Chapter Twelve – Shalom, shalom.

  Enoch and I made our way slowly to the seventh valley, the home of Chuah and her daughters, Azura and Awan who would became like mothers to me. It was also the place where Cainen of the Sethites had The School of The Way. The collective wisdom of the patriarchs and the good watchers was passed on to those who were called to be disciples and priests. It took us six months to reach our destination for in each valley we stayed a month at a time, as Enoch ministered to his kinfolk, settling disputes, affirming the matchmakers proposals of who should marry who, and every seventh day on Shabbat, gathering the community together to share a meal and talk about the things of the Spirit. At each place Enoch would take me to the home of the head woman. They were mostly very kind and taught me so much, but just as I would be settling into a nice rhythm and becoming fond of people, Enoch would appear and tell me to pack my rucksack and load up my mule as we were moving on.

  The second valley, (the first was where we met Enoch with the orators amphitheatre, open to all people) was called Amek Hafrachim, The Valley of the Flowers, a wide and expansive patchwork of small fields that depending on the time of year rippled in a sea of colour, every hue of green, brown and yellow, flowers of pink, blue and white, red anemones and bright cheerful sunflowers. There were small clumps of trees like the tamarix pine that had been planted to form windbreaks, shady date palm groves to rest in during work breaks or small hillocks where dusty olive groves nestled. There were fields of wheat, barley, millet and flax, and along the rivers and creeks, cypress trees and giant cedars that crept up to the mountains that rose to either side of the valley. It thrummed with bees and other insects, the call of owls and pigeons, the song of the lark and the laughing dove. It was beautiful.

  For the first time in my life I was given chores to do. At first I was alarmed, insulted even, I was the daughter of Lamech after all. (I am laughing thinking of a certain daughter of the Nimrod, who also was a bit peeved when first requested to do some menial chores.) Although I did not voice my concerns, being ever watchful and uncertain of my place. I quickly forgot to raise any objections for the work was done by all of the men, women, and children in the community. Babies were slung on backs or carried in front pouches by nursing mothers, toddlers who were easily distracted, were entertained by other children, or grandmothers and aunties who sat under the date palms with food and water to share. Everything was done with songs and smiles, at such a steady pace that at the end of the day I always marvelled at how much was actually achieved. I came to love the feeling of muscles that I didn’t know I had, releasing, a pleasant ache and a growing strength as we prepared an evening meal together, and oh how deeply I slept, with a full belly and such contentment that I woke with an eagerness to see what the day would bring.

  As a young child I was being introduced to a way of life and the Sethite knowledge of farming and gardening, preserving and storing, that I would revisit again and again as an adult. I spent many years in deep learning, observing the rhythm of nature and the seasons for planting, pruning and harvesting, that would further serve me when I became matriarch on the ark and teacher in the new world. But then it was just pure joy to adjust to being barefoot and carefree amidst such beauty. I would often rise at the crack of dawn when the moon was still visible, the vapour mists would be puffing out of the soil with a chorus of almost human sighs,

  Pah pah. Haaah. Shoo

  Whoah

  Haah. Pah. Shoo

  Shhhh

  Shhhh

  Pah!

  The terrestrial spray saturating the crops, spraying me with the sweetest dew that you ever tasted in your life, and leaving your skin feeling refreshed, soft and clean. I would walk amongst the flax fields, the long, slender stalks covered in delicate petals that could be sky-blue or pink or white, rippling in the morning breeze like a gentle inland sea. “Lilies of the field” Enoch called them. At harvest time the stalks would turn yellow with just a hint of green, and could be over a metre high. I would walk through the dense grasses, rattling the seed bolls as if they were percussive instruments, breathing in the scent of the herbs that were planted alongside the flax; basil, chives and pungent garlic. As I walked along I would pick bouquets of flowers to decorate the table at Shabbat: zinnias and cosmos, marigolds and nasturtium that grew among the flax crops, along with clover, yarrow, borage and radish plants that kept away the spider mites and other greedy pests. I sang to myself an old song to the goddess of the moon,

  I have endeared the moon

  She loves me with all her heart

  I bring her offerings

  Fragrant oils to cover my sins

  In awe I bathe in her light

  She makes the sterile fertile

  They bring forth children

  The grain is plentiful and

  The moon is crowned in her

  Luminous gown.

  That was until I was heard singing the song and chastised by the local women. Enoch told me,

  The moon is not a goddess to be worshipped; the moon is a luminary appointed by the Living God for seasons and for signs.

  At the time I did not understand what difference it made, or why they were offended, it was just a story to me, but still I sometimes hummed the tune to myself as it reminded me of my nurse Ayla, and a life that was slowly slipping away.

  At each stopover I would be greeted by a gaggle of children, released from their chores like me, ready for play. They would invariably address me with suspicion as a Qeyinite intruder wearing fine purple linens, bangles and baubles; to their coarse homespun shifts and britches dyed with leaves and petals. They all coveted my rucksack made of sea-cow leather, which protected all my treasures, mementos from my previous life, but I only ever let them stroke the strap and marvel at how any liquid could be thrown at it and it would slide off leaving barely a stain. I never showed them what I had inside.

  It was here that I learnt to regale them with stories, to distract them from my otherness, tales of the exploits of the men of renown, fearsome giants and beautiful but cruel sirens. My favourite story was one I made up, gleaned from eavesdropping on my mother, hearing things I barely understood, but that I knew would shock my Sethite audience. The story of the first mothers of the nephiliym, which went a little bit like this,

  In the early days when the Watchers came to down to Mount Chermon and decided to take human wives they did so by mesmerising the women with their celestial, male beauty, but also by force. Some women were enthralled to be chosen, and offered themselves up to become the first Mothers of Darkness. They birthed the first giants who were as tall as mountains. Those women did not survive either the pregnancy or the birth, for the children grew too rapidly inside them and they were torn apart or overcome from the weight of what they carried in their wombs, their hearts giving way, their organs crushed and their breath stifled.

  Nephiliym born too early were forced onto other human women, wet-nurses to suckle them, and to raise as their own. Even then their temperaments were so volatile, so angry and violent that they often turned on their nurses, for as two year olds they were the size of small trees but still prone to two-year-old tantrums. They did not know their own strength. They also lacked wisdom or restraint and too late would realise the damage they had done, killing or maiming the only beings that had attempted to nurture them. Their own fathers were cruel and calculating, deciding that they must modify their seed to create nephiliym that were strong and powerful, but would grow as normal human babies in the womb. The rapid growth, strength and other superhuman attributes would only start to develop after their seventh year. The first children of darkness were left to destroy each other in gargantuan battles that shifted the land itself with earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. You can still see the remains of the giant trees they cut down to make clubs and mallets, now flat topped hills, or the cities they destroyed with their weapons of fire, melted into the landscape as though they had been there, hidden, for over a thousand years.

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  The next wave of nephiliym was conceived with the full consent of the women, drawn to promises of power and influence. Some of the most beautiful women the world over, were promised to rule over the kingdoms of the gods. And so they did, watching as their sons grew and dominated the world of men. But these sons too grew increasingly vile, demanding all the fruit of men’s endeavours, voracious in their appetites and demanding to be worshipped, but again ultimately destroying each other like their older cousins. Some still live, in far off places, hiding from the wrath of the their fathers.

  But these women were not divine beings, and as they aged they became abhorrent to the vain Watchers. They tried to teach them ways to keep their youth with magic and witchcraft, but they could somehow never quite capture the glow of youth, except at a price that few were prepared to pay, but then again, many did. Those that did were required to consume the blood of the innocent, but even though their wrinkles melted away, the darkness of their souls was visible in their eyes, and the Watchers still tired of them.

  They gradually disappeared from public life, into the wastelands and forlorn places. In the dense, dark forests they became shriek-owls that flew at night haunting travellers, or they would lurk down by the seashore trying to tempt men with their singing and the fleeting beauty that disappeared with the sunrise. Some were punished for their crimes, turned permanently into sirens that haunt the high seas. They were rejected from ever seeking rest with their ancestors in Sheol, doomed eternally to wander the world as hungry ghosts.

  I fear I gave many of those children nightmares, but storytelling was how I found a way to belong. Sometimes the children would let me join them in their games, escorting me blindfolded those secret hideouts built from bent saplings, covered with drying mud and ferns, where we might share honey cake and shell pistachios. I would describe the cities of Qeyin and the temples of the fierce gods that I grew up with. They would often scoff and shame me, calling me an idol worshipper and baby killer. I had not yet witnessed the things they accused me of, that they too had probably overheard, from adults talking in the night, but later on, I would. They said my eyes were strange like a cat, light amber eyes in a dark face. They said I was a pagan.

  One day I stumbled across some older boys being schooled in writing, symbols and their numeric’s in an outdoor tent. Their teacher was a curious man. He appeared as ancient as any of the remaining patriarchs and was treated with the utmost respect and deference. The children claimed he was a Watcher who always assumed this particular human form, hiding his serpentine visage beneath an unassuming ordinariness so as not to alarm the small children, though they of course were not afraid. His eyes betrayed either his divine nature or his age and wisdom; they were pools of deep patience and compassion. He may indeed have been a Watcher, but he would not be the last one I would come to meet, if indeed he was. It was Enoch who always encouraged me to treat all people with respect, however poor and humble they might appear,

  You could be entertaining angels in human form.

  This rabbi spied me hovering at the edges of the outdoor classroom, but did not draw attention to my presence. It was one of the scoffing boys, one inclined to bullying and sporting a superior attitude, who plucked a small wad of damp clay from his writing mat, rolled it into a ball, and threw it at my head. I ducked as it hit the tent pole with a thud. I remembered the lessons of my mother, and treated the boy to as long an imperious gaze, as a seven year old could muster.

  Rabbi. May I sit and listen to your teachings?

  I said as courteously as I could, ignoring the stares and titters. There were no girls in the class.

  I am able to read. A little. Rabbi.

  I added, hesitantly. More titters and a snort of outright disbelief. I stood my ground, holding my head up high, as my mother and Ayla had drummed into me. Never show fear. Appear calm or humble, but never afraid. I clasped my shaking hands together and started to read from the markings on the film of clay that Gadrel, the teacher, had smeared across a large rock visible to all the boys’ seated cross-legged on the ground, their own slabs of clay pressed into the ground and covered with their various attempts at writing script.

  Bere’shiyth. In the beginning.

  Elohiym created the heavens and the earth

  And the earth was without, desolate, and a ruin

  And darkness was upon the face of the deep

  And the Ruach Elohiym moved upon the face of the waters

  And Elohiym said: let there be light

  And there was light

  And Elohiym saw the light

  That it was good …

  I paused.

  How many Elohiym were there at creation, in this story, Rabbi? I know the stories of Anu and …

  Gadrel interrupted me, before I could go into an alternative creation story perhaps,

  You read well little sister and that is a good question, but the answer is for another day. Boys, I think the session is over. Until tomorrow.

  The class was dismissed and the boys loped off with backward glances, sneering and outraged at the turn of events. A girl, a little girl no less, interrupting, unable to hide her triumph, trying, without success, to contain the smile that kept creeping up her cheeks, trying to turn it into another more studious expression by pressing her lips together and frowning. I could not help it, a self-satisfied grin eventually escaped and turned into nervous giggling that even had Gadrel smiling,

  You look like a cat caught sunning in his master’s seat! How did you learn to read?

  I don’t remember Rabbi. I just picked it up by watching others write and read aloud. In my father’s house there are many scribes.

  I can write too.

  I said proudly.

  Ahh Na’amah you must be patient. Cultivate your skills with grace and humility. Sometimes when things come easily to you, and when others have to struggle to learn them, it is wise to ask Yahuah - how can I best use the talents you have given me?

  Oh! Of course Rabbi.

  I was at once chastened, curious that he knew my name, and still a little proud of myself. It was then that I noticed him, a scruffy boy with dimples and dirty fingernails watching the exchange. He had not run off with the other boys, although they called out his name,

  Feladi, Feladi?

  He waved them off and spoke directly to me,

  I am going to a special place where the river runs slow and you can skim stones with ease. I can show if you like? Unless of course you’re as skilled at skimming stones as you are at reading and writing?

  He grinned, lighting up his face and deepening his dimples.

  Come, you’ll like it. It’s my favourite place. I have some dried figs if you’re hungry. There is also a good tree swing nearby …

  He started walking off, still talking, pointing to a tree with a hollow you could climb inside, and a path that lead to wild raspberries. Gadrel nodded assent to me, silently reassuring me that it was acceptable for me to follow this self-assured boy. You remind me of him Emzara, to look at, the golden brown colours of you both, the steady gaze. I look for the thread that connects all those that I have loved. What makes our souls connect to some and not to others? Do we recognise something of ourselves in the other? Did we know each other in the spirit world before we came to be born? Or do we see something we wish to be?

  Feladi had a blessed combination of confidence, certainty and an earthy solidity. He was both ordinary, and yet already had the charisma of a born leader. He was brave and impulsive, determined and an obedient, studious son. He knew his place in the world, at only ten years old, with an unselfconscious charm and infectious curiosity. That afternoon with him was one where, for the first time in my short life, I relaxed completely and I let him lead. I trusted him, I felt completely comfortable and safe. I can’t remember exactly what we did or said. I know that he got me talking freely, asking me lots of questions about the city and my family without any judgement. I remember also that we enjoyed sitting in silence on sun-warmed rocks and paddling in pools fed by mountain fresh waterfalls. He did teach me to skim rocks across the water, but at that he excelled. I can still picture his silhouette; one arm pulled back, his whole body arching as he sent the flat stones hopping across the sparkling water. As the sun started to go down and the fireflies came out he walked me back to where I was staying. On the way some other boys yelled out derogatory comments, about being betrothed to an infant, or some such things. Feladi did not appear embarrassed at all to be with a girl so much younger than him,

  Pay them no mind.

  He took my hand, walking me right to where Enoch waited sitting on a fallen tree at the edge of the village.

  I’ll see you again soon.

  I was not to see him again until I was fifteen and he was eighteen, and even then it was as if seven years had not passed, it was almost the same, the feeling of peace, of being home, except this time my heart fluttered and I wanted to touch his broadened shoulders. Like most fifteen year olds I thought that no one had ever felt so intensely as I, the excitement but also the anxiety that he would not return my interest. But I am getting ahead of myself again. Seven years is nothing when you are as old as I am, but think of all the changes you go through from a child of seven to a young woman of fifteen. It’s like every part of you has been replaced and you are a different person, but somehow you are still you, and you carry all the parts of you along in this temple of the body. Even to the end, even as it fails you.

  In my old age, thoughts of Feladi are where I like to bask, time slowed down, treading the waters of the memory. Like those morning dreams which feel so real, where you start to wake but try to stay in the dream as long as possible, until you can no longer hold on to the moment or feeling of bliss, the memory of a kiss or sacred gaze. It slips away, and you reluctantly open your eyes to this reality.

  Really he is only a small part of my story, time-wise, but one of my golden ages, praise Yahuah there have been more than a few, these oases of joy. Never despise those times when time is slow, where you are given a place to pause, to recover and restore. No matter how bad or difficult a childhood you have had, innocence can always find a thread of gold: a sweet memory, a forgotten hope, a moment of shalom. Let me dwell there a moment more, let me rest a little longer, before we carry on our journey through the Valley.

  Shalom shalom.

  Hello.

  Goodbye.