Enok and the Womb of Gods: A Tale of the Antediluvian World

Praise for Enok

This is no light fantasy. The deep, thought provoking side of the book touches on high intelligence, spirituality, and prejudices. Enok is a book that will envelop you … and leave you deeply touched.

BookReview.com: Excellent

A remarkable origin story unlike any other … A magical mixture of history and mythology … Masterfully penned.

The Independent Review of Books

Solid entertainment. An impressive reimagining of Biblical myth.

Blue Ink Reviews

Immensely satisfying in its endeavor to put a spotlight on such intriguing mythical beings … the Nephilim, the Watchers, and the Serpent of Eden … [a] unique and thoughtfully conceived saga.

Self-Publishing Review: 4.5 stars

Action-packed and well written … As cerebral as it is beautiful … An excellent read for anyone interested in reading a fast-paced Christian fantasy with wonderfully crafted characters.

BookReview.com: Excellent

A richly woven fantasy. Will appeal to fantasy lovers and … those who may have speculated about a pre-Biblical time-frame.

Self-Publishing Review: 5 stars

Brings into brilliant focus the harmony of science and theology with lyrical power and simplicity. Highly entertaining and at the same time affirms the strength of the classical past.

Readers’ Favorite: 5 stars

Contents

Teaser

Author’s Notes

Exordium

1. Old Maa ‡

2. The Heaven Below ‡

3. Hollow Victory

4. Enmity Eternal

5. The Inertia of Hope

6. I, Enok

7. The Never-Kiss

8. Kindred of the Dark

9. Web of Iron

10. Naama

11. The Crucible of Now

12. Wake, Ye Living Stones

13. Watershed

14. Fugitives

15. Pyramid of Stars

16. Lord of Zoar

17. Zoia’s Debt

18. Odium

19. Serpent in the Sky

20. Nemesis ‡

21. The Visitation ‡

22. Deadly Grotto

23. Dragon Boat

24. Womb of Gods ‡

25. Son of Yared

26. Denouement — Into the Light ‡

Glossary

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About the Author

First Edition, published in 2020 by Lost World Tributes.

lostworldtributes.media

Text and illustrations copyright © 2020 by André SkoroBogáty.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This story is a work of fiction, and should be deemed as such.

978-0-6487703-0-5 ( Trade paperback )

978-0-6487703-1-2 ( Trade hardback )

978-0-6487703-5-0 ( EPUB eBook )

A catalogue record for this work is available from the National Library of Australia.

Cover, James T. Egan, Bookfly Design LLC, bookflydesign.com

Print interior styling, Graeme Jones, KirbyJones, kirbyjones.com.au

Artwork, Hilman Hamidi, 99designs.com/profiles/hilmanham

E—60

Teaser

Be transported to the antediluvian world — an epoch of gods and giants, serpents and mortals, each struggling for supremacy.

On a remote island enclave of the serpents, a lonely young slave, Enok, is torn between loyalties when a shipwreck strands other humans. In the violent clash of races, Enok stands wrongly sentenced for murder. His only hope is to escape with the castaways, a ruthless amazon, the only human he has ever really known, and her mysterious companions, a towering youth of impossible strength, and a shifty crippled serpent.

But in whom should he trust? The besieged sect that enslaved him, or the homicidal kindred who overturned his world? However, the greatest puzzle is that of his origin, and the truth lies vaulted in an ancient monument with otherworldly powers and a mind of its own.

As conflicts rage over the future of this world, a lonesome widow weaves this tale of bygone days, and a gathering audience in the higher realms begins to suspect that the key to all their futures is buried in this tale of the past.

Prepare yourself for an imaginative retelling of the very beginning that will take you back to the very first of days — and beyond.

For high school friends of old, and other migratory animals.

How I loved your mothers’ sandwiches.

Author’s Notes

OPTIONAL READING

Sagas of the ancient Zmee and Elim were often episodic and were enjoyed in either short or nested longer forms. Likewise here, for an abridged experience, begin at Episode 3 and skip the overarching storyteller’s timeline labeled with the ‡ superscript. I recommend this approach for all but fans of complex fantasy or for those unfamiliar with Biblical mythos.

Now, while few may ever re-read a book, this story was designed so that it could be read twice: the short way first and the long way later, where the overarching layer makes new of something old.

STYLE

Many ancient idioms have no modern equivalent; however, I have done my best to convey this saga in vernacular English while retaining some sense of the archaic original.

GENDERLESS PRONOUNS

Imperial English has long accepted the plurals they / them / their as epicene singulars. However, due to rising dissatisfaction over this, and over gendered third-person pronouns generally, I have coined the near homophonic dey /dem / deir to represent the equivalent epicene singulars for creatures of unknowable or non-existent sexual specie. For transcendent deity, however, I have retained the plural forms of They & etc.

LINGUISTICS

The guillemet symbol pair « » are used as quotation markers for the non-verbal sign language of Zmee facial tendrils, one that has no grammatical rules despite my representing it so. General expressions of surprise / disbelief or uncertainty / curiosity might well be rendered wordlessly by «!» and «?» respectively in much the same way as do human facial expressions.

The language of the yeti-like Wahoona relies heavily on non-pulmonic sounds such as clicks of the tongue, in-breaths, and on various coughs. For readability’s sake, such in-breathed clicks are prefixed with an implomation mark ¡ and are always italicized.

Thus, dental clicks similar to the American tut-tut of dis­approval (or the sucking English tsk-tsk) are rendered as ¡ts. Similarly, lateral clicks like the Tchick! Tchick! used to urge a horse, are rendered as ¡tk.

Crisp alveolar clicks of the tongue on the back of the gum ridge, a cork-popping sound, are rendered by ¡tkl. For example, ¡tkla and ¡tklo are the onomatopoeic sounds children use to imitate the clopping of a horse; and in this vein, ¡mpwa would approximate the sound of a kiss.

Glottal stops (coughs) are indicated with the usual apostrophe, thus ’Ugh and ’Agh are pronounced like coughs.

While such unusual sounds could have been rendered by IPA symbols, they are alien to most readers and the consensus has been to avoid them as they detract from the reading experience.

THOUGHT BUBBLES

Where supported by the reading platform, internal dialogues, or thoughts projected from one person to another, are portrayed with a small-cap slanted font to better distinguish these from standard italicized emphases of speech. Additionally, telepathically received thoughts are shown in a bold slanted font.

Finally, all these unorthodox devices have been used as sparingly as possible. Yes, they’re experiments, but clarity has always been the objective here, and I beg the reader’s indulgence.

Exordium

Man, cursed is the earth because of you …

Serpent, henceforth on your belly shall you crawl …

Genesis 3

The Nephilim were on the earth in those days … when the Sons of God went in to the daughters of men … These offspring were the mighty ones, the great heroes of old.

Genesis 6

This story reflects upon the myriad sorrows of all that followed after. This is a tale of the Woebegin.

1

Old Maa ‡

The return of a long-lost son upends the daily routines of an aging recluse. Confronted by the discovery of grandchildren who know nothing of their heritage, she relents to a saga of bygone days.

Ma’nuna! Ma’nuna! Ma’nuna!

The chanting was now a frenzied chorus. The climax was near. It could end only one way now, and the worshipers were eager for it, needing it. Plumes of incense clouded the torch-lit cavern, draping horror in mystery and magnifying the terror.

Splayed across a sacrificial slab before a towering robed statue of the Twain Goddess, a young Deina thrashed helplessly. Hoarse impotent barks were all that remained of her screams. Her numb tongue and parched mouth refused to make a sound. They had slipped her yahl root to make her compliant. They must have. And though her head swam weakening against the intoxicating torrent, her spirit held defiant of any submission by the flesh.

Ma’nuna: thou womb of the gods, thou weaver of souls, she and he, two in one, both and neither. Ma’nuna! cried a priestess ecstatically.

Hearken thy heart to the swiftening drums! howled a priest. Ma’nuna! Ma’nuna! Come forth!

The bindings about Deina’s wrists and ankles had cut deeply where her blood had lubricated the struggle. Her anguished digits had long since welded into fists.

I will not submit, Deina kept telling herself. Burn you, Ma’nuna. Burn you!

The wide-eyed statue leered grotesquely as the robe fell from its shoulders. Great static fingers of wood clasping the smoldering votive bowl twitched. Then came the sound of a great hiss as the flung bowl splashed into the temple laver. All hope now fell prostrate to terror.

The great effigy had come to life!

None had ever survived the bloodlust of this deity. No one ever would.

This is not a dream, not a dream, whimpered Deina inwardly as she struggled vainly against the towering avatar with her teeth clenched against the pain.

Then fingers like wooden claws forced her jaws open, gagging her with a soppy yahl-soaked cloth.

Unable to flee, or breathe, or scream —

Argh!

Eyda woke suddenly, panting, ripping the blanket as she flung it from the bed.

It had only been a dream, only a dream, a nightmare from a distant life. A hundred years of nights had passed without such troubling memories, and at least fifty since she had even spared a thought for that hideous deity. Ma’nuna: a name so loathed it was never uttered. Left unspoken it should have stayed forgotten. And it was, or it had been, until today.

Her stone-and-timber bed was a luxury in these parts. She fell from it naked and dried herself of terror’s sweat with a scrap of blanket. There was no going back to sleep now. A crack of gray light around the door curtain told that night had ended. The reveille of nearby frogs amidst the dawn songs of the scores of marshland creatures, these were all part of that great awakening where further sleep was impossible.

And they all seemed to mock her:

Ma-aa — nuna! Ma-aa — nuna!

Her kissed fingers signed the traditional blessing over the life-­tapestry that hung outside the entrance of her hut. So many different kinds of tokens emblazoned it: some of festivals, others of grand adventures, or births. Each was an emblem of mercy; indeed, the tapestry itself meant a life of mercies. Twenty-four twenties and five and two, the year-tokens declared: its owner had witnessed four hundred and eighty-seven New Years, more than had any other marshlander. ¹ ²

The wall hanging was now so large it had acquired a fame of its own. It wrapped halfway around her dwelling — too grand by far for a humble reed hut — and with each passing festival, there never yet failed someone keen to embellish it for its own sake. But for the rebel who had been Deina, these tokens counted more than years. They were markers of a liberty whose price much blood had paid.

Draped in a coarse sarong and with her prayer mat in hand, Eyda hobbled toward the riverbank where water lilies framed a hallowed space. There she removed a slipper, and gingerly tested the shallows. Go easy, she thought, favoring Old Stubby with a kiss. Now for the left foot. ³

On her knees, with palms to the great rising light and opened in petition like the lilies themselves, the ablutions of her morning ritual began in earnest. However, nightmare’s grip still held her, and it told in the trembling of her hands.

Let my hands do no wrong. She cupped them for water and drank. Let no dark word pass my lips. A second cupping washed eye-sleep away. Then she faltered, more hopeful than believing, Let my eyes behold no … evil.

Her lips then loosed a stream of gratitude as gentle as the tranquil river before her, to The El, creator of the Greater and the Lesser Lights, ⁴ and great keeper of her soul. Silent prayers were for heedless Deina, and timeworn chants, her thankless past. With so much to be grateful for, she was not ashamed to express it, but it was old Eyda who prayed now, not the headstrong Deina of her youth. That restive girl had died a dozen times at Ma’nuna’s feet; it was Eyda who had risen from the sacrifice reborn.

Hers was now a mostly solitary life on the edge of The Moud, a thousand islets of mud and reeds that had once been mere eyots in the shallows of a broad river delta. It was fear that had driven Eyda and the first families to the remoteness of this place. That very same fear that had extended these eyots into a network of islands now bursting with people and industry.

The Gihon delta seemed boundless, swallowing the horizon on every side. And here, nestled against the Crooked Thumb of its Six Fingers, her descendants were as far from centers of wealth, power, and intrigue as it was possible to be; as far from the world of giant beasts and giant men as one could go. This was quite literally the end of the earth, and the very blessing she held most dear.

For this haven and the peace we enjoy, I give thee thanks. With concluding obeisance, the aging woman rose, whispering, Deina, I died: Eyda, I live. ⁵

Stands of jute had grown up to curtain her river oasis against unsympathetic eyes. True, most of the passers-by were her descendants; however, recent generations held an almost alien array of faces that offered little reward of recognition or smile. With the passage of years, Eyda’s celebrity had waned as her grand­children’s grand­children wrought fame for themselves. She had been venerated once, touted the model of the virtuous widow. As clan mother, she had presided over disputes and auspicious occasions.

Later, as a great-great-great-grandmother, she had been highly valued as a midwife and healer, but after a series of nearby stillbirths, some mothers-to-be considered the merest sight of her an omen, and her very name had slipped into a byword. So preempting that final decline of regard, Eyda had exiled herself to a remote hut at the end of a narrow sodden track, at the edge of the edge of the edge of the world.

Honk. Ha-Honk!

A noisy marshland fang-swan sprang from between rushes onto the silted bank with a bobbing head and clattering beak. It had come begging for food.

Just as suddenly came a tap on her shoulder as a youngster gleefully declared, And seventy-six!

Oh, Sha! exclaimed Eyda with startled hand on heart. You’ll scare the life out of me, sneaking up like that!

Sorry, Old Maa. I hope you live forever.

Eyda was touched by his naïveté and gave the youngster a welcoming slap. What are you counting this time?

The lad was Sha‑Noa, her great-grandson, almost forty now, and one of countless great- and great-great-grandchildren of similar age scattered across the everglades. He was by far her most frequent visitor and he loved to hear the old stories. To him, the natural world was captivating. He was a boy of a thousand questions and he had, despite his youth, a profound grasp of the most peculiar things yet with a strangely unchanging innocence — just like her long-lost husband Enok had been.

Sha‑Noa was special and she loved him like a son. And why not? With his midnight skin and thick unruly hair, he was more a semblance of her than any image of his parents.

Look what I have, he said, flourishing a great prickly orb from his sling-pouch. A pine cone!

Where did you get it?

A long-boat pulled in last night. You should see the size of it! Anyway, I heard someone talking with father about herds of long-necks migrating upriver, and needing safe haven from the leaping great-fish.

Eyda wondered. The Gihon’s Six Fingers were guessed at being about seven leagues wide. Their shallowness is what protected them all from the leaping great-fish. And the upriver neck beyond Log Jam was far too deep and swift-flowing for the lumbering long-necks. The story did not quite ring true.

I traded my whistle with a boy called Ab. And guess where he found it. Way upriver, in the deep waters beyond Zakon’s Reach. Then he whispered eerily, Beyond even that — in the deep, dark gowfer forest.

Tonight’s meal, is it? It’s not enough for two, you know. Roasted over embers, the great cone’s seeds made quite a treat.

By Baba’s beard, Old Maa! About dinner in the morning, and breakfast in the evening: you’re always thinking about food. No, these aren’t for eating at all.

No? Oh. She never managed to voice, Eating is one of the few pleasures left to me, or even Perhaps you’ll understand someday, for at the very mention of that dragon Zakon, she sank into remembrance like rock into river.

The boy too was pondering, studying a patch of bare earth while absently tossing loosened seeds to the fang-swan, and it snapped them up greedily.

Eyda sighed, foreseeing the inevitable regret.

If I buried this here, Sha‑Noa considered aloud, will it root?

I suppose so. I have never really tried.

When it’s fully grown, I’ll build a house atop it, just like in your stories. Maybe I could catch some of the eight winds of the world from up there!

Eyda applauded his imagination but winced at the thought of having such a towering tree laden with hundreds of these heavy cones overshadowing her home. Gowfer trees grew tall and straight, even taller than the long-necks reaching on their hindquarters, but thankfully they grew rather slowly — so, no danger for now.

Sha‑Noa buried the cone under a mound and eyed his handiwork as though half-expecting it to sprout. Old Maa, he wondered, without losing sight of his plot, Will I have adventures too someday? Like Ava-Baba? Like your Enok?

Adventures? Eyda frowned. ‘Mind what you wish for,’ her mother’s words echoed. How strange that she should hear them so clearly now.

Honk! Ha-onk!

The fang-swan was hungry and begging for more.

Shoo! Clear off!

I almost forgot, Sha‑Noa added, wiping grimy hands against his breeches. Father says we’re having a fire-feast today, and he said to bring river-yams. We can cook broth in the clamshell. Bye!

As swiftly as he had come, the boy disappeared into the rushes, leaving his great-grandmother to her thoughts. Memories: the clangor of metallic weapons, the echo of distant joys and peals of terror, the voices of those long gone, faces both hideous and handsome all swirled unbidden about her.

Ma’nuna, Naama, Zakon, Hatan. 

The past, it seemed, would not give her up.

At the breaking of day, the new crescent of the Lesser Light hung yet high and pale above the western marshes, a reminder she hadn’t toured the villages since its fullness. Actually, it had been at least two moons now. ⁶ Old Stubby was becoming increasingly less fond of walking, and keeping one’s balance while paddling a round-boat erect had grown more difficult of late.

Well, that was her excuse. She was safe here and independent in her private little hideaway. Though, if there was ever an inducement to join the thronging world again, a feast was surely it.

A string of hamlets surrounded by endless rows of skeins of drying jute marked Eyda’s passage to Lamek’s island. Here the cluster of domed huts by the riverbank was already abuzz with activity. In the clearing before the central longhouse, Sha‑Noa’s father, Lamek himself, a prosperous, driven man was stoking coals in an earthen cook-trough.

Old Maa. Lamek bowed with proper respect. Finally come to join the mayhem, eh? What a day for a fire-feast when fuel is so scarce!

The feast, yes. Your ‘fourteenth’ told me.

His vapid stare became a knowing chuckle. Ah. Who else but Sha! So it’s numbers now, is it?

Or big things.

Him and his counting reed! Three thousand, seven hundred and something paces to your house. Did you know?

Hmmm, something like that.

As Eyda and her grandson bantered, another man emerged from behind the longhouse burdened with a basket of food. She gasped as recognition dawned for both of them.

Sess! With arms flung wide, she hobbled to embrace him. Oh, my darling boy! What a happy surprise!

Basket on hip, he merely nodded politely and stooped awk­wardly for a kiss to his forehead. As tears welled in his mother’s eyes, Hello, was all he managed to say, and shrugged weakly in response to the quizzical fondling of his smooth-shaven face. Surai detests whiskers.

Oh. Eyda wondered whom he meant. Shurai? Sarai? She hadn’t heard a name like that for centuries. If that was his wife, she was clearly no local. Anyhow, it seemed only proper that the head of his house sport a decent beard, but Eyda knew better than to make an issue of it. She slapped his arms, feeling the tension in them.

My, how you’ve grown! So handsome, my youngest.

Lamek, help me with this, will you?

Older nephew and younger uncle grunted in unison over a giant clamshell, then over flagstones for the fire. "Oi-oi, that’s heavy. I’m here to trade, Mother. Not to stay."

You’re not leaving straight away, though, are you?

My plans aren’t settled yet.

Won’t you stay at least until the Lesser Light is full again, till Temple Day perhaps?

He responded with talk of Lamek needing pitch for his boats and wanting to barter for flax rope and oil, yet essentially avoiding her question and the longing in her eyes.

In the seventy years of praying for the runaway’s return, the imagined reunions were nothing like this. In the awkwardness of the moment, her gaze wandered about the yard to the far-flung buildings of Lamek’s village and beyond.

What caught her eye next was a real surprise. Beyond the outlying huts, by the distant riverbank lay moored the largest long-ship of reeds she had ever seen. Cabins astern and abaft were easily the size of houses. Ropes she judged as thick as a wrist tied each of its upturned ends to a central mast cluttered with rigging and shrouds. A ribbed sail hung loosely, half furled from a great horizontal spar high above the deck. Garments for hundreds from a single cloth, so great was the size of it!

With this and the sight of a similar vessel beyond it, a happy thought came bubbling up. He’s rich. It quickly burst, however, as other details sent shivers down her spine. Shields of electrum and animal skins, great gilded horns prized from beasts of impossible size, spiked clubs, and serrated pikes adorned the cabin abaft.

Ah, is that your … home? she asked, shuddering at the notion of living under such grisly instruments of war.

Hmmm, not exactly. The reply was hesitant, eyes on his boats. But mostly.

I’ve missed you, voiced Eyda softly to Sess, while Lamek busied himself with the work of oiling the flagstones, and feigning deaf ears at the awkward reunion of grandmother and uncle.

Mother, you’ve had thirty-seven other children, Sess countered with an audible sigh. And how many of your daughters here have surpassed even that? It strains to imagine, between the Moud and the Soud you must have tens of thousands of descendants scattered across the marshlands. You can’t be that lonely, surely?

For the first time in so many empty moons, their eyes met and she wanted to let this handsome son of hers know all that was in her heart, yet the words remained unspoken. In all but the grin and the hair he was the very image of Enok — Oh, El! — even to the sound of his voice, yet the embarrassed silence made her realize once again that his were not the eyes of his father, or of the last fruit of her womb, but of a familiar stranger.

Upon this fatherless son, she had once lavished every affection. Yet the more she had loved him, the more he had spurned her. Had it all been her fault? Had she driven him away? Now suppressed memories, emotions, and the solid image of him collided. The source of old hurts stood before her, unblinking, unfeeling, behind darksome eyes; and yet there was a pleading in them.

It must take quite a few hands to move these lummoxes, eh?

If it’s my sons you’re referring to, they’re out are trading for food, he informed in his classic taciturn manner.

Sons?

Thirteen of them. My eldest is nearly sixty now, he explained, straining under the weight of another large stone. You’ll meet them soon enough, I guess. And before she could utter another word, he added, "Don’t even think of suggesting a bride. It cost a fortune in silks and rare ointments to secure him a … an Isha any merchant would envy."

Isha? Strange that he should use the archaic form of ‘woman.’ Anyhow, the edge to his tone meant the subject was closed, and the reunion over.

After seventy years, not even a hug for his mother! she kept thinking. Marriage and time had little improved him, and she pondered on his choice of wife. She, at least, might have better manners.

As others arrived to barter, Eyda slipped away before bitter words cut deep regrets, and now across the clearing by his vessel, she spun to seek consent upon his face, but Sess was engaged with friends of old, freely granting others the very warmth he had denied her.

Now standing by the river’s edge, the craft completely filled her view. Stars above! It was easily thirty cubits long, and the trading barge beyond was even larger. Its rope ladder smacked of invitation, and she climbed aboard. Two boys were huddled by the dragon-head prow with an obvious air of mischief. A stranger with a tattooed cheek kept glancing over his shoulder, while his partner kept bobbing guiltily, a lad with wild ebony hair like bulrushes gone seedy. It was Sha‑Noa with a large figurine.

Old Maa, he whispered nervously. This is some boat, isn’t it? The wind blows and it moves! Just like in your stories!

But his Old Maa was focused instead on the cabin astern. Parted curtains revealed two infants, a pink newborn and an olive-skinned toddler suckled by a shaven-headed maid who seemed barely out of childhood herself, and an older wet-nurse. And snooping eyes discerned a third and very large someone sleeping curled at the rear. A brother-in-law perhaps?

A tug on the frock distracted her. Look, Old Maa. It was Sha‑Noa. I made a trade of my own!

The tattooed boy kept glancing furtively at the cabin, while Sha‑Noa rubbed his hands with a flourish, wondering aloud, "What were the magic words again? Hallel nefesh talah talah," he eerily intoned.

The presumed toy was heavy and more than half his size, a statuette with great brooding eyes, a grotesque caricature of the female form clasping an empty hollowed gourd on one side, and a male figure proudly sporting its exaggerated member on the other. The mere sight of it left Eyda open-mouthed and speechless.

It was the goddess-god Ma’nuna in miniature!

A younger self had survived this incantation before, and the terror of that distant day at the feet of its towering lookalike came again in full force.

Ma’nuna! Ma’nuna! Ma’nuna!

If not for the daring of a strange young man, Eyda would never have lived to marry her savior. The girl taken into slavery would have become just another plaything for the gods, a pillow wailing beneath an outpouring of lust so monstrous that for many death was its consummation. Indeed, death would have been preferable to being crippled by its memory.

Enok, save me!

A dozen heartbeats passed. Trembling from the crippling torrent of long-suppressed memories and a hundred-hundred tortured dreams of drums, blood, and the stench of burning flesh, summoning all her strength, she flung the fertility idol overboard, wailing, Burn you, Ma’nuna! Burn you!

What’d you do that for? the tattooed boy cried, mystified. It was an honest trade!

Enough of idols and gods! And boats! And life!

Sha‑Noa protested loudly as she began to drag him by his breeches. Kneeling beside the boy and reasoning with him proved ineffective. Though he kept saying, You don’t understand, she refused to release her grip, and he would not be consoled until he beheld the idol bobbing in the river alongside the boat.

See, he declared triumphantly, it does have magic.

The woven headdress of an elder’s wife bobbed briefly as its owner climbed clumsily aboard. It was Sha‑Noa’s mother Mehetabel, with one hand cradling the bulging life within.

Look, mommy! Sha‑Noa beckoned. Did you see it float?

I’m sure it did, dear. Now, why don’t you boys go retrieve it?

The tattooed boy dived into the river. Sha‑Noa, however, was content to study it bob on the waves of the splash.

Maa, you’re causing a scene. The younger woman gestured discreetly toward the ladder. Please, these are our guests.

No! The sacrifices! It’s a fertility idol! Eyda exploded. You have no idea of what I endured … what it represents … or of the monsters who worship —

It’s alright, Mehetabel soothed. Surely you don’t take so-called magic seriously, do you? she said taking Eyda’s hand, then was startled by the ancient grip that crushed her fingers gravely.

Oh, but I do, returned Eyda. More than you know.

How did they manage to get hold of the idol?

The other boy claimed they traded for it.

"That boy? The younger woman rolled her eyes. There will doubtless be trouble when his mother finds out."

Lacking gold, gemstones, or scented rosins in its votive bowl, the idol had little worth. What mischief were the boys then up to?

A baby cried and the women in the cabin began to stir.

All I know is, Mehetabel continued, Sha was out to prove someone wrong. He has a new fascination.

In addition to counting everything?

Trees, I think. He has some seeds, you know.

Eyda knew only too well how nebulous Sha’s ideas could be, yet a cord of reason always bound the train. Then came understanding. And the idol … is carved … of wood, she chimed to the rhythm of his mother’s nods.

Look! Come see, Old Maa! Sha‑Noa beckoned, anger all forgotten. Is it really magic? He was clearly intrigued by some new phenomenon.

So, have the ghosts of old departed? asked Mehetabel in that disarming fashion Eyda so loved in her, but her Old Maa shook her head, frustrated that the right words, which were ever her defense and her weapon, were all suddenly eluding her.

I’m disappointed that my very own blood would receive such an abhorrence into his home! You cannot go swimming —

— without getting wet, Mehetabel finished.

Eyda was dismissive. You’re nearly full term. You shouldn’t be wandering about.

Have you no desire to meet your son’s family? Come, I’m sure that you do.

Eyda stroked the dragon figurehead absently, sparing a sidelong glance at her new kin at the rear of the enormous floating house. She pondered Sess’s loveless greeting and the meaning of the trophies adorning the cabin. Perhaps, for today, I have family enough.

It was a fragile Eyda who stood on the lonely side of her grandson Lamek’s yard, watching the throng of traders and children growing to rival the bazaars she had known of old. Dozens of little round-boats were sculling toward the flat and featureless trading barge beyond the houseboat, all laden with goods for barter: rope, pitch, river-pearls, or grains. Beyond the daily toil, festivals, and match-making gossip, local life offered few diversions. It was no surprise then that many youngsters too had been drawn by the novelty of boats so impossibly large.

Maa! You’re alive! The cheerful voice and the sight of the lanky, slightly stooping figure never failed to comfort her. It was Mati, her firstborn, accompanied by wife Saz’yana and Kush the scribe.

Alive? That’s hardly funny. I just prefer my own company. Is that so hard to understand?

Hmmm. Recognizing the scowl on her face, a finger touched her lips. Tut! Not a word! I already know what’s on the tip of that tongue about goddesses and such. I’ll have private words with Sess before tonight’s fire-feast.

Eyda humphed, then, You’ll be wanting barley bread.

Saz’yana reached out, nodding admiringly at the strand of lilies Eyda had woven into her hair. Yours were always the best, you know, and I could always use some help. Besides, she winked, our youngest has a suitor.

Ha’leya?

No doubt you women will have much to discuss before the boy’s aunts, Mati and the scribe were grinning widely, formalize the arrangements. ⁷

Sha‑Noa ran past them with a pretty dark-skinned girl who could easily have been his twin. Both were dripping wet. Baba Mati! Wood floats like reeds. It’s magic!

Mati stopped him in his tracks. Well, of course it does, and I daresay the whole village now knows it too. Listen, Sha, there are far too many young folks here. Why don’t you lead them to, say, Temple Island? Storytellers will be along shortly. Later, your Baba Sess will happily let you all explore his long-ships — when the Greater Light crosses the river, perhaps after fourth shadow. ⁸

Promise? Sha‑Noa and the girl shared a look, then shrugged an acceptance. It’s magic! he sounded again, trotting off hand-in-hand to spread the news. Magic!

Mati chuckled. To keep the child alive in ourselves would really be something, wouldn’t it? A single eyebrow rose, challenging his mother’s frown. "That was Raama, by the way. Sess’s daughter. Dark as an Ember Night, ⁹ and with that same raven mop of hair, she’s the image of Sha‑Noa, the very image of you."

Eyda could tell where this conversation was heading but was determined to focus it elsewhere. Look, Priest and Elder you may be, but I’m still your mother and I don’t want the children infected with all this talk of magic. You only have to see how quickly young Sha‑Noa has been —

"Mother. Eyda! Mati interjected. The informal address breached all etiquette, and by its tone, it wasn’t just her son now speaking but the High Priest of the Gihon. All of life is filled with magic: the way of birds in the sky, the way of youths with maidens, the cycles of the wind and the heavens, that something should sink but does not. Sha‑Noa is still very young and cannot yet distinguish between the beauty and the mystery of the natural world and the darker forces you fear."

But the idol —

A reassuring hand gripped her shoulder. You worry needlessly, Eyda. He will not fall. The breath of The El stirs his soul.

Her firstborn towered over her; she retreated to look her Mati in the eye. And yours too, my son.

Upon a whispered nod from Mati, Saz’yana and the scribe moved on, affording mother and son some privacy. Do you remember when Sess was a boy, when we lived on the prairies? His greatest fear was of being trodden-on by long-horns in the dark.

Eyda remembered all too well. Particularly when the Lesser Light was full, when the herds would march.

And so we moved into the woodlands and he would sleep high in the trees?

Yes, but what …? His point eluded her.

"It was always Lamek and his sons who joined him for the night. Lamek is my son and Sess’s nephew, but Sess being so much younger —"

— looked up to him as a father. Yes, Mati was right. Sess was only a child when Enok vanished.

So, were there really long-necks crossing upriver that caused him to beat a retreat here? And of all the myriad of islets along the Crooked Thumb, to navigate The Moud in the dark, right here to Lamek’s very feet? Or has Sess stumbled into trouble again and needs his adopted father?

He always was an adventurer. Eyda winced at the memory of Sess atop a fledging, big-headed, scavenging dragon, reflexively rubbing Old Stubby, her bad leg — a leg robbed of its hallux that day. Remember him riding that young trr-bahal?

Mati chuckled. He kept to his tree-house for days because he thought its mother would eat him. Stars above! That was a massive tree. He has boldness aplenty, but …

The pause invited conclusion. He’s feeling vulnerable?

Mati’s nod confirmed it. Trust me, it’s not trade that drives one to brave the rivers on an Ember Night, it’s desperation.

And I’m not being very helpful. Her shuddering hands clenched into balls as she faltered, "It’s just … I had a terrifying dream last night. That dream."

The Twain Goddess? She woke me too,echoed Mati ominously before burying concerns with a smile. Anyhow, what feast doesn’t loosen tongues, eh? Failing that, the maidens’ dancing surely will. He’ll tell all soon enough. Meanwhile, let’s not be so quick to censure our visitors, alright?

Eyda smarted, and was about to conjure some defense, but which her son quelled with a look.

"And I perceive something else, something our canny Old Maa will sense soon enough for herself. Sess’s children are like empty vessels waiting to be filled. And they will be filled, Mati paused for effect, but whether by someone with firsthand knowledge of the sacred stories or by some lesser person, that I leave to you."

There are so many younger tellers now. My time for such has long been over.

There’s no deception like self-deception, right? Eyda, your very skin is made of stories.

Sha-Noa always manages to wheedle one out of me. The others, well, let’s just say I’ve feasted long enough on ridicule.

Still dining on ashes, eh? Eyda, love makes of fools of everyone. And it’s no less true of faith. If you don’t stand for something, they, he waved a finger at the marshlands entire, could almost fall for anything.

You’re preaching.

Well, that’s what High Priests do, Mati grinned. Besides, they were father’s words to me … before he went …

A tear welled in his eye. Then just as quickly, one in hers. Both dried their cheeks and left their loss unspoken.

Eyda knew his every expression, so despite his winning smile, Mati the ever-serene was clearly unnerved, and it puzzled her.

Rest assured, Mother, you’ll be saved a place at the feast. Meanwhile, Sess has children who know little of who they really are. Teeth gleamed in entreaty. There’s just no one else I can rely upon today. Don’t do this for me, Mother, he implored as children ran past merrily. Do it for Enok. It’s what father would have wanted.

Oh, Mati was such a diplomat. And that perpetual smile he wore was quite disarming, just like his father. No wonder everyone liked him.

Here, give these to the women. Eyda unslung her pouch and passed on the vegetables intended for soup. I suppose I’m off to the teaching circle. She slapped his arm reassuringly before leaving. There’s no escaping my own skin, now, is there?

A succession of crude flagstone bridges over sluices formed a causeway into Temple Island, and they seemed altogether more erratic and treacherous than ever. Great stands of rushes and wild jute bordering the retting ponds arched over Eyda like some winding organic tunnel. Together, they served only to funnel the most bone-chilling breeze, and she clutched all the more tightly at her jute-silk shawl.

She paused between islands where a bridge had subsided, as much to marshal her balance as to ponder the strangeness of Sess’s return. His hideous instruments of war, the Akadian fertility idol, Lamek’s usual jocularity swamped by Sess’s cheerless mood, and the worried look spied briefly on Mati’s face, though quickly masked, told much to those who knew him well. These were all connected somehow, and all screaming at the hearing ear.

And that both she and Mati had relived old nightmares about Ma’nuna was a sign too ominous to ignore.

Her stomach rumbled. In all the tumult of the morning, she had completely forgotten breakfast. Though was it hunger gnawing at her now, or premonition?

1 Marshlanders typically count by twenties using their fingers and toes.

2 Lifespans are rumored to exceed 700 years, though few survive long enough to prove it. Puberty usually strikes around sixty years of age.

3 Old Stubby. Eyda’s right foot has a missing hallux, or big toe.

4 Greater and Lesser Lights. Names for the sun and moon. In the marshlands, these are usually only observable as indistinct hazes.

5 Deina/Eyda. A common custom in Eyda’s day was the taking of a new identity when embracing a new belief or tribe. In young Deina’s case, a crisis moment precipitated faith.

6 Moons. Marshlanders reckon years by autumnal changes and lunar cycles, or ‘moons.’ The fullness of the moon (the Lesser Light ) marks a day of special worship known as Temple Day.

7 Nuptial bargaining rituals were primarily matriarchal affairs involv­ing aunts and older sisters. They sought to equitably establish the betrothed with their own dwelling and means of support.

8 While marshlanders can mark time by a series of sun-stick shadows equivalent to two daylight hours, they generally just eye-ball the Greater Light’s (sun’s) position. Third shadow would thus be midday.

9 Ember Night . The monthly moonless night when torches pepper islet shores to guide river-craft home. The river can be deadly in the dark.

2

The Heaven Below ‡

In the invisible realms, beings guarding the marshland tribe are startled by a strange device and an emissary for whom Eyda’s story-telling seems key … The Old Maa of the marshlands begins her tale of Enok’s time among the serpents of Zoar.

The muted echo, the fleeting shadow, the sudden chill might well give cave dwellers cause for wonder, to ponder worlds beyond their burrow; but sounds and shadows, however wondrous, make feeble emissaries and demit to eternal puzzlement a far greater, richer reality.

So great the gulf between all they have known and the vastness beyond! Only revelation could bridge it.

This was hardly the first time Elishan mused upon present parallels, recalling those eons long past in a distant heaven when his people were the watched, and their own transfiguration a future glory that few had suspected. And now the principal difference between his ‘ascended’ kind and Eyda’s was that he could traverse some realities without physically moving, like ascending a musical scale. At a higher frequency, a higher energy level, one became a whisper and a shade, a thing beyond the apprehension of Eyda’s ‘cave dwellers;’ but in the ascending, colors waned as the thought-forms of living things hued the ether, and sentient spirits glowed incandescent, outshining all natural light.

Eyda’s was the world of mere matter; this was the world between the worlds, this was the realm of the spirit.

It was at once bewildering, overwhelming, and intoxicating.

These levels of reality, these ethereal ‘octaves’ that his people called Harmonics, formed not merely a universe but the layered heavens of the multi-verse. Perhaps a better analogy was —

Here’s our storyteller, Helon announced, interrupting Elishan’s thoughts.

Invisible atop the schoolhouse roof in their fatigues of khaki tunics over indigo leggings, the two colleagues followed Eyda with their eyes as she wound her way through retting ponds and their whispering forests of jute.

The streaks of gray through her once ebony hair, the way she kept clutching at her shawl for warmth, how she tread unsteadily along the flagstone causeway to a gathering crowd of youngsters — they were telltale signs all of the Woebegin, the curse that was slowly enveloping this world:

Mutation, decay, insufficiency, despair.

Elishan knew her intimate details: those loves, those hopes, those joys dissolved. The once athletic daughter of Seer and Healer had challenged every custom of the world that had birthed her, rebelling against such village binaries of leaper-youths and sweeper-maidens, yet all the while clinging vainly to the hope of a love requited. But that same world had buffeted her, humbled her, and robbed her in her prime of the love that had saved her. It was only herself that had changed, and she hobbled now with the gait of defeat.

One couldn’t help but to watch and be saddened.

Watching is what he and Helon did. They were Watchers.

To keep eyes peeled for local trouble was a Watcher’s role, protecting both adult villagers and others of angelic kind. Just ‘below’ them on a lower harmonic were the Guardians in their white-and-creams, bolstering children’s welfare and of others particularly vulnerable. The Elim, Eyda’s marshlanders who were so much like themselves in miniature, were the ‘cave dwellers’ of the lowest harmonic, and only dimly aware of the hostile forces loosed upon their world.

There had been a rebellion against the governance of The El, that great emperor of