Two

  Nimrod's Child

  The Feast of Remembrance.

  Nissan – April

  2240 BC .

  1764 AAC

  107 years since the ark came to rest on the slopes of Ararat.

  Na’amah

  * * * *

  As always on the new moon of the first month the extended family gather to celebrate and remember. It is a warm, cloudless day, a glorious day to herald in the feasting that starts at sundown. Soon the camp will be awake and busy decorating booths with flowers and branches, preparing food, lighting candles; from the smallest child to the – well, not the oldest, because these days I am cosseted and waited on like a queen.

  I awake just before dawn and all is quiet but for the glock, glock, glock of swans calling for their mates and then the whoop-whooping sound as they take flight. We are camped amongst a large birch grove at the foothills of Little Mountain, a short distance from the wetlands and in view of Big Mountain, the Ararat ranges, glowing gold and pink in the early morning light. Both mountain peaks are still well covered in snow, although you can hear a constant trickle and drip as the spring melt continues to fill rivers, creeks and wetlands with icy water that tastes so sweet and delicious that the camp barely needs to draw from the well.

  I leave my husband sleeping, a habit we have formed in our old age. I sleep lightly like a cat, and he stays up late into the night watch, and then sinks into the sleep of the well fed and well-watered. I leave the tent quietly, but Diynah is already awake stoking the fire. She smiles knowing that I like to walk and unfurl my creaking limbs before talking or eating.

  I walk down to the edge of the wetlands. This time of year, you see many migratory birds, mallards and brolgas that have flown thousands of miles from the ends of the earth - where perhaps they have seen my children’s, children’s children? I feel overwhelmed when I think of all my kin who fled after the destruction of the tower, all speaking strange tongues, confused and angry. Will I ever see any of them again? Hear of their exploits?

  They have become strangers in strange lands. Have they taken with them the strange gods and customs resurrected with the unearthing of The Watchers teachings? Eternally etched in stone cephyrs, to poison every corner of Yahuah’s creation. Oh Cham, Cham was it you who revived the unclean spirits of the Nephilim? Have you unleashed onto this new world everything that destroyed what came before? After all that we went through. Surely not?

  I cannot contain all the emotions that arise, that always end up at Cham and despair. Cham, it appears, is completely lost to me. All the remorse, hope, and love, all the prayers and tears I have cried to Yahuah, have come back void. The Lord knows that I could neither control, nor influence that boy. He would not take heed to his mother, unlike his brothers. Such a wilful, stubborn child, so very proud a man, was there anything I could’ve done differently to change the course of our family strife?

  Every year at the Feast I think of Cham and that fateful night he bought shame on his father, his family and himself. Over a hundred years ago, and I have not seen him since. Still my heart grieves. He moved away with sweet Na’elatama’uk and my grandsons Cush, Mizraim. Qeynan. I never met little Phut. He built them a city on the plains of Shinar. I have never been there. They have never invited me to sojourn with them; would I have gone if they had? I have heard about it of course, and the other great cities my other sons have built, but I have no desire to see them. The cities that is, I remember too well the cities of the Nephiliym in the Old World, beautiful, wondrous, but full of evil.

  It’s hard to remember in sequence, the years run into each other. I’ve lost count. What year was it that Nimrod came to join the feast on an earlier Remembrance Day? He was just a young lad, unwed, already a hunter and warrior, but tall and well-muscled. I recall his dimpled smile, white teeth against his dark skin, his woolly hair plaited with leather thongs. He brought greetings from his grandfather Cham and my heart melted.

  I wanted to meet the magnificent woman who has re-peopled Yah’s earth again. I have so many questions great Grandmother.

  Tell me about the Old World. Did you ever go to the borders of the garden?

  Did you see the Cherubiym guarding the entrance?

  Father told me you knew the First Mother. Tell me about the nachash, the shining one.

  Were you angry with Elohyim for destroying your kin?

  I am brought back to the present as a migrating flock of geese rise, honking from the edge of the wetlands. The wetlands are teeming with life this time of year, purple heron and brolgas gracefully threading their way through the reeds. It already feels warm and in the distance, I think I hear a cuckoo. Suddenly I feel hungry and thirsty, my knees and hips have begun to ache which gives me a slight limp. I can smell the smoke of the small fires that are being lit by the women in camp. Some children cluster around a deep, rocky pool filling urns with water. They greet me shyly. My kin.

  I don’t know who is who anymore. Diynah will introduce them to me tonight at the feast, but I still find myself looking for the little girl of the dream. How many years has it been? Fifty? A whole jubilee! Maybe tonight, or maybe it will be another jubilee before I meet her.

  A thousand years is as a day to the lord. Noach reminds me. Often. Yet – All dreams are from Adonai. He says.

  My children’s children age quicker than us Old World Ones, their infirmities troubling them after only one jubilee and a quarter. It troubles me to realise that my grandchildren can look and move as if they are older than me, and some with minds that have become childlike or confused. When I reach our compound Noach is still sleeping, snoring softly and occasionally sighing as though he still carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Or his liver is troubling him. Diynah is infusing a tisane of cardamom, dried apple and rose petals; its delicate scent greets me as she rises to take my shawl. Gesturing to a pile of embroidered cushions she brings me fresh steaming flat bread rolled around goats’ cheese, apricot and pistachios, drizzled with honey and cinnamon. I am well looked after.

  Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth the bread from the earth, who creates the fruit of the vine.

  Diynah speaks in Akkadian but prays with me in Ivriyt, which she has learnt from attending to Noach and me. I am always grateful that Yahuah has blessed us Old Ones with understanding of the new tongues that came with the destruction of the Babel ziggurat. My sons and their wives when we get together still love to speak in the old tongue. All except Cham and Na’elatama’uk of course. I don’t know whether they still speak it. Now I am sighing like my husband.

  Every Feast of Remembrance should be a happy time, but always my thoughts turn to the incident that have forever marred it. A hundred joyful festivals blur into one in my mind – why is it I can remember that one time, as clear as if it was yesterday? The worst times linger in our minds eye, surfacing intermittently in full colour to jolt our hearts; and moments of bliss and joy disappear into the recesses of our memory as if they never existed, cancelled by those dark moments.

  Surrender. Surrender it all to Yahuah. Says Noach. Of course, what else can I do? But, too often, my mind is plagued with memories and questions.

  What if I had stayed up that night, not gone to bed early but stayed by my husband’s side? How could I know he had had too much of the new wine and was so drunk he was not himself?

  Noach always said that the vineyards and wine was a gift from Yahuah, to sooth our grief after the loss of the old world, to release our muscles at the end of a hard day’s work and bless us with a good night’s sleep. That first time, he was not to know the effects of drinking too much, although we all know that was not the last time he sought solace in drink.

  The next afternoon, lying there groaning and vomiting, that upright man was bought down and shamed by his son. You’ve heard the story no doubt? Noach collapsed in his tent, naked, exposed, losing control of himself, lying there in his own filth and his youngest son instead of tending to him, or covering him, laughed loudly at him, and laughing still louder went to tell his brothers, spoke poorly of his father in earshot of all their children.

  Lashon harah.

  Cham was taught better. To use evil speech, to talk poorly of your own father is the equivalent of murder and does as much harm to the speaker as to the receiver. Did I not teach my sons this? Lashon harah? Anyway, that is the story. There is more to the story, and maybe one day I will tell it.

  Later Noach pronounced a curse, not on his son Cham, but his grandson Qeynan, cursed him and his descendants to be enslaved, servants to all his brethren. In those days there were no slaves, we barely understood what the curse meant, or why Qeynan was cursed for his father’s actions. It broke my heart. Cham was furious in his pride and shame, leaving that very day, taking his wife and children, all his belongings, sheep, donkeys and dogs. He also took something that did not belong to him. I knew it, but I never told Noach about it at the time.

  Cham stole the very garments of skin made by Yahuah for our ancestors A’dam and his woman Chuah when they were driven from the garden. The garments were given to Chanoch at A’dam’s death, who in turn gave them to his son Methushelach, who gave them to Noach. Yahuah told Noach to take everything from the ark down to the land allotted to us. In those days the winter was very mild, and snow had not yet appeared on the mountain. We set up camp not far from where we are now. Noach and the boys would go on trips up and down the mountain to salvage items of use. God’s creation staff never strayed from Noach’s side, but the garments were given to me to care for.

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  I discovered them missing the morning after the night that Cham had shamed his father, as if he knew the consequences of his disrespect and in exchange for the curse that he foresaw, he was stealing a birthright that did not even belong to him. When Cham left, he came to say goodbye to me. He could barely look at me.

  My son, have you taken something that does not belong to you? The garments of A’dam and Chuah are missing.

  He was incandescent with rage and bitterness. He could not look me in the eye, and he never answered the question.

  I am taking only what belongs to my family and I. All that I have worked for, would you deny me goods and chattels to start anew? You have always thought the worst of me. Why do you assume it was I? Why not Shem? No of course not! Not Shem, perfect Shem, the chosen one. It’s your fault Mother. You never treated me the same as the others. I don’t need any of you. I will forge my own life with a new family, my own family. I will make something of myself, and you will all respect me then.

  He was a liar, and a thief, but he spoke some truth. I spoilt him. He was my baby.

  You may have heard rumours that we had other children. A son that died in the deluge; that refused to board the ark? There is no truth in that rumour. I was already over five hundred years old when Noach and I wed, and he was some eighty years younger than me. We had three sons and three sons only, no child was born to us the year we lived in the ark, no fourth son before nor any son after the flood. No daughters to comfort me. Yahuah opened my womb and closed it to fulfil his purposes. None of those boys belonged to me.

  Forgive me if I sound bitter. I am not. My life has been a wondrous adventure. I have seen things no one else will ever see. I am just old now and tired. My bones ache. My heart aches. My soul aches. I am jolted from my reverie as Diynah puts a cup of the rose tisane in my hands. I hear Noah stirring stretching, groaning and sighing. A splash of water, the murmur of prayer and he emerges with a smile on his face. So, I compose myself.

  A fine day will become a fine night for this year’s feast, adonai.

  He sits next to me, puts an arm around my shoulders and lightly kisses my forehead. He is in a good mood. Diynah plies him with food and tea.

  Ah all is well. It’s a good life, he says,

  A good life.

  A strange feeling of excitement envelopes me, yes, today or tonight I will find the child. Then doubt assails me and I put it from my mind. I don’t want to be disappointed again and I don’t even know what she will mean. Blessing? Heartache? Solace?

  Husband: walk with me around the camp, to see all the children that have come from our sons and son’s sons. We are blessed indeed.

  There is a joyful atmosphere in the camp. The Morning Prayer echoes from tent to tent.

  Thanks to you Adonai, that in your mercy you have restored my soul within me. Blessed are you Ruler of the Universe who renews daily the work of creation.

  Noach takes my hand in his. I try not to jump in surprise and enjoy the feeling of his strong, calloused hand engulfing my own slim hand. Minutes later he drops it to raise his hand in greeting. He beams at his kin. He stops at various tents and extends a blessing or ruffles the heads of the little ones.

  Shalom, shalom.

  All I see is strangers. I wish Diynah had walked with us. She knows everyone and all their genealogies. My eyes flicker over the faces of the children. They are mostly shy and bow their heads or hide behind their mothers’ robes. She would not. Her steady gaze from the dream is burned into my mind.

  The morning passes quickly, and the activities never cease until the heat of the day calls people back to the shade of their tents to rest until the hour before dusk when the food is laid out and the people recline in the booths and tell the tales of the flood and the promise of the rainbow. Our booth is set up on small rise, above a sea of flower laden, colourful booths, the perimeters set with torches, and braziers interspersed amongst them should the night chill. To the left in an open field is a big bonfire waiting to be lit, when the musicians start to play and the dancing and singing begins. People stop by our booth and bow before Noach and I. Diynah whispers in my ear,

  This is Edna, daughter of Yapheth’s son Yavan, wife of Yoqtan’s son Yerach …

  Edna presents her new baby to me to bless. I take a moment to look into the little one’s eyes, still cloudy from the spirit world and I am greeted with a windy smile and a series of coos as the baby beats its arms, clenches its tiny fists and kicks its fat, little legs. From behind Edna emerges another child, a toddler. Noach says something that makes the child laugh, which makes everyone smile. There is nothing sweeter than babies’ laughter.

  There is a steady flow of people to our booth, some distant and respectful, others warm and effusive. My kin are all colours and shapes and sizes, and I am suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. I have read the prophecies of Enoch. I know that they will all, mostly, turn from Yahuah to their own ways.

  I am like a pelican of the wilderness:

  I am an owl of the desert.

  My days are like a shadow that declines; and

  I am withered like grass.

  Trust in Adonai, my husband constantly admonishes me. I sometimes wonder whether he is in fact reminding himself.

  The darkness deepens to a deep purple, the stars are brilliant in the night sky, as though they have been flung across the firmament by a giant of the old world, lighting up the snow-capped peaks to reveal icy blue ravines. A woman throwing herself at my feet, forehead touching the ground, surprises me.

  Mualeleth, whispers Diynah in my ear,

  A former wife of Nimrod but expelled from his presence since Semiramis. And her daughter Emzara.

  Ahh, there she is. At last. Standing solemnly behind her weeping mother, her eyes unflinching meet mine.

  Raise yourself Mualeleth, come share what ails you, I say as kindly as I can.

  Although I well remember meeting her, when she was in Nimrod’s favour. A foolish, vain woman she is arrogant and inclined to self-absorption. When she finally raises her face to mine, I see she still wears the fashions of Babel, kohl rimmed eyes, now smeared, and rouged cheeks, dripping with gold bangles and multiple earrings. She is clothed in fine purple linens, and a costly wool shawl. Her bottom lip trembles like a child. I fear she will start to ululate.

  Great Mother I am throwing myself on your mercy. I have come to beg your protection for my little girl, Emzara.

  Ahhh Emzara. Emzara, Nimrod’s child, my great, great, granddaughter.

  Oh, Mother she was once the apple of his eye, his darling, but since … Mualeleth stops, unable to speak the name of the king’s new consort,

  Since that woman has bewitched my lord, he has no eyes for anyone else. He is under a spell Mother, and I fear for my child’s life.

  I stop her, raising my hand,

  Are you here to ask for sanctuary for you both, daughter?

  Oh, great Na’amah I ask only that you take Emzara under your wing. It breaks my heart to be separated from her, but I am still young and must seek the protection of a new marriage proposal. Nimrod has … her voice falters and trembles,

  Nimrod has divorced me, and I cannot join the hall of concubines.

  Her voice begins to whine,

  I was a good wife Mother, I gave him two sons, who are now grown and thankfully beyond the reach of that witch. My little Emzara was, well, a surprise Mother. But as you can see, she is the offspring of the great and mighty Nimrod.

  She pulls the little girl forward.

  See she has his eyes, his noble mouth, very much like yours Mother. She is very clever and speaks several tongues, even at such a tender age. She is wilful, I will admit, and outspoken, but I am sure you can instil in her …

  She pauses again,

  Your morals, your torah. Nimrod would have her married off to some old man.

  She is hissing now, hissing with bitterness.

  There are already some suitors lined up, alliances, wily old warriors. She is barely seven years old. Please Mother keep her with you, train her in your ways, at least until she has her first moon?

  And then for the first time the woman says something that comes from the heart,

  I don’t want her to have a life like mine.

  And Nimrod? I ask gently.

  He won’t even notice that we have gone.

  For the first time the little girl’s eye’s drop and she seems to shrink into herself.

  I’m sure he will miss his little girl; she is a precious gift. I say.

  Emzara raises her head and smiles at me, a smile beyond her years, grateful and understanding, but also radiant. Then the musicians start to play, and I see her attention shift, her body starts to sway.

  Why don’t you go down and join the dancers? Would you like that? But come back when your mother calls, and tomorrow you will both join me for breakfast. Alright motek? Sweetheart?

  She looks at her mother who nods and briefly kisses the top of her head.

  I will come for you at bedtime Emzara, no arguments. Stay where we can see you.

  The little girl runs off to the gathering throng, turns to wave and moments later there she is, in the tableaux of my dream. The time has come – for what? I turn again to her mother, after I discreetly ask Diynah to watch the girl, thinking of the latter part of my dream. I scan the crowd, but I cannot see him.

  Mualeleth, Noach and I, can offer you both sanctuary, if you wish. Nimrod must of course be informed, but as you say he is a busy man, with many children, many obligations. One of our scribes, maybe Noach himself, will send word to him. I can tell you now that Spirit has chosen this child to learn the word and the way of Yahuah, which I know my great grandson has drifted away from. Perhaps you too will benefit from staying here with us? Away from the city and all its temptations?

  She regards me seriously, goes as if to speak, pauses and reflects; finally, as though she has gathered her thoughts together she speaks forthrightly.

  Na’amah, I thank you for your generosity, and I know Emzara will be safe and thrive with you. I have an offer of marriage from a good man, well established, of good standing in Babel. I am used to the life there.

  She looks around at the darkened plains full of grazing sheep towards Kucuk, little mountain and the Serdarbulak plateau where the alpine meadows full of wildflowers, give way to groves of juniper, and further up the mountain to dark blue patches of montane forest, fir and pine fringing the snow. Even with the revelries you can sense the enveloping stillness, the open spaces, breathe in the pristine air. Everything Babel is not.

  To Semiramis, she spits, Emzara is a threat.

  She was jealous of Nimrods affection for the child. If I marry again, I am nothing to her, or Nimrod. Out of sight out of mind, as they say. I know Emzara is a special and gifted child. She is also capable of provoking animosity, she has a propensity towards truth telling – not an asset in Babel where diplomacy, cunning and double speak reign.

  Mualeleth looks down, then behind her back as though someone may be eavesdropping, and back to me

  There was an incident with one of Semiramis’ retinue. Emzara has had dreams that have come to pass. Warlocks who meddle with unclean spirits surround that witch. There is even talk that she has initiated sacrifices on newly opened High Places, or they have unearthed the old places to renew their ancient practices. They are intrigued and disturbed, by my child’s abilities. I sincerely fear for her.

  It seems I underestimated Mualeleth. After all she is one of mine. They all are. Even the man I still search for from the corner of my eye is my kin. Even Semiramis. The thought disturbs me, and I silently pray for wisdom.

  I hear you Mualeleth. Your daughter will be safe here. We will protect her.

  I am watching the child now and as in the dream I see Spirit fall on her. Only Noach and I see the ethereal glow that envelops her. He catches my eye and nods in assent.

  She will be my last novitiate.

  I say it to him more than Emzara’s mother, and he understands what I am saying. I am already of a great age and even the great Methuselach did not touch the horizon of a thousand years. He stretches out his hand to grasp mine, warm and firm, he squeezes my hand gently.

  We will savour this time Na’amah.

  Our eyes lock like they have not since we were honeymooning.

  You are still so lovely. He smiles.

  As a lily among the thistles, so is this shepherdess of mine.

  I blush, foolish, old woman that I am. I remember the entire poem that he wrote for me for our wedding night. I have its lines etched in my soul. Sometimes during difficult times, I would whisper them to myself.

  What we have seen together.

  What we have seen.

  The fires and flares start to dwindle and sputter. People meander off to their family camps and settle under the stars. The night begins to chill. Noach and I are joined around the dwindling bonfire by the remaining night owls, those like us who require little sleep, to hear the last story of the night. Mualeleth joins us wrapping the child in warm blankets and furs in her lap. Emzara never takes her eyes off me, until they droop heavy with sleep and she finally succumbs, sucking her thumb for a while and then drifting into a deep sleep.

  Japheth and his wife Adatane, Shem and Sedeqetele have pride of place and are known to interject as a story unfolds. We know that after the others have drifted off to sleep, we will share other memories, and think of some that we will never speak of again.

  Would you do us the honour my wife, poet and storyteller? Perhaps you could share the story about the animals? There are still a few children here wide-awake, though it is way past their bedtime! Teases Noach smiling indulgently at the glowing young faces around the fire.

  I bow my head and begin.