People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3)

  She touched his dirty hair. Hatred like a disease welled in her heart. It almost made her physically ill. “I forgive you,” she whispered, and she felt the hatred drain out of her, leaving her gasping.

  Her father clenched one of his big fists, raising it. Nimrod bowed his head, waiting. Beor’s fist shook. He finally lowered it and looked away.

  After a time, Nimrod rose. With a slow tread, he moved in front of a stony-faced Magog.

  “You are forgiven,” Magog said, without looking at Nimrod. “It happened in the heat of wrestling. It was an accident. I don’t blame you.”

  Nimrod took Magog’s right hand, kneeling, kissing the back of it.

  Magog placed his hand on Nimrod’s head. “He is forgiven. I do not wish for a feud. This contest between us is over.”

  Hilda watched the Mighty Hunter rise and back away into the crowd. Earlier today, at Magog’s tent, Nimrod and his Hunters had taken many sacks, placing them before the tent. In several sacks had been bronze knives, hammers and broaches. In others had been woolen garments, spools of flax thread and sealed jars of date palm honey. Then Nimrod had brought donkeys, bringing them four at a time, until at the twentieth Magog had come out of the tent.

  “No more, Nimrod. You cannot buy back the dead.”

  “My bloodguilt is heavy,” Nimrod said. “I want to atone.”

  At the gravesite, Hilda watched Lord Japheth step up. “I do not hold Nimrod guilty. There is no more bloodguilt for him to pay. Let there be peace among the children of Noah.”

  “Peace,” said the people, ending the funeral. Most turned away and filed down the hill. Hilda waited until the last clod was shoveled onto the grave. She set flowers on the dirt. Magog placed a chiseled tombstone. Then they too filed down the hill.

  The next few days passed in a daze. The sons of Ham left, as did those of Shem. Before returning home, the sons of Japheth held a meeting. Hilda’s father went to it. Magog, once his strongest supporter, turned against Beor.

  Beor reported later that Magog wouldn’t look him in the eye. “You are the cause of Gog’s death, Beor, you and your feud with Nimrod. You never should have made his Hunters slaves. You are no longer welcome at Magog Village, neither you nor your Scouts.”

  “Where will we go?” Hilda whispered. Her father spoke to her at the gravesite, three days after the funeral, as wind stirred his beard.

  “We will go with Noah,” Beor said. “I have agreed to help him home, to see that he arrives safely.”

  “What about our things in Magog Village?” Hilda asked. “What about our house?”

  “Yorba will fetch the things,” Beor said. “We have lost our house.”

  “What about the other Scouts?” she said. “Where will they go?”

  Beor compressed his lips, staring at the clouds.

  Later, Hilda learned that several of the Scouts had decided to move to Babel. They no longer wished to stand against their fellow Hamites. They were tired of the conflict, of being, in effect, outcasts among their own. Once again, Nimrod had beaten her father.