The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (4 page)

His resolve, and the hope that something might happen to help him, gave him peace. It lightened his step, and let him watch the animals. Deeper in the woods, a wolf darted behind a tree, with its tail between its legs. It must have sniffed the sabertooths. Even as Joash thought that, the wolf peeked around a pine to watch them.

O brave wolf, I salute you
.

Later, Joash saw mountain goats on a stony ledge. They bounded from one tiny outcrop of rock to another. What marvelous balance they had.  Farther on he listened to the trill of birds to buoy his flagging spirits, for he found his resolve was not a thing that he could keep at one high level. It rose, dipped only moments later, and then revived an hour after that when he listened to the beauty of birdsongs. Elohim had created the animals and, according to Zillith, He still watched over every small sparrow. Surely, Elohim could watch over a Seraph captured by Nephilim.

“Joash!” bellowed Mimir.

Joash saw the towering giant stride toward him. Mimir still wore his chainmail that almost reached to his knees, and clutched his huge axe. He’d taken to carrying a mighty shield on his back, a shield much bigger than Herrek could have used. The giant wore rugged leathers under his mail. What most marked Mimir were his shaggy beard and the cunning dark eyes that knew too much. Lord Uriah’s eyes had been like that.

Mimir is ancient, Joash realized. Lord Uriah had been over five hundred years old, one of the oldest humans Joash knew. Actually, few people he’d met had been over a hundred. Most people, for one reason or another, never made it past one hundred. But Mimir... he was older than Lord Uriah was. How old? Gaut Windrunner had been eight hundred years old. Surely, Mimir was even older. Could Mimir be over a thousand years old? Joash shook his head. He couldn’t comprehend that. No human had ever lived so long. Humanity’s father, Adam, had lived nine hundred and thirty years. Few people ever approached such a vast age.

Thinking about Mimir’s age frightened Joash. How could he begin to understand a being like Mimir? Joash decided that he would never try to match wits with the giant, nor lie to him if he could help it. Mimir would understand such things better than he would. Great age could be a great teacher, and those knowing eyes said Mimir had been more than willing to learn what lessons life had to give.

“Joash,” said Mimir, jangling to a halt before him.

“High One,” Joash said, with a small bow of the head.

“How fares the wounded thigh?”

“It’s sore, High One, but I’m able to walk.”

“I’ve watched you limp along. You have trouble keeping up with the pack animals.”

Joash remained silent.

“Does the beating still rankle?”

“No, High One.”

“No?” Mimir asked, studying him closely.

Joash shook his head.

“No, I see it doesn’t. Good. You must learn to accept what a Nephilim gives you. It will be much easier on you if you do.”

“Yes, High One.”

“For instance, here is a better walking stick.”

“High One?” Joash said, accepting the stout piece of wood. It was pine, with the bark peeled from it. It would be a useful club, and the knot on the end would let him hold it as he limped along. “Thank you, High One. It’s better than I had.”

“It isn’t a gift so much as to make certain you don’t fall farther behind.”

“I understand, High One.”

“Walk with me.”

Joash did, trying to hobble as fast as the giant’s slow strides. They walked out of earshot of the white-haired men—Joash refused to think of them as pack animals.

“I’ve been considering your actions,” Mimir said. “How you refused to do my bidding earlier.”

Joash kept quiet, for fear of gaining another beating.

“You’re not a pack animal,” Mimir said. “Do you understand that?”

Joash considered his words. “I don’t understand what it is you want me to understand, High One.”

Mimir chuckled, a deep and ominous sound. “You’ve grown cautious. Good, your beating was useful. Listen. Wild men think up strange theories about themselves and their worth. I’d forgotten that wild men could be so insistent, even when in our hands. Tamed men are beasts of burden, pack animals, and sometimes they’re servants or even shield-bearers. We do our pack animals great service in letting them share in our glory. But, never must you make the mistake of thinking them as equal to you.”

“Now I know I don’t understand, High One.”

“Of course not, because you’ve been taught to think that man is as high as Nephilim. Isn’t that so?”

Joash considered. People like Lord Uriah and Zillith feared Nephilim, and taught they were evil. Nephilim weren’t equal with humans. They were more vicious, cruel and farther from Elohim’s grace. In a way then, Nephilim were less, if stronger and deadlier. Joash wasn’t sure Mimir wanted to hear that.

“Manling?”

“High One, I’ll not lie. For I think you’re too wise for someone as young as I am to fool you. I’ve been taught that Nephilim are foes of the...of the one you refer to as the Overlord. Therefore, humanity and Nephilim are not thought of as the same.”

Mimir tugged at his long beard. “Yes, I’d forgotten. Wild men think very highly of themselves. But you will soon learn, if you haven’t already, that men are less than Nephilim. The rankings are stark, and minutely graded. Nephilim tower above men. A half-Nephilim is higher than a man is, although not as exalted as a Nephilim. Do you understand?”

“Yes, High One.”

“Above Nephilim, is First Born, just as above them, is the
bene elohim
. But now, by careful consideration, I’ve come upon a new class.”

Joash waited, as his wounded back throbbed. It was funny, but he didn’t notice the wounds while watching doves or wolves. Talking with Mimir made it worse, or maybe he just felt it worse then. Joash used his sleeve to wipe his brow, and concentrated on hobbling fast enough to keep up with Mimir’s long strides.

“There is this strange class of people called Seraphs,” Mimir was saying. “I’ll use your own word at present. Depending on their ability, Seraphs are able to nullify certain magic. You have more of this ability than most Seraphs do. Thus, instead of classifying you as a mere man, I grant you the title, and higher status, of Seraph. Although you mustn’t let it go to your head. A Seraph is still less than a half-Nephilim, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

“I suppose so, High One.”

Mimir eyed him, before saying, “Therefore, you’re not a mere pack animal, but a Seraph. You’ve gained status by my finding, and rank within our hierarchy.”

Joash mumbled under his breath.

“You should be thankful, manling. Few men have status among us other than as beasts. Yet, with status come certain duties. Fail these duties and you’ll be in danger of sudden death.”

Joash pressed his fingers against the knob of his new walking stick. What would Mimir do to him if he whacked the giant’s shin as hard as he could? Mimir used words like weapons. They wanted him for something. Otherwise, they would have killed him long ago.

Mimir’s voice dropped an octave, as if he were being stern. “A disobedient pack animal is whipped. How else can one teach an animal? But a Seraph, he is not an animal. He has rank. When a Nephilim, or half-Nephilim, refuses orders, it’s no longer because of brute stupidity. No, then it is rebellion. There is only one way to handle rebellion. Do you know what that way is, boy?”

“I most certainly do, High One.”

“Oh?” Mimir asked, surprised. “Tell me.”

“One must give the rebel time to repent. But without repentance, once the time of grace is over, the rebel must be destroyed.”

“Manling,” Mimir warned.

“High One,” Joash added.

Mimir stroked his shaggy beard. “Where did you learn this concept?”

“High One, I learned if from a priest of Elohim.”

Mimir reached down, and gave Joash’s ear a sharp twist. “Do not try my patience. Never use that word again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, High One,” Joash said, rubbing his ear, wishing he could ignore the pain.

The giant sighed. “So, a misguided priest filled your mind with vain concepts. I understand what you’re hinting. Nephilim and First Born are not rebels. We’re warriors who wage a cosmic struggle. In the end, we will win, for only we understand true strength.”

Joash limped along, more drained than ever. The giant’s words tired him. They were twisted theories, and went against everything he knew to be right. Yet, to speak openly would bring punishment. Therefore, he would say nothing. But it was hard.

“Unlike your vain priest, Nephilim do not tolerate rebellion. We are warriors. Rebel, and die. If you were a pack animal, a simple brute, the lash would quickly tame you. I’ve taken the trouble to tell you this for several reasons. You are more than an animal, the first reason. The more important reason is that soon you will have to forswear your silly allegiance to the Overlord. You will give your allegiance to me. If you resist, you’ll perish. And that, manling, is something to fear.”

Mimir lowered his voice, and leaned down. “If you sufficiently earn my good will, I will let you partake of the mighty gift of immortality.”

Joash looked up sharply.

“Ah,” the giant said, “so... you understand about the Tree of Life.”

Joash looked down, clenching his walking stick. As easily as that Mimir had tricked him, and he hadn’t even had to speak. The giant was cunning.

“I’ll be back to teach you more.” Thereupon, Mimir increased his stride, and hurried toward Tarag. No doubt, the giant dashed to tell the First Born that Joash knew about Eden.

Joash massaged his aching forehead. What did Mimir hope to accomplish? Confuse him with words, or find out things from him? He didn’t know, and he found that depressing.

Joash blew out his cheeks. This was all so hopeless, so vain. He mocked himself. How could he do anything to stop Tarag? He was alone, useless. The white-haired men at least carried heavy burdens. He couldn’t even escape because of his wounded thigh.

Joash gripped the end of his walking stick. He couldn’t just play the dim-witted pawn. He had to do something. But what could a thigh-wounded human do against a band of giants, and a First Born? That was the problem, and Joash had no idea how to solve it.

Chapter Four

Elohim’s Seraph

Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you will answer me.

-- Job 38:2

Joash curled under his bear-fur blanket. The fire crackled, but a cold wind blew through the Hanun Mountains. Slowly, the lung-warmed air under the furs let his aching body relax. The stars twinkled in the heavens, reminding Joash that Elohim still ruled the Celestial Realm.

He glumly studied the fire. A log splintered with a crack. Sparks shot into the air. One began to float, parts of it blackening. The guttering spark dropped toward the nearest white-haired man. They all slept here, the Nephilim pack animals. Like him, none of them tried to escape. The guttering spark landed on a bear fur, smoldering a second, sending up a tiny plume of smoke. Then, it died, just as they would all die.

Could Tarag win past the guardian Cherub? Could the giants eat from the Tree of Life, and gain immorality? Would Mimir keep his word, and allow a mere man to eat?

“Don’t even think about it,” Joash whispered to himself. He needed to escape. He would never stop Tarag unless he first escaped—and that was impossible. Mimir had told him that Gibborim prowled the dark. Anyone who left the fire was fair game.

“You,” someone whispered, almost too softly to hear.

Joash shifted. A white-haired man lay near his shoulder. The man had a large nose, pale blue eyes and a scar on his forehead. He was thick, with muscles like a wrestler. Recognition came. Mimir had selected this man as his mount.

“You,” the white-haired man whispered.

Joash was shocked. He’d never heard the white-haired men speak. “What?” he asked.

The man cringed, and closed his eyes. When nothing happened, no blow to the head or kick in the ribs, he opened his eyes. “Speak softly,” he whispered.

Understanding came. The giants had forbidden the white-haired men to speak. Maybe his gesture the other day had been more than noticed, but also ingested.

“Who are you?” whispered the white-haired man.

The question surprised Joash. “I’m Joash the Groom, of the Clan of Teman, of the Tribe of Amalek, of the Nation of Elon.”

The white-haired man blinked in awe.

“Who are you?” asked Joash.

The man frowned. “Me?” he asked.

“What’s your name?” Joash asked.

“Ah. I’m Gort Six.”

Gort was the name for a bushy-tailed ground squirrel. Hardly the sort of name one gave a man. “Six?” Joash asked.

“There are many Gorts. We all belong to the High One, Mimir. He has given us numbers so he can identify us. He’s a kind master.”

“He’s Nephilim.”

Gort Six nodded.

“No,” Joash whispered. “You don’t understand. Nephilim are evil, vile, servants of the rebellious Morningstar.”

Gort Six’s eyes grew round. “Who are you?” he whispered again.

Joash grew perplexed. He’d already told the man. Why did he keep asking?

“You did not ride me,” the man said. “You took a beating for refusing the High One.”

“It is wrong to ride a man as if he were a beast.”

“Why is it wrong?”

“Because we are men,” Joash said.

“We are beasts, the property of Mimir the Wise.”

Joash wondered what to tell Gort Six. Finally, he knew what he must say. “You were made in the image of Elohim. In His creation of man and women, Elohim gave them mastery over the Earth.” Joash quoted lessons the priest had taught him. “You are higher than the beasts of the field. You have an immortal soul that will someday either go to the Celestial Realm above, or below where the
bene elohim
are imprisoned.”

Gort Six listened raptly. It was obvious he’d never heard the truth before.

“The Nephilim are abominable,” Joash whispered. “They are the children of the First Born.”

“Yes,” whispered Gort Six. “They are High Ones.”

“They are low down rebels.”

Gort Six blinked fearfully.

Joash spoke in earnest, “Once the fathers of the First Born, the
bene elohim
, lived in the Celestial Realm.” He pointed at the stars.

“They do so now,” said Gort Six.

“That’s another Nephilim lie. The
bene elohim
rebelled against Elohim, and He drove them out of the Celestial Realm. Then Azel the Accursed dared to lead a band of them onto Earth. They changed themselves through terrible, blasphemous magic, and they took women and made them pregnant. The offspring were the First Born, abominations before Elohim. The First Born dared to have children, and they thus continued the evil. Elohim sent his Shining Ones to Earth to save humanity. After a thousand years, the
bene elohim
were defeated, and dragged to an eternal prison. There they rot, and there will the spirits go of those who serve them and act like them.”

Gort Six shuddered in fear.

“The First Born and Nephilim are not greater than us,” Joash whispered. “Maybe they’re stronger, and live longer. Maybe magic is part of their evil birthright. But they’re an affront to Elohim. He’ll not stand for their arrogance or for their open acts of rebellion. Nor will he allow them to forever pervert humanity, or bedevil them with evil deeds.”

“You frighten me,” Gort Six whispered.

“I tell you the truth,” Joash said. “Those truths
are the reasons why I didn’t ride you as if you were a beast. You’re a man. You have an immortal soul. You’re important to Elohim.”

Gort Six stared. At last, he whispered, “Who are you?”

The question perplexed Joash. Then understanding overwhelmed him. He felt small. Gort Six didn’t ask these questions. Well, physically, he did. These were Elohim’s words. Zillith had taught him that Elohim often teaches one through the simple things of the world. What were these poor white-haired men but brutalized, simple beings that slaved in the service of the giants? The giants didn’t even allow them to speak with each other. Now, one of them had grown brave. One of them searched for the truth. One of them, as Elohim’s mouthpiece, asked Joash who he was.

And who was he really? He was the one who had survived the crypt of Draugr Trolock-Maker. He had also survived the beach, where giants and sabertooths had slaughtered many. Nidhogg hadn’t been able to slay him, nor had the Nebo with the boar’s tusk around his arm. Gibborim had tried, and failed, and even a trolock hadn’t been able to snuff out his life.

Who am I
?

Joash breathed deeply.
I’m the one a singer from Poseidonis loved. I’m the one a leviathan saved.

“You,” whispered Gort Six.

Joash regarded those pale, blue eyes. Here was a simple man, a man treated like a beast. So he had begun to act like one. The Nephilim had stolen his birthright. Gort Six likely knew about injustice, and he knew about survival where other men died like grasshoppers.

“I must know,” said Gort Six. “Who are you?”

“I’m Elohim’s Seraph.”

“Your words are foreign to me.”

“They mean that I must find a way to stop Tarag from reaching Eden.”

Awe filled Gort Six as he trembled.

“Sleep,” said Joash. “Tomorrow will be difficult.”

Gort Six stared at him.

“Think upon what I’ve told you.”

“I will,” whispered Gort Six, and he turned away.

Joash closed his eyes, and pulled the bear fur over his head. He was no longer a groom, a pitiful survivor lost to a Nephilim’s whims. He was a Seraph. For the first time he truly understood what that meant. All his life he’d studied animals. He knew the fox, the lion, the sabertooth, the magpie and the wolf.

“I’m no longer a groom who just loves animals,” he whispered.

The knowledge filled him with strength. There
was
a reason for his survival. He had a task to complete. He must stop Tarag. Herrek had been right after all. It wasn’t a matter of glory. No, it was a matter of duty. Elohim had called a lowly groom to His service. After hearing the mammoth trumpet, Joash had accepted the charge. Now that Elohim had seen to his survival from the Nebo and Gibborim, he must use it for His service.

He must stop Tarag, an impossible task. Joash cudgeled his mind for a plan. The First Born was stronger than he was, and more cunning. Allies, and numberless sabertooths, surrounded Tarag.

 I’m Elohim’s servant. If He’s for me, who cares who is against me
?

Joash almost laughed aloud. But this was not a laughing matter. It was a grim, serious duty. His eyes widened. Seraphs could nullify spells.
That
was why Mimir and Lersi had argued over him. They didn’t care for him as a person. Each planned to use him in some nefarious way. Maybe Tarag himself planned to use him. Why, otherwise, keep him alive?

There was no other reason.

Now, Mimir’s strange reasoning placing him  above the rank of man made sense. It had nothing to do with anything, other than Mimir trying to confuse and use him.

They think I’m just a manling. But I’m a Seraph, Elohim’s servant
.

What was Tarag’s goal? Tarag wanted to fight the guardian Cherub, to win his way into Eden. For that reason, Tarag had gone to Draugr Trolock-Maker’s Crypt. For that reason, Tarag had stolen the adamant armor, shield and sword. The First Born needed mighty weapons for his blasphemous task.

I must hide the sword
.

The answer was simple. Yet here, trapped by Nephilim, the simple would be incredibly difficult.

Maybe that wasn’t the only way to thwart them. Somehow, they meant to use him. Maybe in the using, would be his chance.

Joash stared up at the stars. “Please guide me, Elohim,” he prayed. “Help me do Your will.” Peace filled him. With the peace, came strength of will. Terrors would try to overwhelm him, and terrible would be his perils. But now he knew who he was. He was the Seraph. His time has finally come.

Sleep came easily after that.

***

In the morning, Joash insisted on carrying his own bedding. He asked if he could also carry a water-skin.

“Why?” Mimir asked. “So if you escape, you have something to drink?”

“No, High One. It’s simply that I’m unaccustomed to having others do my chores. I’m a groom, after all. I don’t care to become unused to doing work.”

“A groom?” Mimir asked.

Around the giant, the white-haired Gorts shouldered their heavy burdens. In the distance, unseen sabertooths roared. The birds in the pines grew quiet. Another roar sent up a flurry of wings. High above, giant pterodactyls soared, Gibborim pets. Off to the east, snowcapped mountains showed where the band would go if they persisted in marching the same direction as yesterday.

“A groom, High One,” Joash said. “Elonite charioteers use them to look after the horses. I’m the groom to Herrek, son of Teman.”

“I know very well what a groom is,” Mimir snapped. “You’re a Seraph. You are a personage of rank within our band. Only the beasts bear burdens.”

None of the white-haired Gorts looked up, although the largest shifted his shoulders.

Joash shrugged away Mimir’s words.

“Does your gesture mean that you prefer to be a beast?” Mimir asked.

“No, High One.”

“Wise. Now march with me.”

Joash nodded, turned and shouldered the bedding that he’d rolled and tucked into leather binding. Mimir didn’t see, because he walked away from the fire. Joash grunted, thrust his bent knees and adjusted the straps around his shoulders. When he looked up, he saw Mimir glaring at him. Joash hurried to catch up.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Mimir said.

“High One?”

“You told me that you were not a beast.”

“Yes, High One, I’m not.”

The giant squinted. “Are you attempting to make a fool out of me?”

“No, High One.”

The white-haired men already marched onto the path under the pines. Behind them, walked giants. A sabertooth snarled from somewhere up ahead.

“Why are you carrying a burden?” Mimir asked.

“I’m a groom, High One. I don’t want to become unaccustomed to doing my chores.”

Mimir studied him. “If you carry a burden, you proclaim yourself to be a beast.”

“You carry your axe, High One.”

“An axe is not camp supplies.”

“If a predator attacks, my bedding will act as a shield, High One.”

“Make your choice quickly, manling.”

“Yes, High One.” Joash waited, as his stomach began to twist. He knew he played a dangerous game.

“Beware,” said Mimir, “for if you proclaim by your actions to be a beast, then you’ll be treated accordingly.”

Joash said nothing. He wished to harden himself with work, and he wished to show the Gorts that just because they carried burdens, didn’t make them beasts.

“You have chosen,” Mimir said ominously. “Therefore, you are no longer permitted to speak. Nod your head if you understand.”

Joash willed himself to speak. It took two tries before he said, “I understand.”