Chapter Four
Yael followed her husband to the edge of the oasis. She was tired to the depths of her bones. The trip to Hazor had been profitable, but tiring. She preferred their tents in the open wind-swept spaces to the tight jumble and noise of the city. Especially Jabin’s city. The Canaanites were fine merchants and artisans, good designers and engineers, too. But, Yael wondered, to what end? She shuddered, closed her eyes yet could not escape the mental images of the Festival. The smell of burning human flesh, then, only hours later, the scent of sensual abandon from the writhing sexuality of Astarte’s worship.
Her flesh crawled, yet tingled, too. Yael couldn’t help comparing herself to the lithe temple maidens who danced so seductively and dared to make love out in the open, in public. Her body was as good as theirs. She too could dance and sway hypnotically. Her face too, was as attractive, yet without the kohl and rouge and other tricks they used, not nearly as wanton and seductive. She pursed her lips and slid her tongue out to moisten them, to make them shine.
Oh, but what was all this about? Yael wondered. She had no need of such things here with her husband. Haber, though eight years older than her twenty-two, was still vigorous and a fine figure of a man, who knew how to make love to her. But it was plain, unadorned procreation without much allure or passion that left Yael with a sense of lack. Haber was a righteous Kenite artisan, a tinsmith, a trade much in demand; passed down in his clan from the time of his forebear, Jethro, and from even as far back as the exodus. I have no need of kohl, rouge and passion, she thought. But something in me burns for it. I am still young and without children. She shuddered at the thought of children, the pain of childbirth, the drudgery of caring for them. The elegant, regal ladies of the Canaanites if they bore children, had slaves to care for them. Ah, to be as they were….
Haber released the pack mule’s lead and the animal wandered a few feet, then bent its head to nibble the succulent grass. As he loosened the carefully arranged packs, Arak came and asked about the cooking pot Haber was making for him. They wandered off and it fell to Yael to finish unpacking. The last and longest bundle was the tent. She unrolled the stitched-together skins and removed the mallet and the sharp tent pegs stored at its center. Yael’s movements were deft and rapid. She enjoyed this work and was good at it.
She paused and starred at the mallet, as if seeing it for the first time. She picked up a wooden spike, touched its sharp point with her thumb. The tent pegs started out much longer, but after each use, Yael sharpened them. Her eyes clouded over and her heart beat more rapidly. She felt frozen in time, tense, waiting. An image of a handsome man in armor, Canaanite armor, drifted before her. She looked down; he was lying at her feet in a fetal position. Yael felt a thrill and her nipples grew taught. She felt out of control yet guided by an inexorable power. It was hard to breath. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. She gripped the tent peg, pointed it down and reached for the mallet.
“Yael,” Haber was calling her. She shook her head to clear it. The vision lingered, then was gone. Her body returned to normal and she sighed.
“Yes, husband,” she answered.
“Arak tells me of another Canaanite raid.” Haber gestured to the older man and he came nearer smiling at Yael. She nodded, acknowledging his presence.
“It has been the second time in two weeks,” Arak said. The older man had been a Haibru soldier and had a long, white scar from his left ear to his chin. Yael always cringed when she saw it. “We do not give our traders enough protection,” he said.
“And our weapons are inferior,” Haber added. “We need the iron of the Canaanites.”
Yael’s mind wandered to the sensation in her hand as she’d held the tent peg. She’d heard this talk of protection and weapons her whole life. The palm of her hand seemed to tingle.
“Your cousin, Jereboam, was taken prisoner,” Arak said.
Yael’s heart stopped. She looked to Haber to be sure she’d heard correctly. He nodded then wrapped her in his arms. She sobbed. Jereboam was her mother’s sister’s first born and her favorite cousin. “Did he resist?” Her voice was hoarse and strangled. It was well known what the Canaanites did to Haibru soldiers who resisted them.
Arak nodded.
“Was he wounded?” Haber asked.
Arak nodded.
“Where?” Yael asked. “Where, was he wounded?” Arak didn’t seem to understand. “On what part of his body? How badly was he wounded?”
“I was not there, Yael,” Arak said, his voice soft with sympathy and grief. “They say it was Sisera’s men, not bandits. They wore uniforms. Perhaps they will make a prisoner exchange….”
Haber laughed. “Exchange? Who have we to exchange?”
Arak looked down and shook his head.
Yael stepped from her husband’s embrace, bent and retrieved a tent peg. She stabbed downwards and brandished it. “Maybe we will capture one of them to exchange for my cousin.” Her voice was matter of fact, as if she were talking about a trade of wheat for barely. But her eyes blazed fiercely and her voice was tinged with anger.
“We will talk with Devorah,” Haber said. Arak, nodded.
Yael looked sharply at him. “She has done nothing yet. Nor has our brave general, Barak,” she said this last sarcastically. “Why would you think now would be any different? We - you, me, and Arak here, are the ones who must act.” Her voice shook and she sobbed. “You can at least learn the secret of iron, Haber. Then at least our weapons will be a match for theirs.” Yael threw the tent peg to the ground and stepped into her husband’s open arms; her body convulsed with sobs and despair.
“I have begun, Yael,” Haber said, stroking her flowing black hair. “I know some of it. I will learn the rest. For you, Yael.” She leaned back and looked into his face. “And for our people.”
Yael kissed him on the mouth. He pulled her close and she felt him stiffen. “Help me with the tent, husband,” she said, voice full of promise. We can tell Devorah later.”
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Chapter Three, Part 3
Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
But outside the temple, when you see a sunrise, taste the warmth of fresh bread, inhale the fragrance of the breeze from the sea; look at your child – do you feel Astarte’s presence then?
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
But outside the temple, when you see a sunrise, taste the warmth of fresh bread, inhale the fragrance of the breeze from the sea; look at your child – do you feel Astarte’s presence then?
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Chapter Three, Part Two
But outside the temple, when you see a sunrise, taste the warmth of fresh bread, inhale the fragrance of the breeze from the sea; look at your child – do you feel Astarte’s presence then?
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Chapter Three, Part 1
Chapter Three
A slave came to light the torches. Bethena tried to pull herself from the memories and focus on her son. He had not been her first born. Her first born had been sacrificed to Baal. She went to the table and poured wine into a beautifully wrought silver goblet, added water and drank deeply. In a moment, warmth suffused her chest. Downstairs, she heard the slaves preparing the evening meal.
Melka, two years older and wise in the ways of the city, temple and palace had watched over her in the weeks and months that followed. Bethena drank again. It had been good with Melka. Later, in the days following her initiation, a few men had come to her and she’d learned to please and enjoy them in Astarte’s name, but it had never been as good as that first time with Melka. Melka knew all the men allowed to visit the inner-most court of Astarte’s Temple. She had lain with them herself. Four of them, all of the royal household had lain with Bethena. Atrim, father of Jabin, had been with Bethena most often; Melka counted 17 times. When Bethena conceived, Melka told her she was sure it was Atrim’s seed that had quickened in her.
Had Atrim, the over-king of all the Canaanite city-states, known she was his daughter? At the time, Bethena had been shocked by the idea, now, as she seated herself in the stiff-backed throne-like chair, she realized it had been an honor to be impregnated by her own father. After all, Baal and Astarte had been brother and sister, as had been Toth and Isis. It was the exception for the great mass of everyday people. But for the great ones, it was the rule.
They were at the very pinnacle of civilization, the intersection of the human and divine; far above the many others swarming in the streets around her suite in the palace. Bethena sighed, nodded knowingly and clapped her hands. Immediately, a handsome young male slave appeared and bowed deeply before her.
“Bring me a footstool and a table.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The slave obeyed, bowed low, and backed from her presence.
Bethena could have simply moved the furniture herself, but she hadn’t wanted to. Awash in the glow of power as she contemplated her divine heritage, Bethena had wanted to be waited on. She could even have made the slave be her footstool. He would have eagerly complied, she had used him as furniture before, but she was not in the mood tonight.
She admired the workmanship of the finely wrought silver on her goblet. It was a scene depicting an olive grove and oil press. We have a higher standard to adhere to, she thought. It is our mission to keep and extend civilization; to honor our God and his Goddess consort; to protect them from the ravages of the desert nomads and their One God.
What could they know of God? They had no temples, lived in tents, had no iron. While we have beautiful temples, fleets of trading vessels, caravans that travel to Cathay and the Indies and a system of justice sophisticated law resting on the will of the gods and on the divine power they have given to our priests and great ones.
The Haibrus were barbarians, nomads, threatening the roots of civilization. Bethena was proud of her general son’s service to her half brother the King. Together, they were waging a relentless war of attrition against the nomad invaders, the desert aliens and jealous god who challenged their way of life and the greatness of the gods.
Yet there were alternatives to force and violence and the Haibrus were not so stiff-necked and un-educatable as every one said. The handsome slave, for instance. He was a Haibru but under her tutelage had taken well enough to the worship of Astarte. Now he basked in his service to Bethena and devoted himself fully to her needs and pleasure, because she was of royal blood and a priestess of Astarte and to serve and worship her, was to serve and worship the Goddess.
But until they were tamed and trained, the Haibrus were fierce. Bethena feared for the life of her son and the lives of the brave Canaanites who fought with them. But it seemed that they had no alternative, no choice but to make war. Hadn’t they tried to live in peace? Generations ago, when the Haibrus had first come among them, the Canaanites had welcomed them; encouraged them to camp beside their cities, water at their wells, live in the city walls, even join them in worshiping Baal and Astarte in their beautiful temples. They were tolerant of the Haibru god. And what had happened?
Bethena shifted in her chair, removed her feet from the footstool and returned them to the floor. Some, quite a few at first, had adapted to the life of the city and gloried in the sensual worship of Baal and Astarte, though, Bethena swallowed hard, the sacrifice of the first born male had been hard for them. Still, many of the Haibrus became as their Canaanite neighbors.
But their One God - One God - Bethena laughed aloud, how silly, grew jealous of Baal and Astarte and caused his more zealous worshippers to attack those that had fallen away; and forcibly return them to His worship, or kill them. Now there was little commerce between the worshipers of the One God and those of Baal and Astarte. In places they tolerated one another, but for the most part, they lived in separate enclaves.
Bethena stood and paced. Shadows from the torches danced along the frescoed walls. Even this we tolerated, she thought. But they breed like locusts. Now there are so many of them they are pressing our most fertile territories in the Jezreel and in Samaria. It was only a matter of when Sisera would fight the great battle to rid their land of these vermin.
Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
A slave came to light the torches. Bethena tried to pull herself from the memories and focus on her son. He had not been her first born. Her first born had been sacrificed to Baal. She went to the table and poured wine into a beautifully wrought silver goblet, added water and drank deeply. In a moment, warmth suffused her chest. Downstairs, she heard the slaves preparing the evening meal.
Melka, two years older and wise in the ways of the city, temple and palace had watched over her in the weeks and months that followed. Bethena drank again. It had been good with Melka. Later, in the days following her initiation, a few men had come to her and she’d learned to please and enjoy them in Astarte’s name, but it had never been as good as that first time with Melka. Melka knew all the men allowed to visit the inner-most court of Astarte’s Temple. She had lain with them herself. Four of them, all of the royal household had lain with Bethena. Atrim, father of Jabin, had been with Bethena most often; Melka counted 17 times. When Bethena conceived, Melka told her she was sure it was Atrim’s seed that had quickened in her.
Had Atrim, the over-king of all the Canaanite city-states, known she was his daughter? At the time, Bethena had been shocked by the idea, now, as she seated herself in the stiff-backed throne-like chair, she realized it had been an honor to be impregnated by her own father. After all, Baal and Astarte had been brother and sister, as had been Toth and Isis. It was the exception for the great mass of everyday people. But for the great ones, it was the rule.
They were at the very pinnacle of civilization, the intersection of the human and divine; far above the many others swarming in the streets around her suite in the palace. Bethena sighed, nodded knowingly and clapped her hands. Immediately, a handsome young male slave appeared and bowed deeply before her.
“Bring me a footstool and a table.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The slave obeyed, bowed low, and backed from her presence.
Bethena could have simply moved the furniture herself, but she hadn’t wanted to. Awash in the glow of power as she contemplated her divine heritage, Bethena had wanted to be waited on. She could even have made the slave be her footstool. He would have eagerly complied, she had used him as furniture before, but she was not in the mood tonight.
She admired the workmanship of the finely wrought silver on her goblet. It was a scene depicting an olive grove and oil press. We have a higher standard to adhere to, she thought. It is our mission to keep and extend civilization; to honor our God and his Goddess consort; to protect them from the ravages of the desert nomads and their One God.
What could they know of God? They had no temples, lived in tents, had no iron. While we have beautiful temples, fleets of trading vessels, caravans that travel to Cathay and the Indies and a system of justice sophisticated law resting on the will of the gods and on the divine power they have given to our priests and great ones.
The Haibrus were barbarians, nomads, threatening the roots of civilization. Bethena was proud of her general son’s service to her half brother the King. Together, they were waging a relentless war of attrition against the nomad invaders, the desert aliens and jealous god who challenged their way of life and the greatness of the gods.
Yet there were alternatives to force and violence and the Haibrus were not so stiff-necked and un-educatable as every one said. The handsome slave, for instance. He was a Haibru but under her tutelage had taken well enough to the worship of Astarte. Now he basked in his service to Bethena and devoted himself fully to her needs and pleasure, because she was of royal blood and a priestess of Astarte and to serve and worship her, was to serve and worship the Goddess.
But until they were tamed and trained, the Haibrus were fierce. Bethena feared for the life of her son and the lives of the brave Canaanites who fought with them. But it seemed that they had no alternative, no choice but to make war. Hadn’t they tried to live in peace? Generations ago, when the Haibrus had first come among them, the Canaanites had welcomed them; encouraged them to camp beside their cities, water at their wells, live in the city walls, even join them in worshiping Baal and Astarte in their beautiful temples. They were tolerant of the Haibru god. And what had happened?
Bethena shifted in her chair, removed her feet from the footstool and returned them to the floor. Some, quite a few at first, had adapted to the life of the city and gloried in the sensual worship of Baal and Astarte, though, Bethena swallowed hard, the sacrifice of the first born male had been hard for them. Still, many of the Haibrus became as their Canaanite neighbors.
But their One God - One God - Bethena laughed aloud, how silly, grew jealous of Baal and Astarte and caused his more zealous worshippers to attack those that had fallen away; and forcibly return them to His worship, or kill them. Now there was little commerce between the worshipers of the One God and those of Baal and Astarte. In places they tolerated one another, but for the most part, they lived in separate enclaves.
Bethena stood and paced. Shadows from the torches danced along the frescoed walls. Even this we tolerated, she thought. But they breed like locusts. Now there are so many of them they are pressing our most fertile territories in the Jezreel and in Samaria. It was only a matter of when Sisera would fight the great battle to rid their land of these vermin.
Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Chapter Two, Part 2
After the bath, they gave Bethena a jeweled loin cloth like theirs and lead her into the presence of the Goddess. Already in an altered state of sensual over-load, when Bethena smelled the hypnotic incense, and saw the bejeweled larger than life idol before her in the dimly lit sanctuary, she fainted, flopped to the floor. When she awoke, it was to a vision of the bare backs and buttocks of her sister temple maidens as they prostrated themselves before the Goddess. In a few moments, when her head cleared, Bethena joined them, prostrating herself as they did, in deep gratitude to the One who had granted her this blessing.
After a time, as Bethena’s heart ceased its racing, Melka came and led her to a dimly lit alcove with a divan and a smoking brazier from which floated the same hypnotic incense. They sat on the floor.
“You are of royal blood, Bethena,” Melka said. “A princess of Canaan. It is your duty to serve Astarte, Goddess of Fertility. The welfare of our people depends upon the Goddess’ favor. If She finds favor in your service to Her, She will bless us with a good harvest and many children. Do you understand?” Bethena nodded. “You will now dedicate yourself to Her service. From this day forth and for the rest of your life, you will come here, to Her temple for one month each year and offer your body. You are Her slave, Bethena, Her willing and obedient slave. Do you understand?”
“I am Her slave,” Bethena said dreamily and sensually, her body tingling and undulating slightly.
“Yes.” Melka stroked Bethena’s cheek, longing to take the comely virgin for herself. “Her slave.” She stood reached down her hands to Bethena and when she grasped them, pulled the new temple slave to her feet. “You will sit on this divan and wait, breathing in the incense of service, with every breath, reminding yourself that you are only a slave, here to serve whoever comes and commands you in the Goddess’ name. Do you understand?”
“I hear and obey,” Bethena said dreamily.
“Good, my little slave girl. I am pleased!”
Bethena’s heart raced with joy.
“You will give yourself fully to what is asked of you,” Melka said. “Trust the Goddess. She will guide you. Trust your body; your senses and feelings will guide you. Let your mind be asleep.” She caressed Bethena’s budding breast. Bethena moaned. Melka bent and kissed her nipple. Bethena moaned from the center of her being. Oh, what sacred sweetness, Melka thought. Surely initiating this girl could not be a sin?
“This is love, Bethena,” Melka whispered in the child’s ear; “sacred love. This is how you and I shall serve Astarte. This; what we are feeling now is how we are meant to feel and how She wants us to worship Her. You shall never know a greater, more fulfilling love, Bethena. You are mine in the Goddess’ name!”
“Yours….”
After a time, as Bethena’s heart ceased its racing, Melka came and led her to a dimly lit alcove with a divan and a smoking brazier from which floated the same hypnotic incense. They sat on the floor.
“You are of royal blood, Bethena,” Melka said. “A princess of Canaan. It is your duty to serve Astarte, Goddess of Fertility. The welfare of our people depends upon the Goddess’ favor. If She finds favor in your service to Her, She will bless us with a good harvest and many children. Do you understand?” Bethena nodded. “You will now dedicate yourself to Her service. From this day forth and for the rest of your life, you will come here, to Her temple for one month each year and offer your body. You are Her slave, Bethena, Her willing and obedient slave. Do you understand?”
“I am Her slave,” Bethena said dreamily and sensually, her body tingling and undulating slightly.
“Yes.” Melka stroked Bethena’s cheek, longing to take the comely virgin for herself. “Her slave.” She stood reached down her hands to Bethena and when she grasped them, pulled the new temple slave to her feet. “You will sit on this divan and wait, breathing in the incense of service, with every breath, reminding yourself that you are only a slave, here to serve whoever comes and commands you in the Goddess’ name. Do you understand?”
“I hear and obey,” Bethena said dreamily.
“Good, my little slave girl. I am pleased!”
Bethena’s heart raced with joy.
“You will give yourself fully to what is asked of you,” Melka said. “Trust the Goddess. She will guide you. Trust your body; your senses and feelings will guide you. Let your mind be asleep.” She caressed Bethena’s budding breast. Bethena moaned. Melka bent and kissed her nipple. Bethena moaned from the center of her being. Oh, what sacred sweetness, Melka thought. Surely initiating this girl could not be a sin?
“This is love, Bethena,” Melka whispered in the child’s ear; “sacred love. This is how you and I shall serve Astarte. This; what we are feeling now is how we are meant to feel and how She wants us to worship Her. You shall never know a greater, more fulfilling love, Bethena. You are mine in the Goddess’ name!”
“Yours….”
Monday, January 18, 2010
It's Broken, Let's Fix It
Churchill supposedly said, “people get the government they deserve.” Scary thought! But say that Churchill is right and I feel I deserve something better. What then? Washington, Franklin and Jefferson thought they too, deserved something better. As they did 234 years ago, I can realize a change is necessary then join with others to discuss and explore something better. That’s what I’d like to do and invite you to join me in such a discussion/exploration.
I’m not suggesting a second American Revolution as some are, or a Libertarian, Tea Party type solution. Frankly, I’m not very sure what to do, and am scared shitless of those who do, that’s why I want to discuss and explore. I do feel that more than cosmetic change is needed, tho; that changing the governing party from Democract to Republican and back again, isn’t working that well; just look at the “blue dog” Democrats. Bi-partisanship isn’t enough. A third party isn’t enough. Washington warned about political parties and factionalism and he was right.
We need a shift to ‘trans-partisanship’ or no partisanship. The Party system and the polarization, gamesmanship and gridlock that go with it are destroying the country. When party labels, party discipline, party dogma and party loyalty become more important than the health and well being of the Nation, as is the case now, it’s time to ditch party labels, party discipline, party dogma and party loyalty.
If you see this too, and know we can do better and would like to explore ways of achieving a trans-partisan system in which party labels, party discipline, party dogma and party loyalty are irrelevelant, please join me and let’s dialogue.
I’m not suggesting a second American Revolution as some are, or a Libertarian, Tea Party type solution. Frankly, I’m not very sure what to do, and am scared shitless of those who do, that’s why I want to discuss and explore. I do feel that more than cosmetic change is needed, tho; that changing the governing party from Democract to Republican and back again, isn’t working that well; just look at the “blue dog” Democrats. Bi-partisanship isn’t enough. A third party isn’t enough. Washington warned about political parties and factionalism and he was right.
We need a shift to ‘trans-partisanship’ or no partisanship. The Party system and the polarization, gamesmanship and gridlock that go with it are destroying the country. When party labels, party discipline, party dogma and party loyalty become more important than the health and well being of the Nation, as is the case now, it’s time to ditch party labels, party discipline, party dogma and party loyalty.
If you see this too, and know we can do better and would like to explore ways of achieving a trans-partisan system in which party labels, party discipline, party dogma and party loyalty are irrelevelant, please join me and let’s dialogue.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Is American Democracy Broken?
Miami held a special election this past Tuesday that cost $300,000. Of the 63,000 residents of the district, 39,961 are registered. Of those, approximately 12% turned out; that means roughly 4,500 people voted. The ‘winner’ got more than half of those votes, and a ‘landslide’ would have been 3,000 votes. So in other words, 3,000 people decided who would ‘represent’ 63,000 people. Does this seem ‘right’ to you? Does this seem like ‘democracy’?
It doesn’t seem ‘right’ nor like ‘democracy’ to me; it seems like something isn’t working and is broken. Many excuses are offered – ‘off-year’ election, local election, but these seem pretty lame to me. ‘Democracy’ isn’t what it used to be, and isn’t working now. Check it out – 63,000 people, approx 40,000 ‘eligible’ to vote, 4,500 vote. Even during ‘on-year’ elections with big issues of state and national interest, only 48% of the ‘eligibles’ turn-out. And, the thirty year trend is for lower registrations and lower turn-outs. Not very ‘good.’
There is something dead, deeply and fundamentally broken about this, and it seems to me until we admit that, until we stop making excuses for it and stop thinking we can patch it up, we won’t be able to fix it. Pretending it’s OK and denying that it’s fundamentally broken, keep the status quo. It’s not about blaming, punishing, or being ‘un-American,’ it’s simply about fixing something that’s broken beyond repair. When our shoes are broken, we fix ‘em, or our cars or houses.
I have some ideas about why this is happening and what to do about it, but before those can be shared, people have got to understand that new ideas are necessary, that the ‘system’ is broken. Until we’re ready to admit it’s not working, until we give up denial and admit we care and can do better, there’s no need to do anything. After all, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
There are consequences to doing nothing and staying in denial; the consequences of not fixing our ‘democracy’ are more polarization, gridlock, corruption and more visible, widespread failures of other systems – energy, immigration, health care. The consequences of letting these systems go is not only the death of the ‘American Dream,’ but the literal and actual death of our standard of living and place in the world. It’s not just politics and usual, it’s decline and dissolution. But it doesn’t have to be this way.
It doesn’t seem ‘right’ nor like ‘democracy’ to me; it seems like something isn’t working and is broken. Many excuses are offered – ‘off-year’ election, local election, but these seem pretty lame to me. ‘Democracy’ isn’t what it used to be, and isn’t working now. Check it out – 63,000 people, approx 40,000 ‘eligible’ to vote, 4,500 vote. Even during ‘on-year’ elections with big issues of state and national interest, only 48% of the ‘eligibles’ turn-out. And, the thirty year trend is for lower registrations and lower turn-outs. Not very ‘good.’
There is something dead, deeply and fundamentally broken about this, and it seems to me until we admit that, until we stop making excuses for it and stop thinking we can patch it up, we won’t be able to fix it. Pretending it’s OK and denying that it’s fundamentally broken, keep the status quo. It’s not about blaming, punishing, or being ‘un-American,’ it’s simply about fixing something that’s broken beyond repair. When our shoes are broken, we fix ‘em, or our cars or houses.
I have some ideas about why this is happening and what to do about it, but before those can be shared, people have got to understand that new ideas are necessary, that the ‘system’ is broken. Until we’re ready to admit it’s not working, until we give up denial and admit we care and can do better, there’s no need to do anything. After all, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
There are consequences to doing nothing and staying in denial; the consequences of not fixing our ‘democracy’ are more polarization, gridlock, corruption and more visible, widespread failures of other systems – energy, immigration, health care. The consequences of letting these systems go is not only the death of the ‘American Dream,’ but the literal and actual death of our standard of living and place in the world. It’s not just politics and usual, it’s decline and dissolution. But it doesn’t have to be this way.
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