People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) by Vaughn Heppner Page B

found him in the street, shaken him awake and helped him up. Long years of drunkenness and its aftermath had kept him from puking. They led him into a spacious home, Canaan’s he realized dimly. There he had been purified and given a fine robe, boots, his hair and beard combed and a hat placed on his head. Canaan had led him back to the cube-shaped temple.
    As before, he halted on the steps. He swayed and his vision blurred. It felt as if he might be sick after all. A tired smile cracked his lips as he envisioned puking on the steps. That seemed like the right thing to do.
    “ Are you well?” Canaan asked.
    Ham rubbed his dry mouth . “What are we doing here?”
    “ Mother lies within.”
    Ham recoiled , and anger stirred. His head throbbed. He rubbed his forehead, willing himself better. “I took her out of here.”
    “ It was decided that she should rest here before the final journey.”
    Ham squeezed his eyes shut. Why did his children use such odd terms? What was final journey supposed to mean? Everyone knew a soul left the body the instant of death. Rahab was already gone.
    “ From dust she was formed,” Canaan said. “To dust she shall return.”
    Ham groaned at the dreadfulness of the words.
    The hand on his elbow tightened. “Come, Father. You are to help us carry her to the pyre.”
    After what seemed an age, Ham nodded . It hurt his aching head. He trudged up the stairs with Canaan. In the temple, he found Kush, Menes and Put. They wore costly long robes, hats and boots. Each seemed somber. They mumbled words of consolation to him as he gaped at Rahab laid out on a stretcher. She wore a fine gown and hat, and her face had been painted with cosmetics.
    “ It is time,” Canaan said. “Father, you will lead us.”
    Ham stared at his beloved . He couldn’t believe she was dead. He refused to believe. He staggered to her, kneeling, touching the cold skin. He bit his lips and stroked her forehead.
    “ Father,” Canaan said, with his hand on his shoulder. “You will lead us.”
    Ham looked up at his handsome son . “No,” he said. “I will be a pallbearer.” All his life he had worked. He had helped build the Ark. He had plowed the first fields in the New World. He had made the first bow. He had smelted ores and forged many things. He did. He used his hands, getting them dirty. He didn’t make windy speeches or dream up airy ideas. So at his wife’s funeral…he would work. He would carry her.
    “ If you’re a pallbearer,” Canaan said, as if speaking to a child, “who will lead the procession?”
    “ I will,” Ham said, “as a pallbearer.”
    “ There are four sons here,” Canaan pointed out.
    Ham stared at his youngest son, studying him . In many ways, he was a good son. “You will follow behind,” Ham said.
    “ Me?” Canaan asked.
    “ You.”
    The superior attitude slipped from Canaan . “Why not have Put or Menes trail in back?”
    The reason was obvious, Ham thought, but he didn ’t want to say it.
    “ You’re hung over,” Canaan said. “You’re not thinking right. You will lead us to the pyre. The four sons will be the pallbearers.”
    Ham took a deep breath . He didn’t want to quarrel, not here, not now. “No, my son, you must listen to me. You must obey your father.”
    With that trapped ferret look , Canaan glanced at his brothers. “I’m to be a pallbearer.”
    “ Grant him his request, brother,” Kush said. “Consider the occasion.”
    Canaan laughed ; it had a shrill quality. “Oh, no, no. I’m not going to be pushed aside that easily. We all agreed it would be this way.”
    Ham rose . He was weary, tired, with little fight left in him, and his hip ached. He put a gentle hand on Canaan, who flinched and stared at him. “Let us show respect for the dead. Let us not quarrel. Accept my judgment, my son.”
    “ But why me?” Canaan cried. “I came to fetch you from the reservoir, remember?”
    “ Yes,” Ham said. “I remember, and I thank you for doing