Lost in Babylon

by Peter Lerangis

“Sorry to hear it,” Marco said.

  Cass nodded. “No worries. Really.”

  As they walked on ahead, I glanced at Aly. Questioning Cass about his childhood was never a good idea. “I’m worried about Cass,” she confided, lowering her voice. “He thinks his powers are dwindling. And he’s so sensitive about everything. Especially his past.”

  “At least he’s got us. We’re his family now,” I said. “That should give him strength.”

  Aly let out a little snort. “That’s a scary thought. Four kids who might not live to see fourteen. We’re about as dysfunctional as it gets.”

  Ahead of us, Marco had put an arm around Cass’s shoulder. He was telling some story, making Cass laugh. “Look,” I said, gesturing with my chin. “Dysfunctional, maybe, but don’t they look like a big brother and little brother?”

  Aly’s worried expression turned into a smile. “Yeah.”

  As we neared the edge of the pine grove, we were all dripping sweat. Cass and Marco had pulled ahead, and they were now crouched by a pine tree at the edge of the grove. We gathered next to them. No one had noticed us. No one was near. So we could take in a long, clear view of the city.

  Babylon sprawled out from both sides of the river. Its wall was surrounded by a moat, channeled from the river itself. A great arched gate, leading into a tunnel, breached the wall far to our left. Outside that gate, a crowd had gathered at the moat’s edge. They were almost all men. Their tunics had more folds than ours, with thicker material bordered in a bright color.

  “We didn’t get the garb right,” Aly said.

  “We look like the poor relatives,” Cass remarked.

  “It is what it is,” Marco said. “Let’s walk like we belong.”

  As we stepped out from the trees, I noticed that Cass was chewing gum. “Spit that out!” I said. “You weren’t supposed to bring stuff like that.”

  “But it’s just gum,” Cass protested.

  “Hasn’t been invented yet,” Aly said. “We don’t want to look unusual.”

  Cass reluctantly spat a huge wad of gum into the bushes. “In two thousand years, some archaeologist is going to find that and decide that the Babylonians invented gum,” he muttered. “You making me spit that out may have changed the future.”

  We all followed Marco out of the trees and onto the desert soil. As we approached the city wall, the crowd grew loud and raucous. They’d formed a semicircle with their backs to us, shouting and laughing. Some of them scooped rocks off the ground. Three men stood guard, facing outward, looking blankly off in to the distance. They wore brocaded tunics with bronze breastplates and feathered helmets. They looked powerful and bored.

  “Behold Babylon,” Marco whispered.

  “Just past Lindenhurst,” Cass whispered back. “That’s the Long Island Railroad. Babylon line. Massapequa, Massapequa Park, Amityville, Copiague, Lindenhurst, and Babylon. I can do them backward if—”

  A horrible scream interrupted Cass. It came from the center of the crowd, and a second later, the men all roared with approval. Instinctively we stopped. We were about sixty or seventy yards away, I figured, but no one was paying us any mind. I could see a couple of boys racing toward the crowd with armfuls of stones. As the people ran to grab some, a gap opened in the semicircle. Now I could see what was inside—or who. It was a small, wiry man in a ragged tunic with a thick purple border. He was cowering on the ground, covering his head with his hands and bleeding.

  The color drained from Aly’s face. “They’re stoning him. We have to do something!”

  “No, because then they’ll stone us,” Cass said, “and we’ll be dead before we’re born.”

  Staggering to his feet, the bloodied man shouted something to the crowd. Then he took a step backward, yelped, and disappeared—downward, into the moat.

  I heard a splash. Another scream, worse than any we’d heard so far. The crowd was standing over the moat, peering down. Some bellowed with laughter, continuing to throw rocks into the water. Some turned away, looking ill.

  From behind us I heard the sound of wheels crunching through soil. The men in the mob began turning toward the sound, falling silent. A few dropped to their knees. We did the same.

  A four-wheeled chariot rolled into sight along the packed-dirt road. It was pulled by four men in loincloths, and the driver wore a maroon-colored cloak. Behind him, on a cushioned throne, sat a withered-looking man dressed in a brocaded robe. He wore a fancy helmet encrusted with jewels, which made his thin face and pointed beard look ludicrous.

  As the chariot neared the moat, the crowd and the guards bowed to the ground. The slaves trotted the vehicle over the bridge, the king glancing briefly down into the water as he passed.

  If he saw anything horrifying, it didn’t register on his face. He yawned, leaned back into his seat, and waved lazily to the crowds who dared not look at him.

  “Is that King Nascar Buzzer?” Marco asked.

  “Nebuchadnezzar,” I said. “Maybe.”

  “I don’t think so,” Aly said. “I think it’s Nabu-na’id. I did some calculations. This ripping apart of time had to start somewhere. Before the split, our time and Ancient Babylon time were in sync. And I figure that was around the sixth century B.C. Which is about the time that the Hanging Gardens were destroyed. During the reign of Nabu-na’id. Also known as Nabonidus.”

  “Okay, maybe this is a dumb question, but why are there ruins?” Marco said. “If Babylon time-shifted, wouldn’t the whole city have just disappeared? So what are those rocks we see back in the twenty-first century?”

  “It must be like matter and antimatter,” Aly said. “The two parallel worlds existed together. Babylon continued to exist at regular speed and at one-ninetieth speed. And we are the only ones who can see both of them.”

  As the king disappeared through the gate, a guard rushed out toward us. He shouted back over his shoulder, and another two followed.

  Soon six of them were racing our way. “Look unthreatening,” Marco said.

  “We’re kids,” Aly replied.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Cass said, his entire body shaking.

  “Confidence is key,” Marco said. He smiled at the approaching soldiers, waving. “Yo, sweet tunics, guys! We’re looking for Babylon?”

  The guards surrounded us, glaring, six spears pointed at our chests.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DEEP DOODOO

  I DIDN’T NEED to understand Aramaic to know we were in deep doodoo.

  The guards’ leader was maybe seven feet tall. An evil, gap-toothed smile shone through a black beard as thick as steel wool. He jabbered orders to us, waited while we stared uncomprehendingly, then jabbered something else. “I think he’s trying out different languages,” Aly murmured, “to figure out which one we speak.”

  “When does he get to English?” Marco asked.

  Trembling, Cass lifted his hands over his head. “We. Come. In. Peace!”

  The men raised their spears, tips to Cass’s face.

  “Never mind,” he squeaked.

  The leader gestured toward the city, growling. We walked, our hands quivering fearfully over our heads. As we reached the bridge over the moat, I peered downward. The moat’s water churned with the action of long, leathery snouts. It was muddy and blood-red.

  “C-c-crocodiles,” Cass said.

  I closed my eyes and breathed hard, thinking of the man who had jumped in. “What kind of place is this, anyway?” I murmured.

  “Definitely not Disney World,” Marco replied.

  The city’s outer wall towered over us. The entrance gate was more like a long entrance chamber, tiled with bright blue brick. Every few feet there was a carved relief of an animal—oxen, horses, and a fantastical beast that looked like a four-legged lizard. As we trudged through the tunnel, people backed away, staring. On the other side, we emerged onto a narrow dirt street lined with simple mud-brick buildings. Next to one building, a man sheared a sheep while a boy giggled and held tufts
to his chin, baahing.

  The guards pushed us to move fast. The city was vast, the streets narrow. As we walked silently on pebbly soil, I could feel the glare of eyes from windows all around us. After about fifteen minutes, I could feel myself slowing down in the noonday sun. The heat was unbearable, the closely packed mud-brick houses seeming to trap it and radiate it back into our faces. We stopped to drink from a barrel, and a carriage trundled by, pulled by a wiry slave and carrying a round-faced man with a big belly. From here, I could see another high wall, leading to some inner part of the city. The great tower was beyond that. “Is that the Tower of Babel?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Aly said. “But I don’t think they’d take us there. I think it’s some kind of religious place.”

  “Religious places were sacrificial sites,” Cass piped up. “Where living things were slaughtered in public!”

  “Brother Cass, you are a glass-totally-empty kind of guy,” Marco said.

  A gust of desert wind brought the smell of fried meat straight down the city road. I could barely keep the drool inside my mouth.

  The guards prodded us to move faster. It became clear that the smell was coming from the other side of Wall Number Two, which was looming over the houses now. It was much taller and fancier than the outer wall, maybe four stories high. The bricks were glazed shiny and seemed to be made of a smoother, finer material. “The high-rent district,” Marco whispered, as we followed the guards over another moat bridge.

  “Where the awilum live,” Aly remarked.

  The guards nodded.

  “Show-off,” Cass said.

  The bridge was jammed with wealthy-looking people. We nearly collided with a Jabba the Hutt lookalike and a lackey who followed him with a platter of food. Chariots creaked to and fro.

  On the other side of the gate the delicious smells hit us like a thick slap. We emerged into a circular plaza about three city blocks wide, packed with people—women with urns on their heads, hobbling old men, turbaned young guys arguing fiercely, barefoot kids playing games with pebbles. The awilum obviously liked to protect their market by making sure it was inside the wall. The people behind the stalls, the deliverers, even the wealthy patrons were not much taller than I was. Stalls sold every kind of merchandise—food, spices, animal skins, knives, and clothing. Despite the wealth and the abundance of food, a clutch of ragged-looking people begged for money along the edges of the crowd.

  Not far from us, a barrel-chested guy cried out to customers as he grilled an entire lamb on a spit. The head guard gestured toward it. “Souk!”

  Marco gestured to his belly. “Yes! Hunger definitely souks!”

  At Marco’s shout, the guards pointed their swords. The crowd fell slowly silent. “Sorry,” Marco said, his hands in the air. “I hope I didn’t offend.”

  The head guard grabbed a pile of grilled lamb from a souk stand. Eyeing Marco warily, he grunted toward the other guards, who each helped themselves to food. Then they pushed us forward, not bothering to pay.

  “That was cruel,” Aly said.

  “Corruption always is,” Cass said.

  “Not that,” Aly said. “I meant hogging all the food.”

  The guards pushed us onward, our stomachs grumbling, down a narrow road past tight-packed houses. We headed up a hill toward the huge central tower, the ziggurat. It seemed to grow as we approached, its many windows whistling eerily as they caught the desert breezes. It may have been ten stories high, but looming over the squat houses the ziggurat looked like the Empire State Building. With windows spiraling up to a tapered top, it was like a giant, finely sculpted sand castle.

  It was gated too, and surrounded by lawns and flower beds. As we got closer, I realized it was even wider than I’d thought, maybe a city block across.

  “How exactly did they do sacrifices?” Cass said nervously. “Did they carve out the hearts while you were alive, or put you to sleep first?”

  “We haven’t done anything to make them want to sacrifice us,” Aly said. “This city was ruled by the Code of Hammurabi, which was fair and reasonable. Sacrifice was not part of the punishment.”

  “Just stuff like, you know, selling people into slavery,” Marco said. “Cutting off fingers. Like that.”

  Cass held up his hands, giving them a mournful stare. “G-G-Good-bye, old friends.”

  The guards pushed us through an entryway into a high-ceilinged room with brightly glazed walls. It was way longer side-to-side than it was deep. The windows let in a soft gray light, and candle flames flickered in wall sconces. We walked on finely detailed carpets past a sculpture of open-mouthed fish spouting water into a marble fountain. Serving maids with braided hair and long gowns carried trays back and forth, and four old men chiseled fine symbols onto stones. We walked into another chamber, where an ancient man sat at a marble table. After giving us a long, shocked look, he tottered off down a long hallway.

  “How do you say, ‘Where’s the boys’ room?’ in Aramaic?” Marco said.

  “Not now, Marco!” Aly said.

  Moments later the old man reappeared at the door and said something to the guards. They pushed us forward again.

  “Look, Hercules, I’m getting tired of this. I have to pee,” Marco said.

  The guard moved his face right up close to Marco. Pointing to the room behind the door, he said, “Nabu-na’id.”

  “Wait,” Cass said. “Isn’t that the same as King Nabonidus? I thought the Tower of Babel wasn’t the palace.”

  “Guess Nabo did a makeover,” Marco said.

  We turned toward the jewel-encrusted archway of the inner chamber. The guard smacked the end of his sword on the ground, and it echoed dully. We began to walk forward again.

  We were going before the king.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PURE AWESOME

  FROM INSIDE THE royal chamber came the music of gently plucked strings . . . and something else. Something that sounded at first like an exotic wind instrument, and then like a bird. One instant it dropped so low that the hallway seemed to vibrate. The next it was soaring impossibly high, skipping and flitting so fast that the echoes overlapped until it sounded like a chorus of twelve.

  “That’s a voice,” Aly said in awe, as we stepped inside. “One human voice.”

  The room glittered with candles in delicately carved metal wall sconces. Wisps of smoke danced up to a ceiling three stories high. Carpets crossed the polished floor, woven with battle scenes. Like the other rooms, this one was longer from side to side. On a platform in the middle sat a massive, unoccupied throne. To its right stood four bearded old men in flowing robes, one of them resting his elbows on a high table. To its left, a veiled woman was playing a flat stringed instrument nestled in her lap, her hands a blur as they hammered out a complex tune. Next to her stood another young woman, also veiled, singing with a voice so impossibly beautiful I could barely move.

  “What is that instrument?” Aly asked the head guard. When he returned a blank stare, she pantomimed playing the instrument. “A zither?”

  “Santur,” he said.

  “Beautiful,” she remarked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Beautiful.” I couldn’t stop staring at the musician. From under her veil I could see a shock of golden red hair. Her eyes were shut and her head swayed gently as she sang along with the santur.

  Aly smacked my arm. “Stop drooling.”

  Startled, the singer opened her eyes, which bore down on me like headlights. I turned away, my face suddenly feeling hot. When I looked back, I could see a flicker of a smile cross her face.

  She was looking at Marco.

  “’Sup, dudes?” Marco said. “Nice tune. So, greetings everyone. We don’t have too much time. Also, well, to be honest, I have to tinkle. Anyway, I’m Marco, and these guys are—yeow!”

  The head guard had thumped Marco on the back of the head. The guard and his pals kneeled and gestured for us to get on our knees, too.

  The santur player struck up a triumphant-s
ounding tune. The old men bustled away from us, toward an archway in the rear. A tiny, tottering silhouette appeared there.

  It was the withered old king we’d seen on the chariot. He stepped forward into the candlelight, wearing a cape of shimmering reds and golds, and a jeweled crown so big it looked like it might sink over his ears. The men took his arms as he limped toward the throne, his right foot flopping awkwardly. One of his advisers seemed younger than the others, a sour-looking dude with darting gray eyes, whose silver-and-black-streaked hair fell to his shoulders like oiled shoelaces. He took his place at the side of the throne, arms folded.

  As he sat, the king cocked his head approvingly at the veiled singer. His pointy beard flicked to one side like the tail of a bird. The song abruptly stopped. Singer, santur player, slaves, and guards all bowed low, and so did we. A slave woman knelt by him, removing his right sandal. As she massaged his shriveled foot with oils, he smiled.

  The guards prodded us to our feet and pushed us forward. I had to look away to keep from staring at the king’s adviser, whose eyeballs moved wildly like two trapped hornets. “That guy is creeping me out,” Aly said under her breath.

  “Which one, Bug-Eye or Fish-Foot?” Marco asked.

  Sitting forward, the king barked a question in a thin, high-pitched voice. As his words echoed unanswered, the guards began to mutter impatiently.

  “No comprendo Babylonish,” Marco said.

  “Accch,” the king said with disgust, gesturing toward the young singer. She nodded politely and stepped toward us.

  Smiling at Marco, she said, “’Sup?”

  “Whoa. You speak English?” Marco exclaimed.

  She pointed at him curiously. “Dudes?”

  “Marco, she’s just repeating words you said,” I told him. “She’s a musician. She has a good ear for sounds, I guess. I don’t think she knows what they mean.”

  The king said something to the girl sharply. She bowed and turned, explaining something to him in a soft voice. He nodded and sat back.

  “Daria,” the girl said, pointing to herself.