People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3) (21 page)

30.

Odin clumped into the workroom. He was fat, with a belly hanging over the silver buckle of his belt, while a thick, red beard hung halfway down his chest. He was vain, they said, proud of his riches. A silver dagger was slung on his belt, while he wore rhinoceros-hide boots. They called him the Spear Slayer.

His spear, seven feet long and made from ash, had a tapering bronze head some eighteen inches in length
. It was a terrible weapon. When cast with force, Odin could pierce a dragon-shield at close quarters or bury its head in a foot of solid palm wood. With it, he had hunted the shaggy sabertooths of the foothills and rogue bull elephants. He held his spear in such high regard that he scorned lesser missile weapons such as bows or slings, and he had named it. As if it were a pet like a dog or a favorite donkey, Odin called his spear, Gungnir.

The fat youth clumped into the workroom, setting Gungnir against the wall
. He scowled at Ham slumped in the corner singing to himself, holding a jug of beer.

A worried Rahab stepped through behind
Odin. “Do you see what I mean?”

“
What am I supposed to do?” Odin asked. “Doesn’t he get drunk all the time?”

“
Drunk!” shouted Ham. “I’m not drunk.”

“
Don’t lie to him,” Rahab said.

“
I’m not lying. I’m sober.” Ham raised the jug. “And it’s sober that I say the attack on Festival is a mistake.” He guzzled, smacking his lips and drawing his arm across his mouth. “Come, Hunter, join me.” Ham corked the jug and heaved it at Odin.

“
Would you stay with him?” Rahab pleaded.

“
Me?” Odin asked, as he caught the jug.

“
A mistake,” shouted Ham. “The attack is a grave mistake.”

“
Explain to him why it isn’t a mistake,” Rahab said.

Odin
glanced at her sharply, shrewdly. “I thought that’s what
you
thought.”

“
I do,” admitted Rahab. “But the way he is now, I’m afraid he’ll harness the chariot and rush to Festival.”

“
No,” Odin said. “I can’t allow that.”

“
So talk to him,” Rahab said.

Ham, who had risen silently, slapped
Odin on the back, making the fat man stumble. “Drink with me, Spear Slayer. Drink to this vast mistake.”

Odin
glowered, but as Rahab raised her eyebrows, pleading, he shrugged. “Better a few drinks than having to lock him in the stocks, I suppose. Because that’s where he’s going if he tries to leave Babel,” Odin said. “Drunk or not, that will be the penalty.”

“
But I’m not drunk.”

Odin
pushed Ham to the workbench. Then he took a healthy slug of beer as Rahab slipped away. His bushy eyebrows rose. “Say. This is good brew.”

Ham leered knowingly, crashing onto the bench, picking up a second jug
. “Drink with me, a prisoner in Babel.”

Odin
sat on a nearby stool, chugging.

Ham stared at his jug, and in the manner of drunks
, he began to speak about past glories, about the boat-ride to Dilmun, the Blessed Land. He told the entire long story, about Anu and the leviathan, what an awful experience that had been. When he finished, he leered at Odin.

“
They say you also went on a journey.”

“
Oh, aye, that I did,” Odin said. A smile might have touched him. The beard made it hard to tell.

“
Did you see any leviathans?” Ham asked.

“
No dragons of any sort.”

“
I thought not.”

Odin
swirled the jug. “I had to listen to you about the leviathan. Now let me tell you what I saw.”

The Spear Slayer began a discourse on his trek north, he, his older brother and a cousin, another grandson of Ashkenaz
. The trek had occurred before Ashkenaz left Gomer Village. The trek had occurred partly because Noah had prompted them to obey the great command of Jehovah to fill the earth. Noah had suggested they scout the far-flung lands. Odin’s brother, Vili, suggested they trek north. So off they went, for weeks climbing mountains, trudging through plains and skirting dark seas. The weeks plunged together and still they trekked, wishing to know what lay beyond the horizon. Odin related that the journey stirred in him a deep desire, a longing to know, to see strange sights, to do something mighty, something daring.

At last
, they came to the Far North, a strange and sinister land. Vast animals lived on this howling plain of snow. Cold mists drifted across the bleak landscape. Wooly mammoths and rhinoceroses forged through the drifts, as did shaggy musk oxen and thunderous herds of reindeer, huge herds, leagues long. It awed them. Around the herds prowled wicked beasts, massive sabertooths, dire wolves and lumbering cave bears. Then they came to the Ice Mountains. Sheer they arose, castles of ice. The mists drifted thicker here and longer into the morning. Above the strange mountains shone a yellow glare: iceblink, they named it. For league upon league, they had tried to go around the Ice Mountains or to find a path into them. No. There hadn’t been a path. The grinding mountains of ice had halted the trek.

Odin
spoke of marvels, of days surrounded by dire wolves, of the thunder of stampeding herds. It had terrified them. Then he and his brother, Vili, and his cousin, Ve, slew a wooly rhinoceros.

Odin
slurred his words as he spoke. By now, he had drunk much beer. He tilted his head back, with his hands sweeping aside his massive, red beard. On his chest, on the costly coat, was the horn of the wooly rhinoceros, held by a chain of gold.

“
It is my good luck amulet.”

“
Ah,” Ham said.

Odin
spoke of the trek home. He blinked repeatedly. His lake blue eyes had become glassy. He spoke of his meeting with Noah and trekking with his brother and cousin onto Mount Ararat, there seeing the Ark, the mighty ship of old, encased deep in ice. It had reminded him of the Ice Mountains.

On their return to Noah, in his camp on the northern slope of Ararat, had come visitors: Beor and his daughter
, Hilda. She had been fifteen at the time. He hadn’t been much older. Beor had delighted in their tales, while he had told them how he had slain a great sloth.

Odin
reeled upon his stool, with an almost empty jug in his hands. “A great warrior, that Beor.” Odin belched. “What I remember better, though, was Hilda. Ah, she was a nice girl.”

Ham nodded sagely
. Rahab had told him that Odin had spoken often in the past about Hilda. Rahab felt it was the real reason why Nimrod had left Odin behind. Ham lifted his jug, as if to match the Spear Slayer in a chugging contest. In reality, he continued to sip.

“
You liked the girl then?” Ham asked.

Odin
blinked, bending nearer Ham. They had been telling stories for several hours, with many empty jugs around them, almost all of them drained by Odin. “Liked her? Of course, I liked her. She was beautiful.”

“
Ah,” Ham said. “It’s too bad then.”

Odin
scowled. And he swayed back suddenly, his head erect. He opened his mouth and emitted a loud belch. He laughed afterward, until his forehead furrowed. “What do you mean it’s too bad?”

“
That you liked the girl.”

The furrow deepened
. “Why should that be bad?”

Ham brushed the side of his nose, appearing very knowing.

“I want no winks and nods, old man. Tell me why that’s bad.”

“
I’m not sure that’s wise,” Ham said.

Odin
swayed onto feet, his lake blue eyes cross and his breathing audible. “I demand to know.”

“
Not in your condition. Wait until morning.”

For all his drunkenness,
Odin lunged smoothly, his pudgy yet strong fingers wrapping around the front of Ham’s tunic. “Speak, old man.”

Ham stiffened haughtily
. “First, you must release me.”

Odin
growled, shaking Ham.

Ham seemed to relent
. “It has to do with war.”

“
You mean the Army of Babel?” slurred Odin.

“
Exactly.”

“
That has nothing to do with the girl!”

Ham pried the fingers from his tunic
. “Sit down. Then I’ll tell you.”

Odin
plopped heavily onto his stool as he glared at Ham.

“
You never lived during Antediluvian times. How could you? But I did,” Ham said, thumping his chest. “I know what war is like. It’s a dark and dirty business, very violent. Worst of all is afterward, how men act after a battle. I speak from experience, mind you. I’ve seen it. Madness comes upon victorious warriors. Victory is intoxicating. To take a woman then, especially from your enemy, ah, many men cannot resist it. They find it the greatest joy of combat.”

“
Do you mean rape?”

“
Yes, rape,” Ham said, “along with looting and pillaging.”

The scowl became dark and brooding, until
Odin shook his head. “Nimrod knows I desire the woman. She is to be mine.”

Ham chuckled.

“Why is that funny?” Odin asked.

“
Beor is Nimrod’s foe, his worst enemy. After he kills Beor, how do you think Nimrod will treat the daughter?”

Odin
thumped his chest. “She’s promised to me.”

“
Which is why you’re here and not there,” Ham said. “Believe me, the Mighty Hunter understands his men. He knows that after the battle, you would demand Hilda. But that is not his plan, not to Nimrod’s liking. Your will, Spear Slayer, must be submerged to Nimrod’s.”

“
That isn’t what he told me.”

“
Oh. Well, what a man says and what he does.” Ham shrugged. “Don’t think about it. You’re here in Babel. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Odin
’s breathing became heavier. “She’s promised to me. Hilda is to be mine.”

“
Good luck.”

Odin
squinted. A shifty look entered his eyes—the cunning of a drunk. “You spoke about a chariot dash to Festival. You will drive me instead to the Army of Babel.”

Ham laughed
. “And promptly be sent home again. Me, because I’m in disfavor. You, for disobedience. No, that’s a foolish idea. Just keep drinking and forget about it. Drown out the idea.”

The pudgy fingers plucked at the massive beard, much as a shepherd might test the quality of a sheep
’s wool. “We must go to Festival.”

“
No. Impossible.”

“
Why?” roared Odin. “Why is it impossible?”

“
It’s too much risk for you. You’d surely back out in the morning.”

“
Me?” Odin slapped his chest. “I trekked to the Far North. I saw the Ice Mountains. Do not speak to me about too great a risk.” He lowered his voice. “I will take my bride to the Far North. There, I shall become a prince, the patriarch of a mighty people.”

The lad
’s ambition astonished Ham.

“
We shall set out tomorrow,” Odin said.

Ham smiled knowingly
. “Let me tell you what will happen tomorrow. You’ll become sober, afraid of Nimrod and tell me that this was simply a drunkard’s thought.”

“
Tomorrow,” growled Odin. He reached under his beard. “So I swear by my rhinoceros horn.”

31.

Ham wondered if it was the oath or unbending pride that compelled Odin to attempt the chariot dash. Perhaps it didn’t matter which. But the next morning they slipped out of the city, traveling north along the east bank of the Euphrates. The hard pace wearied Ham. His hip throbbed, and his left foot swelled. Chariot driving churned endless dust, until he craved an icy beer to wash the dirt out of his mouth.

They sped to the Tigris, beating Kush to the ferry crossing they had built five years ago
. The Tigris flowed faster than the Euphrates and, in spring, flooded unpredictably.

“
Now we must push,” Ham said, with his eyes bloodshot.

Everyday it was the same
. Get up at dawn, drive, dig up some wild beets, shoot rabbits along the way, bring down a duck or munch on biscuits and listen to Odin complain that there wasn’t enough to eat. To keep the animals fit, they gave the donkeys a bag-full of oats each evening. Sleep, count on their two dogs to give them warning, get up at dawn and repeat the process.

The alluvial plain gave way to foothills, the grasses to bushes and the palms to hardwoods and occasional pines
. The higher they trekked, the less arid the land became. Deer abounded, auroch too, foxes and rabbits. The Tigris narrowed and grew wilder, faster, the banks rockier. Two weeks after starting, they left the Tigris and followed the Methuselah River. They entered mountainous terrain, although they were north of the Zagros Range, where the trees thickened into forests. Sometimes, they had to take detours.

“
We’re in Japheth Land,” Odin announced one afternoon.

Ham
’s stomach knotted. He almost suggested they turn around.

“
What if she isn’t at Festival?” Odin asked. “Will we travel to Magog Village?”

Ham hoped not.

Two more days of rugged travel brought them to open ground. A half-day after that, they watered the donkeys in Japheth’s Lake, the first body of water either had seen after leaving the northern slopes of Ararat.

“
We’re almost there,” Odin said.

Ham knew because the butterflies never left his stomach
. More than any time in his life, he wanted a drink. He left Odin to the camp chores and limped to a boulder, going around to the other side. He slid onto his knees and bowed his head.

“
Lord Jehovah,” he began. Then he shivered and touched his forehead to the rocky ground. He was unclean, dirty, undeserving of the Creator’s help. He knew it, and he knew Jehovah knew it. “Help me, please,” he whispered. “Guide me. I don’t know what to do. I’ve made a mess of everything. Please help me untangle some of it. Don’t let my children be the cause of war, of bloodshed among men. Help me, Jehovah of Noah, Jehovah of Lamech and Methuselah. Help me, or I’ll die.”

He waited, maybe for the voice
Jehovah had used right after the Flood. Nothing happened, though. The wind whistled around the rocky shore. A donkey brayed.

He worked up to his feet and picked up his cane
. Then he touched his stomach. It didn’t seethe as before. Some of the grim nervousness had vanished. He dipped his head, awed that Jehovah would listen to him, and he whispered a short prayer of thanks before limping back to the chariot.