. “This way,” he shouted. He pulled Rahab after him.

  They staggered down the stairs and through another maze. Animals bellowed and clawed to get out of their pens. But where would they go? This was the only place of safety. Maybe there were other safe spots now, but soon only the Ark would be home to man and animals.

  He tugged her small hand. “Hurry, Rahab.”

  “We can’t open the door for them,” she sobbed. “Jehovah closed it. Only He can open it.”

  He hadn’t even thought of opening the door for them. Trust his wife to think compassionately. He wasn’t worthy of such a good woman. He glanced at her. The same terror on her face gripped his belly, squeezing so he could hardly think. Only Jehovah could save them. And Jehovah, Ham was certain, only listened to one man.

  They burst into an open space, one his father frequented. Noah was there, with his hands lifted in prayer.

  “Hurry, my children,” Noah said, “to me, to me.”

  Ham and Rahab joined Shem, Ruth, Japheth, Europa and their mother Gaea, who knelt around their father.

  “On your knees,” Noah said, “both of you.”

  Ham knelt, as did Rahab, and they clutched one another’s hands, linked in a circle with the white-bearded patriarch who had dared to believe Jehovah and build an Ark. When the entire world had laughed and mocked, Noah had in faith obediently done all that God had commanded of him. Thus, they were safe, because of father, because of one man who had stood his ground against a world.

  “Lord Jehovah,” Noah began, leading his family in prayer as the Antediluvian Age ended.

  12.

  The fountains of the great deep broke and the wide windows of heaven let water gush in mighty cataracts. Rivers overflowed their bounds and poured into the valleys. Jets of water and lava burst from the earth in fury and rage, hurling massive boulders hundreds of feet into the air. They fell like hailstones, smashing and destroying, splintering and tearing.

  Masses watched in openmouthed horror as the works of their hands vanished in a flurry of destruction. In Chemosh the splendid towers, pyramids and plinths, along with gardens and fantastic golden idols disappeared as lightning from heaven shattered them all. Foaming, raging water swept away the ruins. The altars stained by human sacrifices, the grim temples; they, too, vanished in the seething cauldron of Jehovah’s wrath.

  The violence of the storm increased. Trees, buildings, rocks and earth were hurled in every direction. Men went mad with terror. Beasts stampeded, goring any that got in their way. In their fear men wailed to Jehovah, or they cursed and blasphemed the Holy One of Heaven.

  Around the Ark, as the growing water lashed against its heavy sides, pleaded the surviving masses of the army of Chemosh. They floated on logs, scratching for admittance. They agreed that Jehovah ruled and should have their obedience. At last, their stirred consciences knew the truth. In this terrible hour, they howled their contrition, that they now also abhorred evil. A few desperately produced axes and tried to gain a foothold as they attempted to hew their way inside. Surging waters swept them along, or sometimes uprooted tree trunks or crashing rocks smashed them so their lifeless corpses floated like debris beside the giant vessel.

  Through this hellish end of the Antediluvian Age sped King Laban, Queen Naamah, Kedorlaomer, Ymir, Par Alexander, the Prophet Zohar, Ikkesh and Bera.

  They commandeered a merchant ship of Pishon, slaying its owners. Alas, the premier philosopher of the age had never learned how to wield a sword. Par Alexander gasped in painful surprise as a sailor thrust a harpoon into his guts.

  “No,” whispered Par Alexander, his sword clattering to the deck and his hands grasping the bloody shaft.

  Laban shouted for Ymir. With his mighty axe, Ymir smashed the sailor’s head. Then he picked up the sailor and the dying philosopher and pitched them both overboard.

  As rain lashed, as dark waters swirled, they cracked whips and forced the slave-rowers to row, riding out the first fury of the Deluge in the merchant ship.

  Many uprooted, floating trees rushed past. Squirrels, bobcats and even a leopard rode the branches, as well as imploring, water-soaked people, some of whom stared in madness. Any of the uprooted tree trunks could ram and sink them in their frail vessel, so unlike the stout Ark. So Ymir reached out with his axe and shoved the trunks away.

  Two days later, the giant brooded in the ship’s waist, a makeshift awning keeping off the worst of the rain. He sat cross-legged with his axe, water dripping from his chin.

  Laban squatted beside him. “We need more supplies.” They had slain the slave-rowers and formed a makeshift sail, perhaps the first ever. The gentle breezes of the Age had never been enough to propel ships. They had slain the rowers so their food might last longer. The question was, how long would the Flood last?

  Ymir took out a whetstone and filed it across the axe-blade.

  “Did you hear me, Nephilim?”

  A wild light shone in the giant’s eye. “This I vow. I will drink the blood of Noah. A cup I shall make of his skull.”

  “First we must find the Ark,” Laban said.

  Ymir squinted. “Azel lives in you. Surely he knows the way.”

  Laban stared into the storm, the pouring rain. Visibility was poor and whitecaps lashed the ship. He composed himself and soon his eyelids fluttered. He put his fingers to his forehead. “West. Twenty leagues from here.”

  “Let us sail west,” Ymir said.

  Laban whipped spittle from his lips and rose without a word. He conferred with Naamah, and soon they and the others shifted the sail and headed west. They battled against the elements and kept a sharp lookout for ships.

  Half a day later and through the raging storm, one hove into view.

  Naamah, the sharpest-eyed among them, stood on the prow castle. She wore a sealskin hood. “It’s hard to make it out through the storm.”

  “It doesn’t look big enough to be the Ark,” Laban said.

  “Can’t Azel tell you?” Naamah asked.

  “He’s grown silent again,” Laban said.

  Naamah sucked in her breath. “Look! It’s a pirate galley. It brims with swordsmen. They strain at the oars and head our way.”

  Laban saw it a few minutes later. He ran down the prow castle and readied for raiders. “They’ll want our ship, for a galley will soon break up in a storm.”

  “They’re mad,” Ymir said, with his axe in hand.

  “Or very brave,” Naamah said.

  Ymir smiled horribly.

  As the waters raged, as the storm poured, the pirate galley packed with foemen struggled near
er. Arrows arched between the ships, but the howling wind made it meaningless. The oars strained and the whitecaps threatened to swamp the galley.

  Laban couldn’t understand how they had stayed afloat this long. Then a wave lifted the galley and smashed it against them. Grappling irons thudded onto the railing and drenched pirates swarmed aboard.

  Ymir met them with a sweep of his axe and the pirates screamed. The pitching ship and the rain made the deck slippery and deadly. Prophet Zohar staggered the wrong way and an axe split his skull. Kedorlaomer parried a sword-stroke and then a spear stabbed his vitals.

  Ymir’s axe swept many pirates into the sea. The Nephilim roared bloody oaths and boasted that his death-bane couldn’t occur until he had hewed Noah’s head from his shoulders.

  “At them!” roared Ymir, leaping from the merchant ship and onto the galley.

  But the pirate captain, a clever man, had stayed on the galley’s stern deck. He threw back a tarp and uncovered a loaded and cocked dart-throwing ballista. As the galley heaved and Ymir completed his slaughter, the pirate captain yanked the firing lever. The iron dart smashed through Ymir’s armor and into his lungs. His good eye widened. He stiffened. Then, like a hewn tree, the Nephilim toppled overboard and disappeared into the wild waves of the sea.

  Laban had been busy during Ymir’s assault. The king chopped the ropes that held the two ships bound together. As Ymir died, the galley parted from the merchant ship.

  “No!” the pirate captain shouted. “Take me with you!”

  A furious wave hit the galley and broke it in half, and the pirate captain disappeared.

  After that, they sailed for days, no longer looking for the Ark, trying only to survive.

  13.

  Noah, Shem, Ham and Japheth grunted and strained as they lowered the cable-thick rope. Outside the Ark, the massive drogue stone, attached by this rope, thumped lower and lower along the wooden side.

  When they were done, twenty giant-sized drogue stones to a side would help stabilize the vessel. Box-shaped, it would be almost impossible to tip over the Ark.

  Done lowering this stone, each of them collapsed onto the flooring, panting, with their hands burning and sore.

  “We have three more to do,” Noah said, struggling to his feet.

  Ham also pushed up, weary, his limbs quivering. It seemed as if he hadn’t stopped working ever since his father had finished his prayer to Jehovah. Work, snatch a bit of food and a catnap: a grinding routine that might finally settle down to something normal. None of them steered the Ark. His father said an angel did that, or at least made sure they didn’t smash into anything. Ham hoped his father was right. For now, they no longer sat upon the earth. They moved; sliding upon the swirling waters as rain constantly lashed them.

  “Shem,” Noah said. “Shem.”

  Ham turned as his father shook Shem by the shoulder. His longhaired, slender brother hadn’t gotten up. He sat staring at nothing, silent and trance-like.

  “What’s going on?” whispered Ham.

  Japheth shrugged. His older brother seemed as perplexed as he did.

  “Father?” Ham asked.

  Noah stepped back, plucking at his beard and with his brow creased. He squatted beside Shem. “We’ll wait.”

  “What about the other three drogue stones?” Ham said.

  Noah shook his head.

  “Do you know what’s wrong?” Japheth asked.

  “I think he’s having a vision,” Noah said.

  14.

  Shem’s Vision

  To the shining glory of the throne of Jehovah—intensely brighter than the noonday sun—came seven hoary angels, ancient with might and cunning in the arts of war. They were terrible and menacing, with snow-white faces and vast of limb. In movement, they clanked, armored in bitter links of frost and bearing helmets that seemed like snowy, mountain peaks. These seven bore icicle spears and rimed shields, and low they bowed before Him on the throne, in adoration worshiping, waiting for the Holy One to speak.

  “Doom to man and woe to the angels who did not keep their positions of authority. For tents of flesh and bone they abandoned their own home; and offspring hideous and profane did they sire. Woe and anguish, bitterness and loathing: let this be their lot until the Judgment. Gather me these bene elohim, and then to Tartarus they must go.”

  Cloaked thus in authority most high, the seven avengers arose. Clanking, and seeming to leave a trail of frost, these grim warriors departed the Holy Hill and descended from Heaven.

  As they approached the Earth, a piercing cry rent the ethereal sphere: “Do not let them pass!”

  Out of the dark recesses and from behind every stormy cloud, as if from under slimy rocks and rotting logs and in obedience to the foul cry, poured forth the monstrous Legion of the Damned. Black, with coal-red eyes, snarling and snapping and with strangely flapping capes, the fallen ones wielded death blades and fiery darts and shields that yawned like pits to the abyss. They assembled before the great dragon, the Prince of the Power of the Air, he who did bid his legions come.

  Satan said, “These are the seven of Doom, the avengers of Him on the throne. See! They bear chains, to bind our brothers and thus lessen our ranks. Gather your courage, my devils! Bar to these the path and dare say: ‘This and no farther shall ye go!’”

  With the gnashing of teeth, the dark legions howled agreement.

  The captain of the seven, with eyes that could freeze, saw the might raised against him. He thus lifted his hoary hand to stop his brethren. Cloaked in the authority of the Almighty, he raised an icy trumpet and like thunder sounded his peal.

  The Hosts of Heaven gave heed. From on high did they respond with a rumble. Led by Michael the Archangel, General of Heaven, they came in flaming chariots of fire, drawn by glorious horses of flame, and to the fray they did fly.

  Bitter and proud and unrelenting, these beings most celestial warred for mastery. Sword stroke matched spear thrust. Arrow against fiery dart. Terror faced awe. Until at last a shout from the Holy Hill like lightning fell and struck fear and consternation into the ranks of the damned.

  Now Michael roared like a lion and none could face him. He hewed and smote Principalities and Powers so they fled wounded from the field. Gabriel, Jehovah’s Messenger, gave chase, arrows flying from his bow. And to the Four Corners of the Earth, the fallen ones scattered. They were beaten again, but cursing, they plotted anew, vowing vengeance on all that was good.

  The seven elder angels, ancient with might and cunning in the arts of war, thus resumed their march. To the Earth they went, to the bene elohim—wicked, vile and blasphemous spirits—who upon the first crack of thunder had found it impossible to leave their occupied bodies of flesh and bone. One by one, the seven searched and found them. They thrust icy spears and lay heavy hands upon each, ripping them from their hosts and binding them in chains of unbreakable adamant. Soon a captive train of broken, snarling, beaten foes they did lead. With Azel taken last—torn out of a former king of men—the Seven drove the fiends to Sheol, to the lowest pit called Tartarus. There in swirling darkness, in chambers most foul and gloomy, they bound the fallen. Each alone, wrapped in adamant chains, secure, unmoving and tormented by pain, the fallen angels awaited their ultimate fate that will only be known on that Day.

  See! The wild waves of the sea are stopped; those who foamed up their shame are no more. The wandering stars are encased in blackest darkness, and their worm shall never die, for in torment will they suffer forever and ever.

  O, do not be deceived, the Lord Jehovah shall not be mocked.

  Whatever ye sow, thus shall ye also reap.

  Glory to God in the Highest. Amen.

  15.

  Laban wept bitterly when Azel was torn from him. He crawled below deck, to the water-soaked ballast sand. Rats squealed in the bottom hold, scampering from him, and long, slithering shapes slid further back.

  The merchant ship of Pishon tossed this way and that as Laban grabbed fistfuls of sand and as h
e pounded his knuckles into the wet grit. Gone, gone, all gone. Even the demon Azel had been taken from him, so no longer could he gain guidance from the spirit. What had it gained him to win the world? He had sold his soul, bargained awfully, all for momentary power. Tears welled and dripped onto the mud. His son Ben-Hadad, slain on the altar by his own hand—and for what?

  Laban hurled sand at the groaning beams above. He cursed Jehovah. He shook his fists. “Why did You allow this? Why? If You’re so powerful, so good, why have You allowed evil to reign for so long?”

  He paused, sobbing. “No answer, eh? Is that because You don’t have one?”

  “Laban.”

  He turned in the murk, his hand dropping to the hilt of his short sword.

  Naamah, her clothes soaked and water dripping from her shorn locks, crawled on hands and knees. She searched his face. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  The witch saw things others couldn’t. “Does that matter?” he said.

  “Will he come back?”

  He eyed her. Perhaps it would be justice to slay her. But if that were true, he wanted to take his time doing it.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said.

  “I’ll look at you however I want.”

  Her sultry smile gave her a whorish beauty.

  He was stirred, and he felt his resolve weakening. Then his eyes narrowed as he remembered Ben-Hadad right at the end. Ghastly! With a snarl, he slapped her.

  “Why did you do that?” she wept, no longer smiling and no longer looking at him.

  Suddenly the hatch above slammed shut and the bolt slid into place.

  “Can you hear me, King Laban?”

  In the foul hold, with its creaking timbers only inches above his head—the king was already on his hands and knees—and with wet sand and sloshing water Laban paled as a cold knot formed in his gut. He ignored the awful stench and the scratching of rats and slithering serpents as he regarded the closed hatch with its rays of light peeking through warped wood. “What do you want, Ikkesh?”