Captured
© Jeannie St. John Taylor
“Here shall stand the angels who have connected themselves with women, and their spirits . . . (These fallen angels) are defiling mankind and shall lead them astray into sacrificing to demons as gods.” Book of Enoch, Section One 19:1
At the sound of the Nephal’s voice, terror congealed the air around Atarah. She
couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think further than his name.
Zaquiel.
Gadreel’s father had found them.
No longer remembering the baby’s recent behavior, Atarah clutched him desperately to her chest. The muscles in her legs tensed, poised to gather under her and spring to freedom at the first opportunity. Keeping her gaze downcast she avoided eye contact and fought the confusion that always fogged her brain in the presence of any of the Nephilim.
A belly laugh erupted from Zaquiel. “Surely you don’t think you can escape me!” She heard him approaching and fought against the nearly-irresistible urge to look at him. Had he been waiting here the whole time?
Had Shua seen him when she found the apples? Atarah’s heart clenched as she realized the truth. Her eyes slid to the slave’s face. Instead of returning Atarah’s look, Shua kept her eyes on the Nephal.
Zaquiel laughed again. “That’s right. Your slave saw me.” Out of the corner of her eye Atarah could pick him up a short distance away, arms crossed, legs planted wide. She concentrated on stroking the still-wet ringlets clinging to Gadreel’s forehead. She couldn’t stop loving him. No matter what.
“I’m a god.” Zaquiel’s words were thick cream. “My followers worship me in this very temple.” A faintly-pleasant musky aroma like mushrooms emanated from the Nephal, mesmerizing her. While the evil of the giants showed as overt aggression, the Nephal’s evil flowed like an undercurrent of persuasive music. His hypnotic tones enveloped her senses like smooth satin.
She shook her head to clear the confusion. She had to think. Resist. Close her ears to his dulcet tones, steel her mind against the dark smothering presence. She tried to conjure up an image of The Dream, remember some of the Light’s words for comfort and courage. Nothing came.
“Give him to me.” Zaquiel’s commanding voice remained calm. He expected obedience, assumed compliance. Atarah pulled the baby closer, hoping the child couldn’t sense her fear. With a sigh, the small soft body nestled against her contentedly – her sweet baby once again.
The air around her crackled with malevolence. “Slave!” The angry volume of Zaquiel’s voice rose. Shua took a step toward Atarah, her eyes vacant.
Atarah leapt to her feet, baby in her arms, and sprinted toward the direction from which the Nephal had come earlier. That must be the way out.
Zaquiel cursed and closed the distance between them in two long steps. A stunning blow knocked Atarah sideways. She held onto the baby and regained her footing.
The next moments passed in a blur. Atarah blindly running . . . clinging to the baby . . . cruel hands snatching him away . . . pushing away from the Nephal’s body made of steel . . . fist smashing her . . . again and again . . . shrieks . . . screams . . . Her own voice? More curses. Kicking.
Nothingness.
Atarah regained consciousness slumped against a column. A bump on the head told her she’d been slammed against rock. No wonder her head throbbed. Red blood still poured from her nose and mouth. Fresh. A good sign. She couldn’t have been out long. Even though she could see no sign of Gadreel or his kidnapper they couldn’t have gone far yet. She quickly scanned the room for Shua, her heart an empty aching cavity in her chest. The slave had disappeared, too. Regret and self-recrimination enveloped Atarah. She had been so focused on the dangers from Dagaar, Peleg and the giants she hadn’t even considered the Nephal. How could she have been stupid enough to forget that the Nephilim visit their temples?
Pushing against the column, she struggled to her feet. She could stand and walk and rotate her wrists. No bones were broken. She stumbled toward the shadows. There had to be another exit somewhere back in the shadows. The Nephal couldn’t just materialize from rock -- even if he was a god.
She would find her beloved Gadreel. She didn’t care that he was a young giant. She would transform him with love. After several minutes of frantic searching, Atarah located the open passage and ducked into it. The musky scent of the Nephal still lingered in the air. She’d found the right way.
She walked rapidly, sucking in hard ragged breaths – not so much from exertion as from panic and fear. She wanted to run, but forced herself to walk instead, realizing she wouldn’t have enough stamina if she didn’t save her energy. At the first interconnecting tunnel, she listened intently, fighting the nearly-uncontrollable urge to shout for the baby and slave. She heard nothing. Which way should she turn? Even if she knew all the paths through the labyrinth, she couldn’t know which direction Zaquiel had taken Gadreel.
And Shua. Atarah hoped that by the time she caught up to them she’d find a person who had miraculously extricated herself from the Nephal’s power.
She sniffed the air again, but caught only the odor of damp rock. She knew the Nephal would take Gadreel back to the city to be sacrificed and hoped she could find an entrance into one of the houses, but she had only a vague idea how to get there. She drove upward and forward, away from the side of the mountain where she’d seen the giants. Nothing beside the echo of water dripping in the distance and her own determined footfalls accompanied her.
Except for her growing hopelessness.
At the next Y junction, a sharp bend one way and a large boulder in the other direction obscured her view of the passages beyond. Which led up and which down? Did it even matter? Feeling lost and desperate, she paused at the next intersection, lifted her hands and cried aloud, “God of Noah, if you’re real, help me find Gadreel!”
“I’m very real. I hear you and I’ll show you the way.” The mocking face of Dagaar emerged from the darkness. Atarah turned to flee, but Dagaar’s companions blocked her way. His eyes crackled with triumph.
Her knees buckled and strength drained from her as she sank to the floor, her heart a sledge-hammer in her chest. Two laughing brutes seized her arms and yanked her to her feet. She closed her eyes. She needed the comfort of the Dream, but the Light had abandoned her. There was no comfort.
Dagaar reached out, took her chin in his hand and positioned his face close to hers. His breath stank. In the torchlight his dark eyes glinted like the yellow eyes of a wolf. “You gave me the advantage when you stole the boy.” The eyes narrowed and he squeezed her jaw. Hard. The men surrounding them guffawed. Dagaar detailed the heinous tortures he planned for her and the hoots grew louder.
She knew Dagaar spoke truth. He would abuse her, allow his companions to do the same and Father wouldn’t lift a finger to help now. Women were property and Father had already traded his property to the slave for services rendered. She belonged to Dagaar. She knew it, believed it fully and didn’t care. Because all that mattered was Gadreel.
Holding her arm in a death grip, Dagaar dragged her confidently after him. But instead of the numb terror Atarah expected to experience, eager anticipation filled her. She had guessed correctly earlier. Dagaar knew his way around down here. He would take her home to her baby.
*****
To Atarah’s surprise, the garden behind her parents’ home looked much as it had before the first earthquake, as though time had warped and caught all the changes of her life in a giant fold of cloth. Slaves had cleaned up and hauled away the debris; balcony banisters and facing stones on outside walls had been replaced and re-mortared, rendering the former damage nearly invisible.
A smaller dragon with lapis eyes spouted water in the fountain – the slaves must not have been able to repair the old dragon – and in place of the unicorns in the multicolored mosaic, a god shot lighting bolts from his fingertips. Masses of red flowers still banked the yellow marble wall by the slave quarters she’d last seen . . . how long ago? Days? Weeks? A month?
Could those be the same blossoms she’d passed as she fled? It seemed as though she’d been gone for years. How long did flowers bloom anyway? She’d never given much thought to the details of her existence before since all imperfections were immediately fixed by slaves. Atarah sighed. She had become one of those imperfections and Dagaar would have the privilege of “fixing” her. A chill passed through her at the thought of her nemeses. Even though he hadn’t harmed her yet.
Rather than immediately possessing Atarah on the trip out of the underground, Dagaar had restrained himself in order to garner more favor with Father and increase his reward. He led her up a passage that emptied out behind a shop in the market before depositing her in the garden of her own home and retreating to the house where he could formally request that Atarah be gifted to him.
She had no doubt Father would gladly oblige. Her rebellion had insured the successful completion of Dagaar’s longtime goal: The slave would assume his place as heir to Father’s fortune and she would become Dagaar’s slave. He would have the right to do with her as he wished.
Atarah shuddered, marveling that she now waited passively in the garden for Dagaar to return. He’d been so sure she wouldn’t leave until she learned the fate of the baby that he hadn’t even bothered posting a guard.
And he was right. All her thoughts and concerns revolved around Gadreel. She understood the toddler must be in the house, so there was no point in searching elsewhere, but she also knew she’d not be permitted entrance. She would have to bide her time until someone came for her.
She settled herself on a patch of grass, closed her eyes, turned her face to the sky and leaned back on her hands. Only her mouth, set in a tight line, betrayed her determination. She filled her lungs and expelled her breath audibly, hoping to calm herself. The tickle of green beneath her should feel good after so long surrounded by nothing but rock. It didn’t. The fresh air that should comfort her failed miserably; everything seemed foreign and out-of-place as long as the baby was in danger.
Would anything ever be right again?
Atarah heard Mother coming before she saw her. Springing to her feet she opened her arms, a little girl longing for Mommy again. The older woman rushed to her daughter. “Are you all right?” She ran her hands over Atarah’s arms and hands. Checked her shoulders and back. “Is anything broken?”
“I’m okay.”
“At least you’re alive!” Weeping, the older woman fell on her daughter’s neck. “I thought I’d never see you again!” Atarah closed her eyes and clung to Mother. Hot tears stung her eyelids. She longed to linger in the safety of her mother’s embrace again just as she had done as a child, but she pulled away and looked into the older woman’s eyes. They had no time to waste.
“Where’s Gadreel?” Atarah demanded.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Mother pressed the back of her hand against Atarah’s forehead and dabbed at the dried blood.
“Not now!” Atarah pushed Mother’s hand away and felt immediately guilty when the older woman shrank back, a hurt expression on her face.
“I’m sorry.” Atarah spoke more gently. “I need to know about Gadreel. Is he all right?”
“Look how you’re dressed!” Mother fluttered around her daughter, seemingly deaf to her words. “You’re bloody and filthy!” She tugged at the ragged brown fabric hanging from her daughter’s shoulders. “We’ll clean you up.”
Atarah impatiently placed her hand on Mother’s arm while the older woman continued to adjust her clothing. “Mother! Stop!” The older woman sagged and Atarah regretted her sharp tone. “I’m so sorry.”
“He’s not here.” Mother slowly looked up and the grief swimming in the depths of her eyes drained Atarah’s hope. “Zaquiel has him.”
“And Shua?”
“With Zaquiel.” New wrinkles cut deep furrows in Mother’s skin. “Caring for the baby.”
“Against her will?”
“She’s weak.” Reaching for Atarah’s hand Mother led her toward the house. “We’re all weak.”
Before they reached the door a sickening thought stopped Atarah. “Dagaar.” How had she forgotten Father’s slave?
Mother closed her eyes while liquid anguish traced down her cheeks and dripped off her chin. “He is to claim you after . . .” Her voice trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.
“After the sacrifice?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to dress you appropriately.”
Atarah followed her mother into the house, her arms and legs heavy clubs that refused to move without a great deal of effort. It was too late to save Gadreel.
And there would be no escaping Dagaar herself.
