It was getting late, and the air had a distinct chill to it. The sun had set about a half-hour ago: it would soon be too dark for humans to see where they were going. Ori and the donkeymen decided to make camp for the night near a small creek which they assumed flowed eventually into the Tigris (which was where they were headed). The donkeys appreciated the water and the cook appreciated some brush and dry wood that he found with which to build a fire. Soon meal preparations were underway, sleeping places were being staked out for the night, and lots were being cast for the order of guard duty. They were getting close enough to the world's largest city that, even though they hadn't seen a living soul all day, they thought it prudent to take precautions against bandits.

Ori planned to augment the donkeymen's night watch with a bit of aerial reconnaissance. For now, the angel helped water donkeys. This activity was somewhat hindered by Jonah, who was more of an encumbrance than an assistant. The spell-struck prophet had seemed to come alive about an hour out of Wassukanni. Acting for all the world as if the last week hadn't happened, he'd started talking and hadn't shut up since. Just now, Ori had overheard one of the donkeymen lamenting the fact that the creek was too small for whales.

Jonah was oblivious to other people's input. He had a new theological theory and he was on a roll with it. Nor did the fact that he was explaining the Divine Purpose to an actual practising angel deter him in the slightest.

'I've finally figured out why The LORD wants me to go to Nineveh,' he told Ori.

'Oh?' said Ori, lifting a filled bucket from the creek and handing it to Jonah. Ori turned to fill another bucket.

'See, it's like this,' said Jonah, setting the bucket down so that he could gesticulate properly, and promptly forgetting its existence. 'Someday, The LORD will send his Meshiach, his Messenger-King, to rule over my people. When that happens, everybody else will be judged.'

'Judged?' Ori turned around to hand Jonah another full bucket. Ori saw the situation, shrugged, and placed it next to the first bucket. Picking up a third bucket, Ori asked, 'Judged according to what standard?'

'Whether they have helped my people,' said Jonah, as if it were the most obvious thing on Earth, as, indeed, it was – to Jonah.

Ori sighed. 'So by going to Nineveh and propagandising for your sociopolitical theories, you're helping the Ninevites because…?'

'They will earn favour…' said Jonah.

'…they will rack up brownie points…' said Ori at the same time.

'…with The LORD,' continued Jonah undeterred, 'so that when the Meshiach comes, they will get particularly nice places in the new society. They'll probably have jobs near the Palace, and such. Not like those nasty people to the south who think they're as good as we are and won't let our tradesmen cross their territory without paying tolls. They're going to end up as hewers of wood and drawers of wat-…er, what's this?'

Ori thrust two buckets at Jonah. 'Two buckets of water. Which you will carry, because I also have two buckets. Between us, we have four hands and four buckets. And it is the least you can do, you insufferable snob, because these nice people didn't have to take us with them.' Seeing the look on Jonah's face and knowing what he was about to say, Ori added, 'And yes, I paid them for their trouble, and because we shared their supplies. That is not an excuse for behaving like a Nimrod. So pick. Up. The buckets.'

With a shrug, Jonah reluctantly picked up the buckets. He even managed to get them the short distance to the campfire without spilling more than half of the contents.

While all were asleep except for the donkeyman on watch, and Jonah was snoring unmusical snores, Ori went for a flyover to see that all was well. All was, indeed, well in the vicinity of the little camp: there was a conspicuous lack of humans with weapons. To be sure, there were furtive rabbits and hungry foxes and wolves, and even the occasional sand cat, that deceptively fluffy-and-cute-but-absolutely-deadly night predator. They wouldn't bother the humans, so Ori didn't bother them. Ori was enjoying the cool night breezes, the peaceful twinkling of the stars above, and the occasional thermal updraft to glide upon.

Coming down from one of these glides, Ori was brought up short by an alarming sight: a solitary human. Standing on a medium-sized, loaf-shaped rock. Staring up in wonder at an open staircase.

A staircase that appeared to reach into space.

A staircase with dismayed, fluttering angels at the top.

'Oh, unresolved discord!' muttered Ori. 'How did THAT get there?' And flew to inspect.

It was definitely there, that staircase. Rather majestic-looking, apparently made of stone or marble, and rising in a sweeping way up to the farthest heavens. Or possibly the Penthouse. The décor sort of matched: also the sort of oozy light that hazed its way around the top of the top flight. I suppose if The Building has a paternoster, there must also be stairs. I mean, in case the paternoster is being used.

Or in case of astral fire emergency, chuckled Prajapati. Ori was startled by the thought but reassured by the chuckle.

'Oh, look, it's Ori!' called a voice from above. The voice was loud and liquid and somewhat distorted in the night atmosphere. Ori looked down at the human, who was staring at the staircase. His mouth was open farther than Ori had thought a human mouth could open. He probably didn't understand that, said Prajapati. Don't worry about him, he'll call it 'the voice of many waters.' I know them. Settle the Heavenly Choir down for me, will you, please?

'Hey, Ophaniel!' called Ori. 'What's going on?'

'That human tried to use that rock for a pillow! Who uses a ROCK for a pillow?'

'A human with a dire need to ease his neck muscles?' ventured Ori, talking and soaring at the same time.

'Well, that rock happens to be sitting on a doorbell!' complained Ophaniel. 'The porter thought it was one of us and opened the door, and now the staircase is there for just anybody to see, and it's stuck!'

At least, that's what Ophaniel said, and what Ori heard. What the human heard was probably more like a sustained roar. Ori looked down at the human, who was visibly shaken but seemed determined not to move.

'How do we get it unstuck?' asked Ori.

'Get him to move!' Ophaniel shouted (roared) back. 'Once he gets off that rock, we might be able to close the door. Before the High Priest of Whatever sees this, please!'

Or Jonah, thought Ori desperately. This is how religions get started. Ori waved assent to Ophaniel and flew down to talk to the human, not bothering to conceal the wings because, obviously, that cat was out of the bag.

The human was still frozen to the spot. The spot the entire heavenly host wanted him off of. And his mouth was still open.

Ori suggested, politely, that he close it. Somewhat to Ori's surprise, he did.

'Hi,' ventured the angel. 'I'm Ori.' Ori gave the man the right-hand-over-heart gesture, as that seemed to reassure them.

The man returned the gesture. 'Greetings, O Exalted Messenger. Just the feathered being I wanted to see.'

Ori cocked an eyebrow. 'You…wanted to see one of us?'

The man nodded. 'I am Ya'akov ben Yitzak. And I need some heavenly help. Just listen to what I have to say and…' he looked a bit shifty. '…I'll leave your portal alone. I assume that's what all the yelling is about.'

Ori turned to look up just as the whole blessed chorus showed up, glaring down the staircase and yelling. Unfortunately, since it was the Heavenly Choir, the yelling sounded like a rather complicated number involving a lot of vocal runs in four-part harmony. Ori waved to them in the universal conductor signal for 'stop, stop, stop!' They subsided, not gladly, and continued to glare in the general direction of Mesopotamia.

Ori turned to the man, confused. Ori, who could understand all human languages but sometimes wasn't sure which one was being spoken, had understood him to say, 'I am He Who Supplants, son of Laughter.'

'You are…oh, wait! You're Ya'akov, and your father is Yitzak. Got it. Pleased to meet you.'

Watch out for that guy, said Prajapati. He's well-named. Don't turn your back on him. And count your fingers when you're done talking.

Got it, thought Ori, but said aloud, 'Would you mind stepping off the stone while we talk?'

Ya'akov shook his head stubbornly and folded his arms. 'Not on your heavenly existence! If I do that you'll shut off the portal and go away without listening to my supplications.'

Ori thought – about humans, about the way they think, about how much this guy reminded the angel of someone… 'Okay,' said Ori simply, and sat down on one edge of the stone. This, too, reminded Ori of something in a vague way. 'Okay,' Ori said again. 'I'm listening.'

Ya'akov sat down on the stone and turned to face Ori. 'You see, I'm in need of some divine assistance,' he began. 'I'm in a bit of a spot – and it's partly to do with my family's religion.'

'I'm listening,' said Ori, who was.

'My grandfather used to live in Ur. He herded sheep for a living, and the place was kind of marshy, so he went further and further out into the countryside to graze them. Sheep have a terrible habit of getting stuck in marshes. Shepherds – well, you know shepherds, they sit around and think a lot. Commune with nature, stuff like that. Some of them are birders. They fill lots of tablets with records of the sparrows, larks, blackbirds, thrushes and such that they see. My grandfather's had a lot of marsh birds like herons. But he also liked to get philosophical and mystical, and he started to wonder about…gods.


To hear Granddad tell it, one day this god spoke to him, just out of the blue, as it were. 'Leave Ur,' this god said. 'I don't like Ur. It's noisy and full of Sin.'

Ori started to point out that Sin was the other name of the moon god Nannar, then thought better of it. This language business could get tricky. Besides, Ori was trying not to think of Nudimmud and failing. So Ori decided not to interrupt.

'So Granddad packed everybody up and became a nomad herder. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.


Dad was a late baby. He showed up after Grandma was sure she couldn't have any babies. She laughed so hard when she turned out to be pregnant that she decided to name the baby Laughter. It takes all kinds, and Granddad and Grandma were sui generis, let me tell you.


Granddad was serious about this god of his – the one with no name – and he made everybody swear an oath to this god by standing in the middle of a bunch of slaughtered animals. Half of a cow on one side, half on the other, same with a goat, a ram, a dove, and a pigeon. It was a mess, and the birds didn't make much of a barbecue after all that, let me tell you. Anyway, they did whatever Granddad said, but if they'd been back in Ur, I suspect somebody would have called for an exorcist.'

Ori was astonished at all of this. All Prajapati would say was, Hm, in an ambiguous tone of voice.

'Anyway, it's called a Covenant, and it gets passed down from one generation to the next. Somebody has to be the Patriarch, the decision-maker: where to take the flocks, which group of nomads to be friends with, how much we're willing to pay for water privileges, who gets to marry what girl from what tribe, that kind of thing. Also, the Patriarch has to promise to worship the god with no name. No biggie, that's fine.


The catch is: this Covenant thing is attached. Whoever gets to be Patriarch also owns the whole shebang: all the sheep. All the goats. All the poultry. Every tent and tent peg, every donkey. And that Patriarch has to be the First-Born Son.'

Ya'akov's expression was grim and deeply offended.

'So the fact that I was born about three minutes after my pain-in-the-ass brother is a Big Deal, see? And it's completely unfair!'

Ori gasped in sudden comprehension. 'So your brother got everything, and you got nothing?'

'THAT was the plan,' said Ya'akov grimly. 'And it was a stupid plan! Esaf is really athletic, see? He's a mighty hunter, like legendary Nimrod, and…'

No! interjected Prajapati. Don't say anything about Nimrod! If you get him sidetracked, we'll be here all night. So Ori was silent on the subject of his least-favourite Sumerian architectural visionary.

'…and he's Dad's favourite. But Esaf is thick as two planks! If you ask him where we should go next, he says, 'Duh, gee, I dunno. What month is this? Is it Nissan yet?' And as you may have noticed, I'm pretty bright. I would obviously make a better Patriarch.


I've been mad about this my whole life. Once, when we were teenagers, Esaf went out hunting. I stayed home to help Mom with the cooking. I made this lentil stew…it is the bomb, I tell you, killer recipe, best lentil soup in the whole watershed if I do say so myself. So when Esaf comes home, all sweaty and bloody from shooting innocent creatures, he takes one sniff and says, 'Hey! Lentil stew! Gimme some now! Dish it up, bro!'


But the lentils weren't the only things that had been stewing. I'd been brooding all day about how Esaf was the Heir and I was the Spare. And I'd had it.


'You want stew?' I said. 'I'll trade you for it.'


'Okay,' says the Nitwit. 'What do you want for it?'


'The Birthright.' That's what they call it: The Birthright. Like that.

And the fool says, 'Sure.' Just like that. Sure, why not? Seems fair. The whole leadership role and all that goes with it, in exchange for whatever-it-is I want right now. What a doofus!'

Ori had witnessed a lot of dodgy human doings, but this family saga set records, even for Mesopotamia. The angel didn't say anything – what was there to say? Ori merely waved for Ya'akov to continue. Hopefully he'd get to his 'supplication' before breakfast-time.

'I told Mom and Dad about the bargain we made but they ignored it completely. Dad only pays attention when it suits him. And Esaf is his favourite, so…


Things all came to head the other day. Dad decided he was old enough and sick enough that he'd better hand down The Birthright while he still could. So he told Esaf to go hunting. Hunting! And get some venison, and make him 'that stew' that he liked so much…


Don't you get it? 'That stew' was my stew! Esaf can't cook! And venison's tough! Not good for old people's teeth. But off he went, the nincompoop, with his little bow and arrows. Mom told me. Mom is on my side. I'm her favourite.


While the great hunter went a-hunting, I went to work. I killed a nice, plump goat kid. I cooked up the best stew anybody ever tasted, with my special blend of herbs and spices. Now to take it to the old fool.


Did I mention he's blind now?


The biggest difference between me and my not-so-twin brother, besides smell, is hair. Esaf's a hairy beast. So I made myself some long gloves – out of goatskin. Hairy enough for Dad. It also helped with the smell. Eau de Esaf.


I took it in. My voice confused him, but he was convinced by the goat hair. My brother, the hairy goat. I got the expected 'blessing'. May the god give thee of the dew of heaven, yadda yadda, may everyone bow before thee, yadda yadda, But the main thing was, I inherited. Not him. Me.


When they found out, they were furious. Of course. Dad moaned about it but said there wasn't anything he could do. A Blessing was a Blessing. It was official. The same as if it had been sealed with one of those rolling seals they have. Mom was secretly happy: she's never trusted Esaf to take care of her when Dad's gone, and she hates his wives. I don't have any: who would marry me with no property? And subject to a more powerful family member?


When Esaf found out, he roared. 'I'll kill him! Let me at the little weasel!' Et cetera. Mom packed my bag. That's it, over there. She said, go to her brother's. He'll take me in. He's got his own herds. Wait until the coast is clear.


Mom gave me one piece of advice before I ran. 'Don't take the god lightly,' she warned. 'This god business is serious stuff. If you get a chance, get the people in Pancake Heaven on your side. It never hurts to have allies.'

Ori stared at him. Ori blinked.

Prajapati said…nothing.

'So, you see,' finished Ya'akov smugly. 'I lucked up. I found the Stone. When I opened that staircase, I knew what I'd got: a get-out-of-jail-free card. So I'll make a deal with you guys. You bless me and promise that I'll be okay. And in return, I'll worship you. Heck, I'll even tithe to you. Can't say fairer than that, right?' And the shameless vagabond spat in his palm and held out his hand for Ori to shake.

Prajapati? What do I do? We don't want any sheep or goats or donkeys or ducks. We certainly don't want to get mixed up in this fellow's schemes. But if I don't 'bless' him he's going to sit on this stone until Ophaniel blows up a tornado.

Prajapati said quietly, Give him what he wants – a 'blessing'. He'll do the rest, he and his mother and their shifty clan.

Aloud, Ori said, 'Ahem. Okay, you've got it.' Unable to repress a grimace of distaste, Ori took the proffered hand and intoned, as solemnly as possible:

The land of Ya'akov is a pure place, the land of Ya'akov is a clean place,

The land of Ya'akov is a clean place, the land of Ya'akov is a bright place…

…and more Nudimmud nonsense, until Ya'akov seemed satisfied that the spell was sufficiently binding on all parties.

Now tell him to save our tithes until you come to collect them – and let's get out of here. This has gone on long enough.

Ori told him. Ya'akov beamed. Ya'akov ceremoniously stepped off the stone.

The staircase unceremoniously disappeared. Like an owl's beak snapping shut.

What a scam artist, was Ori's thought flying back to camp.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

12.06.23 Front Page

Back Issue Page