Ham drew out a tusk. In the Old World, they had carved ivory. He grinned, and he hefted the big tusk over his shoulder and untied the goat.
Ham had kept the site secret, returning from time to time for more ivory, and he became an expert ivory carver, producing, over time, beautiful figurines and game boxes. The present favorite was called “Hounds and Jackals.” Ivory pins with either jackal’s or dog’s heads raced by dice and in the little holes around a cedar outlined on an ivory game board.
In his back workroom, as he sat on his bench, he cradled a long tusk between his knees and, with an axe, chisel and hammer he cut away the outer rind. Once done, he squinted at it until a premonition filled him. He picked up a bow saw and cut off a forearm-length piece. He turned around on his bench and set the piece on the table where, on a cloth, were his ivory carving tools. He had a special tool called a float for paring the surface. Then he had hand chisels, fretsaws, and gauges for the actual carving itself.
He ran his hand over the chosen piece. This one was fine grained, with a creamy light color and a soft luster. As his old, leathery fingers with their raised calluses slid over the ivory, he imagined… Ymir. He nodded, with his eyes half-lidded. Yes, he could see Ymir while the giant clutched a long-handled axe. A feeling of giddiness came upon Ham. He longed to make the first scrape and begin this artistic endeavor.
Despite his years, Ham still had broad shoulders and most of his strength. He was slower than before, and he stumbled too much and found himself bruised too often, unable to remember how he had gained such bruises. Alas, it was but one of the products of too much drink.
Just then, the door to his workroom opened and Rahab shuffled within, like him older, grayer but with most of her teeth. She pulled a stool beside him and handed him a bowl of dried apricots that his boys had traded with some of Shem’s clan. She smiled, her features wrinkling, but looking pretty nonetheless in her red kerchief. Her eyes were still vivid brown, bright and sharp as the day he’d married her.
He chose the biggest apricot, popping it into his mouth, chewing noisily as he set aside his gauge and ivory.
“We must talk,” she said.
“Oh?”
She lowered her voice. “I believe a blood feud brews.”
“Then speak with Kush or Canaan. They’re the clan elders.”
“That’s the trouble,” she said, rubbing his arm. “You must stop a feud between them.”
“What feud?”
Rahab whispered a secret known by several women. It involved Beor’s wife Semiramis, the dark-haired, fair-skinned beauty with green eyes like gems. She had a way of walking and holding her head that compelled men to admire her beauty. Worse, Nimrod had been spotted meeting with her in the forest when Beor was gone.
“Nimrod? But he’s only nineteen.”
“And Semiramis is twenty-four and the most beautiful woman since Naamah. Yes, I know,” Rahab said. “Kush loves his youngest son and dotes on him more than he ever did his other children. And for some reason, Nimrod’s brothers aren’t jealous of him because of it. That one is strangely charmed.”
“Hmm,” Ham said. “Beor is Canaan’s favorite son.”
“Exactly. If Beor learns that Nimrod has slept with his wife—if Nimrod has—someone will surely die. We both know, however, that someone won’t be Beor.”
“We must expose this before a blood feud begins. Nimrod and Semiramis must be stoned to death. Otherwise—”
“No, no, no. Kush will never let Nimrod be stoned. And do you think Beor will let anyone harm Semiramis?”
Ham realized Rahab spoke the truth.
“You must talk sense into Nimrod.”
“Me?” Ham asked.
“You must bring Beor and him into friendship so Nimrod would never think about meeting Semiramis again.”
Ham snorted. Semiramis… she was a match for his memory of Naamah. “How do you expect me to do that?”
“You will join the scouting expedition.”
“I can’t do that. My hip—”
“Your hip is bad. Everyone knows that, which is why you’ll have to take your chariot.”
“The Scouts will be heading into the lowlands, into forested terrain. My chariot won’t be any good there.”
“Probably true,” Rahab said. “But you must insist on going and insist on taking your chariot. For a driver you’ll take Nimrod. The weeks you’re gone will give you a chance to know your grandsons better and perhaps heal a breach between them before it destroys the tribe. Too, it will give time for Semiramis to miss her husband and hopefully treat him better on his return.”
Ham squinted at his wife. Rahab didn’t really expect him to bring the grandsons together. What she wanted was time alone with Semiramis. He gazed longingly at the ivory piece, wondering when he’d get a chance to start the carving. He patted his wife’s hand. “Very well,” he said. “Since it’s you who asks, I’ll go.”
4.
Kush and Nimrod purified themselves at the secret fane. Kush handled a green-leafed oaken branch, waving it over a fire of green sticks, washing himself with smoke. He was grim, silent, deeply worried. He had taken an awful step. It made his stomach clench and set his teeth on edge. For weeks, he had considered it. The spirits… they imparted wisdom, and they spoke about influences, the stars and ways to clear the path for the grand design. He had finally committed himself, and his conscience howled that he was a fool, a dupe, a plaything for powers whose goals he couldn’t conceive.
He spoke now to Nimrod about driving for Ham on the coming expedition.
“You should have refused,” Kush said.
“Why?” asked Nimrod.
“Because it doesn’t make sense,” Kush said.
“Isn’t it an honor?”
“So Rahab would have you believe.”
“What does grandmother have to do with this?”
“Your mother is convinced this is Rahab’s doing. The Dark One knows it isn’t Ham’s way.” At eighty-five, Kush was powerful, big and strong, with a woolly, white beard that oddly matched his dour features.
“I’ll back out,” Nimrod said. “Tell them I’ve changed my mind.”
Kush shook his head, becoming even gloomier, if that was possible. His boy unsettled him, a quick lad, bright and tough, and not given to the same obedience as his other children. This one had sat too often alone with Deborah, drinking from her deep lore. Kush set down his branch, and in his silent, oxen-like stare, regarded Nimrod. “Take heed, my son, for you will stumble upon a dragon.”
“What? Where?” Nimrod asked.
“In a valley deep in the forest.”
“Did you have another vision?”
“Some of you will die. One of those must be Beor.”
Nimrod seemed astonished. “You’re telling me to murder my cousin? Father, what happens if Uncle Canaan finds you plotted his son’s death?”
“He must never know.”
Nimrod bowed his head in thought. “No. I cannot do as you ask.”
“You must. For Beor is like a bulwark. He honors Ham, and in any situation involving leadership, he will back the patriarch. Too many also heed Beor; too many find his strength, his character and his adherence to the old ways pervasive. Clearly, Beor follows the teachings of Noah. Beor has been swayed by those superstitions. Beor—”
“Superstitions?” Nimrod asked. “Are you saying the Flood never happened?”
Kush grew somber, staring at his son. “You sleep with Beor’s wife.”
“That’s a lie! Who told you that?”
“Your mother.”
“Then she’s a liar.”
Kush struck his son across the cheek.
Nimrod’s eyes blazed like a leopard’s might.
“Respect your parents, boy, your mother most of all.”
“But murder my cousins at your command?”
“By Bel!” hissed Kush, raising a fist. “I can still teach a whelp like you to obey.”
“Who is Bel?”
Nimrod asked, undaunted. “Is he one of your inhuman masters?”
Kush glowered. Those he worshipped… inhuman… Nimrod had called them that before. His boy loved neither Jehovah nor the angels, but seemed to hate both. Strange. He wished Deborah had been given the task of convincing their son. He wasn’t good at arguments, but he knew his duty. So he controlled his passion, his desire to beat some respect into his boy, and he repeated lines spoken to him. “No one is asking you to murder. Murder is when you slay an unsuspecting friend for no good reason. But when the dragon slays a person… even if it does it for you, that isn’t murder.”
“You think I’ll do your dirty work for you so I can have Beor’s wife, is that it?”
“Beor stands in the way of us going to Shinar.”
Nimrod’s astonishment grew. “I’ll lift no dagger against a cousin. I won’t stoop to assassination.”
Kush said nothing more. They had told him he wouldn’t have to.
5.
Later that week, and still troubled, Nimrod kicked three stones together, leaving them in a line. It was their signal. An hour before sunset, he hid outside the settlement, behind a man-sized clump of weeds. Hooded and cloaked in brown, Semiramis sauntered up the trail. Nimrod glanced both ways before following her down a hidden path. He was surprised and yanked to the stony ground by Semiramis, who smothered him with kisses and tore at his tunic.
They made love under the leaves. Later, he told her his father’s words.
“How does he know you’ll run into a dragon?” Semiramis was stunningly beautiful: dark hair, gem-like eyes and skin like milk.
More than once, he had almost told her about the fane and about sacrifices to loathsome spirits. They had never shown themselves to him, and he fiercely distrusted them.
They lay together; he perched on his elbow and staring down at her.
She took his fingers and kissed them. “Your father can’t know about a dragon.”
“Well, he claims he does.”
She studied him. “And?”
“And what?”
“Darling, I know your father told you more.”
One of the things he loved about Semiramis was that he didn’t have to explain to her. She was clever. He loathed dullards. He traced a finger across her belly, saying, “Beor is to have a fatal accident.”
Semiramis stared at him slack-jawed before sitting up. “Oh, don’t joke with me, beloved. Not about that.”
“It isn’t my wish, mind you. I’m told it’s for the good of the clan.”
She kissed him on the cheeks, eyelids, nose and lips. “Oh Nimrod, Nimrod, my prayers have been answered.” Then she frowned, studying him. “Why so dour, my love?”
He shrugged.
“Oh, Nimrod, please say you’re not turning queasy. You truly want me, don’t you?”
“Don’t I risk everything just meeting you here?”
“Ah, but that’s merely lust. The question is: Do you love me?”
He smiled. He had never said the words, much as she tried to get him to. He avoided it like a curse. Perhaps it would be.
“If you love me,” she said, “you must seize this opportunity. Slay Beor.”
Nimrod said nothing.
“You must do this for me,” she said, rolling onto him, pushing him onto the dirt. “You must free me from a cruel master. You must make me yours.”
6.
Days later, the Scouts and Ham in his clumsy, four-wheeled chariot left the village. They threaded into the first valley and up the next range of wooded hills. Ham pointed out a flock of black storks, beautiful creatures while airborne. Later, they descended into a valley filled with the frog-like calls of little bittern, small birds. It rained on and off, and Ham’s aches made him yearn to drink.
Beor led and Nimrod drove his huge cousin to distraction with belittling jokes. The others shot Nimrod warning glances. Nimrod was athletic and tough, but Beor was like a great sloth as compared to a panther.
In the third valley, Ham let loose. He drank far too much wine. He woke the next day sore and grumpy.
Willow, ash and elm trees towered around him, creating a leafy wall in every direction. Moldering leaves clung to the soil, and a sea of fungi and mushrooms added to the murk of the forest underworld. This valley lowland was unlike the cleared plateau where the tribe had settled. There, the fresh air invigorated. Buried in this fetid half-swamp, the air seemed lifeless, an almost sticky substance that probably hadn’t moved since arriving after the Flood.
Ham squinted past the branches, trying to fix the sun’s position. It seemed like it was somewhere in the middle of the morning. He uncorked a wineskin with his teeth and guzzled. The gluey clot that was his mind seemed to dissolve. Then the skin ran dry. Ham scowled, forcing out a few more drops. Finally, he struggled up and stumbled toward the sound of arguing.
In a small clearing around a campfire, nineteen-year-old Nimrod pitched a dead deer onto the ground near Beor’s feet. “Do want to hear my news or not?” he was saying.
Beor stroked his beard, studying Nimrod. “What news?” The other Scouts stood around them. They were bearded, dressed in leathers and bore knives, bows and javelins. The smallest of them had a ghastly scar across his forehead.
“You’re the killer of the great sloth, right?” Nimrod asked.
Beor made no reply.
“Well, I just saw a beast that makes your great sloth look like a mouse. Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think slaying this beast would make a legend out of us.”
“I say what we do or don’t kill,” Beor rumbled.
“Of course,” Nimrod said. “And I won’t call any man a coward who’s afraid to tackle it.”
“Who are you calling a coward?” forty-year-old Geba asked, a lean man with vulpine features.
“Have you ever seen a dragon?” Nimrod asked.
The Scouts blanched.
“You can’t kill a dragon,” Geba said, who pointed to his brother Eel, the small man with the terrible scar across his forehead. “A lion scratched him that beauty mark. Now consider that dragons eat lions as snacks.”
“Isn’t part of our task to protect the wagon train when it passes through here?” Nimrod asked.
Geba laughed. “If a dragon lives here, boy, we’ll reroute the wagon train to elsewhere.”
Nimrod scanned the rough-looking Scouts, at his cousins two to three times his age. “I don’t believe it. When I saw the dragon, I thought to myself: Now I know why people fear it. Then I smiled. Alone, Beor faced a great sloth, and we are the Scouts, the trackers of the tribe. Surely with Beor leading us, we will slay this dragon.”
“Who says you’re a Scout?” Geba asked. “You’re just here to drive grandfather.”
Nimrod, with his smooth, handsome good looks, lofted his eyebrows, looking from face to face. “Well, well, well. This is ironic. They say Jehovah put the fear of man into the beasts. What I didn’t count on was the fear of beasts in men.”
“Prudence isn’t fear,” Geba said, speaking in Beor’s direction.
“No, no, certainly not,” Nimrod said. “And that’s exactly what I’ll tell the maidens when they ask me what happened next.”
“Where is this dragon?” rumbled Beor.
“Don’t let a rash youth talk you into this madness,” Geba said. “Ignore him.”
“You mean you don’t even want to look at it?” Nimrod asked, innocently.
Beor stared at the flames. “I’ve never seen a dragon.” He grinned at the others. “And if this boy has, then by all that’s holy, so will I. So will all of us.”
7.
Eel and Ham moved through the forest, trying to catch up with the others. Eel moved carefully, soundlessly, placing his feet like a stalking leopard. Ham limped, snapping twigs and occasionally kicking stones.
“We want to surprise the dragon,” Eel whispered.
A sweaty Ham gripped his grandson’s shoulder. “I used to be able to tramp for hours, but not anymore.” He
eased down onto a lichen-covered rock, beginning to sweat harder.
After a moment’s hesitation, Eel crouched beside him.
Ham took out a rag and mopped his face.
Eel glanced at him sidelong, hesitating, finally asking, “Did you ever see a dragon in the Old World?”
“What? No, never did.”
Eel frowned thoughtfully. “What about on the Ark then?”
“What about it?”
“Wouldn’t you have had to take a dragon aboard for them to be here now?”
Ham poked his grandson in the ribs. “Good point. I suppose we would have.”
Eel scrunched his scarred forehead. “So that means—”
“—I’ve seen every animal there’s ever been. Yes.”
“So… how do you kill a dragon?”
Ham shook his head. “See, there was this wolf once who looked at his shadow as the sun was going down. This wolf had a long shadow, and thought to himself, Fancy a big fellow like me being afraid of a lion. Why, I must be thirty paces long. I’ll make myself king and rule all the animals. Then he came across a lion and refused to slink away. So the lion ate him. And the wolf wailed at the end, ‘Conceit has brought about my ruin.’”
Eel pondered that. “Are you’re saying that Beor and Nimrod are like the wolf?”
“Yes. Dragon hunting is conceit of the worst sort. I want no part of it.”
“Is there any possible way to kill them?”
“Time,” Ham said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you give it a wide berth and wait until it dies of old age.”
Eel snorted. “How else?”
“That’s it.”
“What about back then? Didn’t anyone have to kill a dragon?”
“I suppose.”
“Well?” Eel said after a moment.
Ham grinned. “Dragon hunters forged a bronze bow and fixed it to a gopher-wood plank. They called it a ballista. It took a man-sized crank to wind the string, and a six-foot bronze javelin was slotted into the groove. Dragon hunters wheeled the ballista to the location and baited a trap.”
Wives of the Flood Page 34
