The Genesis Plague

PROLOGUE

Nightfall was darker now, more ominous, thought Enliatu. The unrelenting cloud cover choked the moonlight to a dull glow and blotted out every celestial light in the heavens. And with the darkness had come great misfortune for his people. It was not that Nahna, the illuminator god of the night sky, purposely hid from the earth. All of it, Enliatu was certain, could be attributed to a malevolent earthly force: the outsider who had mysteriously emerged from the forbidden realm over the eastern mountains; the beautiful woman who was now being marched to her death.

The captive was flanked by eight warriors carrying spears and bitumen torches. Two of the men tightly gripped the ropes fastened to the leather collar cinched around her neck. Her hands were unbound so that she could carry the mysterious clay jar that had been in her possession since her arrival six moons ago. She cradled the vessel as if it were her child.

Her exotic fair skin and gem-like eyes were nothing like those of the dark-coloured tribes that inhabited the known lands. The women of the village were captivated by her. They’d competed to stroke her strange soft hair and smooth skin. To them, the unknown words that she spoke sounded like music, and her scent — sweet and spicy — seemed from another world. They’d prepared for her the finest foods, even braided her hair with beautiful flowers.

The men shared in the seduction, though their attraction was far more feral. Never had they laid eyes upon such an alluring female. As Enliatu had feared, they could not restrain themselves. They had vied for her attention, and her fierce indifference merely intensified the rivalry. Eventually the men agreed surreptitiously to share the prize.

On the third moon the conspirators — led by the two men whom Enliatu had designated to watch over her — crept into the hut where she slept. They covered her mouth, restrained her limbs, stripped away her coverings. Then, in predetermined order, they had their way with her until each man’s carnal appetite had been sated.

The men later confided to Enliatu that she had not fought their advances. There had been no screams, no tears, no struggle. With flaccid repose she had stared at each aggressor with vacant eyes as he defiled her, a thin grimace twisting her soft lips.

By sunrise the first man had fallen ill. First came sweating, then chills and quaking limbs … and the blood. So much blood.

All were dead before sunset.

If only the tragedy — the punishment — had stopped with them, lamented Enliatu.

As the procession moved swiftly along the bank of the swollen river, Enliatu noticed that the flood had swallowed the circular granaries up to their rooftops. Soon the mud bricks that formed their walls would soften and dissolve beneath the churning water, the straw roofs carried downstream to rot. Not a trace would remain.

Surely a cleansing was under way. Perhaps the creator, Enlil, was seeking to reclaim mankind itself, for just as men had formed bricks to build dwellings, the gods had moulded men from earthen clay.

The procession broke away from the riverside and disappeared through a line of towering cedars. Beneath the dense forest canopy the torchlight illuminated only the nearest tree trunks against a perfectly black background. Soon the roiling river could no longer be heard. The warriors carried on in silence, while the prisoner began to softly hum a sensual melody. Overhead, the night owls, otherwise passive creatures, screeched in unison as if in response to her call. This caused the men to stop suddenly. They held the torches high and, with terror-filled eyes, searched the darkness with spears at the ready.

‘Il-luk ach tulk!’ Enliatu screamed out in frustration.

The handlers tugged the ropes, choking the prisoner back into submission. When she fell silent once more, the unearthly chorus above abruptly ceased.

The ground rose sharply; the cedars thinned and yielded to the scrubby foothills leading up to the stark, jagged mountains. The procession paused as Enliatu made his way forward to lead them up a scree-covered slope towards a fire pit flickering bright orange. The two boys he had sent ahead in daylight to prepare the site knelt beside the pit, stirring two clay bowls that simmered over the low flames.

The handlers goaded the prisoner ahead.

Keeping a safe distance, Enliatu instructed the boys to confiscate her burden. When they advanced towards her, she pulled the jar close to her breast, screaming wildly as they tried to tug it free. The handlers yanked back on the ropes until veins webbed out over her face and her eyes bulged. Finally the boys stripped the jar from her. She fell limp to the ground, retching.

‘Ul cala,’ Enliatu instructed the older boy. Open it.

The boy was not keen on carrying out the task, for he was certain that the jar itself might contain the woman’s evil spells.

‘Ul cala!’

The boy curled his trembling fingers under the lid, swiftly pulled it away. Immediately the dancing fire glow captured movement deep inside the vessel. He recoiled and stumbled backwards.

Undeterred, Enliatu stepped forward and extended his torch over the opened jar. Upon seeing the hideous form nestled within the jar, he scowled in revulsion.

The warriors exchanged uneasy glances and awaited the elder’s instruction.

It would end here, tonight, Enliatu silently vowed. He instructed the boys on what to do next.

The older boy returned to the fire pit and slid wooden rods through the handles on the simmering clay bowls. Then his partner helped him to lift out the first bowl. Steadying it over the woman’s jar, they decanted the glutinous, steaming liquid — kept pouring until the resin bubbled over the jar’s rim.

The prisoner shrieked in protest.

Again the owls screeched from the dark forest.

Enliatu studied the concentric ripples billowing across the resin’s shimmering surface. The wicked dweller was trying to emerge.

The petrified older boy replaced the lid, held it firmly in place until the thumping within the jar slowed, then ceased. He allowed a long moment to pass before pulling his hands away.

Satisfied, Enliatu turned his attention once more to the prisoner. On hands and knees, she was growling like a wolf, tears cutting hard lines down her dusty cheeks. Their eyes locked — two stares searing with determination. He was convinced that this was certainly a beast in disguise, a creature of the night.

Through bared teeth she hissed gutturally, spittle dribbling down her chin. All the while she kept her fingers wrapped around her beaded necklace — an object from her native land. Was this how she communicated with the other realm? Enliatu wondered. Regardless, he was certain that she was cursing him, summoning her demon spirits to destroy him.

The time had come.

He signalled to the warriors. They forced her to the ground, face up, and restrained her splayed limbs. The largest warrior came forward, tightly gripping the haft of a formidable axe, its bronze blade glinting orange in the firelight. He crouched beside her, grabbed a fistful of hair at the crown, and yanked her head back to expose the smooth flesh of the neck. A momentary assessment just before he raised the axe high, then brought it down in a precise arc aimed directly above the collar.

The blade split the soft skin and muscle to bring forth a rush of blood that seemed to glow in the firelight. A second fierce chop sank deeper into the gaping muscle to separate vertebrae — the vile blood splashing up, painting the warrior’s face and chest. He delivered two more blows, until the head was cleanly separated.

Grunting with satisfaction, the warrior tossed the axe aside and grabbed the severed head by its soft locks. But his smile vanished when he looked into the glowering eyes that still seemed alive. Even the soft lips remained frozen in a taunting grimace.

Enliatu went to the fire pit. ‘Eck tok micham-ae ful-tha.’ He pointed to the second simmering clay bowl.

Extending the ghastly head away from his body, the warrior dropped it into the boiling resin. Enliatu watched it sink lazily into the opaque sap amidst a swirl of blood — its dead eyes still glaring defiantly, as if to promise that the stranger’s curse had only just begun.