Black Sea Deluge - A Flood Myth Short Story

Black Sea Deluge

  A Flood Myth Short Story

  Book 1

  in

  The Historic Noah Flood Series

  Lisa Shea

  Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lisa Shea. / Book design by Lisa Shea

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ~ v1 ~

  Preface

  I have amassed quite a lot of information on early Copper Age culture which I’m loading onto my website. To summarize, while childhood was challenging, healthy adults could and did live to age sixty and beyond. Depending on the specific region, women would typically marry between 14 and 18, although that is just “most” – there were many reasons women (or their families) made other choices. Men were typically a few years older when they wed.

  The prevalent belief system was in a pantheon of nature gods.

  Feel free to ask with questions – and enjoy!

  Half of all proceeds benefit battered women’s shelters.

  -- Lisa

  Chapter One

  More dependence must be placed on facts

  than on reasonings, which must agree with facts.

  -- Aristotle

  The Black Sea Basin, 5600BC

  Ku-aya sprawled on the ground by the edge of the salt-river ford, crying as if her very soul would shatter into a million tiny pieces. Around her echoed the tense muttered conversation of her villagers. Her father’s voice, deep and gruff, was in counterpoint to the chorus of his two younger brothers. Her mother’s hand stroked her long hair in even sweeps. In nearly all of Ku-aya’s eight long years of life that would have brought her solace.

  But not today. Not when her beloved dog had been swept downstream.

  Ku-aya still didn’t understand how it could have happened. For a full year now, she’d been entrusted with the responsibility for bringing the family’s sheep to pasture. The sheep slept in a fenced enclosure alongside their circular stone tholos home so the family could easily guard them against predators. Each morning she led them across the ford in the salt-river to the grazing pastures to the north. Each evening she guided them safely home again.

  Until today.

  Ku-aya’s mother spoke to the others. “We can see now that the ford is no longer safe. My daughter could easily have been swept downstream, as tragically as our dog. It is time we build a proper bridge.”

  Zababa-il, the village elder, shook his gray head. He was beyond ancient, and Ku-aya had heard tell he was nearly forty years old. “This is nonsense. Sky Father has ensured that the salt-river has always been fordable. What we see is simply a seasonal flood brought about by The Striker and his storms up in the mountains. It is not worth our time or energy to make a bridge.”

  Ku-aya’s father spoke up. “What you say does not make sense. Striker’s floods come in the spring, but it is now nearly the end of harvest. I agree with my wife. We must build the bridge.”

  His two younger brothers added their assent.

  With that trio of respected men having spoken, the others of the village soon fell in line.

  Zababa-il’s thick brows came together like the wings of an angry moth. “This foolishness will risk the harvest. Something you herdsmen know little of.” He made the word herdsman sound like a vile curse.

  Ku-aya’s father’s gaze stayed even. “We will all work together. There are the farmlands to the south and grazing fields to the north. Together we will watch over them all. We all need this bridge. It will be done.”

  Assents rolled along the shores of the burbling river.

  Ku-aya didn’t care about a bridge. She didn’t care that her three younger brothers stood staring down at her with wide eyes, their leather-skin tunics belted haphazardly at their slender waists. All she cared about was her beloved dog. The dog had spotted a straying lamb and had loyally leapt to steer it back to safely. And then the waters had caught him, and he had swept down ... down ...

  There was motion at her side. She looked up through eyes coursing with waterfalls.

  It was Burrukam, a boy about three years older than her. His hair was in the long, dark braid which all villagers wore. His leather tunic, however, was rougher than that of her brothers’; there were several holes worn through it from hard use and the belt at his waist was frayed and rough. His sandals looked as if they barely held together.

  His gaze shadowed with concern. “I’m sorry about your dog, Ku-aya.”

  Ku-aya was surprised Burrukam knew her name. He and his parents lived on the far outskirts of the northern half of the village, in a tumbled-down tholos which could almost be taken for an abandoned ruin. A few scrawny goats scratched for weeds alongside it. Ku-aya’s parents had told her to stay away from the home and Ku-aya had gladly complied. The father, the few times she had seen him, seemed full of fury with the world.

  Burrukam drew a leather sack up from the ground and placed it before her. “Here. I want you to have it.”

  Ku-aya’s curiosity overcame her. She wiped at her face with a grimy hand and leaned forward. She pulled open the sack’s mouth.

  Nestled within was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.

  His two ears were alert triangles, rotating to catch every wisp of a sound. His large, pale blue eyes stared up into her own with bright intelligence.

  His coat was pure black.

  She drew the puppy out in amazement. “He’s amazing! What’s his name?”

  The corner of Burrukam’s mouth turned up. “That is for you to decide. You are now his owner, after all.”

  She turned to stare at Burrukam in astonishment. “You mean it? He’s for me?”

  Ku-aya’s mother looked to Burrukam with concern. She swept her long hair back from her face and her furrowed brow took on deeper shadows. “I know you mean well, Burrukam, but surely when your father finds out -”

  Burrukam’s gaze steeled. “My father wanted to kill this pup. Said it was a runt and not worth raising. Told me to take care of it. Besides, he’s got three more left he can train for his fights.”

  Ku-aya’s mouth went round. “He was going to kill this puppy?” She brought it protectively in closer against her own tunic. The puppy twisted in her arms to lick against her throat.

  She found herself giggling. “Stop that! It tickles!”

  A friendly shout came from up-stream, and another boy came tumbling through the crowd toward her. Her spirits raised further. Pu-dagan was always full of jokes and games for her. He was about Burrukam’s age, but where Burrukam was reclusive and somber, Pu-dagan was the son of the most prosperous farmer. His tholos, situated proudly on a large hill on the southern shore, was by far the finest in the village. The shelves within were full of gorgeous pottery in all shapes and sizes. Some items even came as far as the lake-front town a full twenty miles downstream, where the bazaars attracted merchants and artisans from the farthest reaches of the lands.

  Pu-dagan grabbed her hand and drew her to her feet. “There you are! In trouble again, Ku-Ku? I’m here to help you escape it!” He spotted the dog and his eyes lit up with delight. “And you’ve got a new pup! C’mon, let’s teach it some tricks!” He swept up the black dog in
one hand, grabbed her wrist with the other, and pulled her, laughing, back toward his tholos.

  Her mother’s voice carried after them. “Be home for supper, Ku-aya!”

  “I will, Mother!” Her feet tumbled trying to keep up with the older boy.

  As they came to the rise in the path, Ku-aya realized suddenly that she’d forgotten to thank Burrukam for her precious gift. She turned and looked down at the village.

  The tumbling stream neatly bisected the village into its two halves. To the south were perhaps twenty tholos, including her own modest one at the far eastern end. Behind the tholoi stretched neat rectangles of beautiful flax, barley, and wheat. Harvest season was nearly upon them and the tall stalks glistened golden in the sun.

  On the northern side of the stream were the other twenty tholos, scattered here and there, with the lush grazing grounds beyond them. The landscape beyond seemed to stretch on to eternity. There was not even the hint of a glisten of the massive lake which she knew lay far, far downstream. She’d never seen it herself, of course, but her two uncles went each summer to the marketplace to trade the village’s wool and hides for pottery and tools.

  She searched amongst the villagers and elders, looking ... looking ...

  Burrukam was gone.