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Long Road Out Of Ur

By Joel Thimell

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I cursed Abram softly under my breath. Not a real curse, it was no malediction from Ereshkigal, the ruler of the Netherworld. It was no call to the God of Noah to damn him. It was just empty threats. However, lives and human history are sometimes changed forever by such vague utterances—words once spoken that can’t be taken back.

My name is Lot. Yes, that Lot—the one who barely escaped the destruction of Sodom with his daughters—my wife wasn’t so fortunate. The Lot that Abraham rescued from the king of Elam, bringing me home tied to the backside of an ass with my arms flailing wildly in a vain attempt at maintaining my balance and my dignity. How dare he rescue me in such fashion in front of my entire family—even the self-indulgent have their pride!

There are those who say that I got a raw deal. After all I was the eldest son of the eldest son of the Patriarch. I should have been the chosen one, the one to lead the family and receive the blessing. But you won’t hear me say that. As my old headmaster Sheshgal literally beat into me: “friendship lasts a day, but kinship lasts forever.” I don’t begrudge Abram his success in the least; I just feel he should acknowledge my part in his.

Who do you think arranged for those parting gifts on our way back from Egypt? You think Pharaoh came up with that idea on his own? He was so broke by his never-ending war with the other Pharaoh up in Thebes that he wouldn’t give a drink of water to the Queen Mother unless she paid “in grain, full-measure upfront.” And Abram, he was so embarrassed by his half truths to Pharaoh that he just wanted to slink out of the country in the middle of the night. He kept mumbling something about the God of Noah will provide. I didn’t doubt that, I just always heard that God helps those who help themselves.

So I took the risk of letting old Sherptak, the grand vizier and royal henchman, know that Abram’s God would not like us being sent down the road without adequate supplies for what may be an extremely lengthy journey. And before that, who devised the means for the whole family to escape Ur with fortune intact one step ahead of King Ur-Nammu the Usurper?

But that was years later. Now Abram was a skinny little runt in my care who had given me the slip for the last time if I caught him. Although Abram is my uncle, I am actually five years older than him. We were supposed to be watching Grandfather Terah’s sheep, but as usual Abram had other ideas. Like most twelve year old boys, he had grand dreams of adventure—unlike other boys he frequently acted on those dreams.

Where was Abram? Nanna, the moon god, was late in rising—probably dallying with his wife, Ningal—and the mountain path was nearly invisible in the darkness despite the torch I was carrying. I tripped over a loose rock and fell heavily. As it slid off the path it dislodged another loose stone and then another and another. By the time I regained my feet, shale and debris were cascading down the slope. Gathering speed the slide uprooted boulders and swallowed up bushes. Trees snapped like twigs before being swallowed whole by that terrible mouth of destruction. Dust filled the air, stinging my eyes and burning my throat.

Peering vainly through the darkness down towards the camp at the far end of the valley, I could hear the sheep bleating in fear as the roar of the slide echoed off the mountain walls like thunder. Dogs barked their alarm and torches danced wildly as the herdsmen ran to calm the stupid sheep. Fortunately, they were in no real danger as the avalanche extinguished itself in a mighty crescendo in the dry river bed at least 300 steps downstream from their resting place.

Calming the jittery sheep would be the easy part, I knew. The herdsmen were even stupider than the sheep—with their foolish superstitions and mindless rituals to appease their capricious gods and goddesses. They were sure to attribute this to the Galla—demons of the Netherworld—or perhaps Rabisu the Crawler who lurked in dark corners. Even now they would be clutching the amulets around their necks; even now they would be chanting the incantations some priest had sold them to ward off the ghosts of the improperly buried; even now they would be admonishing their wooden guard dog statuettes, “Don’t stop to think, Bite!” If I didn’t have to find Abram before he fell off a cliff or was mauled by a bear, watching them run in circles to ward off this supposed evil would be hilarious.

The worst part was they had warned me something like this would happen when I announced I was going to rescue Abram and asked for volunteers. “My cousin went out after dark last year and his body was never found—just a trail of blood...A friend told me that a neighbor’s brother had seen a ghost floating ominously in these very mountains not more than ten years ago.” And so on. These were brave men who had battled barbarians, fought wild animals and endured blistering heat and blinding sandstorms without faltering. Anyone of them would have gladly stepped in front of a spear thrust aimed at Abram, but their knees turned to porridge at the thought of venturing away from the safety of their fires after dark.

“Blast that Abram! How had I let him manipulate me again?”

It was emesh and we had led the flocks up into the Hursag Mountains to escape the searing heat of the plains and to find sufficient grass for the sheep. It had been a very dry enten and there wasn’t much grass in the foothills, so we had pressed on ever upwards, following the course of the great river that drained the rocky peaks of their perpetual snow. Only this year the peaks were barren and the river nearly dry and the sheep were bleating with thirst.

We were resting in the shade after lunch awaiting the return of Udul and Abram, whom I had sent ahead to scout for a spring to water the sheep. I had barely closed my eyes—I wasn’t asleep mind you—but couldn’t relax because it was much too quiet with Abram gone. That scamp couldn’t be silent any more than a hippo can tiptoe into a swamp.

Sitting upright, I surveyed our camp while I adjusted my tunic and fastened my sandals. This was a coveted grazing site which the family had jealously guarded for generations. Surrounded on two sides by steep walls covered with loose rocks and soft, dusty soil, a raiding party from above would be heard and seen hours before arriving in our valley. In good years, a small but steady waterfall trickled down the back wall of this valley and filled a small pool which fed a small stream that nourished a lush meadow dotted with clumps of oak, pistachio and almond trees. Gathering the nuts from these wild trees was almost as valuable to the family as the deep grass and the sweet water was to the flocks.

This was not a good year. The waterfall had nearly stopped completely. The pool was little more than a mud wallow which trapped the parched sheep as they rushed desperately for even a sip of water. If not for the amazing skill and tenacity of our dogs, half the herd may have been trampled in the near-stampede. Even so, it had taken all twelve of the herders a couple of hours to drive the herd away from the pool and pull those which got stuck to safety. Now bedded down two hours below the pool, the still-hungry and still-thirsty sheep had devoured the few brown morsels of grass in that portion of the valley within a few hours.

And so we waited anxiously for Udul and Abram to return with ever-more critical news. Circling overhead a handful of buzzards foretold the grim end that awaited our expedition without water. If we didn’t find a good-sized spring by tomorrow, some of the sheep would begin to die. Our own goatskins had begun to shrink and less than two days of water remained even though we were down to half rations.

Abram had wanted to go and scout for the water. “As the only son of Terah present, it is my duty to save his sheep by finding them water,” he declared.

“As the one Terah has made responsible for protecting you and his sheep, it is my duty to make sure you don’t kill yourself while doing your duty,” I replied.

These mountains were very dangerous, with loose rocks, sheer cliffs and mountain lions waiting around every bend of the path. Even worse, the barbarians of Gutia were raiding again this emesh. Not two days ride north of here another clan had been ambushed just last month: flocks stolen, men butchered, women and children dragged off—into slavery, presumably, or worse.

Still, Abram was hard to refuse. His pleading eyes turned upon mine as I considered my options. I didn’t want to hurt his pride by rejecting his offer too quickly. Nor did I want to leave him without enough to do, as idle hands make much mischief. I had learned that the hard way: when Abram was just seven he wandered off with a caravan bound for Bactra—fabled Bactra of secret mountain passes and burning desert sands; of mythical beasts like the giant winged Roc and horses with two humps; of exotic spices and lapis lazuli and royal cloth with rainbow colors spun by magical caterpillars. By the time we caught up with the caravan, he was almost halfway to Lagash.

Abram received a stern lecture from Terah about the dangers of strangers. I received a beating from my father Haran, who by ill-chance happened to be home for a brief respite from the seemingly never-ending battles he fought alongside King Utu-khegal against the Gutian barbarians. When I complained that I had not been the one to run off—I was told that keeping Abram out of trouble was more important than the flocks we had been tending when the caravan passed by.

And last year, Abram had sneaked aboard a ship in the harbor at Ur. Fortunately, the captain was sleeping off the previous night’s revelry thus delaying its return to Dilmun long enough for one of the crew to find Abram hiding in a sack of barley—apparently the other sacks of barley weren‘t wriggling around and sneezing. Unfortunately, in his eagerness to avoid capture, Abram overturned two costly vessels of wine and trampled the ship’s personal shrine to Nammu, the goddess of the sea.

Arriving upon the scene just as the still-inebriated captain was being summoned to decide the fate of their diminutive stowaway, I observed that turning him over to the “proper authorities” might not be in anyone’s interests. After all, the temple priests would undoubtedly detect some inauspicious omens requiring days of expensive spirit-cleansing rituals and even more expensive delays in the completion of their shipping contracts. Slipping a silver armband to the first mate, I suggested that purchasing a couple of statuettes to pray before the shrine would be much simpler and quicker.

"As for this delinquent, as the scribes say: ‘his mother never should have given birth to him, his god should never have fashioned him.’ Turn him over to me and I’ll make it unanimous—after I thrash him—he’ll wish he had never been born, too.”

With a few theatrical kicks to his posterior, and some well chosen epithets for good measure, I pushed him down the boat ramp and across the square. On the way home Abram was unusually quiet most of the way. Finally, he looked up at me: “Lot, you should not have offered them idols for their false gods.” Well, I know it was wrong to encourage these pagans, but you can be sure I didn‘t multiply my error by telling Terah about this escapade.

Maybe I could let Abram go with one of the older herdsmen. Sab-gal had been chief herdsmen for Grandfather Terah even before my father Haran was born. Now in his eighties or nineties—I wasn‘t certain—he was still quite vigorous, but not as sure on his feet as he once was. His son, Udul, was the biggest man I knew; he was nearly five cubits tall. Although he was not particularly clever, he could take care of himself and knew the mountains better than anyone but Sab-gal. If anyone could protect Abram it was Udul. Besides, how could Abram get into any trouble this time, now that I was wise to his tricks?

Nevertheless, ten hours later I was getting anxious. Standing up, I turned to ask Sab-gal if Udul and Abram should have returned already. His answer was interrupted by shouts from the other herdsmen. A tall figure emerged from the trees above the camp. Slowly, one foot dragging after another, Udul hobbled into camp, shoulders slumped, head down—alone.

“Where’s Abram?” I shouted.

Udul stumbled and staggered across the camp and threw himself prostrate before my feet. His tunic was tattered and torn and his arms and legs were covered with scratches as if he had fallen into a thistle patch. A low moan like an animal’s escaped from his throat. His giant hands clawed great clumps of hair from his head and beard. Still prone, Udul awkwardly unsheathed his well-worn sword and pushed it, hilt first, to me. “Take my worthless life, Master Lot. I have brought dishonor upon my family and myself. I cannot bear to face Terah again with my shame at losing his boy.”

My knees trembled and I heard myself speaking as though from a great distance: “Only Terah can give or take a life in this family, Udul. Get up…now, please tell me what has happened to Abram.”

Udul struggled to his feet. A look of pain and confusion crossed his face and he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. He gave me the slip at the Deep Hollow spring just past the east fork of the river, so I went looking for him. He just vanished into thin air—it had to be a ghost. I wanted to keep searching but it will be dark soon and I had to get off this mountain before the same ghost gets me.”

All the other herdsmen had gathered around us to hear Udul’s story. I could see each of them nodding in agreement. Ghost? Darkness? I wanted to scream, I wanted to laugh, most of all I wanted to shake this foolish superstition right out of their heads. Biting back a stinging retort, I asked instead, “How did Abram get away anyway? Where was he headed when you lost his trail? Maybe you should start from the beginning.”

Udul straightened his back and shifted his feet. His eyes gazed unseeing into the distance. “We followed the riverbed straight up from camp as we had planned. The next two springs north of here were both dry as Sab-gal had expected, so we had to decide whether to follow the east fork of the riverbed or the west. The first spring on the east fork is much closer but only if you lower someone by rope down into the Deep Hollow. The path the sheep would have to take around that ravine is at least an hour longer. The closest spring on the west fork is two or three hours further but it is more reliable during bad years than either spring on the east fork.”

“We already know the advantages and disadvantages of the Deep Hollow spring,” I interrupted. “What happened to Abram?”

“I’m getting to that,” Udul flashed back. “We decided to chance the more dangerous Deep Hollow approach, so the sheep would not start dying of thirst.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’ decided? You didn’t let Abram talk you into one of his crazy schemes, did you?” I scolded.

“If you‘ll let me finish,” Udul sighed, “all your questions will be answered sooner.” Seeing no further objections on my face, he continued. “So I tied my rope around Abram’s waist and lowered him down slowly into Deep Hollow. I told him to tug the rope one time when he reached the bottom. He was then supposed to untie the rope, run the hundred steps or so to the spring, fill his goatskin if possible and run right back to the rope. After retying the rope around his waist and tugging it twice—I would haul him back up to the path."

Udul’s voice broke and tears began to fill his eyes. “He got to the bottom all right—I felt the tug and the rope went slack…and then...nothing. I waited fifteen or twenty minutes and then I started to get worried. ‘AAAbraaam…AAAbraaam,’ I called, ‘Cooome baaack!’”

“I kept calling for at least five minutes with no response, so I started throwing rocks down into the hollow. I’m not sure what I hoped to gain, but I was getting angry. Maybe I thought he was playing one of his games and maybe a rock on his backside would show him how funny it was. Unfortunately there was nothing to tie the rope to—no tree, no rock—that’s why I had to let Abram go down in the first place. There’s no way he could have held me on the rope. So I had to take the path around the ravine down to the spring. I ran faster than ever in my whole life. I felt like I was flying down the path—but apparently not high enough.”

At this point, Udul sheepishly indicated his scratches and torn tunic. “My feet tripped over a root and I skidded face first into a prickly bush, which was lucky for me. If it wasn’t there, I probably would have fallen to my death in the bottom of the ravine. I got up and walked the rest of the way to the spring. It had been at least an hour and Abram was nowhere to be found. I could see his footsteps leading to the spring and back to the rope which was still lying where I had left it in my haste. From there his tracks continued on to the west following an old game trail last used by mountain goats.”

The herdsmen muttered in anticipation as Udul’s story had captured their whole attention. “I didn’t see any sign of other people or wild predators on the trail so I ran again in my haste to overtake Abram, slowing only enough to make certain that his tracks were still following the game trail. I followed his tracks for two hours, until they just disappeared. I followed the trail further, I doubled back; I circled below the trail, I circled above—there was no sign of his tracks anywhere.”

Udul cleared his throat with a dry cough, and then he continued. “No animal took him, he didn‘t fly away—it could only be a ghost. The other herdsmen murmured agreement again. “And even if darkness wasn’t coming soon, I had no idea where to look or which way to go. So my duty was to the family, and to the sheep.”

Water! I had forgotten all about the sheep and our need for water in my concern for Abram. “You must be very thirsty, Udul.” Turning to the other herdsmen, I said: “Get him some water, and then I need some volunteers to help me find Abram.”

“That won’t be necessary, Lot.” Udul slung his bulging goatskin on the ground at my feet, precious water trickling from its stopper. “The Deep Hollow spring is full, the sheep are saved.”

So here I was in the middle of the night stumbling my way up a treacherous mountain trail in what seemed like a hopeless effort to rescue Abram. What could have happened to him? Although I don’t believe in ghosts or vengeful spirits like the ignorant people of this land, I was certainly baffled by his disappearance. Udul was a very good tracker—if he says Abram’s trail just vanished without a trace then I knew that it just vanished. But I couldn’t go home without trying myself to find him. Abram was more than just my uncle—I liked the little guy—even if he did get underfoot all the time. With the discovery of water at the Deep Hollow spring, Sab-gal and the others could drive the herd up there in the morning where I would meet them with or without Abram.

After the near miss with the rock slide, I slowed down and used my torch as a staff to feel the path in front of me. I wouldn’t be any help to Abram if I didn’t survive the rescue myself. Fingering the hilt of my short bronze sword with my left hand, I imagined hungry wolves and mountain lions around every bend in the trail. Shadowy figures loomed out of the darkness, turning into trees as I grew closer. Despite the intense heat of the day, the temperature had plummeted with nightfall. Thankfully, our sheep had provided me with a warm woolen cloak. Step by step I retraced the passage of Udul and Abram this morning. Was it only sixteen hours since they had left full of high spirits on their quest to find water? To my aching feet and tired eyes it seemed like days not hours.

At last I reached the large flat rock which signaled the imminent split of the river into east and west forks. How many times in years gone by had Abram and I stopped here to eat our lunches while moving the herds to greener pastures? How many times had we jumped from its blistering hot surface into the icy waters of the river to splash and play with the other herdsmen? But this time was different—only a trickle of water dripped, dripped over the stones in the riverbed. There would be no jumping and splashing when the herdsmen arrived in the morning with the sheep.

I turned right to follow the east fork as they had done this morning. I kept picturing Abram’s lifeless body at the bottom of a ravine or his helpless shrieks as a leopard dragged him to make a meal for her cubs. I don’t really know how to pray much—there seems to be an awful lot of ceremony and ritual involved, with bloody altars and burnt sacrifices; sacred chants and smelly potions; and scheming priests and offering boxes. The gods of this land—this Ki-en-gir—the land of the blackheaded people—are selfish gods. They created men to be their slaves—to toil for them, to provide food, drink and clothing for them. The gods of the Ki-en-gir are also very capricious. Even if you offer all the required sacrifices and chant all the prescribed prayers, there is no guarantee of their help. It’s almost like the gods aren’t listening or just don’t care.

You may be wondering why I keep referring to the gods of this land instead of my gods or my land. That’s easy. This land is not my land and these gods are not my gods. My family is not of the Ki-en-gir originally. We don’t talk about it in public—not with all the suspicions about foreigners since the Gutian barbarians began their raids several years back. Terah says we are part of the family of Eber from the land of Mesha. If you are foolish enough to ask him who’s Eber, he just scowls and says “the follower of the God of Noah.” We don’t worship the God of Noah in public for the same reason we keep our ancestry quiet. Once a year the family treks up into these very Hursag Mountains to build an altar and offer sacrifices for our sins against the God of Noah. In fact, Terah and Uncle Nahor (and Haran if there is a break in the Gutian campaigns) will be joining us in a few days for this year’s ceremony of cleansing.

Because Terah speaks the prayers in the old tongue, I don’t understand much of what he says or what it all means. But I do know that I feel like praying right now for Abram (and for myself, too—if I’m honest). “O God of Noah,” I begin. “I don’t know your language very well and I don’t have the right words to get your attention, but I wish to ask for your mercy for the sake of Abram. I know he’s a naughty boy much of the time, but he means well and I really miss him,” I blubbered. “Please help me to find him and bring him back safely. Show me the way.”

I don’t know just what I expected to happen next, but nothing was definitely not it. There was no shooting star or heavenly choir to guide me, no clap of thunder or bolt of lightning to acknowledge my request. I did feel a little better, like a guilty schoolboy who has confessed his disobedience to the Ummia headmaster. Disappointed, but still hopeful, I continued up the east fork of the river towards the Deep Hollow spring. At last Nanna began to rise above the Kur-sur peak and his moonlight made the trail easier to follow. Before long I reached the point on the trail where Udul lowered Abram down the steep cliff to check the spring. Carefully, I wriggled as close to the edge as I dared and peered down into the darkness hoping to see I don’t know what. I guess it was just curiosity. You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, don’t you?

Well, fortunately, curiosity did not kill me that night. It didn’t provide any answers about Abram either. Even with Nanna shining brightly now, I couldn’t see down into the cave that sheltered the Dark Hollow spring. Backing away from the precipice, I continued down the winding path around the ravine to the spring. As I reached the bottom of the trail and switched back to make the ascent up the far side to the spring, I suddenly spotted two piercing eyes gleaming not twenty steps further up the path. Immediately, I froze, while my panicked mind ran through all the advice my father Haran had ever given me on confronting a wild animal.

Don’t run away, you can’t outrun a lion. And don’t stare at a lion; it will attack if it feels threatened. Or if a lion charges you, lie on the ground and play dead. It was funny how all his advice seemed to be for handling lions, with nothing for bears or hyenas or wolves—each of which could leave me just as dead.

Deciding that a strategic retreat was my best option, I began to slowly back down the trail, keeping my eyes fixed on those two glowing orbs above me. The crunch of pebbles under my sandals echoed like a hammer upon bronze in my fevered mind. Despite the cold, sweat began to trickle down my forehead. The eyes moved, I turned to run and tripped over a root. Sprawling on the ground, I struggled to get up, fumbling for my sword to face my attacker. The eyes grew closer. I could almost feel the beast’s hot breath. Just as I freed my sword and readied for a desperate lunge, my ears were assaulted by, “Heeee-Haaaaw! Heeee-Haaaw!” I did not think it was nearly as funny as the wild onager did.

Thirty minutes of brisk striding found me at the entrance to the Dark Hollow spring. My heart was still pounding in my ears and my lungs were struggling to keep up. Holding my torch stretched forth like a herald leading a royal procession, I tiptoed into the cavern. Jabbing the torch at the ceiling, I made sure there were no bats to swoop down on me unawares. (One wild animal attack in an evening was more than enough for me.) The large pool of water was indeed full, gurgling gently as it flowed over some rocks towards the rear of the cave. The icy black water was deep—very deep. Local legend said this pool had no bottom—that one could swim all the way down to Lady Ereshkigal’s netherworld home. Not inclined to find out for myself, I sat down and leaned back against the wall. I shouldn’t stop to sleep—not while Abram was lost out there somewhere—but just a few minutes to catch my breath couldn’t hurt anything, could it?

When I awoke, Utu was stirring from his bed and lightening the eastern sky. Groaning, I tried to stand up. My neck was stiff, my feet were sore and my back did not want to straighten all the way. I shuffled over to the spring, filled my goatskin, and greedily gulped down the ice cold water—we had been on short rations for two days. After refilling the goatskin, I reached into my leather pouch and ate a hunk of hard barley bread, and a handful of dates. I looked wistfully at the dried meat, but decided I had better save it for later. What I wouldn’t give for a hot bowl of porridge on this cold morning! Rubbing my hands together and blowing on them to warm up, I decided I had better get an early start if there was still any hope of finding Abram alive.

I left the cave and followed the path to the spot where Udul had lowered Abram yesterday afternoon. Dawn was approaching in the eastern sky behind me, but the mountain peaks in front of me to the west were still hidden in darkness. I could just make out the old game trail that Udul said Abram had followed when he left the spring yesterday.

Trudging up the steep slope, I tried to be hopeful for Abram’s sake. Maybe he found a cave to sleep in like I did. It wasn’t that cold last night and Abram knows how to make a fire. He’s slept out in the open while watching the sheep many times. But my fears kept interrupting, He can’t have just disappeared by himself— an animal must have gotten him, or maybe some raiders. Or maybe he slipped and fell off one of these cliffs.

With this inner turmoil unresolved, I continued to follow the old game trail as it wound its way up the western slopes of the Hursag. The trail was quite steep here and I paused to catch my breath for a minute, leaning on my extinguished torch. With my breathing back to normal, I looked up to see the peaks beginning to glow with the soft orange light of dawn. Kur-sur looked strange without her usual cap of glistening white snow. In its place a luminescent wall of rock rose, barren and mysterious. Dark green splotches grew out of the rock, here and there, marking an occasional mountain valley. As I watched, the full force of Utu was unleashed on the Hursag. The colors of the peaks shifted from orange and pink to blue and gray. A hawk soared gracefully over the poetic scene, making tighter and tighter circles over a faint column of smoke rising from a clump of trees near the summit.

Smoke! My weary mind snapped back into the present. There had been no lightning last night, so it must be someone’s campfire. The Ki-en-gir rarely strayed so far on this side of the Hursag because of conflicts with the Elamites who claimed this side of the mountains and the Gutians who had been raiding from the north. Either way, it spelled trouble for Abram who had probably been captured, and trouble for me because I couldn’t leave him alone. The only good news was that he was probably unharmed, because they would want to sell him as a slave when they returned to their homes. A strong young boy would bring several minas of barley—a dead one, nothing.

Chances are, there would be at least three or four men holding Abram up there. I probably should go back to camp and bring the other herdsmen with me to rescue him, but they might get away before we made it back. If only I hadn’t fallen asleep at the spring. Now, it would be too late to sneak into their camp and rescue Abram while they were sleeping. But I had to try something—maybe I could circle around from behind and create some kind of diversion. They would probably capture me, maybe even kill me, in the process, but if I could just manage to cut Abram’s bonds first so he could escape, then I will have done my duty and Grandfather Terah and maybe even Haran would be proud of me. And everyone else would be sorry when I was gone…

So I cinched up my belt, inspected my sword, and strode forward with new resolve. I couldn’t stay on the game trail much longer. Even now they might have scouts out foraging for food and water. Reaching a large rock formation, I saw my chance. The rocks were strewn in such a jumble, that it would be impossible to ride an onager this way. A raiding party would just stick to the known paths in rough country like this—quickly in, quickly out. My torch would be a hindrance scrambling over these rocks, so I hid it where it could not be seen from the trail, and began weaving my way through the maze of rocks.

Although it was unlikely a raiding party would cut through these rocks for any reason—other than to possibly ambush another trailing party—they could see someone climbing on top of the rock formations if one wasn’t very careful. Consequently, I pursued a very circular course, taking myself very far from the trail and aiming for the rear of their camp while keeping the rocks between me and their line of sight. Although this was much safer than a direct approach, it would also take two or three hours longer. I only hoped that Abram would remain safely there that long. Arriving later could work in our favor, as they should have finished their noontime meal and with luck might even settle down for an afternoon nap. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.

The temperature was rising with Utu's climb up the sky, so I stripped off my cloak and stuffed it into my pouch. I had to go on my belly now, from shrub to rock to shrub. As I left each shelter, I could sense hot eyes boring into my head, hear the hiss of an arrow homing into my back and feel the sting of a spear thrusting into my vitals. It took a couple hours of crawling on my hands and knees to reach a small thicket about thirty steps behind the camp. From here I could survey the situation without much fear of detection.

At first I couldn’t see anyone in the camp. What caught my attention was a strange stone altar in the center of the clearing. The shape wasn’t unusual—it looked like a giant table—but it’s construction was. It was made of black stones unlike any seen on this mountain. Although they were uncut and different shapes and sizes, they fit together so closely, it had obviously taken great skill and time to construct. And then I saw something even stranger—an extremely tall ‘horse’ with a very long neck and two crazy bumps on its back. The beast had two large baskets draped over its back, so it must be domesticated.

While I was pondering the identity of the mysterious beast, a man stepped out from behind the altar and spoke to it in a strange tongue. The ‘horse’ kneeled down and he began searching through the contents of one of its baskets. The man looked very old—well over one hundred years—he might even be one of the ancients born before the fall of the Great Tower. Bet he has a lot of stories he could tell, I thought. Why Grandpa Terah insists that he had met one of Noah’s grandchildren while tending sheep up north. Arphaxad had to be at least 250 years old by then and he was still as strong as an ox. This was before the drought which forced our family to move south in search of grass.

The stranger wasn’t a tall man, maybe smaller than me, but he had something almost regal in his appearance that commanded your attention. His brilliant shimmering rainbow-colored robe certainly caught your eye as did the tall white linen hat he wore that seemed to point straight up to heaven. He pulled a long golden dagger in an unusual jeweled sheath from the basket and held it aloft with both hands. As he turned away from the beast, he began to chant in that strange tongue again and marched towards the fire like he was leading a solemn procession. When he reached the fire he pulled the dagger from its sheath, revealing a shiny silver blade attached to the golden handle.

Now I was really confused, but captivated by the mystery unfolding before my eyes. For a moment all thoughts of Abram fled my mind. Silver’s not strong enough for a real dagger, I thought. You can‘t even cut cheese with it. This must be some kind of barbarian religious ritual. The priest, for so he must be, then thrust the blade into the fire. Careful now, I squirmed inwardly, a couple of minutes and the silver will melt—ruining that beautiful dagger. However, the priest seemed in no hurry. Backing away from the fire, he continued his sing-song incantations, while beginning a slow rocking dance. His hands shot upwards like he was beseeching the heavens, then his arms began to bounce slowly downward, his fingers wiggling in the universal sign for rain. As his hands neared his sides, he flipped them over and raised them jerkily palms up. The priest repeated this dance several times, chanting his song all the while.

Was this some kind of rain dance? Too bad his pagan god had no real power—we could really use some rain, I chuckled. By now the dagger was glowing red in the fire and I wondered if this was some kind of odd god who demanded molten sacrifices of precious metals to satisfy his need for tribute. As if in answer to my thoughts, the priest withdrew the red-hot dagger from the flame and marched with it in the same solemn fashion as before over to the stone altar. There he halted in front of a large clay pot painted with rainbow colors. Turning to face an imaginary crowd on either side of the altar he flourished the still-glowing dagger first to his right then to his left. He then raised it above his head, shouted to the heavens, reversed the blade and thrust it straight down into the clay pot which hissed violently as a small cloud of steam burst forth.

At this point a large man, even bigger than Udul, emerged from the far side of the altar bearing a golden platter covered with a rainbow-colored cloth. Although he was a giant, he approached the priest with his head bowed meekly forward and kneeled extending the platter before him. The priest laid the dagger upon the platter, rolled his rainbow-colored sleeves up past his elbows and dipped his arms into the clay pot of water. As he washed his hands and arms slowly in the water, another giant approached from behind the altar bearing another golden platter with a folded stack of rainbow-colored cloth on it and knelt beside the first giant. The priest took the cloth from the platter and dried his hands and arms with it and then folded it neatly and replaced it upon the platter. He then inclined his head slightly in their direction and the two giants rose to their feet, heads still bowed, and slowly backed away behind the altar once more.

At this point, two more giants stepped forth marching solemnly in single file towards the altar with Abram trapped between them. He, too, was wearing a rainbow-colored robe like the priest’s. Oh, he was putting on a brave front—head held high, smile beaming from his proud face—but his eyes gave him away. They kept darting left, then right, and up and down, as if trying to take in all the details of his surroundings, as if to drink to the last drop his last moments of life. It was all too clear to me now, this was no silly rain dance, no laughable pagan superstition—this was a barbaric human sacrifice, with Abram as the unwilling victim of a bloodthirsty religion.

I’m not a real big guy. Unlike Udul, I can’t just impose my will on people through the strength of my arms. Instead, I’ve had to get by with my quick wits and sometimes with my quicker feet. So I can’t really explain why I did what I did next—but I still wonder even to this day what might have been if I hadn’t.

There was no way I could overpower even one of the giants, let alone all four of them. No, I would have to outwit them. Maybe I could use their superstitions against them somehow. Maybe I could put on my own little spectacle and distract them long enough for Abram to escape. Looking around me desperately for anything which might be useful, I snatched a clump of stinkweed plant with its saw-toothed leaves and trumpet-shaped violet flowers and stuffed it into my pouch. That gave me a glimmer of an idea. I had seen some herbs that we keep away from our sheep on my crawl up here—yes, there was one just five or six steps below my hiding place.

With secrecy no longer a necessity, I dashed down the slope, plucked the tops from the yellow-flowered feathery herb, thrust them into my mouth and began chewing. My hair and tunic were already suitably disheveled from my lengthy crawl up to the thicket, so I picked up a likely-looking branch as a walking stick and hoped that I resembled an itinerant prophet or at least a madman and strode purposefully toward the barbarian camp. As I neared the clearing, the bitter, yet spicy, herb in my mouth started foaming and my tongue began to burn. Feeling a little light-headed, I made up my own, hopefully awesome, chant. “Alibaba cashabba, schnucka nucka, cha-unk, cha-unk, cha-UNK!!! Gitchagoomie, mowie wowie, alacablam, SHAZAAM!!!” I intoned.

Marching straight to the fire I yanked the stinkweed out of my pouch, shredded it and threw the pieces onto the fire. Immediately, a noxious green smoke rose up from the flames. My eyes started to burn and a foul stench blanketed the camp like a low-lying fog. Turning towards the giants guarding Abram who were momentarily startled into inaction, I coughed spasmodically, spraying them with foam. Summoning my most imperious manner, I waved my walking stick and pointed dramatically behind the giants. As I hoped, they jerked their heads over their shoulders, allowing me a brief exchange of glances with Abram.

Getting as close as I dared, I mouthed the words, “Run, Abram, run!” His eyes widened in surprise as I realized my disguise had fooled even him. I knew hesitation could be fatal, so I whacked the nearest giant across his exposed calf and pivoted around Abram and chopped the other giant on the shins. Pulling Abram with my free hand, I yelled, “Run, Abram, run!” Not waiting to see their reactions, I sprinted down the slope, dodging rocks and bushes. I didn’t hear any pursuit, so I turned my head to locate Abram.

Where was he?

Just then, I stepped in a hole and tripped. My ankle snapped, (strangely enough it didn’t seem to hurt) and time seemed to stand still as I flew through the air on and on. From a great distance, I heard Abram calling, “Lot, come back. You don’t understand.”

“Curse you stinking Abram, you never listen.” Now there’s irony for you: Lot, the father of Moab the damned, cursing Abraham, the father of the blessed. Then my head hit something very hard and I died.

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