B. Alexander Howerton (2 page)

Ull was just about to reach out and caress the girl again,
when a sharp, high, piercing cry broke the stillness above them.  Without
warning, a large rock thudded into the girl’s right shin, shattering the bone. 
The girl cried out in surprise and agony.  Ull quickly looked up to find the
source of the projectile, and espied several of his red-haired companions on
the cliffs over their heads, jumping and shouting in rage.  Some were heaving
rocks down at them, while others were stooping to pick up more.

Ull instantly perceived what was happening.  His brethren
must have been searching for him, and knew he enjoyed coming to this spot. 
When they found him, they saw a dark-skinned enemy with him.  Consumed by
blood-rage, and not seeing him at all anymore, their only instinct was to kill
the enemy.

Ull bellowed and leapt to his feet. The girl writhed in pain
on the ground, clutching at her broken shin, which leaked blood.  Other smaller
rocks pelted her, when the red-hairs’ aims were accurate enough.  A few even
struck Ull, increasing his anger.  In a blinding rage, He ran to one of the
cliff walls and began to scramble up it, with the intention of stopping the
rain of stones.  The cliff walls were rough, with many protruding rocks and
stunted, gnarled trees growing out at obtuse angles.  Despite these advantages,
Ull, in his frantic haste, slipped several times and made slow progress to the
top of the cliff, which was about five times his height.  During Ull’s climb,
his companions did not cease casting their rain of stones upon the girl.

Ull finally pulled himself onto the summit of the cliff, and
immediately ran over to block one tribemate, who had lifted an exceptionally
large boulder over his head with both arms, preparing to heave it onto his
victim below.  Ull leaped up and shoved the rock with all his might, forcing
his companion to drop it behind him and stumble backward.  Ull landed and
deftly spun around, frantically searching for the next best prospect to be
thwarted.  He noticed that his cohorts were calming down, peering over the
cliff’s edge with an air of satisfaction.  He followed their gaze to the girl
below.  She was a bloody pulp, with rocks strewn in profusion about her.  One
large stone lay where her head should have been, and the splatter of blood
radiating from it testified to the force of its impact.

Ull stood still, staring down, feeling numb from having
exerted great energy, the goal of which had been suddenly stripped away.  His
companions, with satisfied grunts, were already turning and making off in the direction
of their encampment.  After a long, silent pause, in which the stillness of the
forest once again descended around him, Ull turned away and followed his
brethren.  The strange rush of new emotions was already receding.  He was
already beginning to forget the girl.

“I can’t believe he slapped me.  What did I do?”  Julia
asked, wiping her eyes with a tissue and pulling her long, straight brunette
hair away from her face, where various strands had stuck.  “I don’t understand
him.”

Julia’s friend Carol reached an arm around her and gave her
a reassuring hug.  “Guys like Carl only want one thing.  It’s a shame it took
so long for you to find out he was one of those types.”

Julia looked up at her through tear-laden eyes.  “But I
loved him.  At least I thought I did.”  She buried her face in a hand, still
holding a tissue, and sobbed.

Carol squeezed her shoulder.  “You seem like you could use a
glass of wine.”  She got up from her couch, picked up the two empty bowls from
the coffee table, which had remnants of chocolate ice cream in the bottom, and
took them to the kitchen.  An early October rain beat against the windows of
Carol’s apartment in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and some of the first leaves that
were beginning to fall stuck briefly to the glass, before resuming their
journey to the earth.  A cozy fire crackled in the fireplace.  Julia gazed into
the fire with a faraway look as she absentmindedly petted Carol’s white
longhair cat, who had parked herself for a tonguebath against the cushions of
the couch.

Carol returned with two long-stemmed glasses of blush wine,
and handed one to Julia.  “Thanks,” she said, taking it.  She took a sip, then
crossed her arms over her already crossed legs as she leaned forward and gazed
into the fire.  She sniffled a couple of times, then said, “You know, I really
thought he was the one.  I mean, he used to be so kind and gentle, especially
when we first met.”  A wistful smile of memory passed over her face.  “He
always brought me flowers, or we would go out to dinner a lot.  I really miss
those times.”

Carol looked at her friend with a sense of motherly worry. 
“I really don’t want to say ‘I told you so,’ but you know what I’ve thought of
Carl ever since you met him.  I just got this seedy impression, and I knew he
was going to hurt you someday.”

Julia smiled at her friend through tears.  One tear left her
deep, brown eyes to slowly slide down her long, straight nose, then drip from
her full lips.  She inclined her head to rest gently on Carol’s shoulder.  “I
know, you tried to tell me.  But he was so exciting.  He used to make me feel
good about myself.  He was wonderful, until about a week ago when we ran into
one of his old high-school sweethearts.  He seemed to change after that.  I
mean, the girl was married.  Her husband was right there, but it seemed like
Carl couldn’t get her off of his mind.  That was when he started becoming
distant.  I got desperate.  Yesterday I said to him, ‘maybe we should think
about the future.’  He stared back at me, and there was rage in his eyes.  He
said ‘how dare you try to tie me down!’ and left for the night.

“I thought he’d get over it, after blowing off steam.  He
came back today, and we went to Saugatuck for the day, and went out on his
boat.  It was wonderful.  It was like it was in the beginning.  We were getting
along so well, I thought I’d bring up, you know what.  I mean, we’ve been going
out for over six months now.  We were back at my place, and we were just
beginning to get passionate, and I asked him, ‘What do you think about you and
me, together, forever?’  Carol, he flipped out!  I’ve never seen anything like
it.  He said so much, I can’t remember it all.  But he said something like,
‘Why do you want to ruin it?  We were having so much fun.’  Then he said,
‘Don’t try to tie me down’ again, and that’s when he slapped me.  He left, and
I have no idea where he went.”  The tears began flowing again, and Julia buried
her face in Carol’s shoulder as sobs shook her body.

Carol gently brushed her friend’s long, dark hair with her
hand, allowing her to let her grief spill out.  When Julia’s shaking seemed to
calm down a bit, Carol said, “Well, now you know he’s not the right man for
you.  You’ll have to let him go.”

“But it’s so hard,” Julia cried, not lifting her head.  “I
just want to love, and to be loved.  I want someone I can devote myself to, and
who will love me for me.  Where will I find him?  I’m 33.  I’m running out of
time.”

“You never run out of time for love, Julia,” Carol replied,
still stroking her hair.  “You’re young. You have plenty of time.  You don’t
have time for losers like Carl.  You must be patient, and the right one will
come along.”  She grabbed Julia by both shoulders and held her at arms’
length.  “Promise me you won’t go running back to him.”  There was hesitation
on Julia’s face.  “Promise me!  You call me first, and we’ll go eat a gallon of
chocolate ice cream.”  Julia laughed despite herself, and they hugged.  The cat
came up and nestled against them, as if she sensed the humans needed comforting.

Still hugging her, Carol said, “You’ll find the right guy. 
I know you will.  You’re attractive, wonderful, friendly.  Someone is going to
be very lucky to find you.”

“I know,” Julia said over Carol’s shoulder, “But it’s just
so hard to wait.”

“Yes it is, but that’s what friends are for.  Besides,
Jane’s wedding is next month.  Who knows?  Something might happen there.”

They both pulled back, holding each other’s arms, and looked
at each other for a few moments, then both burst into smiling tears, and hugged
again.  The crackle of the fire and the rain on the window were the only sounds
in the room.  Finally they disengaged again, and Carol said, “Hey, I rented
‘Waiting To Exhale.’  Why don’t I fill up our wine glasses, and we’ll lose
ourselves in their problems for a couple hours.”

Julia reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes carefully. 
“That sounds perfect.  I love you, Carol.  Thanks for being such a good
friend.”

Carol, who had stood up, squeezed her shoulder.  “I’ll
always be here for you.”  They smiled at each other for a moment, then Carol
took the wine glasses to the kitchen to be refilled.

The insufferably hot desert through which the caravan passed
seemed interminable.  Mounds of shifting, featureless sand spread in every
direction from under the wheels of the chariots in which the warriors rode,
drawn steadily but lethargically by camels.  Behind the chariots stumbled a
long procession of prisoners, the sun beating mercilessly upon their backs. 
Some were lucky enough to be wearing loincloths or other tattered garments,
others were naked.  All plodded along on bare feet in the scorching sand. 
Their arms had been shackled in iron manacles in front of them, while a log of
stout wood had been thrust behind their backs, through the angles made by their
bent elbows, so that their arms were completely immobile. If one of the
prisoners fell, a warrior in one of the chariots in the rear rode up and
proceeded to flog the fallen man.  Sometimes the man would struggle to his feet
and resume stumbling forward, other times he would remain immobile, and the
warrior would ride on, leaving the fallen victim to rot where he lay.

Suddenly the warrior in the lead chariot gave an excited
outcry.  The foremost chariots had just crested a hill of sand, and the top of
the majestic ziggurat of mighty Uruk presented itself to view, shimmering in
the roiling haze of the desert heat.  It finally came into view for the
prisoners as well, and gradually resolved itself into finer detail as they
approached.  They could see that walls of baked mud brick surrounded a city of
buildings composed of the same material.  Rising to dominate the town in its
center was the ziggurat, its many complex tiers rising higher than anything
they had ever seen, reaching to impossible heights, reaching skyward to caress
the heavens.  Frantic whispers spread through the throng of prisoners.  They
had never seen or even known anything like this existed, having lived all their
days in the mountain forests far to the north.  They had heard of  these cities
of sand and their magnificent buildings, but believed they were only stories. 
Now the chariot-riding warriors and their ziggurat-dominated city of Uruk were
all too real.

The caravan approached the city’s massive main gate, hewn
from cedar.  The great, richly carved double doors swung ponderously outward to
either side, permitting them entry.  Fear grew in the prisoners as they passed
under the walls and into the densely-packed town.  The townspeople jeered and
threw gourds and rocks at the prisoners, but the warriors pushed them back as
best they could, and made straight for the ziggurat.  They entered the iron
gates of the temple complex, which were then shut to block out the townspeople,
and the warriors stepped down from their chariots.  As temple servants raced up
to lead the camels and their chariots off to the stables, the warriors herded
the prisoners and drove them up the stairs of the ziggurat.  About twenty of
the prisoners had survived the harsh trek across the desert, barely a fifth
that had been captured after the tremendous battle by the great freshwater
lake, far to the north, that the prisoners called home.  They were a nomadic
people, short and sturdy, with red hair and fair skin.  They had followed the wild
bison to the shores of the lake, as they did every year, but this time the
chariot-mounted warriors were waiting for them.  Their crude spears and slings
and unorganized fighting were no match for the mounted attackers, with bows,
iron pikes, and practiced tactics.  All the women had been butchered, often
after being raped, and the men that had survived were forced into the long,
unforgiving march across the desert.  The survivors of that ordeal were now
being unceremoniously prodded up the steps of the central temple of their
conquerors.

When they reached the first tier, they were guided through
the massive doorway which led to the great gathering hall.  The prisoners gazed
around in fear and awe.  The walls were covered with fearsome images of gods, demons,
ogres, and many other depictions and symbols they could not understand.  They
were herded through the long hall amongst towering pillars to the nether end,
where several steps led up to a raised platform.  On the platform a large stone
altar sat, surrounded by blazing torches.  Behind the altar, against the far
wall, rose an immense statue of a kneeling woman, clad only in a long skirt.
The arms of the figure were upraised over the impressive, terrible visage of
the goddess, the hands coming together over her head, holding a brilliant,
dazzling, roughly oblong stone.  The stone had no definable color, yet when the
light of the torches struck it just right, it seemed to cast about the hall
rays of every hue imaginable.

The prisoners were led to the base of the stairs that led to
the altar, and were halted forcibly.  Nothing happened for a moment, and they
stared around anxiously.  Then, from somewhere behind the large goddess statue,
a woman appeared.  She walked up in front of the stone altar and stared
imperiously down at the mob.  She wore a long pleated skirt of light cloth that
hung down to her bare feet, held up by a thick, ornately tooled gold belt.  An
elaborate headdress, which rested on her long, black hair, rose to an amazing
height above her head.  It seemed to the prisoners to resemble roughly the
horns of a bull, which they were so fond of hunting.  The woman was bedecked
with gold and jeweled ornaments of an amazing variety.  She wore a collar of
lapis lazuli, which left her breast bare, and she wore no shirt or other upper
body attire.  She stood with her fists on her hips and gazed down at her prey
with deep, dark, penetrating eyes, which seemed to hold great foreboding.  The
warriors all prostrated themselves before their high priestess.

She barked out some sounds which the captives could not
understand, and the warriors leapt to their feet and arranged the prisoners
into a rough line before the steps.  The priestess walked slowly down the
steps, then haughtily back and forth before the red-haired captives,
scrutinizing them closely.  She stopped before one, who was a little taller
than the rest, and seemed to be much less awed by his surroundings that the
others.  He stood tall and straight, unafraid, awaiting his fate.  The
priestess narrowed her eyes and examined his face intently.  He stared back
stoically, unflinching.  She looked down the length of his body, past his
tattered yet intact loincloth to his legs, then back up to his face.  As they
stood staring at each other, a flash of reflected torchlight bounced off the
stone in the goddess statue’s hands and passed a colorful band of light across
the prisoner’s forehead.  The priestess suddenly turned to a warrior and
snapped out some command.  He seized the captive in question by the shackled
arms, while the others were herded away, back out of the temple, by the other
warriors. 

The priestess regally turned and walked back up the stairs
to the altar, while a warrior roughly compelled the chosen prisoner to follow. 
She strode around behind the statue of the goddess, through a hidden door, and
into her private chamber.  The warrior dragged the captive in, threw him down
on the floor, then instantly hurried out, shutting the door behind him.  The
prisoner looked up and around, and found himself in a sumptuously decorated
room.  The walls were covered with elaborate frescoes, depicting what he
concluded was the story of the people of this city.  Torches lined the walls,
casting mysterious shadows about the room.  One corner contained an elaborate
array of pillows, fabricated mostly from rich red and yellow patterned cloth,
arranged to make what was obviously a bed.  There was a low, ornately carved
table in front of the pillows, and on it rested an urn and two cups, all
crafted from intricately decorated beige-on-black pottery.  The priestess
removed her headdress, placed it on the head of a bust of a woman that sat on a
low table next to the pillows, and reclined into her bed.

“You must be frightened,” she said in the tongue of the city
of Uruk to the prisoner who crouched, panting, in the middle of the room. 
Sweat dripped down his temples from under his disheveled red hair, running into
his thick beard.  He glanced frantically about, looking for some mode of
escape.  The only way out he could see was the door through which he entered. 
He leapt up and ran toward it, crashing his shoulder into it. He rebounded, and
the door opened.  The guard who had brought him in stood in the doorway,
glowering menacingly and holding a long iron knife in his hand.  The captive
backed slowly away, and the warrior shut the door again.

The prisoner whipped around and glared at the reclining,
half-nude priestess.  “There is no escape,” she said. “You are my prisoner.” 
The red-haired captive’s expression of hostility did not change.  “Oh, of
course,” The priestess continued, “You do not understand our language.  No
matter. You will serve your purpose admirably, nonetheless.  You must be tired
and thirsty, after that long trek through the desert.  Would you like something
to drink?” 

She leaned forward and poured a dark liquid from the urn
into the two cups.  He watched intently as she set the urn down, picked up a
cup, and took a long drink from it.  She sighed with pleasure as she drew the
cup away from her lips, and with the back of her hand brushed away a trickle of
liquid that ran down the side of her chin.  “This is exquisite.  You must try
it.  It is the temple wine, made especially for me by my slaves.  That is where
your companions have been taken, by the way.  I’m sure the wine they will
prepare for me will equal this.  Here, try some.  It will prepare your spirit
for the coming ritual.”  She stood up and walked slowly over to him, holding
the full cup before her in two hands.  He backed away, unsure of what to do.

“Oh, come, I’m not going to harm you.  I want you to feel
comfortable and safe.  It is important.  This wine will restore your
strength.”  She held the cup forward, raising her thick, dark,
exquisitely-formed eyebrows in an inviting gesture, and parting her full lips
slowly in a reassuring smile.

The captive stared apprehensively at the priestess, then at
the cup, then at the priestess again.  Her face was now so calm, so friendly. 
He inched toward the cup, which she held perfectly still, until he could sniff
the contents. A strange, pleasant mixture of fruit and spice scents entered his
nostrils. The new sensation caused him to jerk back a little, but the priestess
still did not move.  He reapproached, his thirst gaining control of him, and parted
his lips slightly.  The priestess very slowly and tenderly placed the rim of
the cup between his lips and tipped the cup, until a small sip spilled into his
mouth.  He pulled back quickly as the strange new tastes exploded on his
tongue.  It was not unpleasant.  In fact, he wanted more.  He opened his mouth,
wider this time.  The priestess tipped the cup up, filling his mouth.  His
thirst overwhelming him, he drank in great gulps.

“You like that, don’t you?” she asked, smiling.  “Here,” she
said, whirling around to refill the cup.  “There’s plenty more.  You can have
all you want.”

A warm feeling flowed through his body as he drained the
second cup.  The magical liquid seemed to drain away the aches of the forced
march through the desert.  He smiled, relaxing.

“Ah, the wine is reviving you.  Good.  Come. Rest.”  She
walked around behind him and put her hands on his strong, sinewy arms, still
held by the log and the shackles, and guided him toward the pillows.  He
allowed himself to be led, the wine having melted his resistance.

She sat him down on a pillow and stroked his arm.  “You look
so uncomfortable with those chains.  One more cup of wine, and I think I can
trust you without those.”  She poured another cup and helped him drink it.  He
was eager for the magical liquid this time.  As the look of contentment spread
across his face and his eyelids closed, she deftly manipulated the manacles
around his wrists, and they popped open, one at a time.  He barely seemed to
notice as she removed them and massaged his bleeding, swollen wrists.  She
pulled the log out from behind his back, stretched his muscular arms out, and
laid him back on the cushions.  He sprawled and stretched like a kitten as she
lay down beside him.

“You are special,” she said as she reached out and began
stroking the thick red hairs of his chest.  “I saw it in your eyes, when I
first gazed at you.  You are the one.  I know you don’t understand a word I am
saying, but I have to tell you some things,  In fact, it is probably better
that you do not understand.

“You see, we had to come find you.  I consulted the great
goddess Inanna, and she told me to seek you in the wooded mountains to the
north. Oh, of course, you do not understand our ways.  Let me explain.  Oh, are
you still thirsty?”  He had lifted his head, glancing around for the urn. 
“Very well.”  She sat up and poured another cup as she spoke.

“How could you know that our new boy-king, Ulanpazzal, was
very sickly, and died after only a few months, long before he could fulfill his
duties?  Our lineage was broken, our land and crops were in grave danger, for
we were without a king to replenish the land and please our gods.”  She reached
around behind his head, held him up, and helped him sip from the cup.  “Our
rituals must be maintained, or we will all perish.  I prayed to the goddess
Inanna.  That is her likeness, out there behind the altar.   I sat up many
nights before her and burned many goat-lard candles.  After twelve nights of
vigil, Inanna came to me in a dream.”  She lay him back down and put the empty
cup on the table. “She said, ‘Look to the north.  You will find the seed of the
new king there.  You will know.’  I sent a war party north, and they have just
returned with you.”  She once again lay beside him, and resumed stroking his
chest.  “Inanna indicated to me you were the one, so I had you brought in to me
here.  You see, whether you know it or not, you are the present incarnation of
Dumuzi, and you are meant for me.  We must make a new line of kings.”