The Days of Peleg (63 page)

Shem was the first to speak.

“Peleg,” he began cautiously. “I truly must apologize for laughing at you in the hallway.”

He stopped to await a response, but Peleg simply sat on one of the divans and shrugged his shoulders.

Shem sat on the divan opposite Peleg, but it was to low for him, and his knees were forced up almost to the height of his shoulders. Bernifal disappeared into the adjoining room.

“You must understand,” he continued. “When I saw you bowing to yourself, it was simply too humorous. You would have been forced to laugh, also, had you seen it.”

Peleg smiled in spite of himself.

“I
did
see it,” he said, finally, with a shake of his head.

Shem gave a sigh of relief.

“I am glad you are no longer angry,” he said.

Peleg said nothing, but continued staring at the floor. A clash of emotions coursed through his system. He was happy and relaxed at being so close to home. None of the fears or anxieties which were with him perpetually on his expedition remained.

Yet new fears now accompanied him. What would he find when he returned to his city? Shem had said something during the short tour of his underground community.

A great deal can happen in twelve years.

He had successfully ignored this comment ever since he heard it; especially considering it was made by someone who had lived underground for most of Peleg’s life. But now, as he saw the changes in his own face, the truth of the statement came crashing down upon him. When had his gray hairs appeared? Was it an indicator of coming death? Were his aching joints a symptom of some imminent illness?

He also felt a conflict between his mistrust and animosity towards Shem, whom he still considered a captor, and the kindness and care, bordering on friendship, which Shem had consistently shown him during their months of travel. However, the dangers of his travels were over, and he certainly could escape from Shem at any time.

Why didn’t he?

He suddenly came to a conclusion which surprised him, yet somehow, at this moment, made sense. He confirmed his conclusion emotionally, and was startled at his next thought:

I trust Shem.

He immediately added some exceptions. He couldn’t say he trusted Shem with his life, or his future; but somehow he, at least for now, trusted Shem with his innermost thoughts.

He looked up into Shem’s large eyes.

“I’m not upset about the mirror,” he began. “That was just embarrassing and could happen to anyone. I am actually more troubled by…”

He paused, and then forged ahead.

“By this.” Peleg reached for some hairs along the side of his head and tried to see them from the corner of his eye. He was unable to focus, however, and turned back to Shem.

“When did my hair start to turn gray?” he asked

Shem looked slightly perplexed, but Peleg sensed he was trying hard not to laugh.

“You have always had gray hairs,” he said, “ever since you arrived at Haganah.”

Peleg looked at Shem plaintively.

“Am I going to die?” he asked.

Shem’s willpower failed and a short laugh escaped before pure resolve trapped the remaining laughter within.

“Please forgive me,” he said, forcing himself to breathe normally. “I do not wish to mock your anxiety or trivialize your question.”

He lifted himself awkwardly from his divan and came to sit next to Peleg on his.

“The simple answer is, ‘yes’. However, that is true for all of us.”

He smiled with compassion and sincerity.

“What I
can
say, however, is this:”

He grinned and raised his hands as if in a greeting.

“Welcome to middle age! However, I’m sure you have a good hundred years or so left in you!”

Peleg scowled slightly in confusion.

“Middle age?”

“Yes,” said Shem with a nod and a raised eyebrow. “Approximately two-thirds of the way into a man’s lifespan his hair begins to lose its color, his skin begins to wrinkle, and he may find that his joints ache and he no longer has the energy he once had.”

Peleg nodded, putting his thoughts and experiences together.

“What about you?” Peleg asked. “You don’t seem to have any of those indicators.

Shem thought for a moment.

“We are no different,” he said, solemnly. “Both of us are under the same sentence of death.”

He paused with a slight shrug and continued.

“I estimate I have a natural lifespan about three times that of yours, but in the end our bodies will succumb.”

He looked into Peleg’s eyes.

“My body could cease at any moment. A slight malfunction in the heart and everything stops,” he said. “The issues of Life and Death are in the hands of the
Creator
.”

Peleg shuddered slightly and turned away. Manco Chavin had been accused of having a damaged heart. His mind rebelled at the thought that everything he knew could suddenly cease, as if it never existed—with no future and no memory. He stared at the floor for a moment and then, in an instant, made another decision.

At that moment, Bernifal came out of the adjoining room, dressed in nothing but his old fur-skin. Somehow he had kept it hidden under his new clothing.

“More comfort,” he said with a slight smile, practicing the language that Shem and Peleg were using, trying to convey the enjoyment of his re-found comfort. He sat, and then reclined on the divan next to the doorway, closing his eyes, determined not to interrupt the conversation.

The daylight filtering through the skylight had diminished, since the evening sun’s angle could no longer navigate the shutters. The room was now cast in a dark gray, and it was becoming difficult for Peleg to discern color.

Peleg pressed forward. He had never told Shem about the nightmare/attack which he had experienced just before Bernifal had taken him from Haganah. He took a breath and began before he changed his mind.

“When Bernifal came to get me that morning, I had just awakened from a terrifying nightmare,” he began. “It was just a dream,” he insisted, “but I haven’t been able to tell you about it until now.”

Peleg related the vision in accurate detail as his memory shifted back to that morning with a clarity that no other dream had ever held. His pulse quickened as he told of the mental assaults, choking vapors, and relentless accusations that pounded his mind. As he finished explaining the loud explosion and blinding light, his throat tightened as his eyes clenched to hold back tears.

He finished and allowed the silence to fill the room. Finally, he looked up into Shem’s eyes.

“I’m telling you this because of what we were just talking about,” he said. “What has tormented me the most since that time is
not
the actual terrifying experience, but their message. It seemed like their primary accusation was my mortality—as if I were somehow guilty, in a large cosmic sense, for being mortal—and I was to blame and should be judged for it.”

He shook his head slightly.

“Of course,” he continued with a slight smile, “It was just a dream.”

Shem smiled.

“If you say it was a dream, then I believe you,” he said. “But I do want you to understand that it
could
have been real; such things
can
happen.”

Peleg grinned, appreciating Shem’s kindness.

“They are very angry,” Shem said. Both men knew he was speaking of the
Nephilim
. “They are real, and they hate the Creator’s handiwork with an insane passion. They especially hate the fact that you, a part of the
Zeh-ra’s
lineage, are coming into an awareness of the
Creator
. You, personally, represent the greatest threat to their plans, and they want nothing more than to destroy you—in your mind.”

Surprisingly, Shem laughed.

“Fortunately for us,” he continued, “Their rage is their undoing. Although they have an intelligence far beyond humanity, they are like four-year old children who are trapped in an eternal temper tantrum. I’m sure in the coming millennia they will learn to be more subtle, but for the moment their rage actually propels you towards the
Creator
instead of discouraging your search.”

Peleg nodded, but his question had not really been addressed.

“How can my mortality be a crime?” he asked, this time in a manner that would hopefully elicit a clearer answer.

Shem shook his head.

“You must recall one of the first things I told you,” Shem began. “It is most difficult for a man to admit he has been lied to. He must doubt his own intelligence and admit he is not as scrutinizing as he would like to believe.”

Shem stood up.

“
They
lie,” he continued. “That is
all
they can do; cast aspersions and slander the nature of the
Creator
—and attack His creatures.”

He looked down into Peleg’s eyes.

“Your
mortality
is not a crime,” he declared. “It is a
symptom
of a crime.
The
symptom which all creation must now bear. It was humanity’s
fall
from perfection.”

Shem returned to sit next to Peleg.

“You were created for life,” he continued calmly, almost soothingly, “not death. Immortality is real—you just need to know where to look.”

Peleg pondered these thoughts for a few moments, and then shook his head, deciding he had heard enough for one sitting. He did realize, however, that Shem had given a historical name for the event that precipitated this curse upon creation. The
fall
.

A rustling sound came through the arched doorway, as a man parted the tapestries they had walked through earlier. The sleeping Bernifal was instantly awake and somehow, in an instant, was now standing just inside the doorway, ready for whatever threat might enter the room.

A servant entered the room, slightly startled by the fur-dressed man just inside the doorway, but managed to maintain his composure. He carried a large tray and strode purposely towards the table, where he placed three small loaves of bread, a large bowl filled with grapes and sliced melons, and a carafe of wine.

Reaching into the folds of his simple robe, he produced a tinderbox which he opened and applied to the oil-lamp on the table. He pushed the small cloth wick down into the oil, then repositioned it. After a few sparks, the wick ignited, filling the room with a flickering reddish-orange light. Peleg was surprised at how dark the room had been before the lamp was lit.

The servant motioned towards the meal and then exited the room without a word, but Peleg thought he saw the man give Bernifal a disdainful look just before leaving.

The men looked towards the table, but they were not really hungry after the meal they had eaten less than two hours earlier. Peleg rose and picked up a few grapes, and then offered some to Shem, who declined.

“Apparently our wait for Reu is going to be longer than expected,” said Shem.

Peleg looked around the small room, watching the lamplight cascade along the limestone walls. Bernifal lowered himself on his divan, but remained seated. Shem stood and began to pace the room slowly, and Peleg resumed his seated position on his divan, eating his grapes quietly.

The silence stretched out, until Shem suddenly interrupted it.

“Let me show you something,” he said, as if he had just thought of something exciting.

He reached into his suit and produced his bag of antediluvian pebbles. He handed the bag to Peleg with a slight grin.

Peleg lifted the bag in his hands, surprised that Shem would hand them over so casually. He knew how precious they were to him.

Shem hunkered down next to Peleg.

“How high can you count without counting?” he asked.

Peleg was confused by the question, and looked at Shem with a puzzled expression.

“If I show you a handful of stones,” Shem explained, “what is the most you can count without actually numbering them? For example, if I show you six stones in my hand, you can glance at them and
know
there are six, without actually counting them individually, one through six.”

Peleg nodded, understanding. His entire numbering system was based on sixes, so he was quite used to doing math based on multiples of six—and of sixty.

“Of course,” said Peleg. “I can usually identify at least twelve items without actually counting. Why?”

Shem reached into the bag that Peleg was holding, and extracted a handful of stones.

“This is not designed to make you feel bad,” he said, “but to demonstrate a point.”

Peleg shrugged slightly, now fully prepared
to
feel bad. He thought back to the stone-throwing lecture on causality, and wondered what was coming next.

“How many stones are in my hand?” demanded Shem, as he opened his large hand to reveal the pebbles inside.

Peleg took a quick glance.

“Fifteen,” he announced without counting, somewhat smug that he had identified more than the twelve he had claimed earlier.

“Very good,” said Shem. He reached into the bag and extracted a large handful, part of which he poured into his other hand, filling both hands with a layer of multi-colored stones.

“And now,” he asked, proffering both hand to Peleg.

Peleg quickly isolated twelve in each hand, and then added the three remaining in his left hand to the two in his right.

“Twenty-nine,” he announced quickly, becoming irritated. This was a silly children’s exercise, and he hoped the great Founder Shem would be able to find something more enlightened to do while waiting for Reu to arrive.

After Shem returned his stones to the bag, Peleg’s irritation broke—no longer concerned with how precious they were. He grabbed two handfuls from the bag and flung them across the floor.

“You count them,” he ordered Shem, watching them skitter along the floor, colliding with each other, some bouncing against the wall.

Before the final stones had stopped moving, Shem responded, a little too jubilantly.

“Thirty-four.”

Peleg rose and stood over the spot where the stones had come to rest. With a quick count, he confirmed that Shem was indeed correct.