BENE-HA-ELOHIM (THE CHILDREN OF GOD) An Elena Duran-Corazon Negro Story 7/15 by Julio Cesar divad72@prodigy.net.mx NAEMA, THE BLACK BEAUTY "Then their leader Samyaza said to them; I fear that you may perhaps be indisposed to the performance of this enterprise; And that I alone shall suffer for so grievous a crime. But they answered him and said; We all swear; And bind ourselves by mutual execrations, that we will not change our intention, but execute our projected undertaking. Then they swore all together, and all bound themselves by mutual execrations. Their whole number was two hundred, who descended upon Ardis, which is the top of mount Armon. That mountain therefore was called Armon, because they had sworn upon it, and bound themselves by mutual execrations." Book of Enoch 6: 3,8 Natufiense Period African Savanna 9,000 BCE. The deep blue of the sky made the sun look almost white. The heat came off the ground in waves, so even the scant shade under the thin trees seemed useless as shelter. The tribal village filled an open area along the edge of the sparse forest. The dirt around the tents was baked dry and hard. A dozen children of different ages played a game of tag, touching each other with sticks, then running to avoid the one who was 'it'. Naema, a young girl played with them. She was proud of herself because so far she had been able to keep from getting tagged. Sweat was streaming off her head and arms, but she didn't care. She was having fun. And Naema loved the warm air, the slight breeze that dried her sweat, the bright sun. She just loved being outside and had for as long as she could remember. To her the sun, the rain and the wind had always been things of joy and pleasure. This game with the other children just provided another chance to play in the sun. The game continued until suddenly she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The tap of the stick on her arm was like an insect, and the laughter of the others told her she was 'it'. Naema could feel fear grabbing at her stomach. The last time she had been tapped when they played this game, she hadn't been able to tag anyone else and had ended up being laughed at for days. She was used to being laughed at. She was different from the others, and they all knew somehow. Sometimes, she didn't know how she was different. But she too knew it. She was an orphan. A foundling child found during a hunt. Usually she didn't mind not playing with the others, staying apart and alone. But this time, since she was playing, she was going to make sure the laughing didn't happen again. She would tag someone else. Two younger boys and a girl her age were standing a short distance away, taunting her to get them. She knew that all three of them were far faster that she was. It would be a waste of time to chase them. So she turned and headed the other way, running around one tent as fast as she could go, hoping to surprise someone. The idea didn't work. The other kids saw her coming and ran, faster than her. All the kids in the village were faster than her, and they all knew it. But she could still tag one of them if she got lucky. For the longest time she kept trying, chasing, not giving up. The heat was making her pant. She knew she should stop and drink, but if she did the game would end and she would be laughed at again. They were already starting to laugh, and to call her names. And the more they laughed, the harder she tried. Then things got worse. As she lunged to try to catch one younger boy, she tripped. Naema put her hands under her to catch herself. The sound of her stick snapping was like a slap from a tribal elder against her cheek. She pushed herself back to her feet, the brown dirt sticking to her sweating arms and legs. Her stick was broken in half. Now there was no way she could win. No way at all. One of the kids saw what had happened, and in a moment, before she could even look up from her broken stick, they all surrounded her, laughing, poking at her with their sticks. "Stop!" she shouted, but that just made them laugh even harder, taunting her that she was too slow to make them stop, that she had broken her stick. She was getting angrier and angrier as the others kept poking at her. Then one of them hit her. The hit stung her like a bee. It sounded like someone had snapped his fingers. She could feel the pain of it coming off her shoulder. She tried to move away, but they wouldn't let her, keeping her surrounded, hitting her more and more. Each hit hurt really bad. "Stop!" she begged. "Stop! Please!" They laughed and hit her again and again. And each hit hurt her more and more, until it became one big stinging pain on her back, shoulders and arms. They were all hitting her with their sticks, telling her to run. They wanted to see her run. But Naema knew she couldn't outrun them, so she just stood there, turning to avoid the hits as best she could, as she would avoid the stings of swarming insects. They laughed and yelled at her to run. It had become a new game of sorts, and she had become the object of the game. The sticks whipped at her skin, drawing blood in places, raising welts in others. Her voice was getting louder. "Stop! Please, stop!" But that, too, just made them hit her harder and harder. Why were they doing this to her? All Naema wanted them to do was stop. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? She could feel her face getting hot from the anger and the pain. All she wanted to do was hit them all back, show them how it felt. How it hurt her. But they kept on, and it seemed to go on forever. She spun and moved, trying to get out of the way of each hit, usually failing. She cried, and the nightmare continued. Between sobs, she begged them to stop. She wished for something to stop them. Finally, she was able to stand and run. She ran away from them, crying salt tears with each step. The others went after her for a while, yelled names at her, spiting her body, until they reached the wall of thorns that protected their village. Naema kept running outside in the savanna. Soon, her silhouette was just another shape under the sun. FLASH! Years later, all the savanna seemed to wait in silence as the hunter looked at her. Naema stared at him, daring him in her helplessness not to do it-not to lay hands upon her or violate her. But she knew hers was a hollow wish. She could feel the pain in the world around. She could feel the danger that surrounded her. Yet the hunter and his comrades meant to desecrate her; ruin her as she was; and she who had lived always in the sunshine knew nothing really of the act which the hunters meant to perform. For a moment, she thought, as the first hunter came to her, he could not do it, that a man could not feel the pleasure he reflected in his eyes doing this ugly work. But she was wrong. So wrong. She knew little of men then, of how the pleasures of the flesh can combine in them with hatred and anger; of how they can hurt as they perform the act which women perform, more often that not, for love. Her spirit clamored against what was to happen; but for her very life, she tried to remain quiet. Silently, she closed her eyes, trying to convince herself that she would live when this was over. She would be free, this was not death after all, and she would leave her former tribe to their lies and their illusions, to their idiot customs. And she would depart. And then the hunter set about to do what he wanted. He took her and forced her down on her back against the ground in the middle of the wilderness, and lifted her gown, as she stood transfixed and unable to stop him. But in her mind, she was not the woman whom the hunter raped. As her soul trembled, she stoked the fire of the attack with fantasies of a nameless beauty. A red-haired Goddess, waiting for her in a far away land. Her eyes averted, Naema closed her soul to the entire world. To her former tribe who had done terrible things to her all her life. Her soul was alone and untouched within her body. And all around her, she heard without doubt the weeping of the animals, the sad, terrible lament, and in the distance, the low rolling thunder of one name: Lilitu. "Come to me, sister. Come to me." Lilitu whispered. It was nightfall when the last of the hunters raped her. Then, viciously, they killed her for the first time. They left her there, thinking that soon enough her body would be devoured by the night predators. It was almost sunrise when she opened her eyes again, and she started her long journey. Her rage then was as great as it had ever been. Her eyes filled with salt tears of sorrow. And with each tear, with each sob, she swore that someday, she would have her revenge. It wasn't until years later that she understood that she was Immortal, and that indeed, she could settle her score with humankind. All of them. ======== African Savanna March 21, 2013 The cold of the African night was long forgotten. A lion roared in the distance, telling the vast land that he was its king. Danger!!! Beware!!! She is back!!! We are all in danger!!! The silent prayer reached her soul, and Naema awoke crying. But she was not crying because Zarach's message. She was weeping because after 11,000 years her dream was the same. Even when her body had now the shape of a beautiful black woman, not a foundling-raped child anymore. Zarach's lament meant absolutely nothing for her. After so many sunsets, she still only cared about her revenge, even when no other Immortal realized her schemes. Despite her ancient history, Naema was a modern woman in many ways, as intelligent as she was alluring, as formidable as she was sultry. Tall, with long black hair, bangs cut bluntly in the traditional Maasai style, her slender shapely figure well shown by the red robe she was wearing, she possessed a bearing at once regal and mystical. It should be that way. After all, along with Aylon and Zarach Bal-Tagh, she was one of the three original members of the Ancient Gathering who had survived in Lilitu's Game so far. And why not? She possessed a weapon the others didn't. With one hand, she wiped away her tears. For some people, she was a legend just as Lilitu. According with the Bible, she was Zarach's sister. But she was not. She was Naema, and she would not be constrained by any arbitrary set of classifications. Some other Immortals in the ancient times had asked themselves if the mythical Naema had been real. Naema sighed, remembering Lilitu's soft fingers inside her. Many times in the past she had wondered about her former and first lover, Lilitu, remembering those days and nights inside the ancient city of Tell Halula, where both of them had danced naked under the light of the moon, touching with her Goddess' fingers their mutual bodies. The red-haired Goddess above the Goddess made of ebony. Two bodies moving at the rhythm of their passion. For three hundred years, everything had been right for her, until Zarach revealed his secret to Lilitu: the way they, Immortals, could die. Despite Naema's begging, Lilitu had become the lover of the ruler of the Ancient Gathering, the powerful Immortal named Yenkril. Of course, Lilitu had killed Yenkril, abandoning the city afterwards just to let the fault fall on Zarach's head. But for Naema, Lilitu's sin meant nothing. Yenkril's death meant nothing at all either. All Naema cared about was that she was alone again. But in a way, she understood Lilitu. Like her, Naema grasped a forbidden inheritance. Consumed by it, she had become a deity, superior to all that the Ancient Gathering once was. Like Lilitu, Naema had suffered for that transformation into Immortal, becoming outcast even among her tribe. And like Lilitu, she had retreated into the darkness of time, gathering her strength, screaming defiance against the eyes of the Gods in the night before she could truly taste the fruit she had eaten millennia ago. Danger!!! Beware!!! She is back!!! We are all in danger!!! In the far distance, Zarach still tried to reach her. Slowly, she stood up. If Zarach wanted to see her, she wouldn't disappoint him. As she walked, a group of hyenas joined her. Smiling, Naema welcomed them. Humankind had Hell to pay. And Naema planned to have a very special seat when the end of the world came.