Джеймс Миченер - The Source

Then came the end of the year, the end of winter, a time marked by apprehension as to how the gods would treat Makor in the growing season ahead. The various rituals of an agricultural community were observed, and as an act of faith in every kitchen all bread and wheat left over from the passing year was burned. In Urbaal’s house the children scurried in and out, looking for little caches of cereal left by Timna for them to find, and these they brought triumphantly to the fire, where Urbaal burned them in an ancient ceremony, praying, “We trust the gods that this year our harvest will be good.” He then produced fresh wheat from the winter fields, and this was hastily ground and made into bread without even stopping for the leaven so that there should be no empty space of time when bread was not in the house. All women able to walk then assembled with jars and paraded to the great well of Makor outside the wall, where instead of drawing water from the well they gave back samples taken from their homes, praying that in return the well would sustain them through the coming year.

On the last day of the dying year the town fasted, and before dawn, assembled at the western end of the temple, where doors not used at any other time were thrown open. At the eastern end similar doors were opened, so that the townsmen could look straight through the empty hall, from west to east, and as the sun approached on this day when day and night were of equal length, all grew reverent and whispered prayers imploring Baal-of-the-Sun to protect this town for another year. The sun rose, and the astronomy of the priests was so exact that the rays shone straight through the temple without touching any wall. The year would be a good one.

As the crowd chanted praises, the ritual gates were swung shut for another year and people left the west portal, moving to the monoliths where the priests had trundled out the war god Melak, under whose hungry maw large fires were lit. The crowd cheered and drums were beaten with frenzy as one perfect boy of three, fair-haired and lovely as a yellow bird darting after bees through an olive grove, was crushed down upon the stone arms and tumbled into the gaping pit.

The sacrifice had a startling effect upon Urbaal and the apparent cure of the preceding months was placed in jeopardy. He began to tremble, and Timna understood why. At the harvest-time burning he had been so preoccupied with the impending dance of Libamah that he had not truly accepted the fact that his own son had been burned alive. It was something that had occurred at the periphery of consciousness, and later the seven days of ritual sex had obliterated all memories, following which his derangement had prevented him from missing the boy at home. Now he awakened to the meaning of these terrifying facts and trembled.

Timna, anticipating disaster, knew that at this moment she should take him home, but when she started to do so, Matred commanded her to leave him where he was. “The priests would punish you severely,” the first wife warned, so against her sure judgment Timna allowed Urbaal to stay, and when he showed signs of weeping for his son, she placed his hand upon her swelling belly and consoled him. His trembling diminished, for as Timna knew, it was never death that corrupted.

The priests ordered music, whereupon a door opened and Libamah came forth, now an ordinary prostitute but dressed in a spun cloth that looked handsome on her slim body. Slowly and with ritual grace the priests took away her clothing, and she stood alone with that provocative power that had filled the seven days and nights that Urbaal had known Her. She was more exciting than he had remembered, lovelier than the concept of Astarte, a mirthful, lively young woman who could make a man experience joys he could not forget.

Her effect upon Urbaal not even Timna had expected. The dark trembling now ceased entirely and a sense of irresponsible, youthful excitement took its place. He could see only Libamah, as if she were dancing for him alone, and he jerked his hand away from Timna’s and began preening himself as if there were a chance that again today the priests might choose him to lie with Libamah and insure fertility for the coming year. Edging himself into a prominent position, he pulled in his stomach and tried to look like a younger man. He held his head back to attract attention and smiled handsomely, but most of all he followed the girl on the steps, living again with her the surging ecstasy they had known in their service to Astarte.

“That poor, silly man,” Timna whispered as she maneuvered to be near him in order to console him when the priests nominated another for the spring rites, but as she drew closer to her grinning husband Libamah began a portion of her dance that was appallingly sensual, and Urbaal moved nearer to the steps, dragged on by the hope that he would be called. He could not control himself, and Timna saw his lips forming the pathetic prayer, “Astarte, let it be me.”

The drums stopped. Libamah ended her dance with her feet apart, her eyes waiting to welcome her next lover. The priests cried, “The man is Amalek!” and the tall herdsman leaped onto the steps and allowed his clothes to be torn away.

“No!” Urbaal protested, stumbling toward the temple. On the way he grabbed a spear held by a guard, and as Amalek stepped forward to claim the priestess, Urbaal drove the spear into his back.

Amalek staggered to the right, seeking to control his legs and failing. Libamah, watching as the foolish-faced Urbaal came at her with trembling hands, screamed, and this act of rejection stunned the farmer. Before anyone could stop him, he stumbled down the temple steps and dashed wild-eyed through the zigzag gate.

Almost as if they had anticipated tragedy, the priests moved swiftly into command. “Be silent,” they ordered as the high priest satisfied himself that Amalek was dead. But Libamah stood waiting, and since she was the earthly personification of Astarte, the rites centering on her must continue or Makor would face famine. Not even death could be allowed to interrupt the rites of life, and a priest cried, “The man is Heth.” Eagerly the bearded Hittite leaped to the steps, disrobed, and in a condition of astonishing virility, considering the preceding events, stepped past the dead man and carried Libamah to the love-room. Drums rolled, the sacred door was closed, and the symbolic ritual of homage to Astarte was continued.

Urbaal, when he fled through the gates, ran blindly toward his olive grove, where he stumbled about for some minutes trying to comprehend what had happened, but all he knew, and this only vaguely, was that he had murdered someone. Confused, he left his olive trees to seek the road to Damascus, and along it he staggered eastward. He had gone only a little way when he saw approaching him a kind of man he had not met before: the newcomer was shorter than he but leaner from hard years in the desert; he had blue eyes and a dark beard, an air of competence and bravery, but he walked as one seeking no trouble; he was accompanied by sheep and goats and many children and by numerous wives and younger men who had attached themselves to his leadership; he wore heavy sandals secured by thongs which wound about his ankles, plus a wool robe which fastened at one shoulder, leaving the other free; the robe was yellow, marked with red crescent moons; and he led a caravan of donkeys.

He was Joktan, a nomad from the desert who had elected to try life inland, and he was the first Habiru to see Makor, at a time when the great empires of Mesopotamia and Egypt were already crumbling. In later millennia experts would argue as to whether he had been the forerunner of the people known as Hebrews, but with such matters he was not concerned. He came late to the well of Makor, some two thousand years after the first formal town had been established on the rock, but he arrived with a reverberating force, not physical nor seeking war, but a spiritual force that would not be denied. His sudden appearance—looming up out of the east with many donkeys—startled Urbaal, who halted in the middle of the road. For some moments the two men stood silent and it was apparent that neither feared the other. Urbaal, now under control though still unaware of whom he had killed, was prepared to fight if necessary, but the stranger did not wish to do so, and it was Urbaal who spoke first. “From where do you come?”