CBN.com – Civilization
is advancing rapidly, the world population burgeoning. Satan has
caused the fall of man and now wants complete control of earth.
His chief problem is the annoying line of humans descended from
Seth. They insist on honoring the Creator. His other problem is
the prophecy spoken in the Garden of Eden. There's a Redeemer
coming who has the power to "crush his head" and ultimately
defeat him. Satan is determined to stop this from happening. Knowing
the Redeemer must be born of a human to be truly both human and
God, Satan initiates a grand scheme to pollute the human bloodline
and prevent the prophesy from coming to pass! Based on Genesis
6, this story will inspire readers as it transports them to an
ancient time in the development of Christ's lineage! Below is
an excerpt.
Chapter 1
The Webmaster
The growing heat of the day drew a heady fragrance from the moist
ground and mossy rocks, one Rhone might have normally relished.
But just then, the mustiness of the forest was only a distant
tug at the back of his brain. Something else had caught his attention:
a vaguely bitter smell. The smell of money! In the dappled sunlight
through a high forest canopy, he paused and sniffed again.
Javian!
The corners of his mouth hitched up, then his broad forehead
furrowed. The spoor was old; a lingering scent. The spider was
now long gone. Rhone moved toward the faintly tangy remnant in
the air, ears alert, his brown eyes in constant motion. Many beasts
had turned; it was hard to know which were still harmless and
which
were not. The Teeg’kits had changed—they were now
called mansnatchers—and the hook-tooths, according to some
reports. Change was in the air. A man had to tread cautiously
these days— much more so than only forty or fifty years
ago.
Filtered sunlight mottled the shadows around him, and broken
glimpses of a soft blue sky flashed in the scattered leafy breaks
two to three hundred spans above his head. Rhone had shed his
shirt in the heat of the day. The long, sinuous muscles of his
arms stood out like cords of rope, and his bronze skin glistened
with perspiration as he moved silently through the forest. He
carried a sturdy shiverthorn pack over his left shoulder and a
proj-lance in this right hand—though he still somewhat distrusted
the new weapon. The long sword at his left side was a more familiar
and reliable friend. In the top of his right boot resided a thin,
sharp webbing knife. His dark mane of brown hair hung free about
his shoulders, held only by a forest-green headband of cotton
to keep it from his eyes.
At the edge of a small clearing, he stopped. His frown deepened
at the sight of long silken strands dangling from the treetops,
drifting in the slight breeze. He’d found the web. Abandoned,
as he knew it would be. It wasn’t the first.
The tattered silken funnel that filled the clearing was still
anchored to the trees on several sides. Only a partial chimney,
beginning fifty spans above him, still remained of the clever
trap. From its wide mouth below, it narrowed upward, toward a
swath of sky. Even though abandoned and in ruin, a score of tough
anchor strands still held it in place.
As he studied the ragged chimney of silk, his head tilted back,
disappointment became a nearly tactile thing. The web had a long
tear down one side where some animal had chewed or clawed its
way free. The once-glistening sheets of javian silk were now ulled
with a layer of dust and the carcasses of moths and dragonflies
unable to escape the sticky strands. A necklace of puff-pollen,
beaded into precise balls of silk, lay like fine, silvery pearls
around the outside slope of the funnel. The spider had left its
food cache behind.
And that was the most puzzling of all. So many spiders had left
their treasured gatherings of food behind. What had driven them
off ? Javian spiders never forsook their hoards unless driven
from them. Some had even been known to attack humans defending
a stash of puff-pollen. Were the spiders turning too? Was that
causing this mass exodus? Were they being affected by the same
forces that were affecting the beasts of the field?
Rhone shrugged off the problem, putting it aside to ponder later.
Collecting had been a poor business this trip out. The single
spool he carried in his pack was only three quarters full where
by this time he should have filled two. Setting the pack aside,
he drew out his webbing knife and began the task of separating
the walking strands out of the web. The walking strands were the
strongest and easiest to handle, having never been coated in the
spider’s sticky droplets.
It was the second hour of the first quartering, and dusk had
begun to cool the forest by the time Rhone finished the job. He
carefully wrapped the silk about a stick and put it into the pack
with the spool. He’d been away from Nod City almost two
months, and with so little to show for all that time he was tempted
to stay longer and push farther into the Wild Lands, but Ker’ack
would be expecting him soon.
He found a spring flowing from the cracks of a stone ledge and
stopped in the cool of the evening to make camp. The forest darkened
around him. The flames of his fire pushed the shadows back a comfortable
distance as he prepared a dinner. With the sizzle of mushrooms,
onions, peppers, carrots, and savots in his skillet, sautéing
in sweet tarra sap, Rhone set about the business of cleaning the
web. He split a soap reed, inserted the javian silk between its
frothy pulp, and fastened an end of it onto his spool. Working
in the firelight with the silk anchored beneath a smooth stick
in the flow of water from the spring, he slowly reeled it onto
his spool, drawing it first through the soap reed, then drying
it with a cloth as it came up out of the water.
It took longer to clean old silk, but Rhone was a patient man.
With one ear tuned to the night sounds, he let his thoughts drift.
This rash of abandoned webs bothered him. He was nearly to the
Illackin Mountains, and still the spiders were scarce. But then
all of nature seemed to be changing; once-tame animals turned
from men, even attacked them. Could it be because men had begun
eating animal flesh? He shrugged. Anything was possible. Perhaps
men were turning too.
He fed another stick into his fire then fished out his purse
and weighed it on the palm of his hand. It was light—too
light for his liking.
Go north, beyond Far Port.
He had to locate fresh webs. Ker’ack depended on him, and
others like him, to keep his business prosperous. Had other webmasters
run across the same problem? Maybe he should strike out in a different
direction. These eastern forests had been heavily harvested. Perhaps
north? He could catch a boat or a sky-barge to Far Port and then
set out from there. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
But first he would return to Nod City and sell his paltry gatherings.
Rhone finished cleaning the spider silk and bundled the spool
carefully into his pack. He ate his dinner, then leaned his proj-lance
and sword against a tree and drew his blanket over his shoulders.
No matter how steamy the days, the nights always cooled, and in
the morning a fine mist would rise from the moist earth and cover
everything. That was the nature of things.
He leaned against the wide trunk and watched the flames struggle.
He’d not offer them succor. He was tired, and anxious for
the morning. The little stone cottage he let from Master Mav-duruc
with its real bed and hot spring water beckoned to him now. He
tried not to think of the dilemma of the spiders.
The fire faded. Darkness crept close. Still, sleep evaded him.
Finally, he took his moonglass and book from his pack and unlatched
the wooden case so the glass showed its pale white light upon
the stained, maroon cover and faded gold letters. Song of the
Makir. Pyir Torck’s epic poem. He opened the book to one
of his favorite ballads, Elegy to a Fallen Warrior.
The poignant verses still seemed fresh and thrilling after all
these years. He read them as if discovering them for the first
time, though in truth he could have recited the poem from heart.
As he read, images of youth and home filled his head. The poem
always conjured memories. Perhaps that was why he read it often.
The stanzas ran on page after page, but when he came to a certain
verse, he skipped over it and went on. In spite of that, when
he’d finished, his eyelids sagging with sleep and his heart
heavy with memories, that one shunned passage came to him. He
couldn’t drive the memorized words from his head.
One has departed, another holds the throne,
Home and hearth are lost.
A war is over, a land in despair,
A grievous wage for kinsman to bear.
A people count the cost.
Bitter wails now fill once courtly halls,
With cries to redeem a shadow land.
Deliver us from beneath the tyrant’s heavy hand!
Makir and shield bearers rally to the call.
The son had departed, a brother holds the throne.
Rhone shut the moonglass and forced himself to think of something
else as he curled up in his blanket to wait for sleep.
A deep rumble shook the ground beneath his head. Then another.
He glanced around his dark campsite.
The rumble grew louder and drew closer. Some beast of the forest
was moving swiftly toward him. A branch snapped and frightened
monkeys fled through the treetops. A cold warning finger dragged
a nail up his spine and he sniffed the air. The breeze was coming
out of the wrong direction. Had his fire attracted a turnling?
He reached for his proj-lance.
Don’t linger in your blanket, Rhone.
It occurred to him suddenly he’d be in a bad way found
still curled up in his blanket. Throwing it off, he stood warily.
All at once, the night went silent. Nearby, the muffled rumble
of deep breathing caught his ear.
Rhone strained to penetrate the blackness. The hairs at the back
of his neck seemed connected to needles. The few red embers remaining
of his fire and the pale glow of starlight through the scattered
gaps in the canopy gave off enough light for his keen eyes to
pick out a shape here and there.
The creature sniffed. Rhone wheeled toward the sound. Leaves
crackled beneath a massive weight. A shadow, only faintly lighter
than the rest of the forest, suddenly loomed overhead.
He heaved the proj-lance and recoiled beneath the weight of the
creature striking it. The weapon lurched from his grasp. The blow
propelled him backward into the tree he’d been leaning against.
His sword was there and at hand. Instinct replaced conscious thought
and old training, long unused but still programmed into his muscles,
took over. He swung out. The blade struck something hard and skittered
along its edge. A roar shattered the air. Rhone glimpsed teeth
like daggers, and a momentary flash of a greenish eye shine. A
stengordon! The giant stood ten spans tall, and its hot, humid
breath reeked of a garbage pit!
Rhone ducked. A snap and the clash of teeth cracked near his
ear. Turning and crouching under the beast, he thrust the sword
upward, his muscles straining when the point struck home. Lifting
with his legs and driving with his arms, he punched his sword
through the leathery hide and found hard muscle beneath.
Its howl shook the trees and sent sleeping creatures scattering
skyward. The beast twisted, wrenching the sword from Rhone’s
grasp. A tail the thickness of a small tree trunk whipped around
and drove him into the ground. The wounded beast howled again,
and in the faint light Rhone saw it come at him. He scrambled
back and his hand touched something hard on the ground. His proj-lance!
The weapon leaped around and fired. A blinding flash, a whoosh,
and the muffled boom of a proj detonating deep within the animal’s
body came all at once.
The beast swayed.
Rhone rolled to one side and sprang to his feet as small trees
snapped beneath the toppling monster’s weight. The ground
rumbled.
Rhone scrambled away and put a tree between himself and the creature,
but the downed giant didn’t move. Rhone leaned against the
rough bark and slid down, sitting there, shaking and gulping massive
drafts of air. His heart pounded in his chest and the proj-lance
in his hands was slick with his perspiration.
Rhone waited for the creature’s ragged breathing to cease
and for its massive limbs to stop quivering before creeping back
to the beast. A turnling? Sten-gordons had until now been shy
and reclusive.
With no small struggle Rhone extracted his sword from the tough
flesh. Had others of his kind turned too? There was no way to
know for sure.
***
The next morning he examined the sten-gordon. The dark skin had
faded in death, its once-bright scarlet and lemon stripes now
rust and amber. A deep gash showed where his sword had taken a
chunk out of one claw. Rhone frowned, sobered by how close he
had come to death.
If he’d harbored any uncertainty the night before, this
had made up his mind. He must return to Nod City. Others needed
to be warned to keep a wary eye on the sten-gordon. With a final
glance at the slain giant, Rhone slung his pack onto his shoulder
and turned his steps toward home.
The great dragon, glinting gold and red in the sunlight, swept
down through the city, gliding with wide spread wings above broad
avenues, riding the gentle updrafts of the warming morning air.
With a sudden flap, and a gust of wind that ruffled the colorful
awnings of the vendors below, it climbed lazily toward the towering
walls at the city’s center. Another powerful lunge lifted
it above the battlements. Black, curved talons reached out and
clutched a stone merlon and its bulk settled lightly upon the
pink granite that encircled the paved plaza of Government House
far below.
Rhone glanced at the dragon winging its way into the city and
dismissed it almost at once. His curiosity, like those of scores
of citizens hurrying with him, had been excited by the commotion
coming from Meeting Floor. He joined the crowd moving toward the
six arches of pink granite twenty-two spans high and almost ten
wide, opening onto the Meeting Floor. The place was already packed
with men and women craning their necks and lifting themselves
on their toes for a glimpse of the raised platform at its center.
The dragon gave a shake, as if flinging dust from its ruby scales,
ruffled its leathery wings, and folded them along its sleek sides
until their tips reached back to enshroud a quarter length of
its tail. Then it lowered its long neck, canted its head, and
blinked golden eyes at the throngs below. Sitting there as if
part of the stonework, it almost appeared to be listening, as
if it could understand the angry voices of the milling crowd below.
Perhaps it could.
Rhone shifted the shiverthorn pack to his other shoulder and
pushed into the crowd. He could see over the heads of most of
the people, catching a glimpse of the polished onyx dais which
lay in the heart of the plaza. An emissary wearing the official
purple robes of the House of Cain stood upon the dais, reading
a proclamation to the crowd. Sound mirrors around the perimeter
of the Meeting Floor amplified his voice, yet angry shouts broke
into his reading more than a couple times. With the interruptions
coming more frequently now, the man looked to be reaching the
end of his patience.
Rhone pressed on across the crowded floor in spite of protesters
whose complaints invariably died in their throats with one look
at him. He stood almost four spans tall. A life lived mainly in
the Wild Lands had left him well muscled with shoulders that stretched
a full span and skin a warm hue of walnuts. At his side rode a
blade forged of the finest steel. He carried his proj-lance in
his left hand, held close to his body to keep it from snagging
amongst the crowd that grudgingly gave way for him.
“… and this tariff, which the Lodath has most reluctantly
requested, shall last only until the first temple is completed.
At which time—”
“I’ve heard that before,” a voice protested.
“His harbor pledge was only supposed to last until the temple
docks were finished. That was nine years ago!”
A few of the Lodath’s supporters cheered the emissary on
in spite of this new ploy to milk glecks from their purses. Voices
of discontent swelled again.
The Lodath’s emissary scowled.
Rhone glanced toward the Government House. A curtain in a third
floor window had briefly lifted then dropped back in place.
“Silence! Silence! Allow me to finish!” The emissary
cast about the crowd.
The protests diminished to a mumbling undercurrent that never
fully ceased.
“King Irad has given his approval for the tariff. The levy
will be 3 percent of all items sold in the land of Nod. It will
be collected on the last day of the month by agents of the Lodath’s
Guards and deposited in the treasury of the House of Cain.”
Rhone worked his way nearly to the front of the crowd, three
or four ranks back from where the onlookers pressed hard against
the polished bronze tubes encircling the platform. He didn’t
need to get any closer for a clear view of the emissary’s
strained face, or the stern set of his shaven jaw, as he held
the proclamation before him.
“The monies collected will be used to offset the heavy
cost of erecting the Oracle’s temple.”
“After King Irad skims off his share,” someone shouted.
“Administrative costs only,” the emissary clarified,
clearly at the end of his patience.
“Why do we have to foot the bill?” another demanded.
“Isn’t the Oracle supposed to be coming to enlighten
the world?”
The emissary glared at this new interruption coming from a man
standing not far from Rhone.
“He comes for the benefit of the world, but we are the
most fortunate people he has chosen to dwell with. You have all
heard his teachings. The Lodath has revealed his words to you.
How can you compare the small cost of funding his temple, his
dwelling place among men, to the great honor of having the Oracle
in your very midst?”
Rhone’s view shifted to a man and woman standing just in
front of him. They weren’t from Nod City, or even any of
the settlements nearby. Their clothes were foreign. Lee-landers.
The faintest twitch tugged down the corners of his lips.
The man was tall, stiff-backed, and intent. He wore the practical
trousers of a farmer: leather and wool, bearing pockets great
and small, and split at the ankles to fit over his sturdy boots.
A colorful woolen tunic covered his broad shoulders, falling to
midthigh and gathered to a narrow waist by a wide belt.
The woman was nearly as tall—three spans or a bit more.
She appeared younger than he, with a healthy glow to her attractive
face. Her black hair, thickly braided, hung down to her waist
where a loose plait of blue cord encircled her cotton-and-shiverthorn
dress. Like the man’s tunic, the dress had been woven of
green and brown and yellow threads. Its hem began within a hand’s
breadth of the paving stones at her sturdy shoes, and ended in
a tight collar at her neck. Very discrete and proper—very
much in keeping with the traditions of Lee-landers. Its full cut
revealed little of her shape beneath it, except that the woman
was obviously with child.
He noted the occasional glance of disapproval the onlookers in
the crowd directed toward these Lee-landers, particularly from
the Covenant wearers. Rhone was seeing more and more people wearing
the Oracle’s crystalline Covenant pendants.
The Lodath’s emissary droned on about the necessity of
the pledge and the wonderful benefits of having the Oracle among
them. Rhone cared little about either. The nature of his work
meant the tax would hardly affect him. And as far as the Oracle
was concerned, he was just another charlatan who’d found
a people with itching ears eager to chase after the latest fad.
The Lodath claimed the Oracle was from the stars. Some even believed
the Oracle was the voice of the Creator, though that notion never
came from the Lodath. The stuff of stories. Tales told to young
ears at bedtime. Yet, the man and his wife seemed riveted by what
the emissary was saying, their faces stern and eyes narrowed as
if mentally challenging each and every word.
Definitely Lee-landers.
Rhone wondered briefly what they were doing here in Nod City,
so far from their homeland. Nod City did not often attract Lee-landers—especially
these days. Probably came to gawk at the spectacle taking shape
just outside the city’s gates. Isn’t that what drew
most folks here these days? His eyes hitched toward Government
House, but from here the ambitious construction project, which
now apparently needed another influx of funds, lay hidden beyond
the smoothly curving gold-and-pink stone walls.
Rhone’s frown deepened. The Lee-landers he’d met
in his travels were opinionated and clannish—difficult to
barter with. He dismissed the couple and turned back to the man
on the dais.
“The Lodath extends his most heartfelt thanks in advance
for your continued cooperation, and for those of you who have
already pledged their service to the Oracle, he pronounces a special
blessing for bountiful harvests and many—”
“How can the mouthpiece of the serpent pronounce a blessing!”
a voice boomed.
A gasp ran through the crowd. The emissary’s face went
pale. It seemed to Rhone as if every eye there had suddenly fixed
upon the Lee-lander who’d just spoken out.
The emissary stammered, “Th—that’s blasphemy!”
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Such words can serve no
useful purpose but to bring misery down upon you.”
The onlookers gave way as the Lee-lander approached the bronze
tube barrier.
The woman clutched at his sleeve. “Lamech!”
Lamech hesitated, clearly struggling, but something stronger
than his wife’s wishes seemed to urge him on. His face stern,
his eyes smoldered as if a fire had suddenly been kindled behind
them. “You speak of my misery but fail to understand your
own wretchedness, or the destruction your folly will bring upon
you and your children! Turn aside from this road while you still
have time! Put your feet back on the way of righteousness before
the Creator’s wrath can be contained no longer!”
The emissary’s laugh sounded strained. “Now you speak
of fables. We’ve grown beyond those stories of gods and
thunderbolts, meant only to keep people in subjection.”
The rumbled agreement from the crowd showed the emissary he’d
struck a favorable chord. “You can keep your ancient gods
and musty legends. Maybe where you come from men still toil under
the yoke of fear, but not here. Not in Nod City! Just look around
at the marvels. Everywhere you look is a testament to the supremacy
of man. We’ve conquered nature, and now with the Oracle’s
guidance, we will begin to conquer our final limitations—those
we put upon ourselves. So don’t think you can burden us
again with your myths and fear-mongering! We’ll have none
of it here!”
The crowd surged toward the Lee-lander, but some of them seemed
to hesitate.
Go to them, Rhone.
The woman grasped her husband’s arm and cast about for
a way out. Then her eye caught Rhone’s. It was for only
an instant that they looked at each other before the woman’s
gaze jumped away, but in that fleeting second he could have sworn
a shimmering light had filled the space between them. He shook
his head and looked again, but the air had stilled. Without knowing
why, he started toward the couple.
“You Lee-landers go back to where you came from!”
an angry voice shouted.
“And take your dusty fables with you!” another snarled.
The Lee-lander was not intimidated, but his wife huddled near
to him, her dark eyes in constant motion. He put an arm over her
shoulder and drew her close. His voice was deep and resonant,
and it boomed with a clear sound that overpowered the angry jeers.“Your
hearts run to folly! If you permit this deception in your midst,
you will surely bring about your own end. And that end will come
swift and sure, and all remembrance of you will be cleansed from
the world!”
“I’ve heard those threats before,” the first
man yelled. “Three hundred years ago your people were lamenting
the end of all civilization. But look at us now, Lee-lander. See
what we’ve built in spite of doomsayers like you? Where
is our end? I ask you! Show me how bad off we are! You can see
only clouds where the rest of us see the sun! You tell us we allow
deception in our midst. Are the lofty words of the Oracle the
deception you speak of? If so, then I’d rather be uplifted
by what you say are his lies than smothered by the so-called truth
your deity would force upon us.”
What the emissary had not been able to do with his words, the
Lee-lander had done with his contrary opinion. Nothing like opposition
to unite people. Rhone threaded his way through the crowd.
The emissary had let the crowd speak for him, but now he stepped
forward. “Away with those two! Run them out of the city!”
The crowd rallied. Someone drew a knife and lunged for the Lee-lander.
Rhone’s fist shot out and caught his wrist. Standing a
full head taller than the man, he placed himself like a wall between
the assailant and the Lee-lander. The man began to quiver beneath
the powerful grasp, slowly folding under the irresistible force.
His fingers sprang opened, and the knife clattered to the stones.
Rhone shoved him back into the crowd. For a moment, the Meeting
Floor went silent, all eyes suddenly on him.
What was he doing? It was nearly as much a shock to Rhone to
be standing there as it was to the sea of wide eyes that encircled
him. “Since when are the people of Nod City afraid of ideas?
Is that the way the masters teach their students—picking
and choosing what they should believe? Or do they open up all
ideas and examine them for truth?”
What was he saying? Truth? He no more believed in the Leelanders’
brand of truth than he believed in the Oracle’s. His truth
was what he could see and feel and smell; everything else was
mere abstraction, something he had neither the desire nor the
time to bother with.
“You stay out of this,” someone shouted, but when
Rhone looked, no one owned up to it. Across the wide plaza, the
Lodath’s Guards had begun to file out of Government House,
starting down the steps. Rhone slanted an eye at the Lee-lander,
keeping the other on the crowd. “Now would be a good time
for you and your wife to leave.”
The man seemed to hesitate.
Rhone nodded toward the soldiers wearing the emerald green tunics
and purple plumed helmets of the Lodath’s personal guards,
filing out of the building. Each carried a proj-lance.
“Lamech.” The woman tugged urgently at his arm.
Lamech’s eyes seemed to ache for her even as his spine
went rigid. But the struggle lasted only a moment. His gaze came
back to Rhone. It was the intense, piercing look of a man of perception
attempting to discern something. And had he? Lamech gave a brief
nod.
The woman’s dark eyes studied him as well, but not in the
intense, surgical manner of her husband. They were wide, intelligent
eyes filled with appreciation perhaps—or curiosity? “Thank
you.” She tightened her grip on her husband’s arm
and the air gave a faint shimmer again.
Curious, now the crowd parted for them.
The emissary tried to recapture the masses’ attention,
while amongst the crowd, green-cloaked warders spread, searching
for the source of the disturbance.
Leaning upon the long tube of his proj-lance, Rhone considered
the faces glaring at him. But no one seemed eager to make the
first move. Just as well. He had no desire to cause any more of
a scene here than he already had. Turning toward the nearest exit,
he threaded his way through the throng to the street.
Excerpted from Flight
to Eden by Douglas Hirt, Copyright 2005. Published by
Cook Communication Ministries.
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