Mesopotamia - The Redeemer Read online

  Mesopotamia - The Redeemer

  by Yehuda Israely and Dor Raveh

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Yehuda Israely and Dor Raveh

  ISBN: 9781301545704

  Discover other titles by Yehuda Isaraely and Dor Raveh at Smashwords.com Mesopotamia - The Healer, the Slave and the Prince https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/291348

  Editors: Noa Manheim and Dorrit Landes

  Cover art: Assaf Karass

  Cover design: Yoni Graphic Design

  Translated from Hebrew by Sodhamilim

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The Redeemer is the second book in Mesopotamia series.

  Table of contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapte 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Authors

  Connect with the authors

  Other works by the authors

  Sample chapters fron "Mesopotamia - The Healer, the Slave and the Prince"

  CHAPTER 1

  Smoke sensed a slight surge upward as he released all eight bombs at once from under the wings of his plane. The inhabitants of Damascus had already become accustomed to the bombings, which had killed no less than a quarter of the population and had caused half of the survivors to flee as refugees to Lebanon and Turkey. His gaunt hand securely gripped the plane's controls. He circled the target a few times and counted eight mushroom clouds. Now it was time for the seven pilots under his command to take their turns.

  "Hawk-2, to the refineries at eleven o'clock," he commanded his second in command in a calm, quiet voice. "Hawk-3, the two bridges directly opposite you.Hawk-4, the ruler's palace. Hawk-5, the convoy of armored vehicles that we passed at the city's entrance. Six and Seven, standby in the event of a missed target."

  The pilots carried out the instructions of their respected commander and hit all their targets.

  "Badgers, the bombardment is over. Enter the area."

  The Badgers were the last remnant of ground forces at a time when the majority of combat was conducted from the air. Similar to their animalistic namesake, they were the toughest of the Gnostic warriors. They were chosen after having endured grueling survival tests and were trained to survive any situation and withstand any possible hardships. Their job was to mark the targets before bombing and to carry out commando raids deep inside the enemy territory when conditions prevented the forces from operating from the air. Currently, Smoke used them as observers to report the damage incurred by the air raids as well as to eliminate any remaining resistance in the area.

  One badger, awaiting his instructions impatiently, started his hover bike and switched on the camera affixed to its front. He entered the billowing smoke to relay images to his commander situated in the plane above.

  The life expectancy of a badger was shorter than that of a pilot. It was not rare for pilots to bomb targets that contained ammunition caches, which exploded minutes and even hours after the direct hits. Sometimes, the enemy soldiers who managed to survive the barrage of shells returned fire toward the hover bikes.

  Because he understood and respected them, Smoke's badgers were prepared to die for the Gnostics more than the other badgers. He too had been a badger once, before he had been promoted to pilot. His body was gaunt and his face appeared younger than his years, but he was an experienced and hardened warrior. The badgers revered him for his bravery during the conquest of Istanbul and studied his original escape tactics in meticulous detail. They had complete trust in his discretion: they took upon themselves every assignment and were undeterred by danger. The iron discipline he demanded during their military operations easily changed to friendship the moment they shed their uniforms.

  As he waited for the images from the ground, out of the corner of his eye, Smoke glimpsed the secondary squadron, under the command of Flash, bombing the suburbs of Damascus from the south. Flash's fair skin, tawny hair and cerulean eyes gave him the appearance of a northern man. His sinewy, muscular arms swelled beneath the elastic black pilot's overalls. Smoke watched as Flash's airmen returned to base as planned, but was astonished to see Flash, contrary to the battle plan, making a solo vertical landing in the heart of the city, exposing his precious aircraft to damage from the ground.

  Images transmitted from Badger-1 began to arrive. He saw molten gobs of smoldering, glowing iron, black and white plumes of smoke and dismembered corpses in pools of blood. Badger-2 fired at the dying, who cried out amidst the rubble, while Badger-3 pursued the wounded, piercing the bodies of those who attempted to flee with a flurry of lethal blasts from the laser launcher. Even the sight of helpless faces gazing up at him in silent supplication did not bother Smoke. With refined professionalism, he praised the badgers for their precisely aimed strikes. A short while later, Badger-1 reported that he had purged all the bombed areas and was awaiting instructions to move into other areas in which the squadron was active.

  "Badger-1!"

  "Yes, Sir!"

  "I saw Flash land in the heart of the Metropolis. Keep your team under cover and approach in order to transmit images to me of what's been done there."

  "Yes, Sir!" This was an unconventional command, but the badger responded without hesitation.

  "Hawk-2!" He addressed his deputy in the flight squadron.

  "Yes, Sir!"

  "Lead the squadron back to the base."

  "Yes, Sir!"

  The hover bike passed low over the city and broadcast more pictures of the devastation.

  "Keep hovering outside his range of vision."

  "Yes, Sir."

  Smoke turned toward the hidden camera and followed Flash by panning and zooming the image. He watched as Flash stepped between the rubble, the laser launcher strapped in a holster on his thigh and holding a serrated dagger in his hand. He passed between the injured men and women and slit their throats. A wave of revulsion gripped his insides and he was tempted to avert his gaze, but he forced himself to keep on watching. It was clear that Flash had lost the self-control that characterized the Gnostics. With blood-soaked clothes, he wildly attacked a lifeless corpse and stabbed it over and over in furious abandon. Flash reveled in the blood with a drunken fervor.

  What is the meaning of this un-Gnostic behavior, wondered Smoke. There is nothing to gain by abusing the wounded or those already dead. The enjoyment of such practice was surely not a Gnostic attribute. Flash was not under his command, so he lacked the authority to intervene. He also did not see any reason to report him and thereby arouse Flash's resentment.

  "Badger-1!"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Exit the city from the south. I'll pick you up in the hovercraft in the twelfth kilometer outside the city."

  "Yes, Sir!"

  "Not a word ab
out what you saw!" he added.

  "Absolutely, Sir."

  After the debriefing, Flash headed straight for the temple. The priest was waiting for him as usual. After lighting some incense for him and mumbling a few blessings, he left Flash alone so he could have some privacy, ensuring that no one would enter. Flash kneeled in the bright white room, tightly shut his eyes and pressed his hands together. Opposite him hung the empty glass frame, flanked on either side by two silver candlesticks that contained burning oil wicks. When the room filled with smoked cedar incense, Flash bowed face down and began to recite blessings of praise in the traditional style to the Master of Light, while imaging his figure of a serpent in his mind.

  With all of my soul I shall praise the Father God:

  Holy is the God who is father of all, wellspring of all beginnings.

  Holy is the God who succeeds in his powers.

  Holy is the God who seeks to reveal himself to his followers.

  Holy art Thou, that all was created by your word.

  Holy art Thou, that your image is the image of all nature.

  Holy art Thou, exalted above all highness.

  Holy art Thou, esteemed above all praise.

  Please accept the gift of words from my soul and heart into your silence.

  Flash raised his forehead from the floor, remained kneeling opposite the empty glass frame and began to offer a prayer in his own words.

  Save me, my Father, for I have become lost.

  I seek you in everything, though in vain,

  For You I shall crusade against heretics without sign or signal,

  Please, my dear God, send me an indication, give me a sign,

  Show me that I am serving your will,

  I am a slave to your will,

  I am a tool in your hands,

  Please, my Father, take me,

  Do what you will with me,

  Grant respite to my soul, tranquility to my heart, serenity to my spirit.

  His jaws clenched. He thought about the slaughter in Damascus, about his attempt to awaken and appease the God with gifts of death, about the sacrifices offered to Him, about the hidden silence of the God who did not react even when he killed so many people, even though he carried out the task with the highest devotion. He made an effort to cleanse and purify his belief in the Supreme God, Master of Light, but He did not notice him.

  It seemed that the Supreme God still thirsted for blood. It seemed that the God would continue demanding his victims. The knowledge that the God was not going to relent calmed Flash. It was clear to him that he would persist in the service of his God and offer him more and more sacrifices, until he gains the favor of His light, to stand under His wings, and to ascend to the ranks of angels, seraphim and aeons, until he could sit united with them in the Pleroma—the lofty, heavenly wholeness.

  Flash's mood improved. He rose to his feet, bowed to the empty glass frame, and mumbled, “In the name of the holiness of the Master of Light.” He thanked the priest upon exiting the temple and proceeded to walk toward the mess hall with renewed energy and a healthy appetite.

  Smoke ran about three or four kilometers on the leveled desert sand and still felt the effort. Usually, the strain faded after the first kilometer. He could not understand why he was encountering difficulty specifically today. In the last few weeks he had stuck to his lengthy jogging regimen, but even so he was not in top shape today. During the fifth kilometer, he finally loosened up. His legs galloped at their own pace, his clenched fists swung at his sides, his pack bounced lightly on his back and his breathing stabilized. The Gnostic compound in Uruk faded away behind him. Before him stood the step pyramid—the ancient Sumerian ziggurat. The desert stretched out in shades of yellow and mustard until it met the white horizon. He listened to the wind whistling in his ears, to the beating of his heart, to his breath and to the sound of his running shoes as they pounded the hardened sand.

  'The operation was successful, the targets were destroyed,' he reflected as he ran, 'my pilots and my soldiers did exactly as they were assigned to do. The raids instill terror and fear into the survivors. Soon we will be able to complete the conquest of Damascus. They'll submit without a fight. I controlled the situation and we sustained no losses.' For a moment he felt a pang of pity for the dead. The sensation of shock came back to him as he recalled the image of the slit throats and the ebullient Flash opposite him. 'How can I ever be a true leader if the weakness of compassion impedes my path? What kind of Gnostic am I as long as I harbor feelings of mercy in my heart?' Smoke was ashamed of his own feebleness. The physical exercise and rhythm of his movement finally succeeded in sweeping these weak thoughts from his head.

  'I am cosmos, I am cosmos, Iamcosmos... Iamcosmos,' he recited the nullifying mantra as he ran. The mantra helped him abandon his personal boundaries and the weight of his unique identity. At the very moment that his running reached the point which he had been anticipating, he noticed a single tamarisk tree at a distance, next to the ruins of the red ziggurat. Already he yearned for water from the well under the tree. His body continued running on the desert sand while his soul left his body and disappeared, leaving it devoid of any self-awareness. The intruding thoughts ceased completely. Peace and serenity bubbled softly inside him. He no longer felt the burden upon his body and focused on wonderful elation, on blessed emptiness, deliverance from the weight of the universe. The yellow sand and the pure white sky merged with the infinite horizon.

  After he rinsed the sweat from his body, he drank from the tin cup tied to the rope that he lowered into the deep cistern. Although it was murky with desert dust, the water was good for drinking. After swallowing the last gulp, he sprawled out in the shade of the tree, stretched his exhausted limbs and cooled himself in the wind that stroked his wet body. When he had sufficiently enjoyed himself, he sat up and leaned on the tree's trunk. He took a paper wrapped parcel out of his pack and laid it beside him. He drew a number of deep breaths and burst into unnatural laughter.

  He continued until he noticed movement on the eastern horizon and heard a voice laughing back at him. Spot approached at an awkward sprint, his small hind legs lumbering behind his terrifying forelegs, his enormous jaw rigid. He ran toward Smoke and attacked him, knocking him onto the yellow sand.

  This time, Smoke's laugh was not forced. He wrestled with the animal and knocked him onto his back, but Spot escaped and grabbed the nape of his neck in his gaping maw. They wrestled until Spot bent over him and pinned him down with his entire body weight.

  “Ok, Spot, you win,” he laughed.

  The hyena loosened his grip. Smoke opened up the paper parcel and removed a hunk of meat that he had taken from the compound's kitchen and gave it to Spot, who swallowed it in one gulp. He folded up the edges of the paper to make a dish and poured water from the cistern into it. He refilled it three more times until the hyena had quenched his thirst. They rested in the shade of the tamarisk, the hyena's head leaning on his stomach.

  The stench of carcasses exuding from the hyena did not bother Smoke. He was accustomed to his companion and accepted him as he was. During one of his first running excursions, Smoke had discovered the hyena cub in the shade of the tamarisk, among remnants of fur that had belonged to the cub's mother, who apparently had been eaten by a lion. Lions had become extinct from the Mesopotamian plains for several hundreds of years, but during the Human-Gods' Wars, when men engaged in mutual annihilation, the wild animals returned to the savannas and wandered the Asian deserts once more.

  The cub's wailing sobs bothered him, but Smoke did not know how to help him. He left him bundled inside his mother's fur and ran back to the compound, but he could not shake the wailing from his mind. Smoke could not sleep that night, unable to silence the cub's cries. The following morning he returned to the tamarisk and to the cub, which had already fallen silent. He called him 'Spot' and took good care of him.

  Initially, the cub did not trust him, but his hunger made him agree to eat the food that Smoke ha
d brought him. Many days passed before he was willing to eat out of Smoke's hand.

  Smoke understood that they had formed a pact when the hyena made eye contact with him for the first time, a rare occurrence in the interaction of humans and wild animals. He trained the cub, who listened to him and ended any wrestling games as soon as the game was becoming too dangerous. The cub obeyed him, waited and did not follow him when Smoke returned to the Gnostic compound. Spot learned Smoke's language, understanding simple commands like “Go, come, sit, attack,” and Smoke learned to identify Spot's feelings: aggression when his tail stuck out behind him, excitement when his tail bent over his back or fear when it hung between his legs.

  He dug a sheltered pit for him, a refuge from lions and other predators, and continued to bring him milk and meat from the compound's kitchen. Each day he ran out to feed and play with the cub until the hyena matured. At that point Smoke taught him how to hunt lizards and mice. In time, Spot found his place among a pack of hyenas but maintained his friendship with Smoke. The hyena could pick up his scent from afar, knowing that Smoke was waiting for him in the shade of the tamarisk tree.

  The others at the compound were aware of Smoke's strange habit of running out alone into the desert, but no one discovered his affection for the hyena. He even hid his secret from his commander, Truth. He knew that he would be forbidden to carry on the relationship. Spot showered him with warmth and love, allowing Smoke to indulge in feelings and expressions of mercy without making himself feel less Gnostic. Thus he was able to have a sincere relationship, devoid of the hypocrisy and cruelty that were the norm at the Gnostic compound.

  The sun tilted toward the horizon and he prepared for the long jog back to the Uruk compound. Smoke poured Spot more water into the makeshift dish before returning it to his pack and lowering the cup back into the cistern. He began to run toward the compound, Spot skipping by his side with his lanky legs and large steps. They ran together until the red boulder, which Spot knew marked the point where he must bid farewell to his companion and return to his pack.