The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (12 page)

Lord Uriah bemoaned each lost warrior. He kept a careful tally. Three more mariners died from fever. Five ambushed Shurites were buried. Three men failed to show up. “We cannot stand such whittling,” Uriah told Adah.

Lord Uriah and Adah soon started scouting themselves, at her suggestion. Her terrible experiences of Gibborim in jungle-thick Poseidonis had given her uncanny tracking skills. And no one could match five-hundred-year-old Uriah in the tricks of scouting.

The Patriarch called a meeting the next day beside a scummy pond of water. It was full of frogs, the green creatures croaking or flicking their sticky pink tongues at bugs.

“The Nebo have gathered in strength,” Adah said. She crouched, eyeing a big frog that eyed her. She knew some natives used the skin of poison frogs to coat their arrows. The frog’s throat bloated to an immense size, as it produced a mighty sound. Then it leaped from its rock before Adah could decide whether to catch the amphibian.

“Have they gathered in army strength?” asked Prince Ishmael.

Adah frowned, as she laid a hand on her arrow case. It was lighter by many shafts.

Lord Uriah spoke up. “Nebo don’t think like that. They mean to fell trees, block our advance and weary us. Then, when we’re trapped, forced against their log palisades, they’ll stand and fight.”

“What do you suggest?” asked the prince.

Lord Uriah grinned tightly, giving him a nefarious cast, and for once, looking like he was five hundred years old. That meant five hundred years of dirty, fighting trickery. “Commander Himilco, you must go to your officers and sub-leaders. Gather their gold-inlaid swords. I’ll gather jeweled daggers from Elonite nobles. These will all be piled on the weakest mules. You, prince, must insure that your men lose those mules to the Nebo. Then, Prince Ishmael with his Shurites, me with half the Elonites, and a score of the healthiest mariners, will ambush the Nebo. We will destroy them as they bicker over the spoils.”

The plan worked. Adah was sickened by the countless Nebo corpses, and was amazed that their forest-spawned enemies had been so numerous.

A week later, they exited the forests and entered the foothills of Arkite Land. It was a place with stony soil and deep gullies. Far beyond the foothills, towered majestic, snowcapped mountains. They rose like a spine, cutting the Suttung Sea region from Glorious Ir, Larak and tall-walled Caphtor of the plains. According to Joash’s vision of Irad the Arkite, somewhere in those mountains, was the Garden of Eden. To find Eden, or get close to it, they needed to find the Snow Leopard Country. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any maps of Arkite Land, if indeed anyone in the world had such maps. This was a wild, untamed region.

“We’re being watched,” Prince Ishmael reported early the next morning by the campfire.

“Yes,” Lord Uriah said. He warmed his hands over the crackling flames and drank tea with Adah.

Prince Ishmael lifted an eyebrow.

Adah raised a new arrow, bit the thread, knotted it, and then tugged the fletching. “We been waiting for this,” she explained.

“Would you care to let me in on your secret?”

“No secret,” Lord Uriah said. “We need someone to guide us to Snow Leopard Country.”

“Ah,” Prince Ishmael said, nodding. He beckoned to his best trackers, left camp with them, and returned an hour later.

Two thin old men, wearing bear-fur loincloths, stone daggers sheathed at their sides and thick sandals on their feet, frowned severely as the prince urged them to Lord Uriah’s campfire.

“Only this one speaks our language,” Prince Ishmael said, indicating the oldest native who had thinning gray hair and only a few yellow teeth left in his mouth. At his side was a quiver topped with bear-fur and filled with arrows fletched with hawk feathers. His bow was in the hands of one of the Shurite trackers.

“He’s a sly one,” the prince said. “He wounded one of my men, and almost slipped away. He only came back because we captured the other one.”

The old Arkite had been carefully following Prince Ishmael’s words. Now he swore, and told Lord Uriah, “Begin your tortures now, Nephilim-spawn. I grow weary of your tracker’s prattle.”

“Why do you call us Nephilim-spawn?” Adah asked.

The old Arkite frowned at her. “You have dark skin,” he said. “Why is that?”

“I’m from Poseidonis,” Adah explained.

The old Arkite shook his head.

“You still haven’t answered our question,” Adah said.

“Lowlander Nebo, led by fiends, destroyed our village,” the old Arkite said sullenly. “Now, you march in their wake. Of course you’re Nephilim-spawn.”

“Not true at all,” Lord Uriah said. “We serve Elohim, and we wish to stop the Nephilim.”

The old Arkite snorted rudely.

Lord Uriah sipped his tea, and then nodded to Adah. She retrieved her lyre from a chariot. It rested in a leather bag wadded with soft material. She carefully drew off each wrapping and experimentally plucked each string. Nodding, satisfied, she began to sing of their adventures. When she was done, the old Arkite’s face had hardened. He spoke rapidly to his companion. His companion said only two words, and then fell silent again.

The old Arkite suddenly grasped Adah’s hand, and pressed it against his lips. “I, Beron, thank you,” he whispered. “We always wondered what happened to Irad.”

Adah’s stomach grew hollow. “You
knew
Irad of the Snow Leopard Tribe?”

Beron laughed. “Everyone of Arkite Land knows about Irad. He went into the Forbidden Territory and spoke with an Old One. Irad also foretold the coming of the fiends. He was a prophet. Aye, I too serve He Who Is Most High. Almost all Arkites do, whether of the Cave Bear Tribe, the distant Snow Leopard Tribe or even if they’re Orn Men. I’ve heard it said that Irad finally journeyed into the lowlands. He planned to tell city dwellers about the grim fate that was rushing toward them.”

Beron shook his head. “Ah, brave Irad. I listened to his tale over two years ago. Now, the great prophet is dead. Woe to Arkite Land.”

“What did your friend say a few moments ago?” Lord Uriah asked softly.

“You mean the shaman?”

Lord Uriah nodded.

Beron grinned. “He told me: ‘Help them’.”

“You will guide us to the Forbidden Territory?” Lord Uriah asked.

“It lies near Snow Leopard Country,” Beron warned. “And Snow Leopard Country is almost on the other side of Arkite Land as we now stand.”

Lord Uriah could hardly contain his excitement. They had found guides.

“It is a hard march, and will take us into the hardest terrain Arkite Land has,” Beron said.

“We are here to stop the evil ones,” Lord Uriah said.

Beron nodded. “Yes, I will take you. When are you ready?”

“Right now,” said Lord Uriah.

***

Adah was cold, despite her heavy cloak. She stared into the crackling fire and shivered at the howl of a wolf. The moon shone from high in the nightsky and illuminated the nearby snowy peaks. The nights were eerie in Arkite Land, and lonely.

“Drink this,” Prince Ishmael urged, as he sat beside her.

Adah accepted the stone cup of tea, first warming her hands and then her throat, as she sipped the honey-sweetened liquid. Despite his band of mountain-bred ruffians, rough, callous, hard-bitten warriors, the prince was a man of taste and superior courtesy.

He reminded her of another roughly bred noble. That brought back bitter memories, and a bitter tale. It was a tale often told back in Poseidonis.

“Why do you look so sad?” asked Prince Ishmael.

Adah shook her head.

“Please,” said the prince. “I see the sorrow on your heart. You must bleed it, and set it free.”

Adah smiled sadly.

Prince Ishmael moved closer. “I heard others talking today. They said Lod helped you escape your homeland. That a First Born rules there.”

Adah felt the old familiar fears stir. She hated thinking about Poseidonis, about what the enemy had done to her fair land.

“Do you yearn for Poseidonis?”

“Do you yearn to return to the Land of Shur?” she asked.

Prince Ishmael’s face went blank. He nodded, and turned away.

“I’m….” She touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He faced her, smiled and shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

“Once my isle was a fair place, with bright people and well-built towns,” she said. “Now…”

“Tell me what happened.”

“It’s a sad story.”

“Aren’t they all?” asked the prince.

Lines furrowed Adah’s forehead. She thought about it, and she thought of other times she’d sat around a campfire late at night. It had been a long time since she’d told the tale. As a youth, she’d heard it all the time. She smiled and leaned forward.

Prince Ishmael leaned against a rock as he sipped tea.

***

Lord Triton ruled well and justly, and the Isle of Poseidonis knew peace and posterity. Fishermen plied the coasts, herders walked the hills, vine cutters and coconut gatherers raised large families. In the lone city of Atlas, priests prayed to Elohim, jewelers fashioned clasps for ropes of pearls, masons erected stone granaries and ship captains haggled in the main market square. A city guard was the isle’s only armed force, and when the people gathered for feast days, great wrestling bouts and javelin throwing contests between the youths occurred. Maidens wove baskets and sewed garments and judges handed out fine rewards. At night, all sat around singing songs, as they drank palm wine and ate rice cakes.

One man, however, brooded. He was Lord Triton’s oldest son. He longed to rule Poseidonis. He longed to wear the golden crown, and hold the royal scepter. How he longed to sit in the throne of the royal barge. How he longed to make decrees, judge the maidens who would enter his harem, and lead the guards in midnight hunts. Lord Triton, however, was over four hundred years old. His father before him had lived to be eight hundred and thirty two. Lord Triton’s oldest son, well past a hundred years of age, knew bitterness and hatred toward the ruler of Poseidonis.

So he took a ship and left. He returned four years later. Nothing had changed in the jungle isle kingdom. Upon his return, the eldest son begged his father for the position of chief of the Royal Guard. Lord Triton loved his son, but he refused him this request. Kez of Caphtor was chief of the Royal Guard. Many years earlier, Lord Triton and Kez had shared a war together on the mainland. The bond between them was strong and long standing.

Bitterer than ever, Lord Triton’s eldest son put into action a plan to get his own way. He bribed certain men, and late one night, they unlocked the keep door and admitted a tall person in a cowled cloak. The person said no word, but he moved with sinister grace.

An hour later, a scream rang out and a man cried, “Lord Triton is dead!”

The keep bells rang, and the guards ran to their posts. They carried spears, bows and arrows. Only a few wore armor, Kez among them. They locked the doors and began to search. They came upon a tall man in a cowled cloak that hid his face.

“Who are you?” shouted Kez.

The tall man hissed with rage.

The guards lowered their spears. Kez shouted again.

That is when the Gibborim doffed his hood. The guards stepped back in alarm. Kez ordered the archers forward. Before arrows touched string, the Gibborim, a champion among his kind, leaped the distance between them, and hurled out his taloned hand. Archers screamed, with their guts ripped open. Guards thrust. The Gibborim leaped above them, spun, and raked his talons once more. More guards died. The Gibborim bounded, and raced to the locked door. With several blows, he shattered the wood and made his escape into the night.

In his fury, Kez broke down the eldest son’s bedroom door. He accused the son of murder. , Lord Triton’s son urged the guards to arrest Kez. The guardsmen wavered. Kez drew his sword, and tried to kill the son. Guardsmen fought him off. Thus, civil war came to Poseidonis.

Kez won free of the city keep and fled to the countryside, where he raised enough support to lay siege to the city. The Siege of Atlas lasted until the coming of Yorgash and his terrible children. They found Poseidonis ripe for plunder, for her strongest warriors were already dead. Thus did the hatred and bitterness of one man, who had sought the Gibborim, bring doom to his native isle.

***

Adah grew silent after the tale, sipping her tea, which was finally cool enough to drink.

Prince Ishmael was somber. “A sad story,” he said at last.

Adah sighed, and sipped her tea again. That was a long time ago, she told herself. Now what mattered was gaining Eden. Where was Eden? And was Tarag behind or ahead of them?

The wolf howled once more.

Prince Ishmael cocked his head. “He worships Elohim.”

Adah smiled. “Strange. I think that’s something Joash would have said.” She finished her tea and went to her tent. What had happened to Joash? She wondered if she’d ever find out.

Chapter Twelve

Radiance

When Moses came down from Mount Sinai... he was not aware that his face was radiant because he had spoken with the LORD. When Aaron and all the Israelites saw Moses, his face was radiant, and they were afraid to come near him.

-- Exodus 34:29-30

Joash marched with his hands shoved into his breeches pockets. He stared glumly at the shadowed ground. He muttered under his breath, calling himself a fool and a simpleton.

He understood that Tarag and Mimir had tricked him. It gnawed at him, galled him and made him angry. How could he have been so dull as to miss the significance of the fiery stone? His dreams had warned him, although he’d been unable to remember his dreams. Well, except for the one instance where he’d recited lines from the poem. Still, the feel of the potent dreams should have warned him. Why would Tarag have allowed him to search for the fiery stone, unless they needed his help? That they needed his help with the fiery stone had become painfully obvious.

He unslung his water-skin and took a refreshing drink. He took out salted jerky and thoughtfully chewed the stringy meat. The air was cool, the sun hidden by clouds. Pines rustled their needles. No squirrels chattered, no birds sang nearby, no insects buzzed. Ever since he’d become the bearer of the fiery stone, all sights and animal sounds had vanished. He no longer saw Tarag’s sabertooths or Yorgash’s giant pterodactyls. A day ago, high overhead, an eagle had screeched. At the sight of the fiery stone, the eagle had plunged out of sight. For just an instant, however, Joash could have sworn that he’d understood, or heard in his mind, the eagle’s thoughts.

He wondered if he was slowly going mad.

Since finding the fiery stone, his days had blurred. Ever since leaving the Valley of Dry Bones, the march toward Eden had been grueling and swift.

Tarag presently stretched in the long, lazy way that cats do. The adamant armor clinked, and the shield glowed. The huge First Born stepped near, and whispered, “Take out the stone.”

The nearby giants sat up, readying themselves. Their numbers, of those in the presence of the fiery stone, had dwindled over the days. Only three continued to endure as Tarag endured. In Joash’s presence, Tarag had told the three giants that he’d always known it would come down to a few brave Nephilim. Few, he knew, would have the iron in them to withstand the fiery stone, and thus, withstand the Cherub’s fully revealed celestial glory. The battle against the guardian Cherub would be a fight of heroes, not of masses of warriors. Which is why, Tarag had explained, he had only taken a small band of giants and Gibborim. The fight against the lone guardian was everything. The others, those who couldn’t withstand the celestial glory, would wait at the bottom of the mountain below Eden, to make sure that no humans interfered with the heroic fight. However, those few who fought and defeated the guardian Cherub, ah, they would first eat from the Tree of Life.

The giants had understood, as had Joash. Since only a few would fight and defeat the guardian, only a few would eat from the Tree of Life, and live forever. The others who would guard below—Tarag’s wicked grin had been enough to let them know that he had plans for those, and that those below would
never
eat from the Tree of Life.

Mimir now stood, his face sternly set. Young Hrungir, young for a giant at least, did likewise, then Motsognir Stone Hands. Only once had a Gibborim dared to step within the fiery stone’s radiance. Lersi had screamed in horrible agony, dropped to her knees and crawled away. The taint of necromancy had still stained her.

“Take out the stone,” Tarag whispered.

Joash reached into the heavy, mammoth-skin bag tied to his belt and pulled out a thickly wrapped object. The many layers of leather around the object were hot. He peeled them, one by one. The stone glowed with otherworldly brilliance. He couldn’t see his hands, because they were made invisible by the stone. In fact, he could barely feel the stone. He’d become numbed to it. He groaned, feeling small, dirty and worthless.

Tarag stared at the stone, as if facing a raging storm. Mimir held his right hand before his eyes. At times, he spread his fingers, so that like a child he could peek at the stone. Every time he did so, his teeth were clenched tightly, as if he was in pain. Hrungir breathed heavily, with sweat dripping from his face. Motsognir had a death’s smile, his huge hands clenched at his side.

“Lift the stone,” Tarag whispered.

Joash swallowed in a dry throat. His arms felt leaden, unwilling. He thought how wonderful the Creator had been to make the world, to make humanity and all the things humanity used. With his thoughts focused on divine things, he lifted the fiery stone before Tarag’s sabertooth-like snout.

“Ahhhh,” Tarag whispered. He didn’t move, didn’t look away and didn’t flinch.

In those moments, Tarag changed. His animal-ness melted away, the adamant armor shined hurtfully bright. He became terrible, almost otherworldly himself. Joash had the feeling then, that here was a being worthy of immortality, who deserved to be a god. Tarag the Great. Tarag the Glorious. Tarag the Light of the World.

As Joash thought those things, his arms trembled and the stone sank lower.

“No,” Tarag hissed. “Raise the stone.”

“Take it, Lord,” Joash whispered.

Tarag reached for the stone, the great hairy hand dwarfed Joash’s hand. But the First Born dared not pluck the fiery thing from Joash’s grasp.

Hrungir cried out and turned away. He refused, however, to stagger out of the stone’s radiance as others had done. Mimir groaned as if wounded. Yet still, he stared at the stone. Joash’s leaden arms lowered more. Tarag bent forward. Motsognir Stone Hands fell, as if stricken. A moment later, Mimir threw his arms before his eyes. At last, Tarag turned away.

Quietly, as if in the most holy church, Joash wrapped the leather rags around the fiery stone and returned it to the mammoth-skin pouch. The stone was heavy, now that he couldn’t see its shine. Now, however, he didn’t have to withstand the terrible glow, the awful holiness of it as he held it against his skin. He sat, and panted against the bole of a pine tree.

Much too soon for Joash, Tarag said, “Sound the horn.”

Motsognir Stone Hands lifted a horn of beaten silver and blew mightily, the blast echoing throughout the forest. The others now knew that it was time to march.

Helped up by Mimir, Joash strode after Tarag.

***

Two days later, Mimir bent down, and Joash climbed upon his massive back.

“Are you secure?” the giant asked.

Joash put his arms around Mimir’s neck. “I am,” he said.

Mimir stood to his imposing height. Joash gaped, alarmed. Surely, he’d break a leg if he fell from this far up. Mimir stepped into a ragging mountain stream. Hrungir waited on the other side. Motsognir Stone Hands brought up the rear. Like a child, Joash hung on tightly as the water boiled past them. He marveled at Mimir’s footing, and he hiked up his own feet lest they become wet.

“Thank you,” Joash said when he alighted onto the other bank.

Tarag led the way, then Hrungir, Mimir, Joash and Motsognir behind.

“I’m curious,” Joash said after awhile.

Mimir grunted.

“You just carried me on your back.”

“You’re full of insights today.”

“Isn’t that a slight to your honor?” Joash asked.

“Not any more,” Mimir said. “You bear the fiery stone.”

“I thought it beneath the dignity of Nephilim to carry a man as a servant would his lord.”

“Indeed, you’re right.”

Joash lifted his eyebrows.

Mimir chuckled, something he hadn’t done for some time. “Surely, you understand that everything has changed with you.”

“I’m still a man.”

“No. There you’re wrong. You’re the fiery stone bearer.”

“I’m a Seraph. For that reason, I can carry the stone.”

Mimir ran his fingers through his shaggy beard. His wet leather pants squelched as he trod downhill. Broken branches, and knocked down pine needles, marked the trail blazed by the anxious Tarag.

“I don’t think you’re right,” Mimir said at last. “You’re a very special kind of Seraph.” He grinned. “I don’t say this out of deference to your feelings. I say this because it’s the truth.”

Sudden understanding hit Joash. “You’re also affected? Being near the fiery stone is an awful burden. I can hardly endure it. If I were to speak a lie—No, lying is impossible near the stone. I’d feel too soiled. Maybe because the fiery stone once lay on Elohim’s Holy Mount, maybe that’s why I feel this way.”

“Who can know?” Mimir said guardedly.

“I’m certain this is so. But until now, I only thought it affected me that way. Now I see you too are affected.” Joash pondered for a moment, smiled. “I find that comforting.”

Mimir shrugged.

“In any case, we were talking about Seraphs.”

Mimir now seemed disinclined to speak.

“You said I was a special kind of Seraph,” Joash prodded. “Why did you say this?”

“Because you carry the fiery stone,” Mimir muttered.

“That doesn’t prove your point.”

“Maybe not,” Mimir said, “but I’ve known more than a few Seraphs. There are different rankings to your kind.”

“We all serve Elohim.”

Tarag hissed, glaring back at Joash.

Joash ignored it. He was no longer physically afraid of the First Born. Withstanding the fiery stone had left too little for him to fear others. It was as if the things of this world lacked their former urgency. The First Born and Nephilim seemed to understand this, though, for they made few demands upon him, other than bearing the stone.

“You Seraphs serve your master,” Mimir said slowly. “But each of you is gifted in various strengths. Lord Uriah has visions. Do you have visions?”

“Not like Lord Uriah,” Joash said, thinking back to his vision of Irad the Arkite. That had been done through the way of the Shining Ones, with select herbs, not while he’d been asleep and received a word from Elohim.

“There you are,” Mimir said.

“I fail to understand,” Joash said.

“Why do you not have visions? Lord Uriah has visions,” Mimir said.

“What do you see as my ability?” Joash asked.

Mimir snorted. “Your ability is clear. You’re hardheaded, as Lod was. You’re stubborn, as he was stubborn. I suppose one could say that comes from a strong faith in your master.”

Joash considered that. He wished he had met Lod.

Tarag growled under his breath, but he gave no command to be silent concerning use of the word Elohim.

“I don’t believe other Seraphs could hold the fiery stone as long as you have,” Mimir said. “I think Lod could have, although I wonder if there was too much blood on his hands for him to have done so. This is just supposition, of course, but I’ve been trying to delve into the nature of the fiery stone.”

“As have I.”

“I believe you,” Mimir said, with a smile. “I’ve asked myself why is it that only Hrungir, Motsognir and myself have been able to stand so close and for so long. Why cannot the Gibborim withstand its glory, or other giants? The reason is linked to the reason why the High One can endure its radiance best.”

“Because of his greater celestial heritage?” asked Joash.

“Exactly,” Mimir said. “And, because the High One has never delved into the art of necromancy.”

Joash mulled on that.

Mimir said, “There are certain actions that make the fiery stone harder to endure.”

“Like lying,” Joash said, in sudden understanding.

“You engage in useless prattle,” the huge First Born growled at them. “Save your breath for faster walking.” Tarag strode faster than before.

Joash blinked, and examined Tarag more closely. The First Born seemed bigger. Yes, the armor fit more snuggly than before. Or, had Tarag gained something from withstanding the stone’s radiance?

“Nephilim Mimir?” Joash asked. “Is Tarag larger than before?”

Mimir grimaced. “No, but he is changing. We’re all changing.”

“I’m not,” Joash said.

“You most of all,” Mimir said, seeming surprised by Joash’s statement.

“I’m not larger,” Joash said.

“Look at your hands,” Mimir said.

Joash saw nothing unusual about them. He shrugged.

“You can see the bones,” Mimir said.

Joash looked at his hands again as he flexed them. Yes. It was as if his skin had become translucent. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

“And your face,” Mimir said, “it shines.”

“Impossible!” Joash said.

“You’re the fiery stone bearer. Don’t be surprised that being in its presence changes you, a human, more than it changes us.”

“I did not know.”

“How could it be otherwise?” Mimir pursed his lips, his forehead creased. “It’s as if the stone is purifying you.”

“It’s purifying all of us,” Hrungir said, who had eavesdropped.

“March!” Tarag growled from up ahead on a boulder.

Joash grew thoughtful. I must use this knowledge to my advantage, he told himself. He wasn’t sure how, but he cudgeled his wits for a way.