by Bryan Davis
As a damp breeze continued to brush Joran’s face, he stood and stared, barely able to speak above a whisper. “Arramos told me he wasn’t going on the ark, so I knew he drowned, but seeing it happen right before my eyes makes it … well …”
“Personal?” Timothy asked. “Trust me, I understand better than you can imagine.”
Joran touched the wall again. So many bodies lay underneath that sea, including his father and most of his family. Dragons, too, went to a watery grave. Shachar, the dragon who was supposed to find the purity ovulum, was no more. “So it fell into Morgan’s hands.”
“I assume you’re referring to the purity ovulum,” Timothy said. “You are grieving the fact that Shachar perished in the waters.”
“Yes. How did you guess?”
“I have watched many events through this wall, so I know what your father hoped Shachar would do after the flood. Yet, that plan failed, and the flood washed the ovulum into the sediment until the day that evil sorceress collected it for her own use.”
“Why would Elohim allow that to happen?” Joran asked. “If he wanted Noah’s descendants to have the ovulum, why didn’t he prevent someone like Morgan from getting it?”
“The fact that there is such a demoness as Morgan is proof that Elohim allows much evil to occur, but we can rest assured that his ultimate purpose will never be thwarted. Good will come. You will see.”
Heat surged into Joran’s cheeks. “Good will come? How can you say that? I saw a vile murderer hunt down and kill a dragon who had turned into a human—a sweet, innocent, pregnant woman who had no way to protect herself.”
“Yes, I know. She was Tamara, who used to be Sorentine. I watched the murder, including your attempts to warn her. I shouted at this wall like a madman, but it was useless.”
Joran brushed a foot across the yellow grass. The look in Tamara’s eyes—so frightened, so hopeless—still haunted him. She trusted in Elohim to protect her, to keep her and her precious little one safe, but the slayer’s blade slashed them both. So much for protection. He sighed and looked again at Timothy. “You never told me your other name.”
Smiling, he gestured with a thumb toward his back. “You and your sister rode on me, and we battled demons together, though I was one of your later and more inexperienced mounts.”
“Makaidos? Did you get transformed with Sorentine?”
“Not with her, but I was transformed.” Timothy turned toward the wall and gazed at the ark as it bobbed on the undulating waves. “After the flood, I became king of the dragons, and Thigocia was my queen. We watched over our growing brood for centuries until I was killed by the very monster who ended Tamara’s life. My spirit traveled to a place called Dragons’ Rest, where I appeared in the human form you see now. There, I took the name Timothy and established a community. Many years later, I was transported to this ovulum, which is now being carried by Elam, son of Shem. He has been assigned to watch over Hannah, the former Thigocia.”
Joran focused on the ark. Its up-and-down ride was appropriate. With a flood of strange information pouring in, it seemed that his mind was treading water in a storm. He had to process thousands of years of history in a matter of moments, and witnessing the flood’s devastation while standing next to his former dragon mount in human form didn’t help matters. The entire world had lost all semblance of sanity.
Timothy touched the wall. “This viewing partition also showed me how you, your sister, and Tamiel were absorbed into the purity ovulum, but I was unable to see what became of you after that. Apparently it doesn’t display activities inside the ovula.”
Joran showed him the lyre and Selah’s image. “Tamiel trapped Selah in a string. He won’t release her until I go into all seven ovula and do something that will give the strings color. From what I have been able to figure out, once the strings have taken on the colors, the lyre will become a key that will allow us to get out. Tamiel said he would release Selah when I give him the key.”
“That is quite a dilemma,” Timothy said as he stroked his chin. “You are being forced to create the device by which a demon will be loosed to again terrorize the world. That is not a burden I would want on my shoulders.”
Joran spread out an arm. “What choice do I have?”
“We always have a choice.” Timothy laid his palm on the wall again. “Let me show you something else.”
As if brushing dust off the wall, he moved his hand rapidly, shifting the flood scene to the left. A new scene replaced it, but it flew by too quickly for Joran to figure out what it was. A blur of colors raced past until Timothy’s hand rested again and brought the rolling scenes to a halt.
A white-haired girl stood next to a table, clutching the edge of her work smock. A man with an oval-shaped head and short brown hair stood beside her. He waved an arm over the table and said, “Here is where it all begins.”
Small glass jars covered the surface, each one carrying a semitransparent egg suspended in clear liquid. A tiny creature floated at the center of each egg, its spindly limbs stroking as if trying to swim.
“This is where we plant the garden, Mara,” the man said. “I experiment with different combinations of eggs and seeds to find which ones make the strongest embryos. I sometimes even combine two seeds into one to make them stronger.”
Joran hovered a finger over the wall. Again the scene appeared to be three-dimensional, as if he could walk into the room and look over Mara’s shoulder. Even from his stance only two paces away, Mara’s heartbeat sounded loud and clear as she took in rapid, shallow breaths.
Mara stared at one of the jars. “Where do you get the seeds and eggs?”
“That lesson can wait until later,” the man said. “For now, I want you to see the beginning and the end.”
She looked up at him. “The end?”
He lifted a jar and held it in front of her eyes. “Do you see anything unusual about this one?”
Joran stepped so close the tip of his nose touched the wall. The tiny creature looked like a miniature version of the plants in the yellow field.
“It’s smaller,” Mara said, “and it’s not swimming as hard as the others.”
“Exactly.” The man opened a door on his right. As flames shot up from within, he dumped the embryo into the fire, then slammed the door shut.
Mara gaped at the door, her blue eyes sparkling with tears.
Timothy pressed both palms on the wall, and the scene froze. “That is enough.”
As Joran stepped back, he rubbed his eyes. “What did I see?”
“An event from long ago in another realm. The girl you saw, however, is still alive. Her name then was Mara, but now it is Sapphira Adi. She is what is called an Oracle of Fire and is able to make things ignite in flames by command, even herself, though her flames do not harm her. She can also open portals to other realms by spinning her fire into a cyclone. She was once one of those embryos. Many grew to be giants, while only Sapphira and one other girl became Oracles.” Timothy nodded toward the wall. “Have you guessed the truth about the discarded embryos?”
“Are they related somehow to the plants in the field of yellow grass?”
“Related is an inadequate term. They are one and the same.”
“How did they survive the fire? And how did they get here?”
“They perished, and their spirits were transported here, replanted in the ineffective soil.”
Joran looked back at the plants. A few had wandered close enough to watch the wall from a safe distance. “Ineffective?”
“Yes. They sprouted but never grew beyond the stage of infancy. I have no doubt that they could all become giants, unless, of course, one might be an infant Oracle. The scientist you saw is named Mardon, a fool who believed that these precious lives were worthless, fit only to be thrown into the fire. He hoped to replicate Mara as well as a budding giant named Yereq, but since the genetic codes he created did not match the prototypes exactly, and since they showed
poor performance in their formative stages, he assumed they were nothing more than failed experiments. Although he had great knowledge, he viewed the world through a narrow tunnel, unable to perceive the potential of those who did not match his preconceived criteria. What he believed to be crippled could be nothing else. As I said, we always have a choice, but our choices depend on the breadth of our vision.”
Joran took in the words, carefully tracking the meaning of each one. They rang true. Too many people refused to believe that someone who appeared to lack talents or skills could ever blossom into something more … like Tamara, a tongue-tied actor … like Makaidos, a young and inexperienced dragon back in his demon-battling days. “So are you saying that Mardon was too blind to notice the value of those he threw away?”
“That is exactly what I am saying.” Timothy shook his head sadly. “The fools of this age are no better than those who hurled mocking insults at Noah as he built the ark. They hear but do not understand. They listen but never learn.”
“So the flood didn’t destroy sin. It didn’t stop rebellion. Nothing good came of it.”
“Nothing good?” Timothy laid a hand on the wall. “Do not let Mardon’s tunnel vision blind you to the fullness of the landscape. Step up to a higher plane and look again.” He pushed Mara and Mardon to the left, and myriad scenes again ran across the wall. As they rolled by, Timothy continued. “Just as Elohim gave the world another chance in your day, he still gives opportunities to others who were condemned by those who thought them beyond repair. He offers resurrection, a new life.”
Timothy laid a hand on the wall again, stopping the moving scenes. A building with an inner courtyard appeared. At one boundary of the courtyard, twenty or more people gathered in front of a series of seven steps that led to a row of ivory columns. A man sat on the sixth step, speaking to the gathering.
As Joran leaned closer, the wall seemed to swallow his body and absorb him into the scene. Still holding the lyre, he stood in the courtyard, now within a few steps of the back row of the crowd. From his right, a cacophony reached his ears—feet shuffling, men shouting, a woman grunting as if in pain.
From the same direction, several men in long robes appeared from around a column, two holding a woman’s arms as they dragged her across the courtyard. She squirmed but to no avail. With her head low, her face stayed out of sight.
As the men threw her down in the center of the court, a few paces in front of the stairs, the speaker on the sixth step rose and walked down to level ground. The men, perhaps ten in all, surrounded the woman and faced the speaker. One pointed a finger at her. “Teacher, this woman was caught in adultery, in the very act. The Law of Moses commanded us to stone such women. What do you say?”
While Joran and the others drew closer, the teacher stooped and began writing on the ground with a finger, as if he hadn’t heard the accusation at all.
“Teacher?” the man said, his expression stern behind a thick, dark beard. “Did you hear me? She is an adulteress. What do you say we should do? Stone her?”
Joran took another step closer, hoping to see the woman better. Young, petite, and wearing a tattered brown dress, she kept her head low. Long shadows from surrounding columns shaded her face, as did her dark hair. With scratches and dirt covering her ankles and bare feet, she appeared to have been dragged quite a distance. Whoever these accusers might be, they were determined to see justice done, and they looked up to this teacher as a judge. Obviously an adulteress deserved whatever harsh judgment he declared.
The accusers each picked up a stone, as did those who had been listening to the teacher. The woman raised her head and stared straight at Joran, her eyes wide and wet.
Joran felt his mouth drop open. Naamah! How could that be? She died in the flood!
“Teacher?” the head accuser said again. “Will you render judgment according to the Law of Moses?”
Joran scooped up a stone and held it tightly. At last he could take revenge on the murderess who stole his sister’s voice … and her life.
The teacher straightened and faced the accusers. “He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to cast a stone.” Then, he stooped again and wrote on the ground.
The accusers stared at each other, apparently dumbstruck. One man with a deeply creased face and white hair dropped his stone and walked slowly toward the columns. Another of similar age joined him. Soon, they all filed away one by one, including those who had been listening to the teacher, ending with a young man about Joran’s age.
Still holding the lyre, Joran looked at his stone, then at Naamah. The others had no idea that she was a murderess. Should he shout the truth? Maybe the teacher would change his mind and alter his cryptic statement. If only those who had never sinned could pass judgment, corruption would flood the world. Adultery and murder demanded punishment.
He glared at her and spoke with a growl. “You helped a demon kill my sister, and you stole her voice. Now you’ll finally get what’s coming to you.” He drew his arm back and slung the stone at her, but it vanished as soon as it left his hand. The motion cast him away from the courtyard, and he flew backwards until he stood again with Timothy in front of the wall.
His heart pounding, Joran heaved for breath. “What happened?”
Timothy let out a shushing sound. “Keep watching.”
As the teacher rose again, Naamah looked at him, tears streaming. “Woman,” the teacher said, “where are they? Did no one condemn you?”
She squeaked in reply. “No one, Lord.”
“Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.” As the teacher walked away, the woman kept her gaze fixed on him until his shadow passed out of sight. Then, she drooped her head and wept, letting her hair touch the ground with each spasmodic sob.
Joran’s throat narrowed. “When did this happen?”
“Almost two thousand years ago,” Timothy replied.
Joran glanced at Selah’s image. She watched with rapt attention. There was no doubt that she recognized the evil prostitute.
On the viewing wall, Naamah picked up one of the stones and held it close to her chest. Looking at the dirt, her lips moved, as if she were reading what the teacher wrote there. As she rose to her feet, a man walked by, then another, neither bothering to glance at her.
Naamah looked up, her eyes still brimming with tears as she clutched the stone and sang in a lovely contralto.
How can a man of flesh and bone
Embrace my heart and soften stone?
For I am she who woos men’s hearts,
And none resist my vocal arts.
Weeping, she lifted the stone in her open palm.
Yet now ’tis I who trembles here
As conquered, broken, shedding tears,
Deserving stones and ruptured flesh,
Instead he offers life afresh.
This man of mercy knows my mind,
Commands me leave my sin behind;
But how can scarlet change to white
When evil steals my will to fight?
She looked at the ground, touching the writing with a toe.
These words remind of sin’s great cost
To sheep that choose to wander lost;
Yet other costs weigh down my wrists,
The price I’d pay should I resist.
Gazing at the sky again, she sang on.
In chains I lie each night in bed
As one who wishes she were dead;
Now torn apart, I must decide,
Because to follow is to die.
When she finished, she dropped the stone and hurried away, leaving the courtyard empty.
Joran stared, sweating and shivering at the same time. The melody was rapturous! How could a vile woman produce such a song? Hearing the perfection of Seraphina’s voice emanating from this wicked vessel was like seeing a flower bloom from manure. It was so … so wrong!
“Joran,” Selah said, her voice cracking
with emotion. “We have to remember that tune. It is glorious!”
“But …” Joran pointed at the wall, barely able to speak. “But it’s Naamah! Some kind of devilry has brought her back to life! We can’t trust anything she sings.”
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t make the melody any less beautiful. I still want to remember it.”
“If you are able to remember it.” Timothy hummed the melody’s first few notes. “I call it the mercy song, and I have heard it replayed in Naamah’s life and also in the lives of others who are gifted enough to hear and sing the song of the ovulum.”
“The mercy song is the same as the song of the ovulum?” Joran asked.
“Of the purity ovulum, yes. During the moment a soul receives mercy, she is able to hear the melody, and it stirs up passions, inciting her to sing the words that flow from her heart. Then, moments later, she hears it no more, and she remembers it no more.” Timothy nodded at Joran. “Go ahead. Try to sing it. You will see.”
Joran again looked at the courtyard, still empty. As he pictured Naamah, the words returned to his mind, but try as he might, he couldn’t resurrect the melody. “Selah, do you remember it?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her foot. “No, Joran. It’s so frustrating!”
Timothy gave them a knowing smile. “The song is like the wind, invisible, yet able to fill a sail. It tickles the skin on your back, a hint of a tune, three notes, but the rest slips away. You know it is within you. You know it has changed you. You know it more surely than you know that the sun shines in the sky. It is unspeakable glory. It is the full expression of God’s mercy. Even if you cannot sing it, you feel it. You feel it with all your heart. And there is one way to hear it again. Whenever you offer the mercy that you have so graciously been granted, the song will be renewed and implanted in another. So, as long as we give mercy, we will be granted its cleansing flow and enjoy again the song of life.”
