He Who Lifts the Skies (7 page)

Neshar stopped a short distance from the horse, turning his back against it. “I don’t want him to see this yet,” Neshar told Keren quietly. “Hold your hands out and together, like a cup.” She held out her hands, scared but obedient. Reaching into a leather bag slung at his waist, Neshar removed a fistful of flaked barley and poured it into her hands. “My horse’s favorite treat,” Neshar explained. He backed away. “Now, wait there. And whatever you do, don’t drop the grain.”

Keren waited fearfully. For an instant, she thought the creature would ignore her. But then it approached, snorting out its breath. Keren shut her eyes and held out the grain. She heard the horse, then felt it snuffling at her hands. Just as Keren thought she might scream, the horse began to eat the grain with amazing delicacy. Its muzzle was soft against the palms of her hands, its tongue moist when the oats were completely gone. Keren opened her eyes, relieved and oddly elated. The black-and-tawny creature pulled away, then stood still, watching her, its big brown eyes alert and peaceable.

“It didn’t even try to bite me,” she told Neshar as he returned.

“But you thought it would,” Neshar observed wryly.
“And I thought you’d faint from pure terror. Admit it: You only did this because Sharah coerced you.”

When Keren nodded, Neshar sighed, his mouth twisting, revealing his disgust. “Let me give you some advice, my pale-eyed little sister. Sharah may be clever and unique, but she isn’t wise. Don’t follow her. She will lead you to grief. Also, if I were you, I’d go to our father immediately and confess this visit to him. He will be more lenient with you if he hears the truth from your own lips. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Keren smiled at her brother shyly. “I know you’re right about Sharah. But this once, I’m glad I followed her. I think your horses are wonderful.”

Neshar’s answering smile was genuine. “Thank you, little one. Now, go straight to our father as we agreed. Run.”

“I will!” She ran, passing the openmouthed Khuldah and the startled Sharah. To her great delight, they ran after her, calling for her to stop. Laughing, she refused, making them chase her.

Peering through the dusky encampment, Keren trotted toward the impressively large and crackling evening fire. She was eager to reach her father, who was sitting near I’ma-Annah, listening as Shem played a restful night song on his carved wooden flute. Most likely, Shem would tell stories at the end of his song, and Keren wanted to sit where she could hear every word. She also wanted to be near her father.

With all the confidence of a youngest born, truly forgiven and much loved, Keren scooted between I’ma-Annah and her father, nudging herself comfortably beneath
Meshek’s arm. “Little mischief,” he grumbled kindly, hugging her to his side. Keren sighed, pleased that he wasn’t angry with her. Leaning against her father, she smiled at I’ma-Annah, who reached over to stroke her hair.

“Have you argued with your sister and Khuldah?” Meshek asked, lowering his head so she would hear his voice.

“No,” Keren murmured. “I just wanted to be with you and I’ma-Annah.”

“I should have punished Sharah this afternoon. She led you and Khuldah out of the encampment. You confessed and protected her to avoid a scene, didn’t you?”

Unable to disagree with the truth, Keren nodded reluctantly, studying the shadows that were flickering across the woven grass mat before her. Meshek hugged her again. “Don’t worry. I understand. But, from now on, don’t protect Sharah. If she deserves to be punished, then let her be punished.”

Meshek said nothing more, for the last melancholy sweet notes of Shem’s night song faded into an expectant silence.

Pretending consternation, Shem looked around. “What, my children? You’re not asleep yet?” Everyone laughed at his mock teasing, and Shem grinned like a boy. To Keren, he almost looked younger than Eliyshama.

“She wants a story, beloved,” I’ma-Annah murmured to Shem, while tilting her head gracefully toward Keren.

“Why not? It’s early yet,” Shem answered agreeably, straightening as he tucked his flute into the broad woolen belt at his waist. “But to be sure everyone remembers the truth, I will start as always.” Raising his voice, causing everyone to look at him, he said, “In the beginning, by the Word of the Most High, the heavens and the earth
were created. The earth was without form and void.…”

Hearing these familiar words, Keren relaxed and watched the others. Some of the men were silently mouthing the words. They had memorized these stories, Keren realized. Her father had memorized them as well. Determined to learn the stories for herself, Keren watched Shem again. His voice rose and fell in pleasing cadence, coaxing everyone to learn of the past. To learn that the Most High, by His Word and His love, spoke the light into separate existence from the darkness. That by His Word, He brought all plants and creatures into being. Of Himself, the Lord gave the first breath of life into His own likeness that He had wrought from the earth—and this likeness was Adam, who was the Father of all her Fathers. And Adam lived in the luxuriant Garden of Adan, from which flowed the mighty river that separated into four smaller rivers (the first river, the Pishon, Keren remembered, curved about the land of Khawvilah where I’ma-Annah was born years upon years later). While Adam was in the Garden of Adan, it pleased the Most High to create a companion for Adam from Adam’s own rib. This companion was Adam’s beloved, later named Havah.

“Now,” Shem hissed, chilling Keren by his words, “The serpent was more crafty than any animal.…” Beside Keren, I’ma-Annah exhaled audibly as Shem continued to recite, for she despised the serpent, their Adversary.

Keren listened, remembering that the Most High condemned the deception of the serpent and pronounced by His Word that a man would descend from the woman, a Promised One who would crush the head of the serpent.

Shem paused, departing from his usual recitation.
Turning toward their five horsemen-visitors, he said, “Understand me, all of you: We don’t know who our Promised One will be. The Most High alone knows him. I can only tell you that I am not he. Nor is my son Arpakshad—though the Most High has indicated to our Noakh that Arpakshad will be a father of the Promised One.”

The five young horsemen listened without reacting as Shem sternly reiterated, “No man—no matter how powerful he is—can claim to be the Promised One unless the Most High names him from the sons of Arpakshad.”

He continued the ancient story, his voice rising and falling in restful tones. Expelled from their beautiful Garden of Adan, Adam and his Havah mourned the curse they had brought upon the earth. Years later, they also mourned the death of their son Hevel by the hand of his brother Kayin. Then came the first city—built by that murderer Kayin. Following these verses, Shem related first inventions, histories, and the spiritual origins of tyrannical
nephiylim:
giants who inspired further evil upon the earth. Then he told of the Most High’s call to Noakh, father of Shem, Khawm, and Yepheth.

“Then you met I’ma-Annah,” Keren said softly, but not softly enough. Shem heard her and smiled, his brilliant eyes flashing in the glow of the fire.

“Yes, then I met your Ma’adannah.” He glanced at I’ma-Annah, as if silently urging her to speak.

I’ma-Annah spoke gently but clearly enough to be heard by everyone. “In those days beneath the first heavens, all of mankind resisted the love of the Most High. They would not hear His Word. They despised His gifts and in their hatred, they turned upon the world of that time—which He loved, and which was beautiful beyond anything that any of you could imagine beneath these
blue heavens.” She sighed, apparently remembering the beauties of the previous world with regret. “Even so, this world has never known such evils as existed then.”

Neshar and his horsemen-companions were listening, half hidden in the darkness. I’ma-Annah looked at them, the oval of her beautiful face shadowed with sadness. “I have always prayed that the children of my children would never turn upon each other in this new world. And yet … now I see that they will, in time.”

Hastily, as if it was too painful to endure, she continued. “As a child, I saw my eldest brother crush the life breath from my dear father, who was the only person in my family who truly loved me. Then my brother choked me and threatened to kill me if I said anything. For the remainder of my childhood, I didn’t utter a single word—not one—because I was so afraid of my eldest brother. But how I longed for justice! Eventually, every person in our settlement knew that my brother had murdered my father. Yet no one cared. My father’s life was worth nothing to anyone.” I’ma-Annah shut her eyes briefly, then looked up at the distant heavens.

“Every night, my dreams were haunted by my father’s murder. Each day, I longed to scream out words that would have provoked my immediate death. To protect myself, I covered my face with a veil; I pretended to be a madwoman.” She glanced around now, studying the faces of her children’s children, her expression softening fondly.

“What would you have done?” she asked. “I question myself sometimes: ‘What else could I have done?’ I thought I would go mad. I was scorned, beaten, humiliated, bitten, kicked, scratched, spat upon, utterly despised. Who could love a nonspeaking woman? A nothing?” Quietly, she stretched one small hand toward her beloved,
Shem; the gold on her wrists flashed wonderfully in the firelight. He took her hand and kissed it, silently urging her to continue her story. I’ma-Annah smiled at him, her love so evident that Keren sighed.

“One day, my eldest brother beat me yet again. Then his wife and my own mother scolded me. They didn’t care that I was in pain. No one cared. No one loved me. I was in such despair I longed to die! I ran to the river, crying, seeking death. But before I could throw myself into the river, someone threw a rock into the water at me. One rock, then another!”

Teasingly she swiped a hand at Shem, and everyone laughed at his expression, a lovingly guilty plea for understanding.

“What else could I do?” he demanded, lifting his hands, echoing I’ma-Annah’s words. “I had to stop her.”

“You just wanted to throw rocks at the pretty girl,” Metiyl called out, full of raucous good humor.

Chuckling, I’ma-Annah continued. “So there I was, water dripping off my face, a crying, nonspeaking, miserable creature—and this strange young man is throwing rocks at me, begging me without words to not kill myself. Why should he have cared? No one else in my family cared. But he did. And so I knew I had to continue living.”

Her eyes darkened then, remembering some sorrow. “My family was fighting, all of them; they hated each other so much. Not one person in my settlement truly loved another. My eldest brother’s wife, Iltani, hated my eldest brother, but she still wanted to have a child. Therefore, she turned to the Adversary, to the Serpent worshipers. A foolish thing to do. The Nachash—the leader of the Serpent worshipers—demanded the death of another to ‘give’ Iltani the child she requested. At the time, my mother
was bearing a child. Iltani fed my mother poison and killed her, then took my mother’s dead child to the Nachash. I was grieving and so angry that I didn’t care what happened. I followed Iltani through the darkness—for it was night—and I spied upon the lodge of the Nachash, hating the Nachash for demanding the life of my stillborn brother.”

I’ma-Annah paused, and everyone listened in silence. “Evil is clever. And perceptive. The Nachash sensed that I was watching, and she screamed at me, asking if I would accuse her before the Most High. Iltani grabbed a knife of stone and ran to find whoever was spying on her. I knew she would find me and kill me. I ran. As I ran, I spoke for the first time since my father’s murder. I cried to the Most High, begging Him to save me. And do you know what He did?”

Some of the younger children shook their heads, gaping at I’ma-Annah. She widened her eyes at them, saying, “He let me fall! By His mercy, I was hidden in deep grass. Iltani didn’t find me, and so I was saved.” Lowering her voice, I’ma-Annah said, “Iltani found one of my brothers and killed him instead—they’d been fighting earlier, and she blamed him. But everyone in the settlement turned on Iltani and killed her for the pleasure of killing her, not for justice. Truly, they didn’t care for my dead brother any more than they cared for my father.

“I hid in a tree that night, terrified. And yet, I felt the presence of the Most High—surrounding me as completely as the love of any devoted father.” She swallowed; Keren could see tears glistening in her eyes. “The Most High became my own Father that night. The most perfect Father.

“When I knew that Iltani and my brother were dead, I
went to the river. Shem found me there and was so distressed by my grief that he sent his mother, our I’ma-Naomi, to pay my eldest brother to release me from his household—which was an unheard-of thing. My greedy brother accepted I’ma-Naomi’s offer. The next day, I married my beloved, not realizing that by this marriage, the Most High would save my life yet again. I didn’t know of the Great Destruction to come.”

“And I was afraid to tell her,” Shem confessed, surprising everyone. It was difficult to imagine that the eloquent, persuasive Shem could ever fear speaking. “I was afraid she would run away. How could I have said the words? ‘Beloved, now that we are married, I must tell you that the earth beneath our feet is going to tear itself apart and be utterly destroyed by water from beneath and above. And the Most High, by His Word, will allow this to happen.’ I was sure she would say I was a madman.”