Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  It was an innocent gesture this time, holding hands. They smiled at one another. Then he let go. See, he was under control. He could manage his emotions. He was the preacher. That one moment…the devil tested him and he had bested the devil.

  “Let’s not dwell on that little mistake,” she said.

  “Tell me what happened after Festival, after that terrible tragedy,” Beor said.

  She did. They stood beside Ham’s house in the moonlight, speaking softly. As they talked, he thought how good it felt having her in his arms. It stirred him, but that was under control now. She spoke more, softly, demurely, telling him how hard life was under Nimrod. Then he found that he held her hand. It was so natural doing so while talking in the dark, in the moonlight, the hour slipping away. She moved closer. This time, without guilt screaming at him, with it only whispering, he held Semiramis and he kissed her once more.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” she whispered, as she peered up into his eyes.

  “I know,” he said. But he kissed her again.

  “Oh, Beor, Beor, I’ve missed you so much.”

  With passion he had forgotten, he crushed her to him and smothered her face with kisses.

  “Let’s go inside,” she whispered. “I don’t want somebody finding us.”

  He hesitated only a moment, soon leading her into the house. When the door closed, his resolve fled. It vanished. When she pulled off his cloak and ran her hand over his chest, it seemed so natural, so easy, to unwind her robe.

  Time passed.

  He found himself in bed with her.

  “Take me, Beor.”

  At that moment, a terrible pounding of feet and shouting woke Beor to his danger. One of the voices sounded like Nimrod’s. He rolled off Semiramis and fell to the floor on his hands and knees, searching for his weapon, tossing his clothes aside, terrified he’d die like a fool.

  The door crashed open. Semiramis screamed, pulling the covers over her nakedness. Men peered from the hall and into the bedroom. They held torches and daggers. Nimrod and Uruk stood in front, with Kush and others in back.

  “Adulterer!” Nimrod shouted.

  Beor howled with rage, guilt and misery. He couldn’t find his axe. He probably looked hideous to them. They had caught him naked on his hands and knees. He leaped up as they piled into the bedroom. His rage and his state caused them to hesitate, but he didn’t hesitate. Beor threw himself at them. Uruk fell to a mighty blow. Nimrod sprawled onto his back, blood pouring from his nose. The others turned and ran. He bellowed, a madman, a monstrous sight.

  What might have happened next—Beor glared at Semiramis crouched in bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin. He scooped up Uruk’s dagger. They had tricked him. He stood panting, scowling, and he stepped toward Uruk.

  Ham and Shem burst into the room, staring in shock. Shem groaned in dismay.

  Beor dropped the dagger, drawing on a cloak. Tears of misery began to fall from his eyes. Quietly, with what little dignity he could muster, Beor left with Shem and Ham.

  14.

  Ham shook his head.

  Beor sat on a pail in a stable, sullen, silent, with his hands clasped between his knees. Shem frowned, studying one of the donkeys.

  “Do you know what a howling mob is like?” Ham asked, with a lamp in hand. “They had bloodthirsty mobs in the Old World. I remember hearing stories about them and what happened to their victims.” The big man just sat there, lost in his gloom. “Look,” Ham said. “You made a mistake. They tricked you, but that doesn’t matter now. Nimrod and Uruk won’t let you knock them down a second time. The next time it’s to the death.”

  Beor looked up. It seemed he didn’t know whether to scowl and rage or resign himself to his fate.

  Insight came like a bolt of lightning to Ham. “Nimrod will try to kill you legally. It won’t be a duel, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’ll demand they drag you out of the city and stone you. You can’t fight a mob, Beor. You must leave tonight.”

  “And have his Hunters track me like a dog?” Beor asked. “To be slain like a mad dog, a fleeing cur admitting my guilt?”

  Ham shook his head. “They won’t track you this time. I’ll see to that. Besides, it’s flood season. Everyone is needed on the canals. But you must rise up now, Beor, this instant, and go. Gain a good head start.”

  “Ham’s right,” Shem said.

  Beor dropped his gaze, defeated.

  “Go,” Ham told Shem. “This offence cannot be argued and defended. To stay means jeering and mockery and dragging the name of Jehovah in the mud.”

  Shem pondered that.

  “Fleeing is bad as well,” Ham said. “There’s no way around that. It admits guilt. But he is guilty. There’s no way to say this nicely. Perhaps it’s a point in his favor that once Semiramis was his wife. I understand. Believe me, if anyone could understand, it’s me. Didn’t I once fall to Naamah, surely a match for even Semiramis? I, too, once made a terrible mistake. Yet to die is to perish in the mistake. Live and reform. At this point, anything is better than staying. Go, Beor.”

  “Yes,” Shem said. “We must go.”

  Together, the two brothers harnessed a chariot with the swiftest and hardiest donkeys. Almost by force of strength, they shoved Beor aboard. Shem took the reins.

  With his flickering lamp, Ham walked with them down Babel’s dark streets. He was surprised at the empty lanes. Nimrod had time to marshal the Hunters. So why hadn’t they come? It dawned on Ham the true purpose of Semiramis’s visit. Nimrod would sacrifice anything to keep Babel intact, even sacrifice the good name of his wife, and even sacrifice his own good name. For surely Nimrod understood that people secretly laughed at a man who couldn’t keep his wife at home, whose wife ran to another man’s bed.

  Kush was at the gate with several of his sons. Triumph shone in their eyes, but they remained silent. Perhaps they feared Beor. At a nod from Kush, the sons worked up the bar and opened one of the massive gates. The chariot trundled through.

  “Go with Jehovah,” Ham whispered to Shem and Beor.

  Beor didn’t acknowledge the farewell, although Shem whispered a few words of farewell. Then Shem shook the reins, fleeing into the night with Beor.

  15.

  Work on the Tower resumed.

  By this time, the labor had been separated into specialties. The easiest, most brutish was simply collecting raw mud. There were two types, the regular clay-bearing mud and the one with elements of iron. The pure mud was preferred. Youths with shovels and an oxcart hauled the mud to brickmakers. Hundreds and soon thousands upon thousands of palm-wood molds were filled with the straw-mud mixture. The vast majority of the bricks were sun-dried, and after a few days were popped out of the molds. These formed the inner Tower. The bricklayers set reed mats between levels. The mats bound the bricks, provided drainage and discouraged subsidence. Holes were made in the casing to help prevent splitting in the rainy season.

  Rain was a problem.

  Water soaked into sun-dried bricks. Over time, the brick swelled and crumbled. That could have spelled disaster for the Tower. It was the reason why kiln-baked bricks, burnt bricks, were so vital.

  Thousands of sun-dried bricks found their way into the ovens. Forests of trees were floated down the Euphrates and turned into charcoal to fire the ovens. The ovens produced hardened, burnt bricks. Glazed with bitumen, they resisted water absorption. They also formed the Tower’s base and outer shell. Artisans under Anom’s direction used black, blue and green bricks to form different-colored levels.

  Anom the Chief Architect, together with his father Menes, insured the walls were sloped and that all horizontal lines were slightly convex. “It will make them less rigid to the human eye,” said Anom. “It will draw the eye upward, to the top, to the temple.”

  “Up to heaven,” Nimrod said, approvingly.

  Ham marveled at the sheer size of the monument. It rivaled anything built in Chemosh in the Old World. True, in Chemosh, they had built with stone, th
e most impressive buildings being vast pyramids with smooth sides. Many of those marble or limestone blocks had weighed tons and had taken fantastic engineering to move, raise and set into place. With the Tower, it was the opposite. Small, easily fashioned and carried mud bricks formed the building. Yet in the end, small mud bricks made just as impressive a monument as stones weighing tons.

  Bitumen, mud, straw, manure, wood for charcoal and charcoal for burning and strong backs and cunning hands, that’s what made the Tower of Babel.

  16.

  An unkempt scarecrow of a man paddled a weather-beaten canoe through bulrushes. He had stringy hair, a dirty headband and a shaggy beard. The clothes on his back were worn, soiled and rank. His cheeks had a starved, sucked-in look. As he paddled, his belly rumbled. He ignored it. He had learned to enjoy the pangs of hunger, the gnawing in his gut.

  With a thump, the canoe slid onto a hidden sand bar.

  He sat still, listening to frogs croak. A crane swooped low. It had no doubt heard the frogs and had come to hunt.

  The bitumen coating on his canoe had begun to crack. He needed to scrape off the old coat and apply a new one. Water leaked through the cracks. With a leather scoop, he now bailed.

  He knew Opis had died. For weeks, he had found no sign of her. Earlier, after leaving the island of reeds, he found a strand of hair and a fluttering cloth snagged to a broken floating oar. Opis, dear, dear Opis, tender Opis, frail, soft, so full of love Opis…she surely rotted as a corpse. Perhaps a crocodile had killed her. He had debated hunting crocodiles until he died, which would be soon now.

  He blamed himself for Opis’s death. He shouldn’t have listened to Semiramis. He had been a fool to destroy his honor, to lie and steal in Japheth Land, in Magog Village. But why did Opis have to pay for his blunders?

  He climbed out of the leaky boat onto the sand bar. The wet sand felt good as it squished between his toes. The thump of his craft, as reeds slid against it, he liked the sound. The sun had a positive effect. It burned his back. It had turned him a dark, nut brown.

  He slid the boat into scummy water, pushing it farther as he waded up to his waist. He climbed in, only after a time, peeling leeches from his legs. He dropped each over the side, plopping them into the marsh. Let them live off his blood, soon he wouldn’t have any need for it.

  Malaise didn’t cause his desperation. Rage consumed him. Not boiling rage, but fuming against Jehovah anger.

  “How could you let her die?” he croaked.

  With suppressed fury, he picked up his paddle. He kept his strokes mild, under tight control. Too often, he had flailed at the water, striking it while screaming until his throat turned raw. Some nights, he howled like a demented wolf baying at the moon. Hunger kept the madness in check. Exhaustion seemed like the only cure to insane outbursts.

  He had been taught that Jehovah loved mankind, loved each of them individually to such a degree that He often worked events out to a person’s best interest—if that person faithfully served Him. Oh, he understood that he had let Jehovah down. He had lied in Magog Village and he had stolen the amber necklace. He had been punished for that. He accepted the justice of it. But why had Opis paid for his mistakes?

  “How is that fair?” he asked, staring at the sun.

  He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. For talking like that, he expected lightning from heaven. Jehovah was sovereign. Jehovah was all-powerful. One raged against Jehovah at his peril.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that Opis is all I wanted out of life. But why should I expect to get what I want? I know that You can do exactly what You want to do, and that it’s right, it’s just. But sometimes it’s hard to accept that.”

  Gilgamesh shook his head. Defeat pressed him from all sides. “I can’t keep on living like this, Jehovah. It’s no good for a man.” He frowned. Suicide was evil. Nothing he did seemed right.

  His bowstring had rotted, although he had his lance, the slender black pole of elm-wood, with the thin and very sharp bronze head. It was enough for his needs. With it as he stood in the boat, he was able to spear fish. He ate them raw. At his side, he carried a dagger with a bone handle.

  Much as he wanted to, he refused to draw it now and thrust it into his gut. He had thought many times of doing so. He shook his head. He would die like a Hunter, slaying some beast. A crocodile seemed best.

  First, however, as he had promised, he would rendezvous with Ramses at the place where the stream flowed strongest toward the Bitter Sea. After the debacle in Magog Village, he had vowed to always keep his word. He had vowed that to Jehovah.

  He let his head sink lower. For weeks, ever since he had determined that Opis was dead, he had raged against Jehovah.

  “I can’t beat You,” Gilgamesh whispered. “Who am I but a gnat compared to Jehovah.” Bitter tears welled. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

  Because he was hungry all the time, his thoughts seemed to shift toward Jehovah more than usual. He wondered if that was bad or good, or if it was sane. He didn’t know.

  “I want to die,” he whispered. “I don’t want to live without Opis. But I don’t want to fight You anymore, Jehovah. Most of all, I don’t want to go to Sheol when I die. I know that You judge men, judge their lives, their actions, and send them there if they deserve it.”

  He shivered as the bitter tears welled, as salty drops spilled into his leaky boat, mixing with the swampy water.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me, O Great Creator.”

  At that point, with the hunger, fatigue and exhaustion, he collapsed, drifting alone in the great southern marsh.

  17.

  A flap of wings stirred Gilgamesh. He was groggy, his mind slack. Something sharp stabbed him in the back.

  He shouted, twisting around, his arm lashing out. A startled vulture squawked in fear, and the back of Gilgamesh’s hand connected with the carrion eater. The vulture flapped wildly as it crashed against reeds, striking a log. Only it wasn’t a log. For the log opened its mouth and had sharp teeth. The teeth snapped shut and the vulture vanished in a spray of feathers, a few of which floated on the waters.

  With a shout, Gilgamesh realized it was a crocodile. Instinct took over. Before he understood it, the paddle was in his hands and his back muscles strained as he rowed. The boat shot through the reeds and plowed into open water. He stopped paddling, letting the boat glide. He turned. Here was just the beast he needed.

  Gilgamesh picked up his lance and stood in his boat, waiting for the crocodile to appear. It didn’t. Nor in the end, did he go back into the reeds. He had to keep his word to Ramses.

  He sat down, picked up the paddle and rowed for hours. His head swam as hunger wormed in his stomach. Let it. Starve, you liar! Starve, thief! He laughed, and he wondered at his sanity.

  Then he stiffened as his eyes widened in amazement. “What in the…”

  Something huge and serene moved through the marsh, through the open water, the channel that led to the Bitter Sea. Men moved upon the thing.

  “Is that a ship?” he asked aloud.

  A vast, triangular sail billowed with wind. It was beautiful. The sail propelled the large wooden vessel.

  Gilgamesh shaded his eyes from the sun. Something that sounded like a bell clanged. A fat red-bearded man—

  “Odin?” whispered Gilgamesh.

  Odin yanked a cord from where he stood on the stern. He rang a bell. Odin’s voice boomed across the water. Men looked up. Most of them were stripped to the waist. Sailors ran upon the ship, pulling ropes. They began to reef the three-cornered sail, which seemed bigger than its vessel. A thrown anchor splashed into the marsh and Ramses’s voice rang clearly.

  “I see Gilgamesh!”

  Reluctantly, mechanically, Gilgamesh paddled for the vessel. A short talk with Ramses should fulfill his obligation. He hesitated with his next stroke. They wouldn’t dare hold him against his will. The thought was ridiculous. He was a captain amon
g the Hunters.

  Gilgamesh noticed a few of them staring. That made him uncomfortable, and it made him aware for the first time in weeks that his garments were in tatters. He needed a shave.

  “Gilgamesh!” shouted Ramses.

  His hands tightened around the paddle. Why did his friend peer at him so oddly? Did he really look that bad?

  He glided against the larger boat, bumping against it. Ramses threw down a rope.

  Gilgamesh clambered aboard, his stomach knotting at the sight of so many people. Perhaps ten or twelve men were aboard. They had much more room per person than on the Odyssey that had made the voyage to Dilmun, the Blessed Land.

  The boat was called a dhow. It had no decking other than in the stern by the tiller. Like a fisherman’s reed punt, no nails bound the dhow together, although it had planks in an Ark-like sense. Instead of nails, palm tree fibers were threaded through the carefully bored and very small, tarred holes. The thread uniformly tied the ribs, keel, planks and washboard together. Unlike the Ark, the dhow was an open boat. It had a low prow, a high stern and a belly full of room for shipping.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Odin shouted, moving toward him.

  Gilgamesh shook hands, and he noticed that several chests were piled in the center of the ship together with jugs and various leather-wrapped items.

  “What do you think of our beautiful vessel?” Odin asked.

  Gilgamesh didn’t know what to think.

  “Have you seen any sign of Opis?” Ramses asked.

  Gilgamesh shook his head.

  “You look starved,” Odin said. “Get him some bread,” he ordered.

  “I’m fine,” Gilgamesh said.

  “Fine?” Odin asked.

  “Where are you headed?” Gilgamesh asked, sounding a bit more like his old self.

  Two men had clambered onto his canoe. Gilgamesh frowned at them.

  “They’re going to tie your boat to our ship,” Ramses said.