Song of the Ovulum

by Bryan Davis

  Joran let his head droop. How well he knew this truth. No more reminders were needed, especially from Father. Yet, was forgiveness possible? If not, why not?

  Inhaling slowly, he laid his arm around his sister’s shoulders. “What about you and Selah? You’re both righteous. You should be allowed on the ark. And I have listened to Noah’s preaching, so I have been obeying Elohim, at least since after the day when Seraphina …” He lowered his head again, letting the rest of his thoughts leak out in a long sigh. “Why isn’t Elohim merciful enough to let us go as well? What color is his heart?”

  It seemed that his words hung in the air for all to see. They were hard words, but honest ones. He had held them inside for so long, it felt good to get them out, a purging of the soul.

  Father gazed at him for a full minute before responding. He lifted a finger and touched himself on his chest. “You say I am righteous? Joran, I was alive when Elohim declared Noah to be righteous, and he made no mention of me, so who am I to accept your declaration? Yet, Selah was born long after Elohim’s statement, so I agree with your assessment concerning her. In any case, there is no need to be concerned about me. The flood will not be the cause of my death. I have been told that the demons will kill me, and I am prepared.”

  “Father!” Selah said. “Don’t speak like this! It’s too horrible to bear.”

  Father gave her a sad sort of smile. “What is the difference if I die at the hand of a demon or in the flood of Elohim? In either case, I will go to be with my fathers and wait for the great deliverer. I am content with that.”

  “Content?” Selah buried her face in her hands and wept. “How can I be content when the lives of my family and friends are about to be snuffed out?”

  After a moment of awkward silence, Father reached over the ovula and patted Selah’s head. “It seems that a daughter’s tears are powerful. They are more than this old man can bear.”

  “Does that mean you will ask for mercy for Selah and me?” Joran asked.

  “For Selah, yes. I can make an appeal to Noah, if that is your desire. She deserves to witness God’s merciful hand.”

  Joran tightened his lips. The exclusion was worse than any piercing arrow. “It is my desire. I was thinking that Ham’s wife died last year. Maybe he could marry Selah and—”

  “No!” Selah jerked up and shook her head hard. “I would rather drown than marry that whoremonger!”

  “Selah!” Joran said. “Mind your tongue!”

  Father raised an eyebrow. “It seems that Selah’s valor and temperance have waged a battle.”

  “And temperance lost,” Joran added.

  Selah crossed her arms over her chest. “This isn’t a matter of temperance. I have seen the woman he visits in the village, and my words are justified.”

  “But Selah—”

  Father lifted a hand. “That is enough. When Elohim is silent, we are called to trust. Whether the righteous one lives or dies, he or she will never be forsaken.”

  Ten vile retorts flashed through Joran’s mind, but he resisted each one. Elohim would not approve of a harsh tongue, especially toward an elder, and the only way to appease a god who didn’t know the color of mercy was to play the part of a righteous son, at least with his lips. It seemed to work for Ham. At least he would be able to ride above the water instead of sinking under it.

  And Selah was justified in her brutal remark. The woman she mentioned was Naamah, a prostitute who lured her victims with Seraphina’s stolen voice. Whenever he and Selah walked through the village while coming home from a demon-hunting expedition, Naamah’s evening call to passersby provided a vivid reminder that the voice thief still used Seraphina’s gift for evil purposes. Although she had directly participated in the crime, Father had said to leave her alone, that no one but the Listeners likely recognized Seraphina’s voice, and Naamah would perish with the others under the waves. What was done, was done.

  Joran shook his head. Yes, Naamah would die, but that harlot would take his sister’s voice down to Sheol. By rights, it should be ripped from her throat before she drowned. Nothing else would satisfy justice.

  Something fluttered next to a boulder that stood a stone’s throw to Joran’s right. He focused on the spot, but nothing moved. It had appeared to be a wing, maybe that of a dragon skulking closer to check on them. A Watcher would have alerted them with its song long before it could come that close. Joran returned his gaze to Father. He could check on the movement later.

  Father’s eyes took on an odd aspect. He touched the red ovulum, his stare wide and unblinking. “I have seen more sunrises and sunsets than any man or woman ever has or likely ever will. Yet, I learn something new before I lay my head down each night, and today is no exception. You see, for years I observed my father as he warned the people about learning the Watchers’ ways, about obeying Elohim, and about avoiding the wrath to come. They despised him, spat upon him, and hurled stones and insults, like toddlers casting pebbles at a bull who could trample them to bits. Even as recently as today, I witnessed the parade of donkeys who daily come and mock Noah, braying at each other’s trite and tired jests.”

  His fingers rolled into a fist. “In my heart I hated these fools, and I hoped for a slower, more agonizing death than the merciful drowning Elohim has planned. In recent months, however, as I watched the two of you wage war with the root cause of the wickedness, the Watchers who taught their dark arts to the sons and daughters of men, I came to see the scoffers less as enemies and more as lost and wayward friends. And now, as if whispering from his throne in Heaven, Elohim has given me a new song, an answer to your question about the color of mercy. As his bard, I will sing it for you, then I will tell you what it means to me.”

  Father picked up the lyre and played as he sang.

  You ask the color mercy shines,

  Expecting gold or silver hue;

  Yet one bare stripe is not enough

  It must be told in stripes of two.

  When light exposes sin in men,

  The humble souls turn red with shame,

  And kneeling low they bow their heads,

  Expecting blows and shouts of blame.

  Yet love compels such men to rise

  And view the red that sets them free;

  The blood of grace is shed by one

  Who wears the white of purity.

  Repenting there, the soul then stands

  And takes the cup of dripping red;

  He drinks the mercy, draining half,

  And pours the rest upon his head.

  Within his soul the red turns white;

  His hands the deeds of sin refuse.

  And now he stands a righteous man,

  Made pure by mercy’s twofold hues.

  When Father finished, the ovula hummed a fading harmony, as if singing a perfect amen, and the strings quieted with them.

  New tears filled Joran’s eyes. He reached for Selah’s hand and took it into his lap. “I’m sorry.”

  Selah’s brow lifted. “For what?”

  “For doubting. If Father says Elohim will provide for the righteous, I’ll just have to believe it.” Joran laughed, hoping it would mask an emerging sob. “We have all night and all day tomorrow, right? A lot can happen between now and then.”

  “Indeed.” Father climbed to his feet, walked around the ovula, and sat next to Joran. “And now it is my turn to say I am sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” Joran scooted closer to Selah. “For what?”

  “For not recognizing the color of mercy.” He covered their hands with one of his. “When Seraphina died, it seemed that my heart died with her. She was the first Listener, and her loving ways and her gifts made me wonder if she was an angel in disguise, especially since she was the only fair-skinned, yellow-haired child in our brood. When your betrayal led to her death, though you cried in repentance with many tears and I forgave you with my words, I allowed a wound to fester within, never botherin
g to treat it with the medicine of mercy. I wanted to hurt, and I wanted others to hurt as I did, to feel the pain I felt.” As a breeze blew back his scant white hair, tears flooded his eyes. “My son, I forgive you with all my heart, and I ask you to forgive me for the evil grudge I have held against you.”

  Joran stared at his father, his cheeks now wet and his chin trembling. The last time he looked like this was after hearing the news of Seraphina’s death. His moaning laments filled their home for days, each one ripping at Joran’s heart. And now his silent grieving threatened to do the same. Father’s words were heartfelt and real, the words he had longed to hear for the past four years. They felt good but somehow not as healing as he had hoped. Something was still missing. Seraphina’s stolen voice still rose from its thief, a wicked young woman who used it to manipulate men for her own benefit. And Father would do nothing to stop her.

  After clearing his throat, Joran spoke with all the passion he could muster. “I forgive you, Father. Thank you for forgiving me.”

  Father wiped tears with his sleeve. “I will ask Noah about places on the ark for both of you, but I fear that it will not be possible. Noah was quite adamant that Elohim will close the ark’s door on only eight humans.”

  “I understand.” Joran bit his tongue. Did he really understand? Probably not, but at least Father’s feelings would be soothed.

  After returning to his place opposite Joran and Selah, Father picked up the ovulum bag and set it on his lap. “Now I will reveal what I have called you here to do.” He reached into the bag and withdrew his open hand, but nothing sat on his palm. “Here is the purity ovulum.”

  As Father set the invisible egg at the center of the circle, the colors in the other eggs faded until they all disappeared. “You see, purity of heart and mind causes all other virtues to be holy. By themselves, every virtue can be feigned, often for selfish purposes, but a truly pure soul can allow all his attributes to be examined freely, and he will be found faultless.”

  A song emanated from the ovulum, too quiet to hear while it was in the bag, but now an audible tune, a sweet melody that wafted over their bodies.

  Warmth seeped into Joran’s cheeks. Just as the songs of the other ovula evoked a surge of emotions, the very presence of this one injected a feeling of guilt, a burden on his shoulders he couldn’t shrug off. Even in the twilight, Father and Selah likely noticed the color of shame in his face. In the presence of such perfection, it seemed that he sat naked, dirty, his thoughts and motives exposed for all to see. His valor amounted to acts of vindictiveness. His kindness toward Selah always had his own interests attached. His virtues were falsehoods, feigned colors that combined to make his heart black.

  Father lifted the purity ovulum and reached it toward Joran. “You must take it. Secure it so that the floodwaters will not be able to dislodge it.”

  His hands trembling, Joran extended his arms, his palms open. When Father transferred the ovulum, the space inside the glass turned light gray, making it easier to see, and the song faded away. Father and Selah must have noticed the change, but they didn’t breathe a word about it.

  “This ovulum must be set apart,” Father said. “Each one emanates a song of virtue that evil cannot detect, but the purity ovulum is able to search out the others. They house refuges for souls who are able to escape this realm if Elohim so chooses, and the demons wish to destroy these places, for each ovulum is a shield against demonic influence.”

  Joran gazed at the glass egg. In the midst of the fog, a tiny light sparkled, a brief flash, like a glimpse one sees out of the corner of one’s eye. “How do you know about these refuges? Have people been there and come back to tell you about them?”

  “Only in a way. We have a prophetic dragon who has ventured inside the ovula in her dreams. She has told me that there are habitations within.”

  “Shachar?” Selah asked.

  “You are perceptive, as usual.” Father lifted the red ovulum, its color now restored. “The dragons and I will hide these and record their locations in a book. Since only Shachar will know the location of the book, it will be up to her to find it after the flood. Of course, one might think it most reasonable to stow the ovula on the ark, but there is one member of Noah’s family I do not trust at all, so the safest option is to hide them for collection later. Then, the stewardship of these ovula will pass to another generation of protectors. Whether they will be dragons or humans, I do not know.”

  Joran imagined a dragon family—Arramos, Shachar, and a newborn youngling—standing in the shadow of the ark. It would be a great adventure to help reestablish a new world. Once again, exclusion from that opportunity brought a pang of regret. “Will I write the location of this ovulum in your book?”

  “No. Its location must be your secret alone. Although a Listener can hear its song when close, Shachar can hear it from far away and search it out. Even if a villain finds the book with the locations of the seven, it will be useless for finding the eighth.”

  Joran focused again on the ovulum, hoping to catch a glimpse of another sparkle. “What could a villain do with it?”

  “Most villains could do nothing. You see, when the Watchers came to Earth as fallen angels, they hoped to corrupt all of mankind with their vile teachings, thinking that ruining Elohim’s created order would be a satisfying measure of revenge.

  “To protect us, Elohim provided the ovula. The songs that emanate from them are like barricades the Watchers are unable to penetrate. That is why we have used them to protect the ark. The purity ovulum’s song guards the hearts of men with its combination of virtues. Although people cannot consciously hear it, the song strengthens their inner beings to resist the Watchers’ temptations.

  “Enoch warned the people to guard the purity ovulum carefully, but they grew lax, and the Watchers stole it. While they held it captive in another realm, the people could no longer hear the song, allowing the Watchers to bring corruption more easily. Yet, during this time, we learned about another interesting property the ovulum possesses. Its song can break shackles that keep it imprisoned. It came back to us on its own, suddenly appearing in a shepherd’s tent. The Watchers stole it again and covered it with their darkness spells, smothering its song and weakening its ability to return. It stayed in their possession until Arramos found it and brought it home.”

  A gust of wind flapped their blanket and sent ash billowing into the rising smoke. Selah snuggled closer to Joran. “Why didn’t the Watchers destroy it?”

  “The Watchers know that such an action would raise a curse beyond any they can imagine. The one who brings about its end will meet his own end in a horrifying way.”

  Joran looked at the foggy egg again. It seemed to reflect his own imperfections—cloudy, uncertain, doubting. The stripping of his façade was annoying, inciting an inner anger that threatened to grow. He swallowed down the feeling. He had to control himself and keep it from turning black.

  “Since people were unable to hear the song,” Father continued, “the Watchers tempted them more easily. They became so corrupt, Elohim decided to destroy them, which was the hope of the demons all along. They believe the flood will be a first step, a warning judgment that, if not heeded, will usher in the greatest of all judgments, one that will benefit the demonic horde. What that judgment might be, I do not know. Perhaps it is merely a myth, but since the demons believe in it, they have all the motivation they need to bring it about.”

  Still holding the red ovulum, Father nodded at the empty bag. “Selah, help your brother put the holy vessel in.”

  As she held the bag under Joran’s hands, he pushed his arms inside and laid the ovulum gently at the bottom. After drawing the string at the top, she passed the bag to him, her countenance reverent, as if she were transferring her own heart to his safekeeping.

  “We will sleep here tonight,” Father said. “The dragons will keep watch. We expect a final assault from the Watchers in the morning, so we will leave this basin befo
re dawn and hide the ovula, though I must keep the scarlet one free until the last moment, for it protects the ark, and Father Enoch might have a message for me.”

  Clutching the bag tightly to his chest, Joran nodded. Father had mentioned the red ovulum’s uniqueness in the past. Dubbed the Eye of the Oracle, grandfather Enoch watched from a place unknown and gave Father advice when needed. Maybe that was how Father learned about what to do with these eggs.

  While Father and Selah retired to the tent, Joran stayed near the fire. He looked at the boulder, hoping to see the wing again, but nothing stirred. Only a few embers crackled, spewing a bit of ash into the rising air. He used his sandal to rake dirt over the fire. Alone with his thoughts, he pictured himself in the midst of the flames, burning in agony as the tongues licked his melting flesh. What would it be like to die? Would he go straight to Elohim’s judgment seat and be condemned eternally for his sins? Or would he see the colors of mercy, red and white, smeared across the Holy One’s countenance? In only a few hours, he would learn the truth.

  DREAMS

  Matt rested in the copilot’s seat of an old Cessna Caravan, a pair of headphones covering his ears. Although there had been no traffic control chatter since shortly after takeoff from the Hesperia airport, wearing them made him feel like a pilot, or at least a navigator guiding the plane through dangerous maneuvers. The only other times he had flown, he and other paratrooper trainees just stood in the back, waiting for a signal to jump. Sitting in the cockpit behind a control yoke was far cooler than leaping into open air.

  Watching Walter throttle up and send the plane into a wickedly sharp climb and then helping him program the GPS as they sped along at the engine’s upper limits had been a rush. And the future promised more heart-thumping action. The destination on the dashboard’s brightly lit map showed a grassy hilltop in northern Arizona, a short, bumpy runway that ended at a steep slope. Overshooting the target meant a wild plunge into a ravine. It seemed that every step in this adventure would be more exciting than the last.