The Long Ascent, Volume 2: Genesis 1–11 in Science & Myth

By Robert Sheldon and David Mackie

The first eleven chapters of Genesis (Adam, Eve, Noah) are to the twenty-first century what the virgin birth was to the nineteenth century: an impossibility. A technical scientific exegesis of Genesis 1-11, however, reveals not only the lost rivers of Eden and the garden's location, but the date of the flood, the length of the Genesis days, and the importance of comets in the creation of the world. These were hidden in the Hebrew text, now illuminated by modern cosmology, archaeology. and biology. The internet-friendly linguistic tools described in this book make it possible to resolve the location, the extent, and the destruction of Eden and Noah's flood. Ancient Egyptian, Greek, Norse, Sumerian, and Sanskrit mythology are all found to support this new interpretation of Genesis. Combining science, myth, and the Genesis accounts paints a vivid picture of the genetic causes and consequences of the greatest flood of the human race. It also draws attention to the acute peril our present civilization faces as it follows the same path as its long-forgotten, antediluvian ancestors. Discover why Genesis has never been so possible, so relevant as it is today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Sep 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532691645

Robert Sheldon

Robert Sheldon earned a PhD in experimental space physics from University of Maryland, and an MA in religion from Westminster Theological Seminary. His career in NASA satellite instruments and teaching led to appointments as mittelarbeiter at Universitat Bern, research associate at Boston University, associate professor at the University of Alabama in Huntsville, and visiting professor at Wheaton College. He is the author of Laser Satellite Communication (2000) and over sixty referenced articles and chapters.

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The Long Ascent

Genesis 1–11 in Science & Myth, Volume 2

Robert Sheldon

foreword by David Mackie

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The Long Ascent, VOLUME 2

Genesis 1–11 in Science and Myth

Copyright © 2019 Robert Sheldon. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

Eugene, OR 97401

www.wipfandstock.com 10/29/19

paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-9162-1

hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-9163-8

ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-9164-5

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Foreword

Preface to Volume 1

Preface to Volume 2

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1: Asgard

Chapter 2: Paradise

Chapter 3: Ragnarök

Chapter 4: Sumer

Chapter 5: Duat

Chapter 6: Midgard

Bibliography

In memory of my father, Rev. Benjamin E. Sheldon (1928-2012)

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Foreword

January, 2017

My first week of physics graduate school, 32 years ago, I was excited to notice one of my office-mates had a Bible on his desk. I also noticed there was a strange guy who walked around with a rear-view mirror attached to his glasses. To my (short-lived) dismay, both were the same: Robert Sheldon. (Fortunately he had a semi-reasonable excuse for the mirror—he was a cyclist. Even more fortunately, his fiancée made him stop wearing it when not cycling.) This was my introduction to my unconventional colleague, and we quickly became great friends. I soon discovered that Rob could converse about almost anything, and usually at a deeper level than me. We started a Physics Bible Study together, at Rob’s urging. We both got married and had children while still in graduate school, although Rob also earned a master of arts in religion degree and had twice the children.

I graduated and settled into a conventional career as a government scientist. Rob remained as unconventional as ever, continually challenging the boundaries as a scientist and theologian wherever he went. We’ve kept in touch for three decades now, and I’ve been blessed to observe Rob’s trust in our Savior, his tenderness toward his wife and children, his devotion to Scripture and science, and his fierce defense of truth. I cannot help but think that my old friend has been providentially prepared for this role at this moment, because a revolution in our understanding is long overdue.

How did we come to this? Reconciling science and the Bible—especially the early chapters of Genesis—has a long and honorable history in both theology and science, to their mutual profit. Sadly, over the last century, that lively back-and-forth has degenerated into senseless war, with both sides entrenched in positions dictated by ideologues. The brave souls who ventured into no-man’s-land, whether to explore or to conduct peace negotiations, were likely to have their careers annihilated by verbal artillery from both camps. Accumulating evidence that both sides were wrong has not budged the resolve of the generals, who allowed the data to pile up and rot rather than risk ceding ground to the enemy. But the troops can smell the stench, and they badly want a new paradigm for a new century. In this book, Dr. Robert Sheldon offers hope to earnest Bible-believers and honest scientists alike—if they are prepared to leave their fortifications and follow the evidence where it leads. I doubt there is anyone better qualified to overthrow everything you thought was true about the beginnings of the universe, of life on Earth, and of humanity.

Dr. David Mackie,

Research Electronics Engineer

BioTechnology Branch

Army Research Laboratory

US Army Research, Development, and Engineering Command

Adelphi, MD

[The views expressed above are entirely mine, and not to be taken as an official endorsement by any government agency.]

Preface to Volume 1

¹

This book would never have been begun if it were not for my father, a graduate of Maryville College and Princeton Seminary, a Presbyterian missionary to South Korea, and a preacher all his life. When he had a stroke, and could no longer preach, I went to visit him. Not only was it difficult for him to talk, it was impossible for him to read. I found myself monologuing about my seminary research, and what I wanted to tell the world about science and the Bible. I told him I would write a book, and started the first chapter. But his condition deteriorated more quickly than I had hoped. I raced to his bedside on hearing the news but he died before I had a chance to read it to him. I grieved for a year and found that I could write nothing. But the following summer three brushes with death befell me.

During a family trip to the Gulf of Mexico, a storm caused riptides that drowned five people. I came close to being the sixth but my son was able to reach me in the surf seconds before I lost consciousness. A few weeks later I was taking my daughter to get her driver’s license. While she was getting experience driving the Interstate, she lost control of the Camry, skidded over the median, and struck an oncoming Suburban doing 70mph, rolling it into the shoulder. A few weeks after that, we were pulling our pop-up trailer over Independence Pass in the Colorado Rockies. As we were approaching a switchback, the brakes overheated and faded away. Smoke came pouring out of the wheel wells. The next week, in a reflective mood, I asked my wife, Do you think God is trying to tell me something? She gave me an exasperated look and replied, What do you want to do before you die?

My interest in the relationship between science and religion began when my father encouraged me to pursue science, asking me to explain how science could be reconciled with the Bible. While I was in high school, he listened to a seminar by Henry Morris and bought me Morris’s book The Genesis Flood.² I read it cover to cover, and learned a lot of geology. It appeared to me then, and even now when I reread the book, that it was not primarily a science book, but a theology book. Like most theology books, it was deductive and not inductive, always sure of the answer before presenting the evidence. I put the book away, wishing there were a better way to reconcile the Bible with science.

I went off to college at a leading Christian evangelical liberal arts institution that strove to be scientific. We were taught that all truth was God’s truth and that in the final analysis, there could be no conflict between science and the Bible. Our biology courses were taught from a theistic evolutionary perspective, and we were encouraged to read and present articles from the Journal of the American Scientific Affiliation. A small brouhaha occurred when the two geology profs were forced into early retirement, perhaps for being too open to Henry Morris’s sentiments. But whenever a conflict between science and the Bible arose, I always knew the answer before the evidence was presented. When I went off to graduate school, I put my BS degree behind me, thinking that there must be a better way to reconcile science with the Bible.

Physics grad school was not easy for a liberal arts graduate. After three semesters, I was burnt out from successive all-nighters and comprehensive exams. My father encouraged me to consider seminary so, taking a leave-of-absence, I applied to Princeton and two other schools. The only one that accepted me for the January term was Westminster Theological Seminary (WTS). To my surprise, I found Greek and Hebrew exegesis far more exciting than I had expected. But the most unexpected discovery was the classmate who became my wife. Upon our graduation, I had to make the difficult decision whether to pursue academic theology or finish the physics degree.

I chose physics, and with my new bride’s encouragement completed my PhD five years later. My father was proud of my degrees, though he always regretted that I had chosen physics over theology. My career prospered and soon I had appointments at the University of Bern, Boston University and then the University of Alabama in Huntsville. There I worked very hard on NASA programs involving space plasma experiments. But then the word went round that I was a creationist. Soon my colleagues were distancing themselves from me, and I was disinvited to team meetings. The honors course I taught entitled Physics, Philosophy and Fundamentalism,³ was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Under the cover of many pretexts, the president sent me my pink slip. At the same time, a tenure-track position opened at my alma mater, which I saw as providential.

Alas, the environment had changed in the 22 years since I had graduated. Now even ASA was considered too conservative an organization. A new course entitled Origins was team taught by a biologist, a physicist, and a theologian. The biologist taught evolution, the physicist taught the inflationary Big Bang, and the theologian taught that Genesis was a Mesopotamian temple dedication ritual. I found myself in complete disagreement with all the viewpoints taught in the course. Around that time, World Magazine published a spread on a new approach spearheaded by Phillip Johnson, William Dembski and Michael Behe.⁴ These men were saying things I had discovered while teaching the honors course: Evolutionary mechanisms are too weak to achieve the effects claimed. For the second time, I left the faculty of a college thinking that there must be a better way to integrate faith and learning.

After I had spent a few years consulting for NASA and blogging about science and the Bible, my wife became concerned that my theological training was fading–I was certainly very rusty in Greek and Hebrew. I applied to WTS graduate school, and was eventually accepted into the New Testament program, with a requirement of two semesters of study. It was 850 miles away, but my wife insisted I go. With fear and trepidation, I immersed myself in Hebrew exegesis, writing several papers on Genesis and Mark that became the core of this book. My thesis and my interest in science and the Bible, however, were not well received. So, for the second time, I left the seminary thinking that there must be a better way to express the universal truths of science and Scripture.

I went back to consulting for NASA, working on nuclear rockets for a manned Mars mission. The work was exciting and took me back into the world of science. Then came that fateful recent summer and my wife’s question. I thought a minute and said, I want to finish the book I was going to give my Dad. She said, Great. I’ll send you to Westminster library to do the research, and she did exactly that. And what could I say? I didn’t want to die.

It took a week or two to work through the Genesis flood material. Then on a hunch, I looked up Norse myths. What I found nearly knocked my socks off. I had been trying so hard to bring science and the Bible to the altar, and all along Myth was holding the wedding band. I began to realize that I was not the first person to attempt this task; Genesis stands in a long line of stories about origins, stories about floods, stories about man’s elevation above the animals. And now as I brought the tools of archeology, paleontology, and geochronology to bear, I was finding that the story told by science had been told before, had been told often, and had been told more accurately. Science reported little about the climate in Eden, but Genesis and Gilgamesh told me about the weather; Greek taught me the agriculture, Norse described the irrigation system, and Egyptian whispered about the roads. And last, in the voice of one exiled to a foreign land, Sanskrit sang of its haunting beauties.

This trilogy is my attempt to convey all these voices. We need not fear science or myth, as if they are competing stories to Genesis. Rather they are complementary harmonies, telling us the important things we need to know—where we came from, why we do not now live in paradise, and ultimately, how we can return.

Feb 18, 2016

1 Sheldon. The Long Ascent.

2 Whitcomb and Morris. The Genesis Flood.

3 Sheldon. Course notes.

4 Perry. Courtly Combatant World Magazine.

Preface to Volume 2

Nearly three years have gone by since Volume 1 went to the publishers, with many new developments. The resolution of the EMODNET (European Marine Observation & Data Net-work) bathymetry has more than quadrupled, revealing greater detail of the Med bed. ⁵ New discoveries and genetic analysis of Neanderthal remains has filled out our understanding of what preceded humanity, as well as confirmed our interpretation that Neanderthals did not speak. Papers on linguistics and genetics have continued to explore migrations and relationships of the Neolithic peoples that filled the Earth in Genesis 9–11. All these developments have reinforced the tentative chronology we inferred for Genesis 1 & 2.

The biggest surprise in the last three years of research was finding that the idea of pre-Adamites was historic, going back at least to Isaac la Peyrère’s PreAdamitae in 1643.⁶ And while many of these earlier works contain elements of our chronology, including the separation of Genesis 1 and 2,⁷ the identification of Paleolithic man with pre-adamites,⁸ and the interpretation of Noah’s flood as local,⁹ yet not one of these approaches located Eden or moved beyond a historical explanation or harmonization to a scientific prediction.

This is a key point. Since the Enlightenment, most discussions of Genesis and science attempt to reconcile the accounts either by a textual reconstruction (nuance, genre, hermeneutics)¹⁰ or by a scientific reconstruction (6000-year-old Earth, vegetarian carnivores, apparent old age).¹¹ This has led to a Cold War within Evangelical circles,¹² fueled in part by external funding.¹³ Rather than striving for a compromizing harmony between text and science, this book attempts a different approach: treating the text as science, which requires a novel scientific hermeneutic or a technical exegesis with an updated lexicon. It takes neither the science nor the text as perspicuous, allowing both to interpret the other.

This does not diminish the authority of either inspired text or tested science, because they are seen to be symbiotic. Words alone can never convey the exact shade of iridescent blue, the taste of a ripe melon, or the lonely sound of loon, but science can. Likewise, science can never determine the magnitude of pain, the indignation of sin, or the glorious presence of God, but text can. Neither should denigrate or diminish what they cannot measure, because both are needed to be whole, to be human.

In exactly the same way, we need each other, other histories, other opinions, and other people to make sense of our history, our opinion, and our life. The Bible is enriched, not diminished, by placing it in context with Ancient Near East or Greco-Roman history. In addition to science and linguistics, this book places the sacred words of Genesis 1–11 in the context of the history of Eden, of the gods, and of the city-state. It enriches our understanding of Abraham when we know the history not only of the Hittites, but of Gilgamesh and Kaleva who preceded him. For two thousand years, the text was translated as a unique history, valued for its singularity. In the twentieth century with the exploration of ancient cultures, what had been a virtue was considered a liability. In this book, however, we find that myth is no evil corruption of Biblical truth but the remnants of another history, the fragments of other eyewitness accounts, all reporting the same dramatic story.

The proof of a pudding lies in the eating, so the power of this approach is demonstrated by locating what was lost for two millennia: Eden’s creation, geography, climate, and destruction. I have endeavored to make this second volume more accessible because I want you to be the final judge whether it provides a lasting peace between history and faith. Because if it does, if this approach is valid, it will open up new vistas of interpretation, not just of Genesis, but of science and myth as well.¹⁴

R. B. Sheldon

Feb

16

,

2019

5 Bathymetry Consortium, EMODnet

6 Livingstone. Adam’s Ancestors; VanDoodewaard. The Quest for the Historical Adam

7 Duncan. Pre-Adamite Man.

8 Pearce. Who was Adam?

9 La Peyrère. Men before Adam.

10 Collins Ancient Science Presbyterion,

42

–

66

.

11 Ham. The New Answers Book

12 Madueme. Review Themelios,

173

–

174

.

13 Devine. Interpretive dance. World Magazine.

14 Sheldon. Comets Proceedings of Blythe Institute.

Acknowledgments

My greatest debt is to the man to whom this book is dedicated, my father. He showed me what courage looks like, inviting Mother Theresa to speak at the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church of the USA, and then renting a hall across the street when the PCUSA refused to admit her. He encouraged me to pursue physics, and asked me, his scientist son, to explain how science and the Bible could be reconciled.

My greatest supporter continues to be my wife Sunmi. She not only made graduate school worth enduring but unflaggingly supported me in the face of much opposition, to the extent that she worked, homeschooled and raised nine children through my long absences at seminary. When my job ended prematurely at the University of Bern, her response was typical, Don’t feel bad, they didn’t give Einstein a job either, you know.

Then there is a long list of people who contributed to this book directly and indirectly. My children were a constant audience for the ideas, and their suggestions often became the breakthrough I needed. Micah suggested that Genesis 1:2 referred to comets and was also instrumental in getting me to read the Norse Eddas. Leah saw the rainbow bridge as adjacent to a waterfall. Rebekah read the manuscript multiple times with a handy yellow highlighter, and Hannah provided great help with the Hebrew. Sarah found the lost eye of Odin, Elijah dragged me from the surf, Keziah declared astrophysics cool. Malkah prayed the storm be stilled, and Tirzah begged me to write more fiction. While the ideas may seem radical for this generation, I realized they were never too radical for the next.

I want to thank my advisor, Vern Poythress, for enabling me to get those refresher courses at seminary, as well as for incorporating science into his lectures and books. Even from my earliest studies 30 years ago, Vern modeled what a scientific exegete should aspire to become. I want to thank Leslie Altena, the director of the writing center, who patiently taught me to write in the thesis genre. I want to thank Kirk Lowery, who taught me linguistics and the joy of parsing Hebrew syntax; and Fred Putnam who could make even Hebrew poetic. And the many classmates who endured my rambling papers and offered constructive criticism.

Then there are the many readers who read parts or drafts of the whole book offering helpful comments: Noel Rude, Peter Sidebotham, Thaddeus McClatchey, David Falconer, Vincent Torley, Jonathan Bartlett, Jesse Crikelair, Louis Klauder Jr., Glee Violette, Doug Walker and Richard Denton.

I want to thank those who have gone to glory—Al Groves, who began the Hebrew coding program and later admitted me as a grad student to WTS; my father-in-law Wesley Hansoon Im, who gave me room and board many times while I attended seminary; Lloyd Hillman, who begged me not to teach the honors course which later resulted in my departure from the faculty; Larry Smalley who supported me despite my wild ideas, and Jim Horowitz who couldn’t. All these people made this book possible by opening some doors and shutting others.

When I stood in the surf, far from the shore with the waves breaking over my head, the current dragging me out to sea, and my heart bursting with exertion, I realized that I only thought I was the master of my fate, the captain of my soul. The vast ocean rolls on like the years and centuries since Noah, unmindful of my petty quarrels, my unfinished plans. But there is one whom the seas obey, the one to whom my daughter cried out from the shore. She asked for a break in the relentless surf, which He provided when three rollers failed to materialize and my son reached my side. He put my arm over his neck, and dragged me to safety. That same ruler of the millennia chose this beach, this time to reveal the mysteries of Genesis. It is to Him I owe my greatest gratitude.

Soli Deo Gloria

R. B. Sheldon

Figure_1.0.bw15.jpg

Odin. Line drawing by Lorenz Frolich (Wiki).

chapter 1

Asgard

The Four Rivers: Genesis 2:10-14

Odin’s Escape

It wasn’t that he disliked the mountains, with their clear air and crisp mornings. The three peaks always glistened in the background, the first to greet the sun and the last to lose its light. No, the mountains were his friends, protectors, guardians of all that was noble and bright, far above the heat and rancor of the Valley. But for all their raw beauty, the mountains were aloof and cold, inhospitable and uncaring. Because they were also his prison guards.

It wasn’t as if Crete was inhospitable. Unlike some of the other mountain locations in the Aegean, Crete was large enough to be an entire country in the clouds. And it wasn’t as if the work was interminably long or hard. Along with the grandest villas, Crete had mountain skiing, a hunting park, manicured gardens, a huge freshwater lake for fishing or swimming, and an incomparably gorgeous view of the Valley. Along the southern edge of Crete, the cliffs were nearly three kilometers high; their red-orange rock dropped vertically into the blue-green salt lake that lay at their base. The brine-filled lake that hugged the cliffs was not more than 10 or 20 kilometers wide at most, snaking its way over the horizon both to the east and west. On the far shores one could make out verdant irrigated fields, laid out in irregular polygons intersected by irrigation ditches, fading away into the hazy blue distance. It was a beautiful place, a stunning location, but a prison nonetheless.

Long before he was born, the Immortals had purged the Valley of cragmen and declared it off limits for mortals such as himself. There were the usual lame arguments about the danger of accidents involving irrigation and the flooding of salt lakes. But the unspoken reason was the widespread fear of interracial unions, half-breeds, mongrels. Inanna had thought that her beauty would provide free passage to the Valley, but she had no beauty left when she was returned, broken and scarred. For reasons known only to El, the Immortals were famously infertile, and if they permitted mortal families to live on their plantations, they rapidly found themselves surrounded by shantytowns of squalling mortals. This is why many in the Valley were concerned about the proliferation of mortals and the resources they were consuming, showing no kindnesses to them.

But of course, that did not mean that the Tall Ones could not leave the Valley themselves, nor consort with mortals beyond the towering cliffs. Each of them had one or several summer houses outside the Valley, staffed lavishly with both luxury and servants. The prestigious ones had villas on Crete because it was centrally located but the Maltese Highlands and several peaks in the mountainous Aegean were also popular. And that is why Odin found himself, like his father and his grandfather before him, an indentured family servant in the highland resort of Crete, surrounded by the mountains and mortals. And because he was a bit taller and quicker than any of the other servants and acted accordingly, his Immortal had named him Lordling, Odin in their slang. But for Odin the name meant simply never belonging.

Odin had never been down in the Valley, yet from overhearing conversations in the villas and perusing books in the reading room, he knew most of the geography like a native. Cliffs surrounded almost the entire Valley, but were particularly high on the north and south with long, serpentine salt lakes at their feet. The lakes flowed westward until they spread out into a great salt-flat beside the Last Sea, while eastward a slight rise in the Valley prevented them from joining together in the foothills of the eastern cliffs. There was no outlet to the Valley, which was three kilometers below sea level, so the ultimate fate of all water that entered the Valley was evaporation in the western salt sea.

Water was both the boon and the bane of the Valley’s existence. Because it never rained there, all agriculture depended on irrigation. But if the fields were irrigated too lightly, the evaporating water would leave salt behind and sterilize the soil, while if they were irrigated too heavily, the salt lakes would expand and flood the low-lying fields with deadly salt water. It was, as the Immortals put it, a constant struggle with that ancient deadly serpent.

Three rivers and two aqueducts were the principal sources of fresh water, and each had to be regulated carefully. As the Gihon came tumbling down from the highlands of Egypt, it cut many deep ravines through the huge silt deposit that extended out like a fan into the Valley, descending gently into the eastern plains. Using these natural channels, it was no trouble for the Immortals to build sluice gates to direct the irrigation water into the appropriate sector. Far off in Cush where the headwaters of the Gihon drained the African continent, heavy rains would lead to periodic floods that often arrived unannounced. Two of the sluice gates had been constructed to direct that unexpected water into either the South Serpent Lake, or failing that, directly into the western salt flats. Thus the force of the water might not flood the eastern lowlands, unite the North and South Serpent Lakes, and spread brine to prime farmland. But under normal circumstances, the Gihon was directed though a multitude of cleverly devised gates and dikes into the interior of Eden, whence it flowed over the gently sloping land toward the Great Salt Sea, leaving green fields in its rolling wake.

The second most important water source was the Hiddekel, arriving from the Black Sea some 3000 meters above the bottom of the Valley. A mountain ridge stood between the Black Sea and the Marmara Sea. But the Immortals had dug a ditch 30 km long to bring the waters of the Black Sea out through sluice gates to the Marmara Sea, down the tumbled hills of the Aegean, filling the Cretan Lake. In the early days of the Garden, superfloods had caused the Cretan lake to overflow in the water gap between Crete and Rhodes, digging out a huge circular basin in the North Serpent Lake. But the Immortals had dammed this gap, building an aqueduct to bring fresh irrigation water to the northeastern Valley. This wonder Odin had seen, and he often watched the waters mysteriously wax and wane as the Immortals invisibly directed its course.

The Phrat, the third water source came from the mountains of Italy, winding its way east and south down lush highland valleys before cascading over the wide falls into the circular Adriatic Lake. The water was then redirected for irrigation all through the Adriatic valley, and the overflow followed the cliffs that towered over the eastern side, until rushing over the rapids at Ionia, it joined the Italian wadi flowing into the salt flats directly below Italy and Sicily. While it was not as great a flow as the Gihon, it was mostly diverted into the wide agricultural fields of the Adriatic. Often only a green languid stream was left as it trickled over the cliffs into the Valley.

The Pishon, on the south side of the Valley, was the smallest river, draining the semi-arid mountains of Africa, spreading out as a slow moving current, traveling first southwest, then northwest and finally northeast before ending in the western salt flats below Sicily. The flow was fickle, depending as it did on the snow melt of the Atlas range and the seasonal rains of North Africa. But even for such an intermittent source, the Immortals had erected dikes and hewed out cisterns to use every drop of precious water. Needless to say, it was an unusual year when any water at all ended up in the salt flats.

But none of these tamed rivers, with all their aqueducts, irrigation channels, and cisterns, could match the pure, wild, unbridled, beauty of The Falls. The Cretan Lake was split in half, where three tributaries of the ancient Hiddekel that drained the highlands of Greece were dammed to flood the western side. Less brackish than the Hiddekel with its Black Sea headwaters, this freshest water was carefully directed along the deep Krio channel through the cliffs just west of Crete. The dark water coursed rapidly through the gorge before transforming itself into a broad sheet of transparent blue as it passed over the two-kilometer-high cliffs into the Valley. Then it became a roiling blue mass that dissolved into white spray, finally arriving at the deep catchment basin two kilometers below in a great windy roar of droplets. The catchment basin was sculpted by water and the Immortals to collect the spray and direct it into several, three-meter diameter, U-shaped bronze culverts, which spanned the salty N. Serpent Lake before climbing the 500 meter rise to deliver precious irrigation water to the thirsty crest of Eden.

But the true wonder was a pillar of brilliantly glowing mist that ascended kilometers into the sky above the Falls. The Tall Ones said that, when they traveled across the Valley, the pillar of mist was the first sign of Crete, which could be seen a hundred kilometers away. Standing in the cloud, as if with one foot on the Valley and one foot on the Mountain, was a permanent double rainbow of dazzling brightness. Where the red of one bow ended and the blue of the second began, a bright line of fuchsia glowed with colors seen nowhere else on earth.

The mist did more than mark the Falls, it also watered the cliffs. A rain forest of creepers, trees, and vines covered the gorge and the cliffs with brilliant green, providing a hanging garden that was the wonder of the Valley. Brilliant flowers sparkled like jewels throughout, spattering the wall of green with vibrant reds and deep yellows, scenting the air with delicate perfume. Flocks of parrots nested by the thousands and, when aloft, they formed a kinetic painting of iridescent blue and green that rivaled the rainbow for beauty. Beneath this visible canopy, animals filled every niche—rock badgers, monkeys, tree snakes, peeping frogs, creeping lizards— making an almost continuous symphony of sound. Yet even all this was not the greatest wonder.

The Immortals had built a rope bridge across the chasm of the Hiddekel, which spanned a thousand meters from one side to the other while the river below was another thousand meters. When he stood on the bridge, it was as if he were standing in Paradise itself: surrounded by green forest and the sounds of animals and birds; wet with the cool mist of the falls; lit by a pearly light that filled the gorge with a soft opalescent glow; and crowned by a rainbow of dazzling hues.

Walking on the bridge, however, was another matter entirely. The hanging bridge was suspended by four strands of a wondrous rope, supple yet strong enough to carry the weight of several Immortals. Two strands supported the plank deck, and two provided handrails on either side. No rope Odin had seen was like it—constantly wet with spray yet never weakening and never corroding. Although it was larger than his hand could hold, the wide hands of the Tall Ones could grip the rail-ropes like a spear. They needed to do that because every step would send a ripple of motion in both directions. Reflecting off the cliff-bound stays, the ripples returned to the walker like waves on the sea. The Immortals could hold the rails and take long strides with knees bent, so as to keep up with the wave they created, occasionally pausing to catch the next wave. But for Odin, the rails were higher than his head—wet, slippery, and impossible to grip—while the deck planks were like breakers crashing against the shore. Despite the laughter of the Immortals, he had made a walking stick from cane, curling the head so as to grip the rails. He could cross, timidly, only by taking small steps to avoid creating a wave while sliding his cane along the rail-rope.

But cross he must, for there was no other route into Crete that was practical. The lake protected its northern boundary, the cliffs the southern boundary, and the two met in a long impassable ridge at the eastern boundary. That left the Krio gorge, which separated the western boundary from the highlands of Greece. It was true that the Stair of Ten-thousand Steps could be mounted on cool mornings, but not at night nor in the heat of the day, and certainly not with a burden of any great weight. No, the other attraction of Crete, beyond its views and hanging gardens, was the defensive nature of the bridge. In the many conflicts of the Valley, Crete had never been successfully taken when defended, nor had any armed parties made it across the bridge—especially since both hands were needed for safety. As an added benefit, few if any mortals dared take the bridge, whose construction disadvantaged the short and tremulous races.

That is why Odin, alone among the serving class on Crete, had traveled widely in the world. When his Immortal was absent, he would put on his wide-brimmed floppy hat, wrap his greatcoat around him, take his special staff, and disappear for weeks at a time, returning with tales from distant lands. And this is how he knew, before anyone else in Crete, of the meaning of the comet. And how he knew why the villas of Crete had suddenly emptied of all their owners because of the Great Council called in Eden. He even knew about the work crews that had gone over the desert east of Corsica with large numbers of ox-drawn wagons, lumber, and laborers. For he knew about the dark fears for the Gates, and perhaps, very faintly, understood the consequences of a breach in the massive stone- and cable-reinforced dam.

That was why he had gone up to the Great Villa, perched on the southern cliffs, stood on the Master Balcony with two kilometers of air below him, and stared with foreboding at the clouds in the West. These were no ordinary woolly, cumulus clouds, promising fair-weather. They were dark and angry clouds that seemed to climb the horizon like the smoke of a great army on the march across the desiccated far Western plains. Was it the dust of the massive work crews? Or perhaps some military strategy in the skirmish with the rebellious outcasts that roamed the Western wastes? Or perhaps wildfire smoke from the fireball that had lit up the night the previous week? For several hours the clouds had been gathering, building, and darkening, while Odin stood as motionless as the stone balusters that hung over the Serpent Lake. But it was when the wind arrived that Odin knew.

The wind came out of the southwest, from the cloud bank, and it was unlike any he had ever felt. It was not hot and dry like the winds from the south, or cool and moist like the winds from the north. This was a hot and moist wind, filled with a tang that reminded him of sea gulls and breakers on the stony beaches of the Atlantic. This was a wind of disaster and doom. It was the wind of Herklu’s broken gates.

As the cloud grew on the horizon to a wall of blackness across the west, the wind did not die down, but grew more and more intense. The flags were snapping in the breeze when Odin noticed the Serpent Lake at the base of Crete below him had grown fatter. It was overflowing the dock at the far side, and that could only mean it had also grown longer, curling into the Valley, seeking its tail. Odin knew exactly what this meant even if he only dimly understood the crisis at the gates. All the Immortals were taught before they were weaned that the Valley was locked in an eternal struggle with the salt-water dragon, who was always trying to swallow his tail but was frustrated in his malice by the power of El and the foresight of the Immortals. The end of the world was foretold as the victory of this great dragon. Therefore, the overflowing dock could mean only one thing: the ancient serpent was loosed and sought to strangle Eden in its swelling coils. It was the start of the great battle at the end of all time.

A sudden darkness caused Odin to look up at the sky. The rapidly advancing cloud wall from the west now covered the sun. Odin had a foreboding that this was no passing thunderstorm, but the same ancient serpent now devouring the sun. The cloud wall was marching over the Valley, casting the Emerald Land into purple shadow. Odin had never seen it rain in the Valley, nor had he ever seen a day that brought such deep darkness. The Land of Eternal Sun was overshadowed by the wings of the salt-dragon. Odin smiled grimly; they had purged the Valley of mortals, they had mocked the Sea, they had laid claim to the Sun, and now this was their punishment: The twilight of the Immortals he said out loud.

Even as he spoke, he now knew what to do. As their own prophecies foretold, this great battle with the serpent would end the world of the Immortals, it would erase their memory, it would consume the Houses of Knowledge in the Valley, perhaps even the villas of Crete. For El was destroying the Immortals, turning their world over to men. Had not their far-seeing magic failed them just seven days before? It was clear that they and their art were being destroyed. If the dragon could swallow the sun, not even Crete was safe. If anything was to be preserved, if El’s purposes spoken in the Garden were to be fulfilled, mortals must act. But none would follow him to safety over the bridge.

Suddenly, he turned and left the balcony. Grabbing his coat and staff, he quickly rummaged through his belongings to retrieve an old leather shoulder bag he had used on previous journeys. Dumping out a bit of moldy bread and cheese, he threw the bag over his shoulder and ran to the largest villa. He burst through the doors, confronted the astonished staff, and shouted, Look to yourselves! The serpent has been loosed!

They looked at him, dumbfounded. Finally an older maid reproved him. But what will they say if we are not here on their return?

There will be no return! Never!

He looked from face to face, but saw only surprise turning to laughter. He paused, thinking of all the things he could say, of all the things they had said to him. Abruptly he spun on his heel and ran from the room. He alone of the mortals could escape. He would have to do it alone. And time was short. They called out to him, but without stopping he shouted back, Rain!

Running from room to room, he found the one that held manuscripts, mainly light, popular reading for the Immortals’ entertainment. Scanning the shelves for irreplaceable knowledge, he began to stuff papers and