The King

43

CHAPTER 1

HELP ME! SOMEBODY help me! They’re climbing up the side."

I’m coming, Ham. Hold on, I’m coming. Noah struggled to stay erect against the howling wind and pounding rain that threatened to beat him down to the deck. Fighting against a storm he never could have imagined, he made his way across the slippery deck to reach his son. Ham screamed, swinging his club against the thing trying to climb onto the boat.

Don’t let them get him, God, please.

The anguished screams of the people in the rising floodwaters were more than Noah could bear. Some called him by name, begging and cursing him as they flailed about in the swirling water. At last he reached his son. Ham threw down his club, covered his ears with his hands, and closed his eyes, as if doing so could shut out the pleas coming from the drowning people.

Help us! Noah, you can’t leave us here.

You can’t just let us drown. You know us.

Noah took his son’s arm to calm him, but Ham jerked it away and berated his father.

Listen to them. Is this what God told you to do? Let your neighbors drown? The boat lunged violently and threw him forward. He grabbed hold of his father’s shoulders to keep from falling.

Listen to them cursing you—cursing me; it’s not my fault. I’m not to blame.

The cries from the water became more desperate.

Have mercy for God’s sake; we’re human beings.

Ham let go of his father and grabbed hold of the banister as he railed at the people in the water.

No, you’re not! You’re not human; you’re mutants. You deserve to drown.

Father and son watched in horror as the people began to disappear under the black water. The wind grew stronger, the waves higher, and the boat rocked from side to side. Ham couldn’t hold back the nausea from the dizzying pitch of the boat. He struggled to keep his balance with one hand and clutched his stomach with the other.

Aaagh, I can’t take any more. He bent over the rail and retched.

He was always the weak one; nothing like his brothers. Noah dropped the club he’d been carrying in order to stabilize his son.

It’s all right; I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall over.

By the time Noah saw the grotesque face no more than an arm’s length away from his son’s head, it was too late. He strained to drag Ham back to safety as the giant pulled himself out of the water and tried to board the boat where Ham leaned over. The half-breed human seized Ham by the hair and jerked him from his father’s grip, drawing him down toward the roiling water. Noah went down to his knees, frantically searching for the club he’d dropped.

Let me go! Ham writhed in pain and tried to free himself from the massive hand that held him.

Noah found his weapon and pounded the distorted face of the creature.

Drop him! I’ll kill you if I have to. Ramming the end of his club into the creature’s eye, Noah cried out for his other sons. Shem, Japheth, help me! They’ve got Ham.

Shem was fighting his own battle against another intruder on the other side of the boat when he heard his father’s cries for help. He swung his club like a sledgehammer and pounded the six-fingered hand of the monster holding tightly to the bow. The hybrid being yelped in pain, lost his grip, and tumbled into the water. Shem steadied himself then raced to help his father.

I’m coming. Hold on.

With the fervor of a man half his age, Noah rammed his rugged club again into the face and eyes of the giant until it shrieked in pain, released its grip on his son, and fell back into the black water. Terrified and exhausted, Ham collapsed on the deck. Shem moved his father to the side and bent down to help his brother to his feet.

You must get up. They’re coming; can you stand?

Yes . . . look out!

A sudden jolt, the boat reeled, and the wind blew open a door leading to a lower deck where dozens of terrified animals were crowded into stalls. The bellows of the frightened animals mingled with the human cries until they blended into one mournful wail as the waves battered the ark.

Are you all right? Can you take care of him? Shem asked his father. I’ve got to help Japheth before the animals get out.

Go, go! We’ll be all right. Noah waved Shem on as he took his trembling son in his arms. Why doesn’t he have the courage of his brothers? Maybe I’ve been too soft on him. If the animals get out, it’s all been for nothing. Noah dragged Ham close to the wall of the cabin and set him down.

Stay here. You’ll be safe.

Don’t leave me.

I have to help your brothers.

Noah set out after Shem, but in his confusion he turned toward the opposite end of the boat.

Shem reached Japheth’s side, and together they thrust all their weight against the heaving door.

The animals are stampeding, Japheth said. We can’t hold them!

We have to keep them in.

Shem summoned all his strength and with one mighty thrust managed to slide the locking rod across the door to constrain the bellowing cargo inside. In the struggle to secure the animals, neither brother saw another giant pull himself over the rail and onto the deck.

Get out of my way, the beast threatened. He pushed the brothers to the side then yanked on the barred door and tried to crawl inside to hide with the animals.

Keep him out! Shem yelled.

Together they grabbed his bulging legs and pulled him facedown, away from the door and toward the center of the boat. He cursed them and thrashed from side to side.

We’ve got to get him back into the water! Japheth cried out.

Are you mad? We can’t lift him!

We have to do it; don’t let him turn over.

With all their might the brothers fought to subdue the monster, but he overpowered them. With his superhuman strength he threw Shem into a wall and trampled Japheth to the floor. Just then, still disoriented and weak, Ham stumbled toward his brothers.

Shem? Japheth, where are you? The fog and darkening night made it impossible to see more than a few feet.

Oh, please, no, Japheth moaned under his breath. How did he get over here?

I don’t know. I left him with Father. Ham, go back. Run. But the warning was too late. The giant lunged for Ham and caught him by the neck.

Got you, pretty boy.

With one enormous hand over his face, he dragged him backward, pressing Ham’s head into his heaving chest as he tightened his fingers around his throat.

Let him go! Japheth struggled to his feet then collapsed on his broken leg.

Out of the fog, with the eyes of a madman, Noah charged toward the monster.

I should never have taken my eyes off him.

Father, look out! Shem cried. Over there, another one!

Noah spun around and saw the six-fingered hands of another beast hanging from the railing, struggling to climb aboard.

Let go before I kill you!

With a powerful blow, Noah shattered the giant’s knuckles. Swearing vehemently, he fell back into the murky water.

Can’t breathe; help me, Ham moaned, losing consciousness.

I’m coming, Ham; don’t give up.

Noah raced toward his son’s captor, his club raised to strike him, but stopped short when the monster lifted Ham by the throat and dangled him above the deck.

I wouldn’t try it, Noah.

Noah’s heart stopped when he recognized the voice and saw the blue face of his oxygen-deprived son. He’s going to kill him.

You. Noah’s voice was barely a whisper. I thought you were dead.

Oh, but I’m not. The monster mockingly kissed the top of Ham’s head and licked his lips.

Let him go, Og. He can’t breathe.

That would be a shame; he would be so . . . scrumptious. Lustful laughter rumbled from the beast’s throat as desperation and fear welled up in Noah. I can’t let him kill him; he’s my son.

Let him go; drop him now. I’ll do whatever you want.

Give me shelter, Noah.

Terrified for his son’s life, Noah lowered his club and looked anxiously from Ham’s captor to his other sons—injured and unable to fight.

What about them?

I care nothing for them—or you.

The screams of the drowning people continued to sound over the crashing waves.

And them? Noah asked. Will you try to help them?

Let them drown. Deal?

What kind of father would let his son be killed?

Noah nodded then jumped forward to catch Ham’s limp body as the Nephilim king dropped him to the floor and lumbered toward the door of the boat’s cabin.

Hide in the rafters, Noah said. No one must know you’ve survived.

Daylight was fading in Jerusalem as Samantha Yale sat at her professor’s desk intently watching her BlackBerry as if she expected it might speak to her.

Maybe I can will it to ring.

Across the room sat an unpacked UPS box—unpacked except for the one scroll she had unrolled then left on her conference table. Shrugging the fatigue from her shoulders, she took a break from staring at the phone and picked up the scroll one more time. With a disdainful look she dropped it again.

Forgeries. Does he think he can fool me? She rubbed her temples, as if by doing so she could telepathically summon some faraway person.

Call me, you seriously disturbed man. Wonk Eman, call me this minute.

As if on cue, the BlackBerry vibrated to announce a caller.

It’s him. She picked up the phone without checking the caller ID.

Wonk?

Pardon?

Wonk, is that you? Touching the mute button she held the phone out and looked for the caller name. ID blocked.

We’ve got no time to play games, my friend. Taking a slow breath, she turned off mute and changed her tone of voice to one less threatening.

Wonk, are you there?

No, a man’s voice answered. It’s Jonathan Marks.

Dr. Marks, what a surprise. I apologize. I don’t usually answer the phone in that manner.

How did he get this number?

Perhaps I’m the one who should apologize for calling on your personal cell. I had some difficulty getting through the university’s call center and felt I should try to reach you right away.

It happens frequently—perils of an outdated system. She cleared her throat. I don’t recall giving you this number, but never mind. How can I help you, Dr. Marks?

Perhaps I can help you—concerning the scrolls you called me about previously. I may have some important information for you, if you’re still interested.

I am.

Are you aware that the scrolls may be stolen property?

Certainly not. Why would you ask such a thing?

I had a visit this morning from a man named Anak Rapha. Does that name mean anything to you?

Should it?

He claims to be the curator for the Institute of Egyptology in Cairo. He told me he was looking for relics stolen from the institute—a set of scrolls written in cuneiform.

I see. She picked up the discarded scroll and held it over her desk lamp as if giving it one more chance to be authentic. Why do you think he contacted you?

Why did you?

Touché. I suppose I’m not the only one who knows about your work.

He said my reputation as a specialist in religious relics made me the needed expert for validation that whoever stole them will have to have to sell them on the black market. If the perpetrators hadn’t contacted me yet, he felt certain they would.

What else did he say?

He said the scrolls were given to the institute by a patron who wished to remain anonymous. Upon hearing of their disappearance, the patron is willing to pay a large reward—no questions asked—for their return.

I see. How did you answer?

I said I didn’t know anything about it, but if I were to be contacted, I would let him know. In other words, I lied, something I’m not comfortable doing.

Samantha slowly exhaled the breath she’d been holding for the past minute. Thank you, Dr. Marks.

It’s Jonathan. I just implicated myself in a possible international felony for you; we should at least be on a first name basis, Samantha. Right—and it’s Sam if you like.

What say you, Sam? Are they stolen?

I don’t know. I was sure they weren’t, but now— She looked at the UPS box. —now I’m not as certain.

That’s not comforting; try again.

I assure you I’ll find out, but first I have to find the man who brought them to me, which I fear will be no small task. You may remember I told you he was . . . odd.

Right, the man with no address, no e-mail, no phone. Are you sure he exists?

No response.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flip. How can I help?

Pray for me.

I don’t pray. I’ll wait until you contact me. Ciao, Sam.

Donning her raincoat, she dropped the BlackBerry in her pocket, carefully opened her door, and peered out to make certain no late visitors lurked in the hallway. Satisfied she was alone on the floor, she walked down the deserted corridor of the University of Jerusalem and stepped out into the evening fog.

Where are you, Wonk Eman? Wherever you are, you better pray I find you first.

CHAPTER 2

THE OLD CHURCH loomed before her from where it had stood guard over its sacred place for more than fifteen hundred years. Its granite walls and massive wooden doors were reminiscent of what one might find in a medieval tale of knights and crusaders. Samantha paused to look at the gargoyles planted at strategic points on the high ledge above the windows.

They give me the creeps.

She shuddered as she hurried up the steps to the smaller door where the penitent could enter for Mass and tourists could enter for sightseeing—marking off one more of the must-see memorials of old Jerusalem listed in their day tour brochures. Sometimes the door was locked, especially at night, but not this night. She opened it carefully and stepped inside the damp sanctuary to the musty smells of antiquity.

Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, she nodded a greeting to the old nun in her white habit making her custodial rounds to be sure the right candles were burning. Making no noise, Samantha moved about the immense room until she found a place where she could see all of the wooden pews arranged in front of the altar. She scanned each one until she saw who she was looking for.

Silently as a cat, she slid into the seat behind the huddled figure of a man wrapped in a trench coat with a hat pulled down over his ears, leaning forward with his head resting on the pew in front of him. His arms were wrapped around his torso as if he were in pain or very cold or maybe just very odd. Samantha cocked her ear toward him, trying to discern the sounds he was making.

Whimpering. That’s the only way to describe it. But why?

Good evening, Wonk.

AAAAGH! he yelled as he leapt over the pew in front of him before pausing long enough to look back at his attacker. When he saw it was only a woman, he stopped yelling and jumping over the pews. He squinted at her, trying to make out who she was. The old nun hurried over to see what the commotion was about. Samantha waved her an everything-is-under-control signal. Seeing only two people and satisfied it was unlikely there would be any more screaming and jumping, she went back to her duties, clucking to herself about visiting hours.

You can relax, Wonk; it’s only me.

Dr. Yale? What are you doing here?

Looking for you.

Wonk jerked his head from side to side, then stood on the pew and looked to the far back of the church as if expecting the grim reaper to pop out of one of the confessionals and drag him away. Seeing no one, he sat back down and sheepishly looked at Samantha. You shouldn’t have come, Dr. Yale. I told you not to try to contact me. You could have been followed. I thought I could trust you.

Just as I thought I could trust you.

What do you mean? He shifted in his seat to face her more directly.

Oh, I think you know. The last box of scrolls are forgeries, and to top it off nicely, I find out all of them are stolen property.

Forgeries? Stolen? Why would you say such a thing? He was becoming more agitated and nervous.

Didn’t I make myself clear in our first conversation? I don’t handle stolen artifacts.

He jumped to his feet and placed a hand over his chest as if she’d shot him in the heart.

They’re not stolen. They belong to me. I . . . He paused, still holding his chest.

You what? Sit down and tell me the truth.

They do belong to me. His eyes, with less guile than a week-old puppy, pleaded with her to believe him. I’ve had them for a long, long time.

"Maybe so, but you got them from somewhere. You weren’t born with them. How did you get them?"

I can’t— He lowered his head into his hands. I can’t tell you now.

Samantha stood to her feet and smoothed out the folds of her coat.

I can see this is going nowhere. You can pick the scrolls up from my office tomorrow. I can’t have them there any longer.

But have you finished the translation so soon? He rose to his feet and stopped short of reaching for her arm to keep her from leaving.

No, Wonk, I haven’t. Don’t waste my time; you know they’re forgeries.

No, no, they are not. Why would you think such a thing?

Please. The latest scrolls are from a much more recent era. They’re written on parchment in Hebrew—as you well know—not cuneiform. And so?

Want to tell me why they changed?

He paused before answering.

Technology.

I will not laugh or ridicule his inability to lie. Then she burst out laughing.

What’s so funny?

That’s your answer? Technology changed?

Well, it did. When parchment became the medium for writing and Hebrew developed into a written as well as spoken language, why wouldn’t the writer use modernity?

She sat back down, not quite sure how to respond to such simple logic.

Of course, technology changed; why didn’t I think of that?

Wonk, listen to me. Do you still maintain that one author wrote all these scrolls?

Yes.

Do you know how old a person would have to be to span the time when cuneiform was developed by the Phoenicians to a time when parchment and Hebrew became common?

All emotion drained from his face. Several strained seconds passed before he spoke.

The writer isn’t human, Dr. Yale. I thought you knew that by now.

Now Samantha grew uncomfortable. She stood up and rubbed her hands over the rough wood of the old pew and looked around at the mosaics of the saints that hung on the walls.

Why are you hiding in this church anyway?

If they were after me, I knew they wouldn’t follow me in here.

"Who is they, and what’s to stop them?"

The gargoyles. They were carved and sculpted outside of buildings like this to scare the demons away. It’s worked fine so far.

I see. Demons are after you. Of course, I should have guessed.

She studied his face for a moment, wondering if he had any idea how insane he sounded.

He isn’t capable of lying, which means he believes what he says. I wonder which is worse—insanity or lying?

This afternoon I was contacted by Dr. Jonathan Marks. Do you remember I asked you about him some time ago?

No response.

I wanted your permission to show the scrolls to Dr. Marks for peer-level confirmation of my findings.

No response.

As it turns out, Dr. Marks was contacted by a man named Anak Rapha. Does that name mean anything to you?

He nodded.

Then you know Mr. Rapha is the curator at the Institute of Egyptology in Cairo.

No, he isn’t.

He isn’t?

I assure you, the institute has never heard of him. Anak Rapha is a very dangerous . . . man. Did Dr. Marks link him to you? His tone of voice became anxious. Rapha will stop at nothing to get the scrolls. He’ll find you, then he’ll come after me.

Wonk jumped to his feet and started climbing over the pews toward the door.

I have to go.

Samantha grabbed him by the arm.

Where are you going?

I have to hide. If he knows about Jonathan Marks, he knows about you. He’s on to me. Let go of me. I have to run.

Wonk, get a grip on yourself this minute. Stop it.

He pulled his arm free from her grip and knelt down on the floor between the pews, hiding from an unseen aggressor. Samantha sat down and continued.

I told you Dr. Marks didn’t mention me to Anak Rapha. There’s no reason for anyone to connect us. Dr. Marks and I know each other only by reputation. His, not mine. We’ve never worked together, never been seen together. My profile is much lower than that of Dr. Marks. There are many other academics who are more likely to be called on by him for collaboration than me.

Then why didn’t he?

Why didn’t he what? She stalled for time, realizing what she’d let slip.

Call one of the others about Anak Rapha? Why you?

Now it was Samantha’s turn to have a blank face.

You told him, didn’t you? You said you wouldn’t, and you did.

He was distraught and panicked. She knew she had to calm him down before the nun returned to check out the disturbance—or before he ran away.

It’s not like you think— She held fast to his arm. I called him and asked if he would be willing to be a corroborator for a project I was working on. I told him there were scrolls, but he doesn’t know how many or from where. I would never let him see them without your permission.

I’m dead. I’m dead. All this way, and now I’m dead.

Wonk! Snap out of it. She shook him by the shoulders. Nobody is dead. Go home. I’ll translate the scrolls. It won’t take me as long because Hebrew is much easier than cuneiform. Contact me in a few weeks. Just like before.

Right, just like before. Go home. He sounded robotic.

Now go. She turned loose of his shoulders.

He ran and stumbled between the pews and out the entrance door. By the time Samantha reached the outside steps, he was gone.

Back in her office, Samantha plugged in the electric teapot and traded her coat for a sweater. She took the first scroll off the conference table where she had left it and began to gently unroll it on her desktop. She paused for a moment and chuckled to herself.

Wonk Eman, you are a clever little devil. You, of all people, hiding out in a church like that.

She picked up her magnifying glass and slowly began to read the ancient document that lay before her like a personal invitation into the past.

All right, my little friend—fallen angel with no name—tell me how it happened. ‘We have miles to go before we sleep.’

CHAPTER 3

I COULD BE SUCH a help to God if only He would give me another chance. I would be a fabulous personal assistant. I could help Him keep track of the details when He’s working on a complex project. For example, I could maintain a checklist for Him. I could follow Him around and remind Him when He’s overlooked some of the particulars that are sure to cause problems later on. For instance, if only I had His ear for five minutes before Joshua died, I would have pointed out the glaring omission in His plans for the Jews.

He let Joshua die without leaving a successor. Allowing them to start out with no leader could only mean disaster for His plans for Israel to conquer Canaan. A good assistant would have seen the omission right away, and all of history might have been different. God had been so precise and careful to be sure Joshua was in place before He took Moses to wherever it is humans go when they die. The handoff from Moses to Joshua was so smooth a person not paying close attention might not have noticed anything had changed at all. Not so in Joshua’s transfer of leadership. After Joshua closed his eyes in death, it was no time at all before the Hebrew nation began to unravel.

Granted, they started out well enough. However, the main reason for their initial success was because Satan, who, by the way, has several assistants but listens to none of them, made a huge tactical error. He overlooked how well trained the army was under Joshua. He never considered the possibility that the Jews might be able to withstand the demonic barrage he’d sent their way as soon as he heard Joshua was dead. He assumed Israel would see how big the force was coming against them and would lie down and die—or at least turn and run.

First Judah went out to battle, and it appeared as though the Israelites were sure to succeed in taking the land they’d been promised. They put up such an impressive fight that Satan called the game early on and left the theater of war to go to his cave and pout about how something wasn’t fair to him. If he’d waited five more minutes, he would have seen things were about to change in his favor. Israel was no more than two or three battles into the siege before they inexplicably changed their war tactics and abandoned the rules of engagement God had dictated to Joshua for them.

What’s the matter with you people? I wanted to shout at them. You were about to win. This isn’t that complicated if you stick to the game plan.

I was there, and I heard the whole thing when God laid out the fighting strategy they were to follow. Joshua repeated verbatim what God said at least a dozen times from his deathbed. I could recite it in my sleep—if I ever slept, which I don’t.

When you get to the good land I’m giving you, make no covenant with the people there. Tear down their altars and destroy them completely.

Two sentences—what’s not to understand?

If only I’d been God’s personal assistant the day Joshua died. I could have pointed out how He’d overlooked the most important success factor in wrapping up the exodus of the Jews from Egypt.

God, I would have said, You must instruct Joshua to appoint a new leader before he dies. I’d be happy to prescreen the candidates and make a suggestion if You like, but You really must pick someone. Think about how these people of Yours behave in a leadership vacuum. Moses was out of the camp for forty days, and the next thing You knew they’d made a golden calf to be their new leader. I can only imagine what will happen if Joshua leaves a committee in charge.

From my perch in the second heaven I watched the armies of Israel go up against the Canaanites. Israel’s troops were on plan and perfectly positioned to conquer and destroy. At first, I was so sure of their victory I didn’t bother to fly down for a closer look. But as soon as I saw them deviate from God’s orders, I