Enoch Primordial (Chronicles of the Nephilim) (8 page)

The dark shadows of the night were not demons, they were men. But they were not entirely the same kind of men that Methuselah and Enoch and all their lineage produced. They seemed more apelike. They walked upright, but were hairier than usual, with a stocky, robust musculature and pronounced brows and jaws. They wore animal skins and headdresses created from the game they hunted, thus creating the illusion of supernatural denizens in the night.

As the strangers guided them in the dark,
Methuselah learned why he had not spotted them creeping up on the camp, and why they seemed to emerge from the rocks themselves. They
had
emerged from the rocks. They were troglodytes, cave dwellers. They now led Enoch’s clan through fissures and portals into the volcanic earth below their feet.

Their torches lit the way through a labyrinth of carved passageways.

Edna was already confused and thought how easy it would be to become lost amidst these tunnels. She could see the troglodytes knew the way like the back of their hand. Then she thought of Methuselah’s hand, and how strong and manly it was, yet how it could caress her with such affection. She pushed that thought out of her head. She had to be all there. She had to be ready for action.

As they walked down the incline, Methuselah was disgusted with himself. Here they were, their lives in danger, captive to a tribe of primitive apemen, not knowing if they would help them or eat them, and all
he could do was to stare at the pleasurable way that Edna’s hips moved as she walked in front of him. What on earth was happening to him? He could not think straight. He shook it out of his mind. He had to be ready for action.

Enoch could tell they were going deep into the
earth. The slope of the shaft was steep at first, but then tapered off as they neared their destination, which seemed to be an untold number of cubits below ground.

They passed through a guarded portal into a large cavern
. Enoch gasped at what he saw. They stood on a ledge overlooking a vast space. As large as the palace in Sippar, about two hundred cubits in diameter and seventy cubits high, it was more than a mere natural cave. It had been carved and shaped into a palatial interior, with a vaulted arch ceiling and columns around the perimeter. How could these primitive apemen create such sophisticated architecture?

Below them, dozens of
apemen, apewomen, and apechildren busied themselves at a marketplace. They all stopped and stared up at the captives descending the stairs into another passageway entrance. One of the apechildren pointed up at them and whispered something to its mother. It occurred to Enoch that he should probably not call them apemen. It might offend them. Their adult males appeared strong enough to crush his skull if they wanted to.

T
hey passed other hallways and arched entrances. They saw more neighborhoods of dwellings and communities. By the time they reached their destination, Enoch calculated that this city was easily as big as Sippar, but entirely underground. He now started to think that perhaps he should not call them apemen because they might very well be more sophisticated than the city dwellers of the plains.

They stopped before a huge pair of cedar doors.
The leader of their party pulled on the bell rope hanging beside the entrance. A beautiful bell clang sounded out. In answer, the doors opened from within.

The leader, a robust older soldier
, turned to Enoch and spoke. “People rest here. Leaders come with me.” This was the first he had spoken since the capture of the clan.

“Methuselah,” said Enoch.

Methuselah jumped to his side. They followed the soldier into a large reception area. The beautiful space had been adorned as a garden. Large oak and cedar columns lined the walls like trees. Flowing green drapes were hung with pomegranates embroidered on the hem. Various sparkling jewels bedecked everything. This was not merely a garden, it was a sacred underground temple.

Methuselah
thought about pointing out to his father the earthly imagery used in a spiritual sanctuary. But a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Enoch, my son! What took you so long!”

Enoch and Methuselah turned to see an old man and woman walk out of a side entrance.

They were both at least a good eight hundred years or so old.
The man’s stately but bent posture tempered the flashing white hair on his head. The woman’s hair shone white as well, but she carried herself with the grace of royalty. She led the man by the arm. They both had a sense of carrying the weight of the world upon them.

T
hen Enoch and Methuselah saw why she was leading him. It was not that he was more frail than she, but because he was blind. His eyes were glazed over with a foggy whiteness.

“Father Adam?” Enoch said. He realized his mouth
hung open and he closed it.

“And mother Havah,” Adam replied with a smile. “
Do not be disrespectful, lad.”

Years of cave dwelling had not been good to Adam, on his body
or
soul. Enoch thought Adam had taken on a resemblance to the troglodytes over whom he obviously ruled. Perhaps being out of the sun had its negative effects on the human body.

Enoch embraced Adam fiercely. “It is you! I never thought I would ever meet you.” Then he hugged Havah with tenderness.

“Yes, here I am in the flesh. Are you not going to introduce me to your companion?” Adam said. He could not see, but he had highly attuned his other senses to compensate for the lack of sight.

“Dear, dear, Enoch,” Havah said with a loving sadness.

“Oh, pardon me,” said Enoch, “This is my son Methuselah.”

“That would be you
r great-great-great-great-great-great grandson,” retorted Methuselah.

“Oh? And with a sense of humor, too. It does my heart good to hear you
, my great-great-great-great-great grandson,” said Adam with what would have been a twinkle in a seeing eye. “I cannot see you, but I can smell you.” He grinned impishly.

They laughed. They were in need of
a bath. It had been some time since their last contact with moving water.

Methuselah hugged Adam
. He could feel a quivering sigh of sadness in Adam’s arms, a regret of lives not shared.

Then Methuselah
embraced Havah. She whispered to him, “Methuselah, you shall outlive us all.” That struck him as a bit odd, out of place. Maybe she had lost some of her wits in her old age.

Adam said, “You have both come a long way, and with your family. It must have been a difficult journey.”

“Just at the start,” said Methuselah, knowing he was putting it mildly.

“Well, then, let us break bread to celebrate your safe delivery,” said Adam. “Gabriel and Uriel told me of your approach to Sahandria. We have much to discuss.”

The cave dwellers
laid out quite a spread before Enoch’s family. Though they lived in an underground world, Adam’s troglodytes were adept at growing fruits and vegetables in secret gardens in the foothills within hiking distance of their residence. They spread a sumptuous banquet before the weary travelers. Skilled hunters, they supplemented the produce with mountain goat, gazelle, ibex. Anything with hair, they could catch and kill. Enoch chuckled at the discovery that even isolated from the rest of civilization, they still managed to make beer and wine. The drink of the gods never eluded humanity.

The extended family finished the meal and left the elders of the tribe to discuss their matters. Enoch, Methuselah, and a handful of others talked about the quarters that were put aside for their people. They did not know
how long they would stay, but they would prepare their clan to adjust to their new residence until Elohim revealed otherwise.

Adam sat
with Havah next to him, listening to the conversation. She never left his side. They were inseparable, and not because he needed her guidance with mobility. They were all alone in the world, and they only had each other. Despite the community of love around them, they would always have a pain too deep, a woundedness, that separated them from everyone and everything in this world. So they clung to each other with a subtle desperation.

Watching them,
Enoch thought Mother Havah was a bit too controlling over Father Adam in his weakened state. But he did not intend disrespect, so he kept his mouth shut.

Adam sat back and belched. He muttered, “Excuse me, my little
Ninti
, Lady of the Rib.”

“You are pardoned, my
little Man of Red,” Havah remarked wistfully.

Methuselah overheard it and his heart
warmed. So old grandfather and grandmother liked giving affectionate nicknames. It must run in the family. He longed to touch his little Pedna Pedlums.

Enoch mused, “What is it like, Father Adam? The Garden.
I have longed to know.”

Havah
watched Adam sadly as he gave a deep sigh. He could not get it out of his mind anyway. He might as well paint the picture burned into his heart and soul.

“Exactly
as you would think. That is, like nothing you could imagine,” he said. His eyes, though dull and without vision, brightened. He could see it all as clear as day before him.

Adam spoke with a hushed awe, “The lush valley is bounded on three sides, the Sahand and Bazgush mountain range in the south and the Savalan and Kush ranges in the north, and
in the west, Lake, uh, the lake…” His memory lapsed.

“Lake Urumiya,” said Havah. She finished his sentences, corrected his errors, and filled in when he forgot. He showed no sign of irritation. In fact
, his descendants had the impression he would not even try to talk without her.

“Yes, yes, of course, Lake Urumiya. It makes for a perfect shelter from the harsh climate that we all know so well. The westerly winds from the
great sea bring a warm rain for the dense vegetation in the valley. Every fruit tree known to man thrives there. Whole orchards, and vegetables and nut-bearing trees as well. And plenty of grapes of the vine, let me tell you.”

Methuselah raised his chalice
. “More wine to make the heart glad!” Everyone laughed.

His words conjured a vision of the Garden for his listeners. They could all see it. And they realized it was good for his soul to have a moment of respite from the heavy burden that lay upon him.

Adam turned solemn again. “And rich red soil,” he said ever so slowly, treasuring every word as he felt the earth running through the fingers of his mind.

Havah reached out and rubbed his arm
. He held her hand on his arm and continued, “Hot springs of water in rolling meadows. Ice cold waters pouring down the mountains into the river that flows through Paradise and empties into Lake Urimiya.”

“The Meidan River,” added Havah.

Adam continued, “But it was all like volcanic ash compared to the presence of Yahweh Elohim.” He paused. “His immediate presence is what I miss the most.” Adam’s eyes welled up with tears. An absolute silence fell on the group, breathing stilled.

Methuselah had never heard that name before:
Yahweh Elohim
. He assumed it was an affectionate nickname that only Adam had with Elohim. It was the nature of names in their world. A name was more than mere object reference. A name would often carry the essence of a person. Like
Adam
, which meant “red earth,” or
Havah
, which meant “life source.”

Enoch did not know what
Yahweh
meant. He had heard no one else use the name, so he decided to avoid presumption and leave the topic for another day. He knew he had much to learn of
Yahweh
Elohim.

Adam finished with melancholy longing, “We would walk together sometimes in the cool of the day.”

Everyone listened closely. They had never known such presence. Nobody did, except that primordial couple. Death and alienation from Elohim had permeated the entire human race as a consequence of their disobedience. This was why Elohim seemed so distant and unapproachable.

T
he one thing no one dared discuss was the one thing everyone wondered about: the trees. That is, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and the Tree of Life. To mention them would send Adam and Havah into a tailspin of depression and regret that they might never escape. Uriel had warned the travelers about this. He had told them about the couple’s act of eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil that resulted in their exile. He told them that had Adam and Havah eaten from the Tree of Life in that state of sin, there would be no end to the tragedy of eternal evil generated by such a horror. No burden of responsibility could be greater to bear than that. Enoch felt he should trust the angel this time and avoid the topic altogether.

Yet
he could not get it out of his mind. He had heard rumors about the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil when he was a young child. It was only a distant memory of forgotten family folklore, replaced by the myth with which he was indoctrinated as an apkallu of Shinar: the legend of Adapa. He called up that tale now to examine it in his mind. The story went that Adapa had been a sage of Eridu, city of the god Enki. He had been taken into heaven and offered the bread and water of immortality by Anu. But he turned them down because his patron deity, Enki, had advised him against it, claiming they were the bread and water of death. So Adapa missed out on the opportunity of immortality. He was clothed with new garments and returned to Eridu to die.

There were so many similarities between the stories:
the names of Adapa and Adam, the loss of eternal life, the rejection of a command and the trickster temptation. Yet there were such significant differences: the Shinar pantheon versus the sole Yahweh Elohim; failure to eat rather than eating; no trees, no wife. It was almost as if the Adapa story was an inversion of the Garden of Eden, a replacement narrative intended to displace loyalty from the original story onto a new paradigm.

Enoch studied Adam’s face.
Yet, here he sat before the original eyewitness of it all, telling him a different report than that of the gods. This was the problem of being a scribe and a sage. Sometimes, education and learning became a flood that darkens the mind with confusion and obfuscation rather than a sun that enlightens it with truth. Enoch hoped one day Elohim would clear that up for him, since he was now his servant.

Enoch had also wondered what it would be like to live forever.
Was it transformation of the body? Was it perpetual regeneration? And what was it like to be in communion with Elohim so perfectly as to not need the dreams and visions that Enoch had become dependent upon for his own sense of real presence of the deity?

Methuselah’s mind wandered into the details of what Uriel had told them about the Garden. He thought,
If Adam was made from the clay of the earth, and Havah was made from his rib, did they have belly buttons?
Then his mind drifted further to the image of Edna’s belly button, a precious valley on the soft rolling hills of her virginal abdomen.

“Methuselah, are you listening?
” Enoch’s words brought Methuselah out of his tailspin of desire. It continued to creep up on him at the most inopportune moments.

“What?” said Methuselah.

“I just told Father Adam about my vision from Elohim.”

“Right,” said Methuselah. “You are to be a prophet of judgment.”

“Yes,” said Enoch. “But you did not hear the rest of my interpretation. I said that it seemed to me that if I were to pronounce judgment upon the giants, I had better be able to defend myself for long enough to finish my prophecies. I want to become a giant killer.”

“A WHAT?”
exclaimed Methuselah. Finally, he listened.

“A giant killer,” repeated Enoch. “Nephilim are considered outlaws now, so by the law of the land, we have every right to hunt them down and bring them to justice. I would not merely be pronouncing judgment, I would be
bringing
judgment down upon their heads.”

“You have been a man of peace all your life, father,”
protested Methuselah. “It does not suit you.” Methuselah found the image of his father as a fighter difficult to embrace.

Enoch
explained, “When we were in the midst of the Gigantomachy, I knew that everything that I had believed in was a lie. I understood for the first time in my life that the only way that evil was allowed to spread its talons over the earth was for righteous men to do nothing. We will no longer do nothing. We will fight this evil.”

“In case you had not noticed,” said Methuselah, “Nephilim are very hard to kill.”

Adam spoke up. “You are right. Nephilim are half-angel, half-human. What makes them difficult to kill is that they inhabit two realms, and therefore have the strengths of both in a way that neither has of the other.”

“Archangels do pretty well against Nephilim. We saw it ourselves,” said Enoch.

“Yes, but not without great effort,” Adam countered. “And if the Nephilim were to fight in great numbers, they could overwhelm even archangels.”

“But we would not fight them in numbers,” Enoch insisted. “We would single them out and destroy their filthy corrupted bodies of flesh one by one.”

Methuselah said, “You may not have that luxury, father, since they often travel in packs. Still, they are not of this world. They have occultic fighting skills that we know nothing about.”

Adam interrupted their spat
. “There is a secret order who have developed special skills to kill Nephilim.”

“Who?” asked Enoch.

“They are called the
Karabu
,” said Adam.

“How can we find these Karabu?” asked Enoch.

“You do not have to,” said Adam. “They have found you.”

Methuselah and Enoch looked at each other.

“Sahandria is the home of the Karabu. They are those who aid the Cherubim in guarding the perimeter of Eden.”

It
all became clear to them. Adam’s community was on the perimeter of the Garden, because they housed the guardians of Eden. Enoch was disappointed that he did not figure it out sooner.

“When can we start training?” asked Enoch.

Adam said, “It will take years to perfect the technique.”

“Years?” asked Methuselah.

“More like decades,” said Adam.

Enoch resolved, “Then decades we will take to become Karabu warriors.”

The thought turned Methuselah’s stomach. “There is one thing I need to do before I enter this training, or I will not last to the end.”

To everyone’s pleasant surprise, he turned to
Adam and said, “Father Adam, will you marry me to Edna bar Azrial?”