Lamech
(The Legend of a Race of Giants)(Historical Fictions: how it might have been at the end))
Reference to GIANTS in those days: ji'-ants The word appears in the King James Version as the translation of the Hebrew words nephilim ( Gen 6:4; Num 13:33 ); repha'im ( Deut 2:11,20; 3:11,13; Jos 12:4 , etc.); rapha' ( 1Chron 20:4,6,8 ), or raphah ( 2Sam 21:16, 18, 20, 22 ); in one instance of gibbor, literally, "mighty one" ( Job 16:14 ).
Chapter One of Two
Before the Last Battle at the Rephaim
(The Story :) Lamech stood on top of the tumulus a heap of rocks on which the Princess Nogia Nogia laid her child. Between the high walls of the Rephaim Circle, also known as the Heap of the Wildcat; the early morning sunlight fell in long streaks across the heap of stones, a shrine to the last of the Rephaim sect (1000 BC); there he stood in a warriors stance, straddled legs and a whip in his hand (a sword by his side), and laid it across the still shape of the Princess and her child, who lay looking up at him from a huge still boulder, inscrutable, sullen eyes, the child at her side wrapped in a piece of clean linen cloth. Behind them an old Rephaim Giant by the name of Asury, black as a devils tongue, squatted beside the rough heap of rocks where the meager child was pert near smoldered by the mother’s clean linen. It was the summer solstice, changing of the seasons, and there was to be a ritual to their forefathers, the ancient Watchers; pagan offering of the child to appease the gods.
“Well, Princess Nogia Nogia,” Lamech said, “too bad your child is not a hawk. Then it could escape its fate.”
Still the Princess on the heap did not move. She merely continued to look up at him without remark or expression, with a young beautiful sullen and inscrutable face still and somewhat pale from the present and prevailing ritual and sacrifice to be. Lamech moved over some, thus, blocking the splintering and piercing sunlight in her face, Lamech was a hybrid giant, being of over three-hundred years old, likened to Gilgamesh—a warrior, of incredible strength. He said quietly to the squatting Princess who was born in the high mountains of Ethiopia, and revered for her beauty in the temples of Alexandra, Egypt, “Your child must parish this morning.”
“Only the child?” the Princess questioned.
“A child, a damned fine looking child… What’s this?” He indicated as the heap moved and the hand which held the whip dropped.
“King David’s soldiers, I believe,” said Asury.
“Again,” Lamech said. “A damned fine looking child, going to be the full image of King Og, the spit and image of old King Og I do believe. (He could hear the thumping of four-thousand galloping horses, their hoofs as they hit the dry and flat plateau ground, east of the Sea of Galilee.)
“Yes, I’m ready and so is my child,” said the Princess.
“Hah.” Lamech glanced back towards the open field; there were high mountains in the far distance, a cloud of dust. No one could have said if the princess was still watching him or not, the whip from his hand had fallen into a crevice, unnoticed between ten-ton boulders. “Do whatever needs to be done with whatever we’ve got to do it with.” Lamech said to Asury, “and do it quick.” He stepped down from the heap out of the Rephaim Circle, passing, stepping down into the high yellow weeds that surrounded the heap of rocks, that had five circles around it, considered a sanctuary of sorts for the Giants of the Rephaim, and Nephilm (there remained the princess, yet resting against the corner of a huge rock, likened to a pier which Lamech had laid her on for sacrifice, and her child to be cut in two with his huge sword—evidently, no longer a priority) where she waited, where Lamech had stood holding the whip.
When Lamech stepped down as if to prepare him self to fight the Hebrews, Asury did not go “I’m looking after the King’s sanctuary and the princess” he mumbled. (These were men of immense structure and the Rephaim were the last remnants of the Giants, all were killed: the Nephilim, the Emim and the Anakim giants, now the guardians of the Rephaim were to be the last; in essence these were just a tiny element of what was before the Great Flood, there were over 400,000-giants during those days; the Rephaim during its last 400-years of existence between Joshua and King David, I do believe it went from 8000, to less than battalion size, or perhaps 600; these Giants of the Rephaim were up to sixteen-feet tall).
The child would not be killed this day, and in time, would tell all who asked him and some who had not asked of the giants, the blood-ridden men with pale, quizzical eyes, who looked about sixteen-feet high, through the knowledge of his mother, tell them the story of how he was spared a death, and King David killed the last of the Rephaim. This was no lie, as most of them the few remaining men between eighty and ninety whom he told it for all those years, knew, though there were some who did not believe that he himself really believed it, and he had better sense than to put it to a test, and he never did.
No: 648 (7-30-2010)
Chapter Two of Two
Last Battle at the Rephaim
Lamech of the Rephaim
Lamech looked like an aged or sick wild beast crawling slightly out from his hole, in this case down from the stone heap, there to the open field to meet his death, taste his last blood in battle, in the act of dying. There in the faint road which led up to the heap, what some of them called the Wheel of the Giants, and still others called, Gilgal Refaim—he knew all that he was, was behind his back—pausing, he could see quite a distance (but in meters it wasn’t all that far really: he could see with his paranormal vision), some of the bronze faces of the Hebrew Army glistening in the morning sun as they advanced minutes before his death: white eyes and teeth which displayed scorn enticement. A vulture appeared, “Get out of my road, bird of pry,” he commanded.
Now he cursed them, and within the battle of Lamech and the mounted Calvary, sometimes he rushed at them, snatching them off their horses first with his sword, then snatching them off their horses with a spear from the ground he had laid at his feet for such an occasion, while they scattered before him, yet appearing to surround him still with that scorn enticement on their faces, pert near laughing, mocking, vague, death inevitable, leaving him panting and powerless and raging.
Then it happened in the very back fields of the Rephaim Circle, this was after a bitter onslaught had passed through the plateau, and many of the Hebrew soldiers had fallen to their death—but he died with satisfaction on his face nonetheless.
This was true. But there was this kind of pride, it was part of the earth in those far-off days to such men like him, and King David, and many others that rode with the king: even though he believed that if he had tried to escape, if life had permitted him to—which it had, perhaps had—he could have, he told himself standing there before the army surrounded him—escaped: “But I am not going to give no simple man, king or not, or their God, the chance to tell me I can’t go nowhere,” he said this in silence to himself, “Nor am I going to give the King, or his soldiers the chance to…”
Perhaps his mind knew that it was because his forefathers ruled the world at large in their day, being supernatural men, who could not bear at times their own company. Yet the fact remained all his life he spent whole afternoons in the hot Canaanite sun listening to the stories of the Watchers and their hero like battles resting against a huge rock at Jericho or Debir—and then as an adult taking drink after drink with his fellow soldiers and talking on the same subject. And in the interim, he became the fine figure of the man, Rephaim soldier (it was a different age almost forgotten for the 21st Century mind), though he never had much of a childhood—but who did? Not many in his time— henceforth, he died that moment, figuring his heart would be forever quiet, proud and contempt and that that was all life really had to offer, him or anybody. It did appear to him—at death's door—that that world in which he came from, would somehow take him back as he was, for he had been created and cursed by God to be such a brute and ugly vassal to all mankind who walked the earth, although better found and imprisoned, or put to death for the sake of mankind. He could only blame his roots.
Chapter Three
The Dying
That world in which he sensed but did not know, sensed by some imaginary echoes was but a dream, an illusion, and that the actual world was this one he lived, which now was passing by him, galloping out of him, like a black thoroughbred into the clouds; thinking how the battle took place, all he slewed with his hands, sword and spear. Hence, to him all men where made of the same image, he was not of that image; so that he could say, as though speaking of himself, “A fine proud being I am, I mean, I was,” that is what he could say, made from the loins of the Supernatural Beings called the Watchers, the Angelic Renegades, and if God Himself was to come down and stand beside him, that’s what He would aim to say. Pride has its awful side, its destructive side.
There he laid, and somehow, someone heard him say: “Well, they killed us all.” Who he was talking to, only he knew. That was the tenor of his last conversation.
“Kill him again!” a Hebrew soldier shouted as if he might come back to life, “cut him up like the dogs they are…!”
Chapter two and three: No: 649 (7-31-2010)
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