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Short Stories
Prophet From It
Whether you consider the shouting match he’d just had with his wife, Zakutu, over her treatment of
Whether you consider the shouting match he’d just had with his wife, Zakutu, over her treatment of Vashti, his new concubine, the cheeky Babylonian Ambassador who had just offered Marduk’s help in relieving the devastating summer drought they’d been suffering, if only His Majesty would be good enough to authorize a new temple to his chief rival’s god, or the stifling heat in the main audience hall of his spacious palace, Sennacherib, by the grace of Ashur and Ishtar, King of the Four Corners of the World, not to mention his magnificent capital, Nineveh, was not having a good day.
And it was promising to get worse by the look on Ahikar’s face. The vizier clasped his own hands in a suppliant gesture, his stance unsteady, plainly afraid of his king’s displeasure at what was to come next.
Well, if it’s displeasure he wants. Sennacherib screwed his face into a mask of sheer royal annoyance, concentrating on lowering his impressive, henna-dyed eyebrows. This should work. “What is it, man? Spit it out!”
Ahikar paused to appreciate His Majesty’s effort while invisibly gesturing to the scantily dressed slave girl fanning the king to increase her pace. “Funny you should choose those words, King of Kings, but that appears to be exactly what happened. According to eyewitness accounts, at least. He was spat out. But now he’s here.”
Sennacherib sighed the weary sigh of a benevolent god-king. Was he working his vizier too hard? The man made no sense whatsoever. “Who was spat out?” he asked at last. “And where?” He spread his arms wide as his eyes scanned the audience hall. “I see but the usual courtiers and hangers-on?”
Ahikar nodded his understanding. “An Israelite, Sire. Goes by the name of Jonah. From the tribe of Zebulun…” He attempted to continue, but his king interrupted with an impatient wave of his impeccably manicured right hand.
“I can’t ever keep those twelve tribes of theirs straight. And so, was he spat out here? Into your dungeon, no doubt?”
Ahikar cleared his throat nervously. “Not exactly, Your Majesty. He was spat out onto the shores of the Great Sea. By a whale. And then came straight here.”
Sennacherib permitted his eyes to widen, sparing a moment to check his face in the handy bronze mirror that lay next to his massive golden throne. Vashti is absolutely right, this new eyeliner is perfect. His lips started curving upward, but stopped as the memory of the morning’s argument soured his mood again. “What, straight here? A day’s journey as the crow flies, and nearly a month for a caravan?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” came the quick reply. “We verified the story with local fishermen, though there was some debate as to whether this was a whale, a leviathan, or just a plain old fish.” Ahikar paused as if to collect his thoughts. “But all that we interviewed swore that a creature rose from the depths, and deposited this Jonah onto the beach.”
Sennacherib dismissed the report with a shrug. “Since when is a fisherman a reliable witness, Ahikar?” He chuckled. “No doubt they told you this when you threatened them with exile to Assyria. Land of milk and honey… riiight. They’ll do anything to move here. But instead of seeing it for the tall tale that it is, you chose to believe them. They must have been disappointed when you left them there.” He laughed out loud.
Ahikar smiled politely; one does not get to be vizier and fail to laugh at the King of Kings jokes, after all. “Ahem, Sire, as you’ll recall, we did take most of them back to Assyria, and moved some of our people there? It’s those other tribes that are left…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “That unfortunate dysentery incident during the siege of Jerusalem…” He stopped himself short when he saw Sennacherib’s hands clench the throne’s handles. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I momentarily forgot the prohibition on discussing that subject.” He stood silent, afraid to say any more.
Sennacherib surveyed the room again. No courtier showed any sign of having overheard the man’s unfortunate mistake, which was just as well, as he’d already gone through two other viziers this year. He let the man sweat for what felt like an appropriate amount of time before continuing: “Perhaps I shall let you live, Ahikar,” he said, opening his palms. “Do go on. What does this miraculous fishbait want? I presume that is why you are here?”
Ahikar carefully considered his options before answering. Soften the man’s words, and the king might blame him for not being forthright if the prophecy turned out to be true. Share it outright, and he was bound to run into Sennacherib’s prohibition and meet the fate he just narrowly avoided.
He’d have gone on vacillating longer, but the king’s increasingly impatient expression finally left him no choice.
“Your Majesty,” he continued at last, “Jonah warns us that unless we repent from what he calls ‘our sinful ways’, the idolatry, the child sacrifices, his god will…” He took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “He said his God will make what happened in Jerusalem seem like child’s play. He said ‘Be sure to tell that to your king’, specifically.”
For a brief moment, Ahikar thought that he’d gotten away with it, though the king’s face went white with rage at the second mention of the Jerusalem incident. But the king’s laugh, coupled as it was with the words, “repent, sure. He’s right, that child sacrifice stuff is truly distasteful, after all,” gave him hope. For a brief moment.
Then the king’s guards grabbed him by his armpits and started dragging him, struggling and screaming as he was, toward the dungeon. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! I had no choice!” he protested, but to no avail.
“Bring that Jonah character here at once!” he heard Sennacherib command as he was being dragged out. “He sounds like a hoot. And I need a new vizier!”
The Inheritance
I take a deep breath, trying to drum up some courage. How do I tell him? I scan
I take a deep breath, trying to drum up some courage. How do I tell him? I scan the room again, stalling.
He’s seated at the head of the large mahogany table, my four uncles and aunts split to either side, one uglier than the other. Uncles and aunts, that’s what I’ve been taught to call them. As to their no doubt illustrious actual ancestry, I’ve been instructed not to question.
He catches me mid-glance, eyes sparking with anger. “Well!?” he thunders.
I lower my eyes, studying the rich grain of the table’s wooden surface. “Why, Dad…” I start weakly when I muster the courage to look at him again. “Why must we always be ‘anti’ something?” It sounds even stupider now that I’ve said it out loud.
I hear a barely suppressed chuckle to the right. Who would dare? My father stills, his rage a coiled spring. But my uncle, the one with the pockmarked face and the permanent grin of the dead carved into his face, merely flashes his teeth, ignoring my father’s withering glare. “I told you not to send him to college,” he finally says with a shrug.
I never got to meet my mother. Oh, there were plenty of mother figures: nannies, maids, tutors. All seemed to care for me; all looked at me with those sad, sympathetic eyes, but I could tell they were just doing their job. There was no real warmth there.
“Where is she?” I began asking once I was old enough to understand. Did he do something to her? Did she die giving birth to me? Or was she made to disappear?
None would dare answer. I would lie in bed imagining the warm outline of her silhouette, or how his goons dragged her away from me as she screamed, “My baby! My baby!” But the outline refused to resolve into a face.
Until my second year at Yale.
I was sitting on the steps of the Sterling Memorial Library, scrolling through my phone and half-flirting with one of the Bush granddaughters, when a twenty-something brunette tripped running down the stairs, her heel catching on the edge of a step. She pitched forward, arms flailing, torso threatening to wipe me out like a bowling pin. Reflexes took over, and I caught her under her arms, her seemingly astonished face mere inches from mine, just as my phone, knocked loose by her fall, crashed on the steps’ granite surface with a sickening thud.
“Oops,” she beamed at me after taking a moment to stand up and straighten her knee-length dress. “I’m so clumsy. And your phone!”
“No worries, I have insurance,” I mumbled, my tongue suddenly thick and uncooperative. Those eyes, were these lenses? That violet couldn’t be natural.
The Bush girl’s disappointed “I’m going” finally broke me out of my stupefied state, and I hastily threw a “see you later” at her back, which she returned with a “pfft”. Ugh, great. Another failed assignment. He is going to be annoyed.
“I’m Sheila,” the brunette said, snapping my attention back to her, her arm outstretched for a handshake. Buy you a drink? It’s the least I can do.”
“I’m …” I started, but she interrupted me with a laugh. “I know who you are. Doesn’t everybody?” My mouth gaped open in astonishment, then closed when she followed up. “Your dad’s a big cartel guy, right? That’s what everybody says.”
“Right, right,” I rushed to reassure her, relieved. Why did she have me so unsteady? “Eh, drink?” I managed at last. “Sure.”
It was a local dive, not at all the kind of place any self-respecting member of Skull & Bones would be caught dead in. So much the better; annoying his spies was a welcome fringe benefit.
I sat, staring at the vintage rock posters on the wall and nursing my Bloody Mary, my back to the entrance, breaking every rule my tutors ever drilled into me. The drink was only so-so, despite the bartender’s assurance that they used a house mix.
I fished a lonely olive out of the tall glass and swallowed it. Damnit, did she stand me up after all of that?
Just as I was about to give up, she floated past me, my spider sense failing to warn me of the approach. She plunked herself into the opposite chair with a perfunctory “Sorry” and motioned for the waitress.
“Traffic?” I asked politely, but she ignored the pleasantry. “Those goons by the door yours?” she asked instead, as if she was asking about the weather, then followed up with a “Bloody Mary any good?” before I got a chance to get a word in edgewise. “No? Then I’ll have a smoky Old Fashioned.”
I just stared, resisting the urge to check the corner of my mouth for drool, until she raised her eyebrows at me and nodded to her right. Did she mind the stare? Oh, the waitress! “The lady will have a smoky Old Fashioned,” I finally got out. “And…” I paused, searching her face. Decided to chance it. “And fried calamari for two, please.”
She laughed, silver bells, “I only offered to pay for one drink, Mister,” she said in a mockingly serious tone, a cat reassuring the mouse, then waved the momentarily confused waitress away.
Now, I get as much attention as any rich scion with a couple of ominous bodyguards lurking in the background, but not like this. Was this a honey trap? Boy, would they be in for a surprise if that were the case. But this girl, those eyes… What’s the worst that could happen, a lecture from Father? I had to find out what this was about.
I took another sip of the Bloody Mary for courage; “Do you want to get out of here?” I glanced toward the door, then turned back to her, screwing my face into my most earnest expression. “I think I know how to slip them.”
She burst out laughing, tossed her hair back. “That’s not a good look on you, you know, you must practice more in front of the mirror…” She gave me a sly smile. “Or else you’ll never get that Bush girl,” she added to my astonishment.
I had to force my mouth closed. Was she one of his?! She must have seen my face cloud over, because she quickly shook her head. “I’m not,” she said, as if she’d read my mind. “But I’m sure as hell not going to embarrass myself in front of your mother by taking advantage of her little boy at the first opportunity.”
I felt the room tilt, air thinning around me, but resisted the urge to grip the edge of the table; no need to draw my bodyguards’ attention. She’s alive? Where is she? How do I see her? “My mother?” was all that I managed to squeeze through my suddenly constricted throat.
“There, there, breathe,” she said gently, resting her hand on mine. She traced my blood-drained knuckles with her index finger, the soothing touch nonetheless sending what felt like an electric current through my fingers. “We wouldn’t want those gentlemen to think this was anything more than a date, would we?”
I took a few heartbeats to collect myself, then nodded. “And how do you know her, Sheila?” I paused as the waitress arrived with the order, the smoke rising over the Old Fashioned like a summoned spirit. “Is that even your real name?”
She nodded, picking up a calamari ring and dipping it into the marinara. “Yours truly.” Picked up another one. Then leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “I work for Lilith, obviously.”
The name was an unfamiliar shape on my tongue. “Lilith”. I mouthed it silently; felt something stir deep inside. I glanced back towards the door. They were deep in conversation; no sign that they’d noticed anything out of the ordinary. Though that was no guarantee, he paid for talent.
It was a quick decision. “Sorry, I’ll get you another one later,” I said apologetically, and grabbed a hold of her hand. Then I did the one thing I’m not supposed to do. Ever.
I snapped my fingers.
It took a moment for reality to coalesce around us, walls and ceiling snapping into place. Sheila didn’t seem to lose a beat at first, giving the place the quick once-over of a trained security operative. “Oh… oh,” she said after looking up at the ceiling.
It was my turn to chuckle. “You expected the top of Megiddo?” I pointed at the Last Judgement fresco. “The Old Man doesn’t care for this place, even if his fearing the sign of the Cross is a silly superstition… So we’re safe, at least for a few minutes. Talk.”
She nodded, but still wasn’t fully satisfied. “Local security?”
I shook my head. “9 PM by us, so the middle of the night here.” I didn’t deem it necessary to add that we wouldn’t show up on the security tapes, and the only guard at the monitors took a convenient power nap.
“No, I did not expect Har Megiddoh,” she said finally, “but surely you know what’s coming. Why you were brought into this world, Damien. Didn’t you?” Her violet eyes demanded an answer. I couldn’t quite shake the effect, even here.
“Yes, I’ve known for a while,” I told her. “Seems a bit late for my mother to express a concern, though.” The realization tasted bitter. “The Lilith? I always thought it was a mortal, like Mary.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your father can be extremely… persuasive. But he lacked the power to match the Creator on his own. Another primordial spirit was needed. Lilith was available...” She hesitated. “And willing.”
That hit me hard. “Then why?”
Her voice did not betray any sympathy. “Why she left her…”
She must have wanted to say ‘little boy’ again, but thought the better of it. “Why she left you? Let’s just say that she expected a nearly bloodless coup, not the possible destruction of the universe. So no, Damien, it’s not about you for her, nor was it ever.”
It was as if she was baiting me on purpose. To what end? Was she working for him after all?
“So I’m just a pawn then?” I asked her.
“A very powerful pawn,” she corrected me, “with the unique power to fix a game that’s been rigged from the very beginning.”
I had to laugh out loud. “Surely not unique, Sheila. Or do you need to look up at the ceiling again?”
She shrugged. “I wish I could tell you to simply believe what you like, Damien. But you came into being because Lilith knew there wasn’t a hell of a lot of critical thinking on the other side. That has not changed.”
I recalled the faces of my uncles and aunts. Critical thinking wasn’t the first thing that came to mind. Still, maybe there was something to her argument.
“When can I see her?” I asked, sounding more tentative than I would have liked.
“Soon, soon,” Sheila tried to reassure me. “But for now, you have to do something for her. For everyone. Something that will slow the process down without raising too much suspicion. Certainly nothing that could ping pong back to her.”
I was incredulous. “Like what?”
She smiled. I’m sure you will figure something out.”
I look at Uncle Pestilence again, only to see him give me an unexpected wink. The others are staring forward from their seats, afraid to look at either Father or me.
“Dad,” I start again, “I know you think I’m ready, now that I’ve graduated and you’ve lined up the money for my first attempt at a statewide office. But don’t you think it would be better to go straight for Congress? Or aim even higher?”
He perks up. “Ambition, Damien? A pleasant surprise. And what do you have in mind? Clearly, you’re not quite ready for Congress yet. A stint running a division of the family business, perhaps?”
I take another deep breath. “Well, I think I’m close to landing the Bush girl. But actually, I was thinking Yale Law first…”
He smacks his hand on the table so hard that some seismographs will no doubt pick it up as a minor earthquake.
But Pestilence rattles off another chuckle and holds out his hand, palm open, to the right. War sighs resignedly and then digs into her pocket, coming up with a crispy Benjamin. “I hate you,” she tells Pestilence, and hands it over. And Pestilence pockets it, with that permanent smile on his face.
But not before giving me another wink.
This story feels like it could become a book – what do you think?