Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  Nimrod glanced at Uruk. Uruk raised his hands in an I-don’t-know-anything-about-this gesture. “Yes,” Nimrod said, “I want Odin back as well.”

  Beor seemed to consider. “You’d wrestle a one-legged man?”

  “Pick any champion you desire,” Nimrod said, “although I thought you considered yourself the most dangerous man on Earth. But if you fear to face me, so be it.”

  A crafty smile light Beor’s face. “Any champion?” he asked.

  “Those are my terms.”

  “Before the elders you will swear to abide by them?”

  “Of course,” Nimrod said. “Who is your champion?”

  “Are you worried, Mighty Hunter? Are you reconsidering?”

  Anger flashed across Nimrod’s face. “You’ve heard my terms.”

  Beor studied Nimrod for such a long time that Semiramis looked up from the path. “Tomorrow then,” Beor said, in a clipped tone. “Tomorrow you will finally be paid back for your treacherous theft.” Then he limped away in his odd gait.

  Only when Beor was well down the trail and out of sight did Nimrod kneel and help Semiramis to her feet. Before his Hunters, he said softly, “I beg your forgiveness for striking you, my love. You were marvelous.”

  With a cloth, she wiped spittle out of her hair. A red welt, where he had hit her, still branded her cheek.

  “Strike me if it will help you feel better,” Nimrod said.

  A loud slap left her handprint on his face.

  “You’d better win this match, Mighty Hunter,” she said.

  He towered before her, taking her hands between his, holding them against his chest. “No man will ever have you but me.” He kissed her, forcing her head back to the lusty shouts of his Hunters.

  46.

  All Festival turned out for the wrestling contest. Word of it spread like wildfire. In front of Japheth, Shem and Ham, the terms had been stated and qualified. The bout would consist of three throws: the shoulder or back of an opponent touching the ground would constitute a successful throw. That, or forcing an opponent’s foot outside the circle. Ties weren’t allowed. On the second win for either wrestler, the person or persons stated in the wager must cross the line to the other side.

  With their hands bound behind their backs, Gilgamesh, Enlil, Zimri and Odin stood on one side of the line. Semiramis, in her most costly gown, stood on the other.

  Beor gave a speech concerning the Hunters’ various crimes, letting all Festival hear. Nimrod disputed the alleged faults, but the elders overruled him. After giving evidence, Beor waived his rights to these four if his champion were defeated. Nimrod stated in much fewer words that Semiramis, his beloved, staked her matrimony for the good of the Hunters. Murmurs arose against such a barbarous wager. Nimrod thereupon said he did this in order to quash the base rumor that Semiramis had become his wife in some wrongful manner. Jehovah would prove it by letting the righteous one win.

  Thereupon Nimrod stripped off his lion cloak, handing it to Uruk. His skin rippled with muscles, with grace.

  Beor’s champion doffed his cloak and removed two bronze wristbands. Heavily limbed Gog strode to his side of the pit. He was shorter than Nimrod, but more thickly built, with a wide neck and heavy shoulders. He seemed like a bear versus a tiger.

  Chin, son of Zidon, hurried to Nimrod. “Back out,” Chin hissed.

  Nimrod scowled at his cousin.

  “This is Gog,” Chin said. “Gog the Wrestler. In a hundred years, there hasn’t been one like him. The best wrestlers of Japheth Land have taught him every skill. Each of them, Gog has beaten in turn. Beor has tricked you.”

  “I hear they call you the Mighty Hunter,” Gog said from across the pit. “It is an honor to wrestle you.”

  Shem broke away from his brothers and stepped into the pit. “I disprove of this match. But my brothers outvoted me, and they begged me to referee it. Reluctantly I do this. Gog, Nimrod, there will be no biting, no eye gouging, no hitting with a closed fist and no hair pulling. To do any of these reprehensible acts will cost you the match. The winner of three throws will be declared the victor. Are you agreed to these rules?”

  “I am,” Nimrod said.

  Gog nodded.

  “At the clap of my hands, you will advance,” Shem said. “At any second clap you will retreat to your end of the circle. The wagers are set, which I also disprove of. We should let law decide this.” He shrugged. “You have both agreed to these terms?”

  They both said yes.

  “Come, shake hands,” Shem said.

  Gog stalked near, as did Nimrod. Each wore a loincloth. They shook hands, blond-haired Gog smiling. Each man had a big hand, although Nimrod winced at Gog’s grip.

  “Retreat back to your ends,” Shem said.

  Beor whispered last minute instructions to Gog.

  Nimrod shook his hand, and he glanced at Chin.

  Chin whispered, “It’s not too late.”

  “Too late for what?” whispered Menes, who had agreed to coach Nimrod.

  Nimrod studied Gog. The youth seemed made for wrestling. Nimrod frowned.

  “He is Magog Village’s champion,” rumbled Uruk. “He will be dangerous.”

  “Be wary of his hands,” Chin said. “His grip, I hear, is all powerful.”

  Nimrod’s lips drew back. Win or lose, he couldn’t back out now.

  Shem clapped his hands.

  Warily, like a stalking tiger, Nimrod moved to the center of the pit. Gog likewise advanced, crouched, with his arms weaving like pythons.

  Nimrod faked a lunge. Gog dropped his left arm. Nimrod backpedaled, his eyes gleaming. Gog followed flatfooted. Nimrod roared, lunging again, swiftly. Hands slapped each other’s arms with meaty thuds. They pushed. Their chests touched. Gog grit his teeth, straining. Nimrod snarled. The skin under each other’s hands turned white. Gog snaked an ankle behind Nimrod’s right foot. He shoved. Nimrod tottered back, but at the last moment, Nimrod twisted and Gog bellowed, leaving his feet. Gog struck the sand with his shoulder an instant before Nimrod fell on top of him.

  Shem clapped his hands.

  Nimrod leaped up, his face wreathed with smiles. Gog rose, too, scowling. Each man retreated to his side.

  “I judge the first round won by Nimrod,” Shem said.

  A roar rose from the watching Hunters.

  Beor whispered hotly to Gog, who neither nodded nor shook his head nor said a word. He stared at Nimrod, flexing his fingers.

  At Nimrod’s end, Uruk praised him.

  Shem clapped his hands.

  Breathing hard, Nimrod stalked back into the pit.

  With teeth bared, Gog stomped toward him. His fingers continually flexed. They were thick fingers, strong and dangerous.

  Nimrod thrust out an arm. Gog latched onto the wrist, and he pivoted on his heel, spinning, yanking Nimrod. Nimrod stumbled toward the edge of the circle. A roar went up from the Japhethites. Nimrod caught himself at the edge. Gog was on him, one of his hands on Nimrod’s face. Nimrod twisted his head. Gog shoved. Nimrod stumbled out of the circle.

  Shem clapped his hands. “Gog wins the round.”

  A shout, a roar went up.

  Uruk and Menes hurried to Nimrod, who shook his head, blinking.

  “He cheated,” Nimrod hissed. “Check his fingernails. They must be bloody.”

  “Let me see,” Menes said, peering at Nimrod’s nose. “I don’t see blood.”

  “It was a fair throw,” Uruk said.

  “Check his fingers,” snarled Nimrod.

  Menes and Uruk glanced at one another. Uruk shrugged and went to Shem, whispering.

  Shem shook his head. Uruk seemed to insist.

  “Gog,” Shem said. “Let me see your hand.”

  “What slander has Nimrod given?” Beor shouted. “Can’t the Mighty Hunter lose a round manfully?”

  “Let me see your fingers,” Shem said.

  Gog thrust out his hands. Shem studied the fingernails and soon he shook his head. “No blood,” he ca
lled. “It was a fair throw.”

  Nimrod, who had been mumbling bizarrely, now looked up. He gnashed his teeth and his eyes glittered strangely.

  Shem clapped his hands.

  Gog stomped back into the pit, crouching, his arms weaving.

  Nimrod bellowed, his face turning crimson. Like one demented, he sprinted at his foe. He latched onto Gog’s left wrist and shoulder. Nimrod spun, shouting. He threw Gog off his feet. Headlong. It was a berserk feat of strength, or something supernatural. Gog landed with his face. His thick neck snapped. Princely Gog convulsed, twitching, as people began to shout.

  The rage drained out of Nimrod, or something did. His shoulders slumped and he almost staggered to his knees.

  Beor limped to Gog, checking him, looking up white-faced.

  Shem blinked stupidly. But he clapped his hands. “Nimrod wins the round and the bout. He is the victor.”

  Beor rose. “Gog is dead,” he said.

  Somewhere in the crowd, a girl began to scream.

  Pharaoh’s Palace

  There was silence, darkness. Ham shivered before lifting his chin from his chest. Nothing pressed upon his blind orbs—nothing he could see. He smacked his lips and readied to speak. Then he touched softness around him. He lay in a bed unlike his own, made for royalty, or at least somebody very wealthy.

  He heard the drip of a water clock, a clepsydra. It was near his head. The Egyptian timepiece, he knew, looked much like a flowerpot with a hole near the bottom. Water filled it, and as the liquid trickled out, marked-off lines appeared on the inside of the pot. As with many things concerning science and innovations, the Egyptians had already attributed the invention of the clepsydra to the jack-of-all-trades god, Thoth. In reality, a rare Antediluvian invention had survived the passage of time, making it to the new world.

  “Where am I?” Ham whispered.

  “Ah,” Pharaoh wheezed. “You’ve revived.” He snapped his fingers and feet shuffled near.

  Someone poured from a pitcher into a goblet. Ringed fingers clattered against a jeweled cup. “Here, my lord.”

  “Taia?” Ham asked.

  “Drink,” she said. “It is the will of Pharaoh.”

  “What’s wrong, Taia?” Ham asked. “Why does your voice tremble with fear?”

  “Never mind,” Pharaoh told him. “Drink, and then finish your tale.”

  “Where am I?” Ham asked.

  “In my bed,” Pharaoh said. “I suppose where you’ve always wanted to be.”

  “I have no pretensions to greatness,” Ham said.

  Pharaoh coughed, a wet and ugly sound. Soft-sandaled men shifted around him. “Back, you hens,” Pharaoh said. “That wasn’t my death rattle, but my pitiful attempt to laugh at the old one’s joke.” Pharaoh cleared his throat and spat into a bowl. “Drink, you old snake, and then finish your tale. No more trickery and guileful lies.”

  “My lord,” Taia said, pressing a cup against him.

  “What is this, Pharaoh?” Ham asked. “What is in the cup?”

  “A remedy.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ham said, blind but not stupid. Why did they always think the two went hand in hand?

  “Your tale has revived me, old one, as you predicted it would,” Pharaoh said. “Now I’m eager you finish, even though daylight approaches. Though it takes until the next night I will hear the end of your story.”

  “I weave no spell,” Ham said. “This is not magic.”

  “Ah, you subtle liar. Of course you do and of course it is. Why else do I feel better?”

  Ham considered that, puzzled, until a reason revealed itself. He nodded.

  “So, you admit I’m right,” Pharaoh said.

  “No,” Ham said. “Not as you think.”

  “Impudence,” a man said, “Pharaoh. Shall I have him flogged?”

  “I’ll have you flogged, Chamberlain. He lies in my bed, does he not? He drinks from the royal chalice. Why then shouldn’t he contradict me? No more cackling from you or…”

  Ham couldn’t see Pharaoh’s gesture, but he heard robes sweeping the floor and knew the chamberlain bowed low and backed away, surely in fear, maybe in terror.

  “Taia,” Pharaoh said. “How many times must I say it? Give him the drink.”

  “Please.” She pushed the goblet against Ham’s arm.

  “I’m old and tired,” Ham whispered, ignoring the cup. His bones ached and a chill told him his old foe fever had returned. These long years dying in bed had witnessed many a bout between them. “Tomorrow I will finish—”

  “No,” Pharaoh said. “I will hear the tale now.” Silence greeted his words. “Do you wonder at my urgency, old man? Perhaps you of all people can grasp my horror. I loathe being ill. I’m sick of being sick. I would be well, old one, and I would be well now.”

  “Yes, Pharaoh.”

  “So drink.”

  “I will drink,” Ham said. “Once I learn what is in the cup.”

  “Taia. Tell him.”

  “Please…” she said.

  “Tell him!” Pharaoh said.

  “Grandfather,” Taia said, “the elixir revives the body. You fell asleep even as you finished the tale of Nimrod and Gog’s wrestling bout.”

  “And?” Ham asked. “Tell me everything.”

  “The elixir is made of mead, nightshade and—”

  “Nightshade is a poison,” Ham said.

  “Sometimes that is true,” Pharaoh said. “But it is also a stimulant. Is that not so, Physician?”

  “Yes, Pharaoh,” a soft-spoken man said, the high priest of Sekhmet.

  “It is always a poison,” Ham said. “Stimulant or not, nightshade kills.”

  “There are other ingredients in the cup offsetting the effects of the nightshade,” Pharaoh said.

  Ham grinned, toothless and drooling, he knew, but he didn’t care.

  “Now what?” Pharaoh asked. “Why do you grin like a ferret stealing chickens?”

  “I give you life and you give me death.”

  “Not so,” Pharaoh said. “You must trust me.”

  “Lying is unworthy of you, lord of Egypt. Especially lying to the one who holds your life in his hands. Besides, I have faced the greatest liars and boldest warriors of Earth.”

  “You old goat,” Pharaoh said. “You will drink of the cup or…”

  “Or what?” chuckled Ham. “You will not kill me, surely. Because then you too shall die.” Ham took the goblet, and he would have dropped it except that Taia still held on.

  “Don’t spill it,” Pharaoh said.

  “Do you give me your word that this drink will not kill me?” Ham asked.

  “How can it kill you?” Pharaoh asked. “You’ve quaffed the ancient elixir of life. Oh, don’t think you’ve fooled me. I’ve listened to your tale. Gilgamesh is a Babylonian hero, the king of Erech, say the old stories. He spoke to the old man of the isles and learned the secret of immortality. He swam to gain it, only to lose it… Hmm, I’ve forgotten what the legend says. Yet you’ve admitted to being a contemporary of Gilgamesh. Perhaps you have quaffed this elixir, the reason you’ve plagued Egypt all these years.”

  “Poor blind Pharaoh,” Ham said. “You’ve heard nothing if that is what you think.”

  “What riddle is this? You call me blind?”

  “Their eyes are blind and their hearts deadened, so they can neither see with their eyes nor understand with their hearts or they would be healed. Yet…as I speak you’ve been strengthened. That revives me as much as this.” Ham lifted the chalice and quaffed the sweet potion.

  “Ah,” he said, “it’s tasty.” He knew Pharaoh lied about the concoction. But that wasn’t the issue. Abraham and Sarai were, and Jehovah’s path, Jehovah’s way. He—Ham—might yet save one of his children from destruction.

  “Would you hear of Semiramis and Nimrod, Gilgamesh, Opis and Uruk, Odin, Beor and Hilda, Kush, Canaan and Shem, and what became of Babel and its infant Tower?”

  “Yes,” Pharaoh said. “
Tell me.”

  Stairway to Heaven

  1.

  Hilda wept for Gog, her dearly beloved, slain by Nimrod. The death stunned all of the people at Festival. On a bier of crossed spears, four men hefted the woolen-draped corpse. With a slow step, they carried it out of the Festival grounds.

  With a shawl hiding her features, Hilda followed, weeping. Her father’s strong hands kept her from collapsing. A moment of clarity, of hatred for her father, flashed powerfully through Hilda. She wanted to scream at him that he take his murderous hands off her. Then she burst out crying again, shaking her head, knowing that it hadn’t been her father’s fault. It hadn’t been Nimrod’s fault either. Fate had stolen her beloved. She couldn’t believe that Jehovah would allow Gog such an early and stupid death. Why had he died at such a young age when he was strong and powerful, the best wrestler in the world?

  She followed the four men as they marched up a hill. Behind her and her father followed all the people of Festival, the joy and merriment departed just like her beloved.

  They buried him on the hill, one wind-swept, without pines but rocky.

  Noah spoke, as did Japheth and Magog. Europa spoke as well. And Nimrod begged the sons of Japheth, begged Magog for the favor of speaking at Gog’s funeral.

  The Mighty Hunter cleared his throat. Gog lay in the hole, with fresh dirt beside it. Nimrod stood at the head of the grave, with the people circled around him. Noah coughed as he sat on a stool, shivering, with a heavy blanket around his shoulders. From under her shawl, Hilda watched with red-rimmed eyes. She felt hollow, empty. She debated throwing herself into the hole and stabbing herself to death, to join her beloved in the afterlife. Beor towered over her. She knew he studied Nimrod.

  “I am shamed,” Nimrod said. He shook his head and stared at the grave. Then he grasped his tunic, a fine linen one. With his strong hands, he tore it in half, exposing his muscled chest. He bent near the fresh dirt, scooping some in his hands. He poured the dirt on his head. “I weep for Gog. I grieve. He was a noble warrior. I hate the spirit of fury that fell upon me and caused his death.”

  Fresh tears welled from Hilda’s eyes.