King Og

On the third day out from Kition, when afternoon tasks were squared away and the passengers lay about the deck dozing, day dreaming, or playing games to pass the time, Amaal was picking out a random scattering of notes on her flute while the lyre player plucked an airy tune. The Tillerman, on duty at his steering oar, scanned the sea, and without warning, started to sing.

“Sing, gods of heaven, sing a new song,

of King Og, the Amurru hero and favorite son,

Who fought for his kingdom, his people, his life

in the battle of Edrei on the fields of Bashan.”

            His powerful baritone filled the ship’s sail. Amaal and the others exchanged surprised glances. Never had they heard the Tillerman sing, nor could they have imagined him doing so. Everyone moved closer, intrigued by the promise of a story, especially one about a battle.

“King Og was a giant, a colossus, a hulk.

His fist like a boulder; his leg like an oak

His bed of iron, nine cubits in length

Strong as six oxen in a triple twin yoke.

The passengers sat in awe of King Og. Whether any of them had heard of him was hard to tell. Amaal, for one, had not. She laid her flute across her lap and watched the Tillerman take a squirt from the goatskin flask that hung across his back, spit overboard, and carry on.

“Of Bashan’s sixty cities, Edrei was the prize,

Behind her great walls, lay temples and gardens, and—”

“Get to the part about the battle!” a passenger called out, but everybody shushed him and begged the Tillerman to go on, which he did, though in somewhat less detail.

“Peace reigned in the forests and hills Bashan

‘til one night, an enemy swept onto the fields.

Ten thousand in number, and shepherds they were,

Demanding the surrender of all of Bashan.”

The passengers on the Phoenix scoffed at the idea of an army of shepherds daring to fight Og’s army of giants. What would they fight with: wooden staves and fieldstones? They all agreed King Og would crush them. The Tillerman summoned a sailor to take the steering oar and proceeded to walk the deck, looking out over the heads of the passengers as if he could see the whole scene before his eyes.

“Og ordered his soldiers to gird up their loins

And gather their weapons for an easy campaign.

He led them out of Edrei and into the fields

To take up their positions and await his command.

“But the shepherds attacked without hesitation,

Sending showers of arrows to the eyes of Og’s men.

Unable to see with their eyes full of arrows,

The giant army stumbled, howling in pain.

“Now the shepherds advanced with razor sharp swords

Making haste to act on the advantage they’d gained,

They slashed open the veins of the Amurru giants

And left them to bleed on Bashar’s fertile plains.

“Then the shepherds proceeded to Edrei’s city gates,

and engaged with the guards in a merciless brawl.

They hunted down all of the Amurru families,

and without exception, they slaughtered them all.”

The Tillerman thrust an imaginary sword into an invisible Amurru and waited a beat. Amaal and the others squirmed uneasily in their seats.

“In a final endeavor, Og pulled up a mountain

And lifted it high, high over his head.

He took aim at the shepherds and roared like a lion,

‘Gods of the mountain, crush them all dead!’

“But a horde of locusts emerged from the clod,

And crumbled and rained down on Og’s head and neck.

The shepherds all hailed the mount’s messy landing

and heaved their lances at the last Amurru standing.”

“Og turned to avoid the onslaught of lances,

But one pierced his ankle with a sickening thud,

It hit home, and brought forth a bright scarlet fountain,

Spurting from the wound, splashing onto the mud.

Og felt the blood quickly leaving his body

He felt his fist weaken and his iron sword fall.

He wavered and trembled like a tower in a quake,

Tipped, toppled, and landed with a thunderous boom.”

The Tillerman clutched his chest and turned a grief-stricken face upward. No one on the Phoenix doubted that he was King Og.

“Here I lie, mortally wounded,

A voice in the shadows demands to know:

For this bitter catastrophe, who is to blame?

Now comes the wretched truth, oh!

It was I who misread the insatiable lust

Of the shepherd invaders; now all is lost.

I would beg forgiveness, but not one can pardon me.

The dead of Bashan cannot hear my apology.”

A passenger called out: “We forgive you, King Og!”

“Who will build my coffin long,

And wrap my body in linen fine?

Who will sing my legacy songs?

My murdered children, lying dead?

“Merciless shepherds,

you have taken more than victory;

you have robbed my people of their destiny

our story untold, our song unsung,

you have condemned us to oblivion.

“So now, let darkness swallow me.

The blue has faded from the sky.

My hands, my feet, my heart is cold.

I am going, going, gone. I die.”

Og’s head fell to his chest. The passengers sat dumbfounded. Some heaved sighs of despair. Amaal stared at the fallen king. Her eyes felt moist, and her heart felt sad, and the story remained firmly in her mind. A light applause broke the trance and grew to thunderous ovation. Og raised his head, bowed slightly, and returned to the helm where he became, once again, the Tillerman.

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