Arya

By Trevor P. Kwain

When a note about the French writer Arthur De Gobineau lands on Daniel's desk, he does not realise it will be the start of a long and perilous journey that will take him from Europe to the Middle East in search of the birthplace of human civilisation. With the help of his travelling companions, Daniel will have to fight a merciless enemy on the

• Language: English
• Publisher: ThreePeppers Publishing
• Release date: Feb 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780995727458

Trevor P. Kwain

"I Love Wimbledon, History and the Absurd"Trevor P. Kwain is a child of the Eighties. He belongs to the video generation and multi-media lifestyle that is slowly degenerating speech and text of today. Yet, he is no knight in shiny armour to defend the old way of writing. He simply wants to bridge the written word with the dormant imagination in people's minds. An eclectic mind may find the third way, the third alternative, in a bi-dimensional reality torn between yesterday and tomorrow.Trevor P. Kwain currently lives in London.

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ARYA

Published by Threepeppers Publishing

Copyright © 2018 Trevor P. Kwain, pseudonym

Copyright © 2018 Threepeppers Publishing

Trevor P. Kwain has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without written permission from the author and the publisher.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

1st Edition – February 2018

ISBN: 978-0-9957274-4-1

Cover:

The remains of the symbol

Drawing © 2018 Trevor P. Kwain

www.3peppers.co.uk

www.trevorpkwain.org

Prologue

Around ten million years BC

Tiny waves hit the shore one after the other; the sweet swashing of water against the wet sand filled the air in the early hours of a hot morning, when the sun is still red and feeble, and the birds stand quietly on the stretch of beach, empty and flat all the way to the horizon. A thin line of smoke rose half-way and dissolved into the clear blue sky. At its source there was a heap of ashes and silvered branches, flameless, still, like the stones set in a circle around it, still, like its silent surroundings. Alongside the extinguished camp fire, an amphora laid on its side with its content spilled over the dry sand, now darkened by the last remains of a violaceous liquid. A few metres away a human figure laid on its side as well, seemingly lifeless apart from a gentle, unnoticeable breathing under the woollen blanket wrapped around his body. His head faced away from the fire and turned towards the east where half of the sun was already on the rise. His features appeared old, partially revealed by a thick grey beard and bronzed creased skin with grains of white sand sprinkled on his forehead and cheeks. He snored harmoniously, undisturbed by the nature surrounding him. His right hand held a long spear whose colour appeared still dull in the morning light.

As dawn brightened up the scene, the sun was now an incandescent ball of gold a few inches above the edge of the world. The wind gained little speed and was still an enjoyable warm breeze while the birds took off one by one to hunt the catch of the day. Nature itself began to move, and in the far distance, beyond the blades of grass along the crest bordering the shore, another human figure became visible. He was shorter than the old man on the beach, about half his height; his skin was also bronzed and tanned but it was soft and smooth without signs of aging. Black, curly hair blew in the breeze as he stumbled barefoot down the slope leading to the beach. From there he could see the whole sea stretching out. He wore a long rough cloth over his shoulders tied around his waist with a thin dark brown leather string. As the boy jumped off the crest and onto the soft, warm sand, he was now getting closer to what he came for.

‘General!’ the boy shouted.

The old man did not move. The boy shouted again with all the strength he had. The old man stirred, and turned around in his sleep towards the campfire. In doing so, he pushed the blanket aside revealing his fully dressed body underneath. He wore hard leather armour on his upper body and from the waist down his pale tunic could be seen extending over his muscly thighs. He still wore heavy-soled sandals on his feet while arms and calves were bare and exposed to the scorching sun. As the boy came closer the snoring became louder and deeper interrupted sporadically by an incomprehensible muttering.

‘General! Wake up!’ the boy shouted again when less than a half-way from the camp fire.

This time it worked. The old man suddenly jumped up with unexpected agility. By pushing his legs up with the strength of his back, he flipped up onto his feet like a feline and landed with his knees slightly bent as if ready to sprint for an attack. His eyes were now wide open and a strong fist was holding the spear above his head aimed towards the boy. His hair was all ruffled, mixed with sand and dust all over his face, but the eyes were wide open, revealing a light blue colour with shades of grey from a youth now gone but still energetic. He recognised the boy in a flash.

‘You again?’ replied the old man without resting his stance. ‘What do you want, Thobal?’

‘Please be at peace, General.’ replied the boy a little hesitant. ‘You really scare me when you act like that.’

The old man flinched. He looked sideways, as if the enemies were about to jump from behind the crest or from beneath the waves. He flinched again and his posture slowly straightened. The fist holding the spear untightened, the limbs eased off. The expression on his face was still rough and bitter, but the boy knew he would never receive a comforting smile from the old man he called the General.

‘So? What could be so urgent to wake me up from my sleep?’

‘General,’ resumed Thobal with a little reassurance he had the old man’s attention. ‘the Council has been summoned urgently. They sent me to look for you. I knew you would be here after yesterday.’

‘How dare they send you after my wrong doings? I know nothing of yesterday or the day before; the Sky Father knows best. I do not think the Council is interested in hearing my thoughts.’

The old man turned back towards the camp fire, now just a dead black circle in the sand. There was not much there to do. He picked up the amphora and turned it upside down. Empty; just a few drops hanging around the rim. He swirled his finger around it and licked it to get one more taste of its content. It was still sweet, nutty. He could recognise the flavour anywhere, anyhow. It was his true companion and had been with him until the very end. Was it worth going back to speak to the Council? The decisions had already been made without him. He nodded for the boy to come over. The boy walked the remaining distance between him and the old man with ease, knowing a truce seemed to be in place. He was still cautious since the old man was known to be grumpy; nevertheless, he admired him for who he was. He casually walked around him and stood on the opposite side of the camp fire.

‘Sorry if I annoyed you, General. The Council asked for your presence. I think they want to hear what you have to say. I want to hear what you have to say.’

The old man felt touched by the young boy’s innocence, or perhaps tricked by it. He did not reply, still discerning the taste of alcohol in his mouth, still brooding over his thoughts and concerns. With his eyes fixed to the ground, he knelt down to pick up the woollen blanket and shook the sand off it. Then he swung his arms around and placed the blanket on his shoulders, turning it back to the heavy, majestic grey cape it originally was. Thobal looked at him with awe and wonder as the General composed himself to shine once again through his dusty, shabby looks.

‘Let’s go, boy!’ ordered the old man, picking up the empty amphora in his hand once again. ‘Let’s see what this damn Council has to say.’

He did not want to curse but he felt only bitterness ready to come out from his mouth. Without further hesitation, he started to walk away from the camp fire towards the crest.

‘Is my horse still where I left it, by any chance?’

‘Yes sir!’ replied the boy as he followed. ‘I left my horse next to yours. I hope the wooden stake in the ground is strong enough to hold both.’

‘It will be, Thobal. Wood and rope can do many things together. Sometimes I feel I have forgotten the basics since we have been here.’

‘I like it here. Dad rarely talks about the other place. Did it really exist?’

‘This is not a discussion for a boy your age. Anyway, he was not there to witness the tragedy and I prefer it that way. Too many people, too much suffering...’

The boy did not speak further. He had heard of the ‘other place’ so many times. He had many questions circling in his head he would have loved to ask, but wherever he turned he would hit a wall of silence. Since the Council issued a taboo, the tribes stopped whispering the great tales of the past as if they never happened. He thought the General could break that silence. Perhaps he was wrong.

The two figures crossed the distance back to the horses quietly, leaving the beach behind as the sun was now high in the big blue sky. The sea disappeared once they were over the crest and the sound of the sea seemed to be a distant memory as the arid desert appeared on the opposite horizon. The two horses stood quietly at the bottom of the slope facing inland. They were neighing meekly while pulling the scattered shrubs they could find. The old man looked at them, recalling how he got there the night before, and started admiring those beautiful animals the Sky Father granted them to discover and nurture. They were taken for granted, like the water we drink and the air we breathe. What if we lost all this again? He walked mindlessly until he realised he was almost face to face with his horse. He looked at the empty amphora in his left hand.

‘How can you drink that purple drink, General?’ said the boy as he came up to his side "I always see you with one at hand. It gives me headaches!’

‘It is like nectar.’ answered back the old man with a more relaxed tone in his voice. ‘Good for spirit and strong for the body – plenty of iron and goodness inside. It is one of the many arts we discovered throughout our tribes’ history, and it is with us to stay for a long time.’

‘I don’t know. You looked different yesterday after you had drunk the third or fourth amphora.’

‘A man can still make mistakes. I wonder if anyone understands that sometimes.’

The old man seemed to look for forgiveness from the young boy, or maybe from the nature all around him. He was still thoughtful as he planted the spear on the ground.

‘The purple drink you mentioned is a door to our inner feelings, and it allows them to be heard.’

The boy nodded. Then the two jumped on their horses at the same time, with the young kid struggling slightly in keeping his horse calm and still. The old man picked up his spear and was now holding it again while his other one held the reins. The boy looked at him with a mystified smile after listening to what he treated as words of wisdom.

‘You have something to ask me, Thobal, before we get to the village?’ asked the old man before kicking the horse’s back and ride home. ‘Your father does not want you to learn certain things, especially from me. You saw him how angry he was yesterday.’

He felt something had been left unsaid, untouched, and it could not wait until the end of the journey home. Thobal was a curious boy.

‘Is it true you saved us all?’ said the boy with a croaky, dry voice.

‘I did not save anyone. I had to protect our people in the face of danger. Sometimes I wished I had saved more. But you are young, kid, you have your whole life in front of you. Live a prosperous future!’

‘I certainly will, General!’ replied the boy with a subtle confidence growing.

‘Stop calling me that!’ shouted the old man with a long-awaited smile. ‘I have a name like any other ordinary human being.’

‘You are just a very old man, Noah!’ laughed the young boy as the two rode away under the bright late morning sun.

I

London, 1927

A light, damp mist drifted through the tiny rectangular windows and from the back entrance to the bus. Daniel felt a shiver on his neck and pulled up the collar of his coat without hesitation. The weather was grey and miserable, with a light fog slowly fading into the daily smog of a fully awake industrial city. London was in the process of waking up, traffic bustling up and down the Strand, businessmen in bowler hats rushing outside Embankment and Charing Cross towards their place of work. Despite the buzz, the bus moved lazily among public cabs and private vehicles, giving Daniel no option but to look at the grim buildings on the sides of the main road he knew too well. His place of work was almost a stone’s throw away now, right off Kingsway in the Holborn area.

The New Year had unfolded. It was late January, but the festive season was still in the air. It all happened pretty quickly, like every year, rushing until the very last hour on Christmas Eve. Lord Beakley’s office had been buzzing with a lot of visitors in the last six months and the amount of reports to file and archive had been flooding in constantly. It looked as if archaeology was an all-year investment and December alone seemed to have guaranteed the British Museum a whole set of new collections to display throughout the coming year. Lord Beakley could not have been happier. As a trusted member of London’s high society, he was now a key contact for more than half of the museums in London alone and the never-ending flow of historians and art lovers turning up at his front door secured a steady flow of cash into his pockets. Ever since the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1924, archaeology had found a new re-vamp that most people in the business thought lost after the start of the Great War. It was too tempting not to cash in on new spoils in North Africa and the Middle East. Lord Beakley joined the gold rush pretty easily as the owner of an import-export company in Central London. Archaeologists were eager to find funds for their excavations but it was still necessary to take their expedition to the site as well as bring back their findings, big or small. It is no wonder how Lord Beakley had become well accustomed to ruins and artefacts of all sorts in a very short time, from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to the Oracle of Delphi. And he also picked up on how to estimate price and value of the merchandise, just like a member of the Bank of England knows the value of gold by heart from one day to the next. He was a businessman altogether but people in the industry referred to him as a ‘collector’ and he seemed to prefer the nickname over any cheap or banal definition of his work. Daniel had always known him as the ‘collector’. He met Lord Beakley two years ago at an art exhibition while filing some of the art work. Apparently, his administrative and organisational skills had struck the well-dressed Englishman during one of his lucrative searches for the ancient.

Lord Beakley was quite tall and slim with an aquiline nose dominating his long face. He always wore impeccable suits and shining shoes with an aura of superiority whose spell was broken the moment he spoke with a warm and friendly tone. He was actually quite pragmatic in his speech, always looking at the real benefits or downfalls in any decision he made, even the latest choice at the nearest London theatre. Lord Beakley, in spite of his title, did not connect with the old riches, that ancient nobility, and always felt uncomfortable around their pompous, antiquate manners. Ironically enough, he felt they belonged to a museum like all relics from past societies. The man did believe in new adventures, and with one office administrator down, Daniel did not hesitate to take up the hasty job offer coming his way. Daniel was originally from a small village in Sussex and he had seen very little of the world Lord Beakley proudly spoke of. He had joined with the hope of travelling to those exotic places guarding unbelievable riches underneath the rocky ground. Two years down the line the closest thing to a ruin he had seen was the dusty pile of documents and boxes which made up, as well as occupy, much of the office space. Light was scarcely coming through, especially on this grey, rainy London day, and the whole office surroundings felt like the inside of a pyramid. Yet, the pay was good, and the array of characters coming in and out of the office definitely brought the exotic within reach.

The bus stopped all of a sudden in Kingsway, waking Daniel from his commuter reverie. The office building was visible down the side street near the bus stop. He jumped off the public transport before it was too late and made his way towards the entrance to Beakley’s Trading Co. That day Daniel stepped into the wood-furnished office like any other ordinary day. Some of the warehouse boys were already there leaning on the cabinets and reading through a large spreadsheet with all the deliveries expected for that day. Lord Beakley was not around to be seen. It was quite out of the ordinary as he would always bustle throughout the office in the early hours of the working day, shouting the priorities to be followed and prompting any idle thumbs. Daniel glanced towards his office and there he was, face stern, eyes focused, listening closely to a visitor whose face he could not see. Probably a new adventurer or a new investor. He had blonde hair, finely cut and perfectly shaved down around the back of the neck. He wore a grey tailored suit with shiny black shoes and a black briefcase standing next to one of the desk’s thick wooden legs. Daniel stood in the main hall for a few seconds or so, and then moved to his desk, his own ‘temple’ beyond the ‘Pillars of Hercules’ made up by the two massive bookshelves that split the office into two sections: one was the entrance hall with two desks, a couch and Lord Beakley’s office; the other took most of the building’s floor as a store room or, as Lord Beakley preferred to say, a ‘small museum’ displaying the beauty and mystery of a by-gone era. To Daniel, this was his world and he knew every single inch of it like the palm of his hands. His working days were pretty routine and confined within such a closed environment. New orders in the morning, archiving in the afternoon, all one and the same except the subject or location of interest – one day filing tablets from the Americas, one day storing astonishing painted vases from the Far East. Daniel dropped his coat with his leather bag all at once. The desk was pretty much as he had left it the previous day with the only difference of a small note in front of the typewriter.

23rd January 1927

Arthur De Gobineau

Never heard of the name. And if he had, he was probably another archaeologist-turned-adventurer added to the long list of clients coming in and out of the office each day. The majority were international and it was no surprise to see a French name.

There was a fair bit of work left on the to-do list from the day before. No new arrival was scheduled for today so the day ahead appeared to be normal routine if not lighter than usual. Daniel picked up the note and moved towards one of the long bookshelves on the west wall. Perhaps some recent French journals on archaeology might have helped him to look the name up. He was only a few feet away when he heard the glass on the entrance door rattle, followed by a slam. Someone must have left in a hurry.

‘Daniel? a voice called from the main hall.

It was Lord Beakley.

‘Lord Beakley!’ shouted back Daniel. ‘I am here at my desk.’

Lord Beakley appeared pretty flushed at the threshold to the store room. He was still composed as always but an aura of repressed excitement seemed bubbling beneath his pink-coloured skin.

‘I was just looking up this name...’ continued Daniel.

‘That can wait, Mr Finch!’ blurted out Lord Beakley. ‘Something else has come up. Follow me to my office!’

Daniel was genuinely surprised. Meetings were rarely held in Lord Beakley’s office, where he kept his business and future plans well secluded at all times. Even the warehouse boys noted the unusual behaviour in a man whose habits were pretty much written on stone. When the door was shut behind them, Daniel could feel their eyes staring through the transparent glass. He slowly sat down on the same chair where the previous visitor had been sitting a few minutes ago. He really did not know what to expect.

‘So, Daniel, how long have you been with us?’ started Lord Beakley while taking a seat behind his desk.

Daniel was even more puzzled.

‘Well...erm...quite some time now...I don’t understand what...’

‘Nothing to worry.’ interrupted Lord Beakley. ‘What I meant to say was that in all this time you have probably blended into the furniture here without ever being, you know, out there."

‘Out there where?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I need a favour. Something big has come up and I need to leave immediately. Yet, I need a close partner on this trip since the contents of my briefing are heavily confidential. I am glad to say you have been chosen as my trusted partner. Ever been to Persia?’

Daniel heard the words coming one after the other as if a sublime melody flowed around the room. Daniel could only smile with a slight glimmer in his eyes. He could not care less of the details in front of such a big event unfolding: the so long-awaited field trip was now becoming a reality. He felt the urge to jump from his seat and do something.

‘Thank you, thank you, Lord Beakley!’ cried out Daniel, standing erect on his feet like a boy scout acknowledging orders. ‘When do we leave?’

‘I knew you would be interested. We are actually leaving tomorrow. You will also need to keep this for me until then.’

Beakley picked up from the floor a medium-sized, black briefcase and handed it over to Daniel casually. The brief appeared plain and normal although Daniel noticed a combination lock right beneath the tiny handle. The necessary precautions had been taken. There was nothing else to do at this stage but take the opportunity and wait for when the time was right to learn more about the field trip.

‘Meet me tomorrow at Waterloo Station.’ continued Lord Beakley not taking notice of Daniel’s reactions. ‘How about nine o’clock in the morning? We have a train to catch so be on time!’

Daniel nodded with satisfaction. His head still buzzed for the enthusiasm. He turned around and went for the door knob when Lord Beakley suddenly spoke again.

‘You can go back to what you were about to start. Arthur De Gobineau is our first lead!’

Daniel remembered the name. The quest had begun.

II

Around ten million years BC

The hall was dimly lit. It was of rectangular shape and two parallel lines of massive stone columns ran in the middle, as if drawing an imaginary inner rectangle. A thin translucent pipe of light-weight metal ran at mid-height across the four walls, attached to the wall with bulky bronze rings. A thick incandescent white light glowed from inside the pipe. The white light pulsed at regular intervals. It beamed a bright aura across the hall and between the columns, reviving the cold, dead stonework. The pipe converged at the centre of one of the shorter walls at one end of the hall. It fed into a ring of the same material, also attached to the wall. Two large copper-like wings spread out from the circle, and a small winged tail pointed downward. The three decorative items appeared altogether as an abstract representation of a bird or winged creature but there was no full body or head. The ring itself glowed with the same incandescent white light and it shone brighter than the rest, making it impossible to look directly at it.

Below the stunning imagery, a small area was raised above the floor with small steps leading up to it. A man in a white tunic sat on the second step from the top, his face hidden in penumbra beyond recognition. He wore a long strip of purple cloth wrapped around the top of his head, and his hands were joined below his chin to support his pensive mood, in search of guidance. The rest of the hall in front of him faded away as his thoughts mixed one with another. On the opposite short wall, there was a wide, two-panel wooden portal fixed with metal bolts. One of the panels was slightly open, as if to invite the next guest in. There was no light coming from the other side of the portal but the man could hear whispers and voices echoing in the distance. It was almost time to make a decision.

Suddenly, the portal made a sharp, high-pitched screech as both panels moved forward against the stone floor. Two other men appeared out of the darkness as they crouched to push the heavy portal into the hall and away. A third man appeared right behind them, walking upright and with no interest in helping the other two in pushing the portal open. Instead, he looked straight at the man on the steps, finally relieved to have found him after what seemed to have been a long search.

‘I thought you would be here!’ spoke out the third man with a tone of challenge in his voice.

He wore dark blue leather armour with a dirty tunic underneath. A medium-length black beard thickened around his face, highlighting his intimidating black eyes and curly black hair.

‘Even at the worst time of need,’ he continued. ‘you would still seek help from these dying walls. One day this meditation room of yours will be your last place of rest!’

The man on the steps did not reply. He sat there motionless as the winged disc irradiated the new visitors and the blackness beyond the portal.

‘You are so predictable in your ways, in your own little rituals.’ insisted the third man, who now stood in the centre of the hall while the other two remained standing quietly by the portal. ‘You hide here while we demand for change, and implore the Sky Father to let us go!’

‘Since when have you stopped addressing me as the High Fravarti, Japheth?’ answered back the man by the steps as he raised his body out of the shadows. ‘Do not come in here to offend me or our dear Sky Father with your insolence!’

The man on the steps was now standing up with a raised arm and his index finger pointing at the man he called Japheth. His face was still hidden but his stance defiant. It was as if, even though lost in his thoughts, he had been expecting them for a long time.

‘I have come to hear your say, oh Great Fravarti!’ said Japheth taking a step back after the abrupt rise of the man. ‘Does that make me now worthy of this place?’

‘Your tone of sarcasm is intolerable, Japheth! Your father would not approve.’

‘My father is a man of embarrassment to me, and he is not worth the title he has.’

‘But you still asked him to join us. Isn’t that so?’

‘The whole Council needs to be present when the decision will be made.’

The High Fravarti laughed at the statement as he lowered his arm.

‘You are going to hear what people have to say? You actually seek people’s approval for your foolish opportunities? Since when do you believe in the teachings of our civilisation?’

‘Who said I would ask for approval? My brothers and I need the Council to make our statement. The people have already decided. They are with us!’

As Japheth said these words, the High Fravarti lost some of his energy as his body tensed and eased quickly. He took a deep breath and sighed as a form of truce. Or perhaps surrender. He wondered where the General was, and if he could stall the three men until his arrival. Or maybe there was no General coming to his rescue, and his wait would have been useless, purposeless. In the end, it seemed all he needed was simply more time to delay the inevitable.

‘And what your brothers have to say on all this?’ asked the High Fravarti, hinting with his head at the back of the hall.

The two men behind Japheth looked at each other without uttering a single word. They both looked younger than Japheth, both beardless, one with long brown hair and the other with short honey blonde hair. The man with brown hair was rather chubby with a solid build; he wore a dark red tunic wrapped tight around his body by a wide leather band across his belly and tied at the back. The man with honey blonde hair was slim, taller, and looked the youngest; he wore a simple white tunic with golden adornment and a maroon cord around his waist. They both looked scared as they stared back at the two other strong figures in the room.

‘Shem and Ham are with me, High Fravarti!’ replied Japheth without hesitation. ‘We are ready to move after realising nothing has happened for more than twenty cycles. We are starving in this arid plateau and there is nothing here for us to build towards or live for. They forgot us!’

‘They are most likely dead!’ replied the High Fravarti.

‘A better reason to move out now – there must be more on this land than we came for!’

‘So it seems, had we spent time strengthening our settlement rather than going separate ways.’

‘Our settlement is long gone under the murky waters. You risk reopening wounds we are all trying to heal. What happened is now behind us.’

‘The Sky Father wanted us here and we can still accomplish what we came for.’

‘Enough!’ roared Japheth assertively. ‘This discussion ends now!’

Japheth looked at the High Fravarti with greater defiance, then straightened up his armour and turned away towards the hall entrance. The High Fravarti was in shock after being silenced once again. He looked at Japheth turning away, then clenched his fist with hatred and sprinted down the hall towards him. While charging, he stretched his arms forward and pushed his adversary violently in a failed attempt to attack him with both hands. Japheth almost fell with his face onto the ground but suddenly picked himself up as Ham, the brother with brown hair, leaped from his position to catch him. The other brother, Shem, slightly hesitated before running towards the High Fravarti to stop his extreme anger. He grabbed his enraging arms at once and was impressed by the force he had to tame. The High Fravarti’s face was still in penumbra but at a closer look he could just see the features of a man who seemed to disprove the strength and energy he was up against. From under the cloth wrapped around his head, pure white hair dangled untidily over a wrinkly forehead and sagging cheeks. His eyes were down and his skin was completely withered under the inexorable sign of age. Yet, he ran and fought back like a twenty-year-old.

Japheth was back on his feet dusting off the sand from his clothes. He turned around again, infuriated. His eyes now seemed pitch black as if void of any consciousness or judgement. Without blinking, he pulled back his left fist ready to strike back as he aimed at the High Fravarti’s face, but the brother behind him stopped him at once and held him back from the shoulders. The whole scene took place in a split second that seemed to last forever until it was interrupted by a new voice in the hall.

‘Japheth! Stop at once!’

A new figure appeared from the hall entrance. His armour looked dull and pale because of a light layer of sand dust. No spear or amphora in hand this time.

‘Noah!’ called out the High Fravarti.

‘Father!’ yelled Japheth with surprise.

The High Fravarti and Japheth both composed themselves while the two brothers finally alleviated the grip. Shem was now standing next to the High Fravarti.

‘Have you all lost your minds?’ continued Noah having now gained the attention of his sons.

‘You are in no position to speak after yesterday’s behaviour or any other day!’ replied Ham. ‘I wonder still why Japheth or I would still refer to you as Father!’

‘Keep your sorrow at bay, Ham.’ answered Noah with a slight feeling of guilt that yesterday’s event was mentioned out loud.

‘We are already bitter, Noah.’ stepped in Japheth, shifting his defying attitude versus the General, his father. ‘There is no need for you to be here. We already reconvened with the Council at dawn and the tribes are ready to follow our lead. You said it yourself once: the decisions have already been made!’