Peter Lerangis - Lost in Babylon

“If I need further information, I’ll ask!” Bhegad snapped.

“Well, excuuuuuse me for talking.” Nirvana folded her arms and plopped down on the floor of the tent, not far from where I was studying.

We were feverishly trying to learn as much as we could about Babylon and the Hanging Gardens. Professor Bhegad had been tense and demanding over the last couple of days. “Ramsay!” he barked. “Why were the Gardens built?”

“Uh … I know this … because the king dude wanted to make his wife happy,” Marco said. “She was from a place with mountains and stuff. So the king was like, ‘Hey babe, I’ll build you a whole mountain right here in the desert, with flowers and cool plants.’”

“Williams!” Bhegad barked. “Tell me the name of the, er, king dude—as you so piquantly call it—who built the Hanging Gardens. Also, the name of the last king of Babylon.”

“Um …” Cass said, sweat pouring down his forehead. “Uh …”

“Nebuchadnezzar the Second and Nabonidus!” Bhegad closed his eyes and removed his glasses, slowly massaging his forehead with his free hand. “This is hopeless …”

Cass shook his head. He looked like he was about to cry. “I should have known that. I’m losing it.”

“You’re not losing it, Cass,” I said.

“I am,” he replied. “Seriously. Something is wrong with me. Maybe my gene is mutating. This could really mess all of us up—”

“I will give you a chance to redeem yourself, Williams,” Bhegad said. “Give me the names the Babylonians actually called Nebuchadnezzar and Nabonidus. Come now, dig deep!”

Cass spun around. “What? I didn’t hear that—”

“Nabu-Kudurri-Usur and Nabu-na’id!” Bhegad said. “Don’t forget that! How about Nabu-na’id’s evil son? Marco, you take a turn!”

“Nabonudist Junior?” Marco said.

“Belshazzar!” Bhegad cried out in frustration. “Or Bel-Sharu-Usur! Hasn’t anyone been paying attention?”

“Give us a break, Professor, these are hard to remember!” Aly protested.

“You need to know these people cold —what if you meet them?” Bhegad said. “Black—what was the main language spoken?”

“Arabic?” Aly said.

Bhegad wiped his forehead. “Aramaic— Aramaic ! Along with many other languages. Many nationalities lived in Babylon, each with a different language—Anatolians, Egyptians, Greeks, Judaeans, Persians, Syrians. The great central temple of Etemenanki was also known as the …?”

“Tower of Lebab—aka Babel!” Cass blurted out. “Which is where we get the term babble ! Because people gathered around it and talked and prayed a lot.”

“Cass will fit right in,” Marco said, “speaking Backwardish.”

Bhegad tapped the table impatiently. “Next I quiz you on the numerical system.” He plopped down a sheet of paper with all kinds of gobbledygook scribbled on it:

“Memorize these numbers,” Bhegad said. “Remember, our columns are ones, tens, hundreds, et cetera. Theirs were one, sixty, thirty-six hundred, et cetera.”

“Can you go slowly,” Marco said. “Like we have normal intelligence?”

“Those, my boy,” Bhegad said, pronouncing each word exaggeratedly, “may perhaps resemble bird prints to you, but they’re numbers. Start from that fact … and read ! We will have a moment of silence while you attempt to learn. And I attempt to settle my roiling stomach.”

As Fiddle pulled him back toward a table where his medicines were set up, I slid down to the ground with a book in hand, next to a pouting Nirvana. “Dang, what did he eat for breakfast?” she mumbled.

“He’s just worried, that’s all,” I said. “About us being in a wormhole.”

Across the tent, Cass and Aly huddled over a tablet, studying research documents the professor had downloaded—histories, ancient–language study manuals, reports on social behavior norms. “Okay, so the upper class dudes were awilum ,” Cass was saying, “the lower class was mushkenum , and the slaves were …”

“ Wardum ,” Aly replied. “Like wards of the state. You can remember it that way.”

“Mud-raw backward,” Cass said. “That’s easier.”

“What? Mud-raw?” Marco slapped the table. “This is ridiculous. Yo, P. Beg, this isn’t Princeton. We can’t learn the entire history of Babylon in two days. We’re not going there to live. Let’s just pop over and bring this thing back.”

I thought Professor Bhegad would freak. For a moment his face went beet red. Then he sighed, removing his glasses and wiping his forehead. “You know, in the Mahabharata , the Hindus wrote of a king who made a rather quick journey to heaven. When he returned the world had aged many years, people were feeble and small. Their brains had rotted away.”

“So wait, we’re like that king?” Marco said. “And you’re the world?”

“It’s a metaphor,” Bhegad said.

“I never metaphor I didn’t like,” Marco said, “but dude, your brain won’t rot away. It’s preserved in awesome.”

“I may be dead by the time you return. I am concerned about the passage of time. And I do have a plan.” Bhegad looked each of us in the eye, one by one. “I am giving you forty-eight hours. That will be six months for us. We will continue to maintain a camp here and wait patiently for the five of you. If you are as marvelous as we think you are, that will be enough time to find both Loculi. When the time is up, no matter what happens, you will return. If you need another voyage, we will plan it then. Understood?”

“Wait—you said the five of us,” I said warily. “Fiddle is coming?”

“No, you need protection, first and foremost,” Professor Bhegad looked at Torquin. “Don’t lose them this time, my barefooted friend. And keep yourself out of jail.”

* * *

“Step … step … step … step …”

Torquin called out marching orders like a drill sergeant. He had tied us together at the waist with long lengths of rope, which dragged on the sand between us as we walked. We were lined up left to right—Marco, Aly, Torquin, Cass, and me.

“Is this necessary?” Aly asked as we reached water’s edge.

“Safety,” Torquin said. “I lose you, I lose job.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Professor Bhegad, Nirvana, and Fiddle were waiting and watching, near a big, domed tent.

“Who wants to go first?” I asked.

With a sly grin, Marco lunged for the water like a sprinter. His rope pulled Aly forward, then Torquin, Cass, and me. Torquin bellowed something I can’t repeat.

I felt myself go under, floundering helplessly. Being tied to Torquin wasn’t a help. His flailing arms smacked against me like boards.

Don’t fight the water. It’s your friend. That was Mom’s voice—from way back during my first, terrifying swim lesson at the Y. I could barely remember what she sounded like, but I felt her words giving me strength. I let my muscles slacken. I let Marco’s body pull me. And then I swam in his direction.

Soon I was passing Torquin. The rope’s slack was long enough so I could open up some distance. I could see Aly’s feet just ahead of me, kicking hard. Her rope was nearly taut to Torquin. She was holding tight to Cass, who chopped the water as best as he could.

There. The circle of tiles, just below us. The strange music began seeping into my brain.

This is going to hurt. Don’t fight it.

I braced myself. I let my body go. I felt the sudden expanding and contracting. Like I was going to explode.