Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Pharaoh—” the high priest of Sekhmet tried to say.

  “I have spoken,” Pharaoh said. “Let none then think to overrule my will. What do you say to that, high priest?”

  “As you will, Pharaoh.”

  “Ham?” asked Pharaoh.

  Ham slurped from the saucer of water. He hoped he had the strength to tell the entire tale. “Listen, Pharaoh, about what happened after the dreadful meeting with the angel…”

  Babel

  1.

  Canaan and his clan remained in the Zagros Mountains. Kush, Menes, Put and the others led their families to the land of promise. In the foothills, they learned the miraculous tale of Nimrod’s meeting with an angel. Gilgamesh and Uruk attested to it. They had heard a roaring sound and seen a bright light. At the very end, they had heard the angel pronounce their doom, and they had heard, too, and gushed in the telling of how Nimrod had saved them.

  In a long train of lumbering wagons and two-wheeled oxcarts, the tribe of Ham left the foothills. On the plain of Shinar, they raised dust clouds. Children walked with their parents, and there were herds of bleating sheep, goats, cattle and protective hounds. Great wealth lay in the clattering wagons, and the people chattered excitedly about the richness of the alluvial soil and the vast sea of grass.

  At the Euphrates, where the angel had spoken with Nimrod, Kush built a large earthen mound. From chiseled stones taken from his wagon, Kush constructed an altar. Then he called an assembly of the people. He lifted his large hands, and his broad, seamed face was a study in seriousness.

  Quiet descended as mothers hushed their children and fathers nudged teenage sons.

  “Does our patriarch plant each seed for his tribe, forge each dagger and hoe?” Kush asked, in a loud voice. “No. His sons plow the fields. His grandsons blow through tubes that heat the smithy fire. His daughters sew garments and bake bread. So, too, does Jehovah delegate tasks to various angels. Some move the stars. Some cause the wind to blow, the sun to shine and snow to fall on the hinterlands that feed the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Each of these angels serves the Holy One. Now I ask you. How does a son of Ham feel when he plows the fields if he is never recognized for it? What if I eat at my father’s house and say: ‘What a wonderful meal, thank you.’ But I never thank my sisters for their labor in the kitchen. Wouldn’t I have slighted them? In such a manner, I would have slighted my father. So, too, do we slight Jehovah by never thanking the angel of the sun for his hard work, or the angel of the moon for giving us light in the darkness. Or we slight the angels of the stars, who move them for us and thus tell us the seasons and move the constellations which represent the stories of long ago, first told by Father Adam, his son, Seth, and the venerable Enoch.”

  The wind stirred nearby palm trees lined against the Euphrates. Opposite the trees in a corral of circled wagons, a cow waiting to be milked lowed in complaint.

  “As a farmer who is intimate with nature,” Kush said, “which is to say with the doings of Jehovah, I will take some of my possessions and sacrifice them to the angel in thanksgiving for all of us.”

  People nodded, impressed, and after the sacrifice the elders and the heads of each family met to discuss how to begin construction of the city.

  The plain of Shinar was unlike anything they had seen. Few trees grew on the flat sheet that spread as far as sun shone. So no farmer needed to hew trees to clear his field or laboriously cut out stumps or clear rocks, for there were practically no stones in the land. Reeds sprouted wherever water stagnated and date palms grew thick along the river’s raised banks.

  Nimrod and his Hunters had described the seasons, the chilly, rainy winter, the rising of the Euphrates in spring and, in some areas, the vast flooding, and the hot months of summer when rain seldom fell. Knowing this, the men took out shovels and pickaxes, a kind of short-handled hoe. Under the direction of either Kush or Menes, they picked and dug canals. Meanwhile, Nimrod and his Hunters supplied venison.

  The Euphrates was unlike any river they had ever encountered, or that Ham had heard about in the Old World. Each year the river turned muddy-brown with silt washed down from the highlands. The churning, seething floodwaters kept the silt moving, but on the flat plain the speed of the water—the current—slowed and the silt deposited itself. Gradually, perhaps since the Deluge almost 100 years ago, this depositing silt had built-up the banks of the Euphrates. Thus, incredibly, the river flowed above the plain.

  Even at the Euphrates’s low level of mid-summer, moving the water through the canals over a long distance proved easy because of the river’s beginning height. Only for their special gardens of onions, leeks, garlic, cucumbers and lettuce did they need to hoist water to higher levels. There they used a shaduf, a long pole with a rope and bucket on one end and a stone as counterweight on the other end, with an upright post used as a pivot or fulcrum. A man pulled the bucket against the counterweight of stone. He dipped the bucket into the lower canal and used the counterweight to help hoist the water to a higher canal. Working from dawn to dusk with a shaduf, a man could move 600 gallons a day.

  The hot summer sun, the rich soil and the unlimited water produced heavy blades of wheat and barley with astonishing yields. Barley grew best. Oil pressed from the many-colored sesame seeds were used for cooking and were used as lamp fuel and cosmetics, while sesame seed cakes became a staple. To hold all the grain, potters fashioned large jars and plugs of clay.

  Even the wild date palms gave fantastic yields, dropping, on average, one hundred pounds of fruit per tree. The stone in the fruit they crushed for cattle feed or burned into charcoal. The fruit itself was eaten fresh or pressed into thick syrup. They used the syrup instead of honey or made a potent date palm wine. The tree trunk they fashioned into doors and wagons. The ribs of the tree made beds and chairs. The leaves were bound into brooms to sweep away dust. The fibers were woven into baskets, ropes and fishnets, while the young shoots at the top of the tree made a tasty salad.

  During this joyous time of initial building and new possibilities, Gilgamesh despaired. It was true that he had become a gifted tracker. He was lean and tireless, with stringy muscles suited to long runs, and he had a growing patience for hiding behind thorn bushes as he watched nervous gazelle. The sun had baked him brown, and the endless hunting gave him a serious look, giving intensity to his squint.

  One day as he returned from the dusty plain, with several hounds loping beside him and a slain gazelle slung about his neck, he stopped at a shrinking lagoon. As the hounds lapped water, a man only a little older than Gilgamesh parted reeds with a net slung over his shoulder and a string of carp in his hand.

  Gilgamesh often thought of Opis, and the youth before him had similar features. It was Ramses, her brother, dressed in a Hunter’s leathers.

  They shook hands and commenced to walk together, congratulating each other on a good day’s bounty. Then they fell silent as Gilgamesh brooded.

  “Uh,” Ramses said, glancing at him sidelong, “Opis says to say hello.”

  Gilgamesh knit his brow, and with a decisive movement, he dug from under his belt a smooth black stone that seemed to suck in the sunlight.

  “That’s jet,” Ramses said, appraisingly. “It’s a precious stone.”

  “It’s my lucky stone. Here. Give it to Opis.”

  Ramses eyed him, and perhaps it was only the sunlight, but something seemed to glimmer in those eyes. “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Not if you’re going to tell me to leave your sister alone.” Gilgamesh scowled. “The thought of Uruk touching her makes me boil.”

  “Indeed. But for you to save Opis from him, you must make her your wife.”

  “How? I own no flocks or cultivated fields. My valor and wits are my only possessions.”

  “Those won’t buy a wife,” Ramses said. “Now that piece of jet… My father adores gold, silver and precious stones. If you could add to your jet or gain a few flocks or some cultivated fields…”

  Gilgamesh s
hook his head. “Hunters have no time for idle pursuits.”

  “How does one gain wealth then?”

  “Valor is the goal,” Gilgamesh said.

  For a time, their tramp was the only sound.

  “My point,” Ramses said, “is that if you ever do gain wealth, you must come to my father and lay half of it at his feet. Say: ‘I wish to marry Opis.’ He’ll look at your goods and say, ‘Not enough.’ Then begin to add a little more. Bargain. If you have enough and argue very hard, Opis will become yours and Uruk will have been thwarted.”

  “Would your father go back on his deal with Uruk?”

  “My father adores Uruk’s goods, not his personality.”

  Gilgamesh grew thoughtful.

  “You have a little less than two years,” Ramses said. “For on Opis’s fifteenth birthday, she will marry.”

  Gilgamesh put away the jet.

  Later, Ramses said, “You might sneak by sometime. If…”

  “Yes?”

  “If you promise on your honor that you won’t dishonor my sister,” Ramses said.

  “I would do nothing to shame her.”

  Ramses smiled. “Perhaps I’ll tell her you said hello. That you’ve been thinking about her.”

  “Yes!” Gilgamesh blushed. “Please, do that.”

  2.

  Old Rahab picked her way along the riverbank. She moved between palm-tree stumps as the bloated sun sank into the horizon. The waning light reflected off the Euphrates, creating shimmering sparkles. Behind her, in the opposite direction, came the sounds of thudding pickaxes and Kush shouting as he acted as foreman.

  They built a wall around Babel, one of mud-brick.

  The city was a collection of reed huts, leather tents and the foundations of mud-brick homes. Parked around each dwelling were wagons, oxcarts and occasionally a chariot, with reed or mud fences holding their populations of chickens, piglets and playing children.

  Slipping farther from the workers and coming closer to the shore’s shorn reeds, Rahab drew her woolen cloak tighter around her. Downstream, she noticed honking, flying geese as they skidded into the river. The geese hurried into the reeds of the far shore. With the coming of dusk, Ham would chide her if he knew she strayed alone. He would tell her she should have taken some hounds or a grandson with a spear.

  Rahab smiled wearily.

  Constant hustle and bustle, keeping peace between families and hordes of screaming children wore her out. She wished tonight to spot the first star as she used to at Noah’s Keep. She wondered what to wish for.

  A horn pealed behind her, signaling the stoppage of wall building.

  No doubt, most women already had supper simmering, with soup or hot venison and mounds of peas, lentils and cucumbers. Even now, children likely scurried into their reed huts or ran into the leather tents or the foundations of homes. Surely, in home after home, wives and children awaited the return of father, the quick dipping of hands into washbasins, and the moment when all would be seated at mats or tables or even the stumps of old trees to begin the last meal of the day.

  Tonight, Ham ate with Menes. It was the reason she had chosen solitude. She wondered about the angel of the sun, trying to make up her mind about him. She wished she could ask Shem his opinion or, better yet, Noah.

  Rahab stopped, surprised, finding that someone had beaten her to the river.

  As the sun sank, Rahab noticed someone skipping wood chips on the river. The rounded projectiles floated after they quit skipping. The person’s movements were liquid, graceful. The long dark hair meant it was a woman. She wore an amazon costume, with strips of deerskin imitating a dress. A belted dagger meant she was armed.

  As Rahab worked closer, cool air whispered off the Euphrates. She noted that the geese had hidden themselves for the night. She cleared her throat.

  Semiramis the Beautiful turned. Her look was wistful. As she pocketed the wood chips, her stunning features closed, becoming withdrawn and imperious.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” Rahab said.

  Semiramis seemed to think it over and, after a moment, shrugged.

  As the tip of the sinking sun threw a last ray across the waters, inspiration or a spirit of clarity came to Rahab. According to rumors, Deborah, Semiramis’s new stepmother, didn’t get along with her. Many of the tribe’s women gave Semiramis a wide berth. The inspiration for why Semiramis was here seemed obvious as Rahab thought about it, and she berated herself for not having seen it sooner. The woman was lonely.

  “Why… Why don’t you join us for supper tomorrow?” Rahab asked.

  Semiramis cloaked her surprise, her hand rising in a gesture of indifference.

  “I imagine it is lonely being a Hunter’s wife,” Rahab said, “what with Nimrod’s frequent hunting forays.”

  “Sometimes, I suppose that’s true,” Semiramis said, staring at the river.

  Rahab stood beside the tall woman, and she began to feel the void—the ache. All alone while surrounded by laughing, working people united in purpose.

  She took hold of Semiramis’s hand.

  This third shock softened Semiramis’s features—for a moment. Then she withdrew her hand. “I wish my brother was here. Minos made me laugh.”

  Rahab interpreted it to mean, Minos liked me for me. He was my friend. Rahab smiled. Maybe it was a grimace. Semiramis had always made her uncomfortable. She was so beautiful and self-assured.

  “I think we should head back before it’s too dark to see,” Rahab said.

  “To the city?” Semiramis asked, with a hint of mockery.

  “We’ll walk along the shore.”

  Semiramis agreed, and they moved just above the reeds, soon passing a trio of date palms that had survived the axes. As the city’s many lamps and candles flickered into view, a low sob from some uncut reeds brought them to a halt.

  “Did you hear that?” Rahab whispered.

  “I did.”

  They followed the sobs like retrievers to a wounded duck. It wasn’t wild shrieking, but low moans and sniffling.

  “Who is it?” Rahab called. The sun had gone down, and it was hard to see.

  The moaning stopped.

  “We know you’re there,” Semiramis said.

  In a moment, reeds stirred, parted, and a girl peered at them.

  “Opis!” Rahab cried. “What are you doing here?”

  Drying her eyes, Opis climbed out of the reeds and kept adjusting her dress, almost slipping on the bank. Rahab helped Opis up and wiped away a tear. Semiramis stepped behind her, touching Opis’s back.

  Opis flinched.

  “Who beat you?” Semiramis asked.

  Shocked, Rahab turned Opis around. The dress was torn because someone had used a whip on her. Rahab felt raised welts.

  “Did Uruk do this?” Semiramis asked.

  “Uruk?” Rahab asked, shocked.

  “He’s betrothed to Opis,” Semiramis said.

  “Ah,” Rahab said. “Child, did Uruk beat you?”

  Opis shook her head.

  “Who then?” Rahab asked. “Tell us.”

  “My…my father,” Opis said.

  “Lud?” Rahab asked.

  Opis hung her head. “He…he caught me with Gilgamesh, and he called me awful names.”

  “What were you two doing?” Rahab asked.

  “Talking,” Opis said, her eyes wide. “Gilgamesh is noble, a man of honor.”

  Semiramis made a soft sound, perhaps a snort.

  “He is honorable,” Opis said.

  “Then why did your father beat you?” Rahab asked.

  Opis hesitated, until the story gushed out. According to Ramses, Uruk had talked to Lud. Uruk was furious because the Hunters laughed at him and called him a fool. Uruk claimed his betrothed slipped off with Gilgamesh. He had demanded the practice stop or he’d reclaim his goats and break off the arrangement. Lud had acted swiftly.

  “I see,” Rahab said. “Do you love Uruk?”

  “No!”

  “
What about Gilgamesh?”

  “Oh yes, Great Grandmother. I love him very much.” Then, frail Opis wept.

  “You must come with me,” Rahab said, “and tell Ham your story.”

  “I can’t. Father would talk nice to you and Great Grandfather and afterward beat me even harder. I must obey him.”

  “Yes,” Rahab said. “A child’s duty is to obey her parents. But surely your mother—”

  “Please don’t say anything. Mother is frightened, too. It’s all up to Gilgamesh.”

  “What do you expect him to do?” Rahab asked.

  “To save me,” Opis whispered, her eyes shining. “Just as he saved me from Uruk years ago.”

  “Maybe it’s time to save yourself,” Semiramis said.

  Opis blinked with incomprehension.

  “Or, then again, maybe not,” Semiramis said dryly.

  3.

  Ham didn’t see what he could do for Opis, but for the sake of peace in his tent, he shuffled through Babel’s darkened lanes, leaning on his ivory-handled cane. Soon he found himself by Lud’s tent. He took a deep breath and knocked on a tent pole. Ramses poked his head out.

  “Tell your father I wish to see him,” Ham said.

  Ramses ducked out of sight.

  “What’s Grandfather want with me this time of night?” an irritated Lud asked inside.

  Ramses’ answer was muffled.

  Soon, foxy-faced Lud, with his fine hair swept to the left, stepped outside as he threw a woolen cloak over his shoulders, pinning it with a golden broach. He was like many of Menes’s sons, muscular, broad-shouldered and thin-hipped. “It’s late,” he grumbled.

  Ham decided he didn’t like his grandson’s tone. So he poked Lud in the belly with his cane.

  Lud gasped.

  “Restraint is the watchword in my tribe,” Ham said. “Civilized behavior is what I expect. By all means, control your children, but shredding your daughter’s dress with a switch isn’t justified.”

  “She disobeyed me!”

  “At least control your avarice long enough to consider the golden situation you have been given.”