People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3) (27 page)

1.

Hilda wept for Gog, her dearly beloved, slain by Nimrod. The death stunned all of the people at Festival. On a bier of crossed spears, four men hefted the woolen-draped corpse. With a slow step, they carried it out of the Festival grounds.

With a shawl hiding her features, Hilda followed, weeping. Her father’s strong hands kept her from collapsing. A moment of clarity, of hatred for her father, flashed powerfully through Hilda. She wanted to scream at him that he take his murderous hands off her. Then she burst out crying again, shaking her head, knowing that it hadn’t been her father’s fault. It hadn’t been Nimrod’s fault either. Fate had stolen her beloved. She couldn’t believe that Jehovah would allow Gog such an early and stupid death. Why had he died at such a young age when he was strong and powerful, the best wrestler in the world?

She followed the four men as they marched up a hill. Behind her and her father followed all the people of Festival, the joy and merriment departed just like her beloved.

They buried him on the hill, one wind-swept, without pines but rocky.

Noah spoke, as did Japheth and Magog. Europa spoke as well. And Nimrod begged the sons of Japheth, begged Magog for the favor of speaking at Gog’s funeral.

The Mighty Hunter cleared his throat. Gog lay in the hole, with fresh dirt beside it. Nimrod stood at the head of the grave, with the people circled around him. Noah coughed as he sat on a stool, shivering, with a heavy blanket around his shoulders. From under her shawl, Hilda watched with red-rimmed eyes. She felt hollow, empty. She debated throwing herself into the hole and stabbing herself to death, to join her beloved in the afterlife. Beor towered over her. She knew he studied Nimrod.

“I am shamed,” Nimrod said. He shook his head and stared at the grave. Then he grasped his tunic, a fine linen one. With his strong hands, he tore it in half, exposing his muscled chest. He bent near the fresh dirt, scooping some in his hands. He poured the dirt on his head. “I weep for Gog. I grieve. He was a noble warrior. I hate the spirit of fury that fell upon me and caused his death.”

Fresh tears welled from Hilda’s eyes.

The Mighty Hunter’s eyes were bloodshot. With his torn tunic and dirt in his hair, he stepped before her, kneeling. “I beg your forgiveness, Hilda.”

She touched his dirty hair. Hatred like a disease welled in her heart. It almost made her physically ill. “I forgive you,” she whispered, and she felt the hatred drain out of her, leaving her gasping.

Her father clenched one of his big fists, raising it. Nimrod bowed his head, waiting. Beor’s fist shook. He finally lowered it and looked away.

After a time, Nimrod rose. With a slow tread, he moved in front of a stony-faced Magog.

“You are forgiven,” Magog said, without looking at Nimrod. “It happened in the heat of wrestling. It was an accident. I don’t blame you.”

Nimrod took Magog’s right hand, kneeling, kissing the back of it.

Magog placed his hand on Nimrod’s head. “He is forgiven. I do not wish for a feud. This contest between us is over.”

Hilda watched the Mighty Hunter rise and back away into the crowd. Earlier today, at Magog’s tent, Nimrod and his Hunters had taken many sacks, placing them before the tent. In several sacks had been bronze knives, hammers and broaches. In others had been woolen garments, spools of flax thread and sealed jars of date palm honey. Then Nimrod had brought donkeys, bringing them four at a time, until at the twentieth Magog had come out of the tent.

“No more, Nimrod. You cannot buy back the dead.”

“My bloodguilt is heavy,” Nimrod said. “I want to atone.”

At the gravesite, Hilda watched Lord Japheth step up. “I do not hold Nimrod guilty. There is no more bloodguilt for him to pay. Let there be peace among the children of Noah.”

“Peace,” said the people, ending the funeral. Most turned away and filed down the hill. Hilda waited until the last clod was shoveled onto the grave. She set flowers on the dirt. Magog placed a chiseled tombstone. Then they too filed down the hill.

The next few days passed in a daze. The sons of Ham left, as did those of Shem. Before returning home, the sons of Japheth held a meeting. Hilda’s father went to it. Magog, once his strongest supporter, turned against Beor.

Beor reported later that Magog wouldn’t look him in the eye. “You are the cause of Gog’s death, Beor, you and your feud with Nimrod. You never should have made his Hunters slaves. You are no longer welcome at Magog Village, neither you nor your Scouts.”

“Where will we go?” Hilda whispered. Her father spoke to her at the gravesite, three days after the funeral, as wind stirred his beard.

“We will go with Noah,” Beor said. “I have agreed to help him home, to see that he arrives safely.”

“What about our things in Magog Village?” Hilda asked. “What about our house?”

“Yorba will fetch the things,” Beor said. “We have lost our house.”

“What about the other Scouts?” she said. “Where will they go?”

Beor compressed his lips, staring at the clouds.

Later, Hilda learned that several of the Scouts had decided to move to Babel. They no longer wished to stand against their fellow Hamites. They were tired of the conflict, of being, in effect, outcasts among their own. Once again, Nimrod had beaten her father.