Last of the Nephilim

by Bryan Davis

  “And that person might lead you to Devin himself.”

  “Exactly. We want to find him, before he finds us.”

  Chapter 10

  A Face like Flint

  “Boy wake.”

  Elam blinked open his eyes. Greevelow stood over him like an ebony tower in muddy trousers.

  “Move now.” Greevelow nodded toward Abraham lying at Elam’s side. “Wake others.” He strode away into a curtain of reeds. “Return soon.”

  Elam sat up. The first rays of dawn spread across the soupy air. Thick fog had settled in, filling his clothes with moisture and bringing a new chill. With Elam, Dikaios, Abraham, and Acacia sleeping in a huddle, everyone had kept warm through the late night hours, but now they would have to get up and face the journey. This search for Abraham’s home had become a long series of starts and stops, ducking and hiding, and dodging arrows. After about two hours of sleep, they would have to start the process again, but now without darkness to cover their presence.

  He looked at Abraham’s leg. The broken end of the arrow still protruded from his skin just below his calf. Greevelow had made a salve from various weeds and applied it to the wound, but he had solemnly warned him not to pull the arrow out. The barbed end would rip his muscle. A doctor would have to push it through when he arrived home.

  But where was home? In order to escape the archers, Greevelow had insisted that they leave the river’s path and cut straight through the marsh. They had left the comforting sounds of rushing water, a constant noise that had covered their footsteps and hoofbeats while guiding their way, and now without it, Elam felt lost and exposed.

  “Abraham.” Elam prodded his side. “Greevelow says it’s time to go.”

  “Very well.” Abraham sat up and stretched, his eyes darting around. “Where is our elusive guide?”

  “He said he’d be back soon.” As Elam rose to his feet, the top of his head brushed the foggy layer. Since they had chosen a high mound as their bed, his elevation allowed him to see over the tops of the stalks that dressed the expansive marsh in green.

  Short trees with skinny branches of smooth yellow bark grew here and there, most of them marking places where the ground rose out of the shallow lake, a clear-water sea that spread for miles across the seemingly endless flat terrain.

  “We’d better wake up Acacia and Dikaios,” Elam said.

  “I am awake.” The horsy voice rumbled next to Abraham. “But I think my legs are not yet responding.”

  “I know that feeling well,” Abraham said. He slid over and massaged one of Dikaios’s legs. “How many years have you seen, good horse?”

  “I passed my second millennium a few decades ago.”

  “Two thousand years!” Elam shook his head. “Are you related to the colt Jesus rode into Jerusalem?”

  Dikaios flapped his lips. “He was a donkey. I am a horse. Yet, since I once served the Messiah’s family in another way, I came to be owned by him later.”

  While Dikaios struggled to his feet, Elam stooped next to Acacia. She lay on a pillow of twisted weeds, her white hair spread over tiny red blossoms that had withered overnight. Mud spattered her blue cloak and white dress, now torn at the sleeve and at the bottom hem where it brushed her thin ankle. Darker mud caked her bare feet, like form-fitting earthen shoes, certainly not proper attire for a prophetic oracle.

  He passed a hand across a strand of hair, pushing it away from her eyes. With her lips slightly parted and her fingers loosely intertwined, she resembled a praying angel.

  He sighed. And she looked so much like his beloved Sapphira … too much. Leaning close, he whispered. “Acacia. It’s time to go.”

  “Hmmm?” She blinked, then looked at him with her beautiful blue eyes. “Did I oversleep?”

  “No. You’re fine.” He slid his arm under her back. “You’re still exhausted. I’ll give you a boost onto Dikaios.”

  As she rose to her feet, her gaze fell on Abraham’s wounded leg. “Abraham should ride,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure he can carry you both.” Elam turned toward Dikaios. “Right?”

  Dikaios limped toward them. “Of course. I have borne as many as three, though one was quite small.”

  Acacia shook her head. “Look at you! Your legs are as stiff as boards.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Whether or not Abraham chooses to ride is up to him. I will walk.”

  “Fair enough.” While helping Abraham mount, Elam kept his eyes on Acacia. “Are you strong enough to make fire?”

  She opened her palm and stared at it. For a moment, nothing happened, then, as she furrowed her brow, a ball of fire slowly grew at the center. “There you go, but I’m not sure how long—” The ball suddenly exploded in a tiny spray of sparks that arced to the ground and sizzled. “Hmmm,” she said, scowling at her hand. “I guess I needed more rest.”

  Elam flapped his damp shirt. “I was hoping I could dry off. If we had a—”

  “Quiet!” Greevelow parted the reeds and ascended their mound. “Follow! Now!” He then ran through the same gap he had entered.

  Dikaios reared up and shot after him. Elam took Acacia’s hand and broke into a rapid trot, making sure she could keep up. She pulled her hand away and pumped her arms. Although pain streaked her brow, she seemed able to match his stride as they kept about ten steps behind Dikaios.

  Even with Abraham riding, the great horse had no trouble as he cantered over the marshy terrain, threading the narrow gaps between patches of reeds and sloshing through mud and water that sometimes rose a third of the way up his legs.

  Acacia’s cloak flowed behind her, catching air and creating drag. While keeping his pace, Elam reached over, unhooked the clasp, and wadded the cloak into a ball under his arm. Acacia blew him a kiss and smiled, her eyes as bright as ever.

  Elam caught the kiss and looked at his hand. He wanted to wiggle his fingers, the symbol he and Sapphira had often used to show love to each other. But he couldn’t. Not to Acacia. Sapphira’s sign was too sacred to share with another. He just smiled back and touched his cheek.

  After three full minutes of running, warmth spread across Elam’s skin. Light broke through the fog in intermittent holes, revealing a rising sun that painted the reeds in a wash of dappled yellow. He glanced at Acacia. Puffing quietly as she ran, she had kept up brilliantly, but now she seemed to favor a leg, the same one Morgan’s serpent had bitten so long ago.

  Finally, Dikaios slowed to a stop. Elam and Acacia caught up just in time to see Greevelow duck into a thick stand of reeds.

  “Where’s he going?” Elam whispered up to Abraham.

  “He didn’t say. He just held up his hand for us to stop, then you saw him leave.”

  Elam slowed his breathing, turning in a circle to take in the brightening marsh. Now standing in a lower area, a relatively clear spot with ankle-deep water, the taller reeds blocked his view, keeping him from seeing much of the expanse. In one direction, smoke rose into the sky. Could it be a sign that Flint was near?

  He touched Abraham’s hip and whispered. “You have a better view from up there. Can you see where that smoke’s coming from?”

  Abraham shielded his eyes. “I see only smoke. … No! Reeds are moving! Coming this way!”

  Greevelow burst through the wall of reeds, carrying a spear. He crouched low and touched his lips, signaling for silence. Abraham slid quietly off Dikaios and held on to the horse’s neck, while Elam squatted next to Greevelow. Acacia limped over and sat down in the water, obviously unable to crouch without pain. Elam spread the cloak over her back and refastened the clasp.

  Rustling sounds came to Elam’s ears, first directly in front, then to his left. He let his eyes dart from place to place, searching the grass stalks for any sign of movement.

  An odor drifted into his nostrils. Was it a skunk? Rotting flesh?

  Acacia wrinkled her nose but said nothing.

  Greevelow lifted his spear as if ready to attack, but he slowly lowered it aga
in. He reached over and touched Acacia’s ankle, now swollen. He then turned to Abraham and looked at his torn trousers where the arrow shaft protruded from his leg. As his frown deepened, he shook his head.

  Elam stared at this odd fellow. Without a single word he had communicated his concern that they wouldn’t be able to escape from Flint this time.

  Rising to his feet, Greevelow whistled a long warbling call, then spun around and set the point of his spear at Elam’s throat. “Surrender!” he barked.

  Elam stiffened. Acacia gasped. Abraham whisper-shouted, “What are you—”

  “Silence!” Greevelow whistled again.

  Another whistle rose from the marsh, echoing Greevelow’s, then another. Soon dozens of whistles surrounded them, and the marsh grass rustled furiously.

  As the spear’s point pricked his skin, Elam swallowed. One voice in his head shouted, “Traitor!” Another voice shouted back, “He’s pretending!” But the point of that spear didn’t feel like an act. One wrong move, and this play would be over.

  Heavy footfalls sounded, getting closer by the second. Dikaios jerked Acacia off the ground with his teeth and swung her around to his back, then took off in a wild gallop. In a splash of water and mud, Dikaios was gone.

  The reeds parted directly behind Greevelow, then all around. At least twenty men tromped into the clearing, each one carrying a long spear and whistling the same warble.

  “Extend your arms forward!” Abraham called as he struggled to his feet. “It’s the sign of surrender.”

  Clenching his fists, Elam pushed his arms out in front of his chest. A long-haired white man dressed only in loose breeches crossed Elam’s wrists, pressed the backs of his hands together, and bound them with a prickly vine. The tiny thorns dug into Elam’s skin, stinging him with every wiggle beneath the tight handcuffs.

  A shorter man, dark, bald, and dressed in similar garb, bound Abraham’s hands in the same way. Yet, Abraham showed no signs of pain as the man yanked the vine tight and raised a fist. “We capture fox!” the man crowed.

  While the band of half-naked men whistled again, Greevelow pulled back the point of the spear, releasing the pressure on Elam’s throat. Elam quickly scanned each of their captors. Strangely enough, only one resembled Greevelow in build, facial shape, and skin tone. Most of the others looked pale and thinner, a few with yellowish hair, and two others with no hair at all, either on their heads or on their chests.

  Suddenly, the men fell silent. Another man strode out of the weeds, making deliberate splashes with each emphasized step. Blond and pale, this man stalked toward them in high-top laced boots, thick zippered pants, and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. When he came upon Greevelow, he snatched the spear. “Excellent work. We will release your son when we get the fox back to our village.”

  The man thrust the spear into the mud and stood face-to-face with Abraham. “Father,” he said, emphasizing the name with a sneer, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Flint?” Abraham squinted at him. “Is that really you?”

  “Were you expecting someone else … Father?” Flint spat on the ground. “Or do you forget all your children when they go astray?”

  “It’s just that your countenance has changed so much.” Abraham held out his hands. “Release me, and I will embrace you. Slap me on the cheek, and I will turn the other. Kill me, and I will die saying that I love you.”

  Letting out a scornful laugh, Flint stooped next to Abraham’s leg. “Words that mask your true feelings amount to the same as lying, don’t they?” He grasped the shaft of the broken arrow. “And we both know that lying is strictly forbidden.” With a quick thrust, he shoved the arrow the rest of the way through and snatched it out from the other side.

  Abraham gnashed his teeth and grunted, but he didn’t cry out.

  With blood dripping from the point, Flint raised the arrow next to Abraham’s face. “Hiding your pain, Father? Are you trying to deceive me into thinking that didn’t hurt?” He grasped one of Abraham’s bound hands and drove the arrow into his palm.

  “Ahrg!” Abraham bit his lip. Breathing heavily, he squeezed his eyes shut.

  Flint ripped the arrow back out and let it drop to the water. “That’s a little better, but when we get back to our village, I will give you more lessons in expressing your true thoughts.”

  Elam wrestled against his bonds, but the nettlelike vine stung him mercilessly. “What do you want, you coward?”

  Flint plucked the spear and set the side of the pointed blade against Elam’s cheek. “Is this little man your promised warrior chief?” He laughed again, this time gesturing for his company to laugh with him. They joined in, some adding whistles and indistinct catcalls. “What a shame that Enoch is unable to find a real man among his followers. He had to send a sacrificial lamb. It’s almost comical how your heroes are always the ones who end up dead.”

  With a twist of his wrist, Flint turned the blade, scraping it along Elam’s cheek. Elam winced but held his tongue. The sharp edge dug into his face. Blood trickled to his chin and dripped to his chest then to the water at his feet.

  “Tell me,” Flint crooned, “who is the pretty girl who was with you? I would like to get to know her better.”

  Elam spoke through clenched teeth. “If you tried, you would drop dead.”

  “Drop dead?” Flint lowered the spear and drove it through Elam’s shoe, slicing through the gap between his toes. “Perhaps you would like to keep your toes and tell me why.”

  Elam leaned over. As his blood dripped down the shaft of the spear and onto his captor’s hand, he raised his head slowly. Something odd dangled at the bottom of a thin gold chain around Flint’s neck, a small egg-shaped bauble, glassy, yet cloudy. Elam lifted his gaze and glared at this demon’s evil blue eyes. “You would drop dead because worms like you are easily toasted.”

  His lips parting slightly, Flint’s eyes widened, but only for a moment. Then, as he slowly withdrew the spear, his smile returned. “Thank you for that most informative answer.” He turned and began to walk away, but he suddenly whipped back around, swinging the spear. The shaft slammed against the side of Elam’s head and knocked him off his feet.

  Elam splashed face-first into the water. He writhed in agony, clawing at handfuls of mud, barely able to shift his head in order to breathe. Pain roared from one side of his skull to the other, then down his spine. His arms and legs tingled, and his vision dimmed.

  He felt the point of the spear against his back. As a ringing buzz clogged his ears, Flint’s voice pierced the static. “It would be an easy victory plunging this through his heart right now, wouldn’t it, Father?”

  “What do you want, Flint? Tell me, and I will do what I can. Just let the boy go.”

  “Is he really your warrior chief?” Flint laughed once again. “Tell me, Father. I know you won’t lie, but if you don’t answer at all, I will impale his heart after three draws of his breath.”

  The sharp point dug into Elam’s back, but he couldn’t move. Spasms throttled his chest. He wanted to hold his breath to slow the count to three, but he couldn’t control his lungs.

  Flint’s voice rose in dramatic fashion. “One … two …”

  “He is!” Abraham cried out. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke in a trembling whisper. “He is the warrior chief.”

  The point lifted. Elam exhaled long and hard. He tried to push up, but a hefty shove sent his face splashing back into the mud.

  “Now tell me, Father. If I let this runt you call a warrior chief go running home to his mama, will you cooperate with me?”

  “What kind of cooperation do you have in mind?”

  “A ceremony that only you are qualified to perform. If all goes according to plan, I will need to keep you alive in order to carry it out.”

  Abraham sighed. “I will go with you, but I ask that you send Elam with a message telling my people when you will let me go home.”

  “Easily done. I need to keep you here only
two more days. Then my allies will come.”

  “You remember the prophecies well,” Abraham said. “To the greatest detail.”

  “I had a demanding teacher.”

  The pressure on Elam’s back lifted. He turned over, his head still pounding as he sat up. In his crippled vision, Flint’s face drifted in and out of focus.

  Flint withdrew a dagger from his belt and sliced through Elam’s bonds. “I don’t think I have anything to worry about. In his condition, he will take at least two days to get home, if he gets there at all.”

  Elam massaged his lower arms. The nettle had raised itchy red welts and swelled his wrists.

  Abraham limped heavily toward Elam, keeping his eye on Flint. “Will you give the warrior chief a guide?”

  Flint grabbed Elam’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. “I will point him in the right direction. If he has the sense to maintain his heading, he will find his way.”

  “He doesn’t know these lands,” Abraham said. “How will he survive?”

  Flint swept his boot across the water. “There is plenty to drink, and the fruit of the bitternut tree is edible this time of year.” With a quick thrust, he slung the spear at a squatty tree about thirty feet away, cleanly piercing a small black fruit and impaling it against the tree’s slender trunk.

  Trying not to show any surprise at Flint’s expertise, Elam eyed the fruit. Thick liquid oozed out, painting a purple stripe on the yellow bark. He concealed an inner shiver. His heart had almost suffered the same fate.

  “If its skin is black,” Flint continued, “you may eat it. If it is red, it will kill you. Now take the spear and go in the direction I threw it. You will need it if you come upon any muskrats.”

  Angel patted Grackle’s neck and whistled into the wind. The dragon banked left and descended just above the foggy layer. “You search on that side,” she said, pointing to her right. “I’ll look over here.”

  Riding in the seat behind her, Candle’s voice barely overcame the sound of rushing wind. “I can finally see the ground.”