Chapter Thirty

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.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Unexpected Visitor

© Jeannie St. John Taylor

“And now, the giants, who are produced from the spirits and flesh, shall be called evil spirits upon the earth, and on the earth shall be their dwelling. Evil spirits have proceeded from their bodies. Because they are born from men, and from the holy Watchers is their beginning and primal origin, they shall be evil spirits on earth, and evil spirits shall they be called.” Book of Enoch, Section One 15:8 – 10

            When Atarah returned to the corridor where she’d left her slave, a vacant-eyed Shua huddled in the same spot against the wall where Atarah had left her. Still rocking. The odor had already dissipated slightly. Atarah didn’t know if that was good news or bad news. The fainter smell likely meant the giants had retreated, but it could also mean the monsters were already searching for a way into the underground.

            Atarah once again wrapped the baby in a sling and pulled the slave to her feet. “We have to go!”

Shua stared with eyes as dark and empty as stagnant pools.

Atarah gripped the slave’s arms and looked intently at her. “You have to come with me.” Afraid that saying anything about the giants would cause her slave to withdraw further, she said nothing about them. “Do you understand?”

A spark of recognition glimmered in Shua’s eyes. She nodded hesitantly. “A-are they gone?”

“For now. But we have to hurry.”

They traveled purposefully. Atarah felt confident she had learned enough during her time in the underground that she could find another hiding place. She watched for appropriate fresh air tubes and for figures carved on walls that might lead to a temple. However, if she now had a sense of the way to traverse the labyrinth and was already learning her way around, Peleg and Dagaar would both know how to find her. She suspected Dagaar had spent enough time down here to get familiar with the place. And of course Peleg knew the underground better than Dagaar. Only the giants would require extra time locating a way in and wandering the tunnels.

Gadreel squirmed in her arms, flailing his arms, kicking his feet and shrieking insistently.

“What’s he doing?” Shua drew back and stared at him fearfully.

“Temper tantrum.”

“He’s too young to start tantrums.”

“He is not.”

“He’s becoming one of them already.” 

Anger exploded from Atarah. “Don’t say that!” But even as she reprimanded the slave, she realized the thought had been hovering at the back of her mind ever since she first saw the two faces together. Gadreel had looked exactly like the monster for one brief second. “All babies his age have tantrums. He is not one of them!” she insisted desperately.

“He even smells like them.” Terror shone from the slave’s eyes.

“We both smell like them. The odor lingers on us because we spent so long in the vicinity of the giants.”

“No it doesn’t. You don’t smell. He does.”

“Stop it!!” Atarah shouted. Fury at the slave’s words simmered deep inside rendering Atarah’s arms so weak she could barely hang onto the screaming writhing child. The baby was too young for such behavior. Shua was right. Atarah knew it. But she refused to accept the truth. “We’re going to love him so much he’ll have to love us.” She finished passionately and waited for the slave to continue the mantra.

Shua said nothing.

Gadreel’s screams grew louder.

*****

A few minutes later Atarah spotted the signs of a temple ahead. She hurried forward and found an open entrance. Her heart leapt when she thrust her torch inside she saw another empty temple. “We’ll find food here!”

They entered to find a temple similar to, but larger and more magnificent than the first one. A spring burbled near the far wall. The fire-pit beside the water was three times the size of the one in the last temple. Once again columns bordered the darkness shrouding the four walls. But this time a sarcophagus-like altar carved from ivory occupied a square bronze platform directly in the center of the room. Blood stains covered the altar and dripped onto the bronze below. Rows of stone benches encircled the room. Life-sized limestone statues of Nephilim and humans engaged in unspeakable acts surrounded the grouping.

Atarah held the baby out for Shua, but the slave shrank back. With a sinking feeling, Atarah crossed the room and deposited the heavy baby onto the floor where she could keep an eye on him while she sealed off the entrance. He pushed out his lower lip and snuffled -- the after-effects of too much sobbing.

Two mice scuttled over to him and he reached out to touch one. She couldn’t help smiling. She’d let the cute little things entertain him while they worked. Keep him out of harm’s way.

Together the two women muscled the stone seal over the hole, found another entrance and rolled the stone over it, too. Each time they closed one off, Atarah’s sense of security increased exponentially. Relief settled over her and for the first time in days hope tickled the air around her.

“We did it!” Atarah hugged Shua, eliciting a faint smile. See. The slave was warming up already. Atarah could still see the slave’s pain, but she didn’t want to address Shua’s problems head on. Not yet. Give her a little space first. She’d get better. Things like that just took time.

“See if there’s food in the sarcophagus while I get the baby,” Atarah instructed. She started back for the baby. But just before she reached him, he picked up one of the wriggling mice and lifted it to his open mouth. “No, no, sweetie!” Atarah shouted. “Mustn’t kiss the mouse!”

She dove for him, but before she could prevent it, Gadreel thrust the mouse into his mouth and bit off the head. Dropping the mouse’s lifeless body onto the floor, he grinned up at her. Scarlet specks danced in his lavender eyes.

Atarah’s stomach lurched.

Shua screamed and froze.

Quickly Atarah stuck her finger into the baby’s mouth, dug out the bloody head and tossed it aside. Fighting nausea, she frantically scrubbed at Gadreel’s tongue and four teeth with the tail of her tunic while he screeched and fought.  She rushed to the spring, rinsed his mouth repeatedly then set him on the floor before washing her own hands and clothing. Her insides quivered.

Shua backed up against one of the columns, wide terrified eyes fixed on the baby.

“He only meant to kiss the mouse,” Atarah dried her hands, but didn’t go near the baby.

The slave continued to stare dumbly. Not moving. Not speaking.

“He’s teething. You know that.”

Shua edged to the far side of the column, keeping the baby in her line of vision.

“He’s not a monster,” Atarah said, but she was shaking. Shuddering with revulsion. Not at Gadreel. At what he’d done. “He didn’t understand. He loves mice.”  When Shua failed to respond, Atarah snapped, “I told you to go check the sarcophagus.”

Shua obeyed, then nodded stiffly. Yes. There was food. They would survive.

No one could get in here with them all sealed up. Even if it took months, Dagaar and Peleg and even the giants would eventually give up. She and Shua and Gadreel wouldn’t leave the temple until they knew the giants had departed. Atarah would take that time to talk Shua through her fears again. She’d done it before. And then the three of them would find a far-away place where they could live safely.

She lit a fire with her torch. Orange and yellow flames leapt in the pit. She knew she should lift Gadreel high over her head and dance around the fire-pit. She should puff on his tummy and make him giggle. All babies needed that sort of love. She just needed few minutes before she touched him again.

Shua wandered into the shadows and emerged a short time later carrying two red apples. She handed one to Atarah.

Surprised and delighted, Atarah accepted the fruit from her. “Thank you.” Shua concentrated on buffing another apple, her face a dull mask.

“Are there more?”

“Yes. Stored in straw.”

“Any rotting?”

“They last for months,” Shua said refusing to meet Atarah’s eyes.

Even under the difficult circumstances, Shua’s behavior struck Atarah as strange. 

She crunched the apple and wracked her brain for a way to distract the slave who had slipped back into passivity so easily. “Did I tell you Hoda helped me escape?” She sat on the floor at arms’ length from the baby and stole a sideways glance at Shua. Her slave showed no flicker of interest. She stood as though carved from pale marble.

“And we’re safe right now thanks to Mahli,” Atarah continued the idle chatter. “She is a good woman.” Chewing up a bite of the fruit, she reached out to pop the masticated treat into the baby’s mouth. His face shone with delight and her heart melted. “Delicious, isn’t it?” she said to him. He crawled onto her lap, smiling. She returned the smile.

 “What a lovely sight.” The melodious voice of a Nephal drifted out of the darkness. “I knew you’d deliver my baby safe and sound.”

Atarah screamed and her eyes shot to the slave. Shua looked away.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ham’s Life Threatened

© Jeannie St. John Taylor

“Now the serpent was more crafty than any other

beast of the field that God had made.” Gen. 3:1

Shem ran toward the river, alternately yelling his prayers and listening for his brother. Every time he paused, Ham’s faint voice floated to him on the breeze. As Shem neared the river, the water sounds he had earlier wished would drown out Ham’s voice, now upset him because their roar was drowning out Ham’s voice. And Shem desperately needed to hear his brother.

After a while, Shem stopped praying aloud because he could barely pick up Ham’s voice and doubted his brother could hear him above the river noises. He occasionally yelled for his brother at the top of his lungs, but Ham never answered. Not once. At least not that Shem could hear. He continually assured himself that because God was in charge he could, and would, be strong and courageous. He would believe Ham would live.

But he didn’t believe and he wasn’t strong or courageous. He was afraid.

Two red foxes appeared behind a fallen log and watched Shem for a moment before slinking away.

Soon, the river came into view and only a broad flat sandy area separated him from the water. Traveling over the beach would be faster than battling the thickets he’d  been pushing through. “Thank you for the flat beach, Almighty God,” he whispered gratefully.

But before he could step onto the sand, a warning whispered in the back of his head. There were no crocodiles sunning on this beach. No branches littering the sand. He picked up a small stone and tossed the pebble to the middle of the flat. The rock sank immediately, dragging Shem’s heart with it.

Quicksand. He couldn’t run across quicksand.

A nerve worked in Shem’s cheek as he swiftly weighed his options. Would he be smarter to flatten himself out face downward, spread his arms, and pull slowly across the quicksand? Or should he travel down the beach and fight through the thick masses of roots in the cluster of Mangrove trees he could see in the distance?

He took only a moment to decide on the grove because it offered less risk. Even though the trees would take him further from Ham, he’d be more likely to survive, and his brother’s life depended on him.

He proceeded to the trees, staying in the vegetation alongside the beach because he knew the ground beneath growing plants would hold his weight. Once he reached the Mangroves, battling through the tangled roots took more time than expected, but eventually, he arrived at the water’s edge. Fighting desperation because he’d been out of contact with his brother for so long, he waded in with all his clothes on, allowing the flowing water to wash off the venom. As soon as he felt clean, he filled the water skin and scrambled back over the Mandrake roots and up onto the friendlier solid land that would take him to his brother.

The return trip progressed in slow motion. Shem’s legs stumped along like wooden stubs. The breath locked in his lungs. Thick foliage fought him, blocking his way. A low-hanging branch smacked him in the eye. He prayed aloud. He prayed silently. He shouted Ham’s name until he was too hoarse to yell anymore. He gave himself permission to cry, but his first gasping sob sapped energy. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and ran stoically. When he finally spotted the donkeys he tried again. “Ham!”

A faint voice responded with something unintelligible. 

Still alive! With a new surge of energy Shem dashed to his brother’s side, but the sight he beheld stole his hope.

Ham’s eyes were closed. His lower leg and foot, red and hot to the touch, had swelled to something almost unrecognizable. Shem pressed a finger on his brother’s wrist to check for a pulse. Thready and shallow. So much for all the stories about the medical miracles of snake stones! Shem resisted the impulse to rip the useless piece of bone from his brother’s leg and fling the offensive thing into the weeds.

How had the poison worked so quickly? Shem should have sucked out the venom. Why had he listened to his brother? Why hadn’t Shem at least tried removing the venom with his mouth? Ham would leave a widow if he died and Shem would not.

“Ham,” Shem shook his brother. “Wake up!”

Ham’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled faintly. “My hero.”

“You have the energy to smart mouth now?”

“I tried to wiggle my ears. Can’t. Only my mouth moves.”

“See if you can raise your arm.”

Ham lifted his arm half a cubit from the ground before letting it flop back to his side.

“Not bad.” Shem said. Ham might be able to ride in a sitting position. “Take a sip.” Shem held the water skin to Ham’s lips.

“How much pain you in?” he asked as he quickly dumped the donkey’s packs.

“Numb.” Ham said dreamily. “Tingles.” He turned his head sideways to throw up.

Shem hurried over to wipe the vomit from his brother’s mouth. “I’m going to carry you to the donkey now and set you on his back. We’ll be home in an hour or so.”

“I don’t need to be carried. I’m not a girl!”

Ignoring him, Shem lifted with his legs and hoisted his brother onto the donkey’s back. Ham had already commenced the twitching common to snake bite victims. Not a good sign.

Tying the second donkey to the animal Ham rode, Shem walked at his brother’s side with his hand on Ham’s back. Prepared to catch him if he lost his balance.

Shem’s thoughts swirled like whirlpools around a boulder in rapids. What was the shortest way home? Did he need to keep Ham awake and conscious, or did that matter? Why couldn’t he remember? He would stay cheerful so Ham wouldn’t lose hope. Or would Ham notice? What else could Shem do? He suspected his brother might already be delirious.

Pray! The answer came swift and sure. Shem began interceding aloud for his brother. Imploring God to heal him. Over and over. His prayers bounced back from the solid slate sky.

The whiskery face of a warthog peeked around a tree. “Hey, look! Warthog!” Shem said shaking Ham. “And another one. See that? Right behind the first one.”

No response from his silent sibling.

Shem searched for something to say that might grab Ham’s attention. Running at a slow jog as he led the donkey, Shem sweated profusely.

Ham bumped along on the donkey’s back. Eyes closed. Saying nothing. Slumped over. How was he not falling off the donkey? Was he still alive?

Shem rested his hand on Ham’s wrist, checking for a pulse. Faint slow beats rose and fell beneath his fingertips. Ham’s arm felt chilly despite the fact that his leg burned with fever. Shem removed his own outer garment and arranged the warm robe across his brother’s shoulders. The smell of death clung to Ham.

Shem needed to stop yakking and pray.

He again pleaded frantically with God. Begged without hope. Bellowed requests at the sky. How long had it been since Ham had uttered a sound?

Faith. You aren’t praying in faith. The thought came out of nowhere. “Lord, please give me faith I need faith!’ Shem screamed upward, tears pouring down his cheeks.

Ham’s eyes snapped open. “Eudoceda?”

Shem laughed. “Awake?”

“Oh, it’s just you.” Ham’s eyes drifted shut again. “I’m dying.”

“No you’re not! Remember what Father always says,” Shem spoke desperately, even though Ham was already snoring again. “'The finger of God never points where the hand of God won’t lead.’ You really think God would break his word to Father and let you die? God said we’re all supposed to safely ride through the Flood on the ark and we will. Nothing can stop God.”

A certainty that the One True God could and would save his brother settled over Shem like a cozy blanket. God had bestowed the gift of Faith on Shem. “Thank you!” he cried. “Thank you for saving my brother’s life. Thank you for giving me faith.”

**********

The path wound to the other side of their mountain as they neared the ark. Shem removed the snake stone from Ham’s still-swollen leg. Useless thing. As he tossed it over the side of the mountain he caught a glimpse of the City of a Thousand Gods with the land spread out below. The colors of ripe grain and blooming flowers no longer rippled across the fields. Instead a sinister white-gray swathed the world.

Ash. Accompanied by the rotting odors of death combined with the foul smell of feces.

“Phew!” Ham roused and sat up. “Where did that stench come from?”

The sight of his brother’s return to health and the certain knowledge that Ham would live tempted Shem to grin. But the sights and smells from the outside world killed the smile before his lips had a chance to curl upward. “I’m guessing that’s the giant smell Father described to us. Someone must be in big trouble.”