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The following is the third installment of a serialization of the novel, Abinadi by H.B. Moore. To read the previous installment, click here. More information about H.B. Moore can be found: www.hbmoore.com
Chapter Two
I have gone astray like a lost sheep.
(Psalm 119:176)
Music from the flutes, panpipes, and drums pulsed through the throne room, causing the hanging drapes to sway as if keeping time. Alma stared at the surroundings and soaked in every detail. An elaborate bamboo cage housed a fine collection of quetzal birds—some larger than he’d ever seen. In the center of the room, King Noah sat with his new bride as a troupe of magicians displayed their latest tricks. The king’s laughter boomed over the music, and the wedding crowd echoed his laugh. Against the walls, low tables held varied dishes of spicy food—meats, tamalitos, quail eggs, pears, nuts—piled high on silver and gold platters.
Alma smiled, hardly believing he, a simple carpenter, was here in the center of the king’s weeklong wedding festivities. He was only twenty, and yet he had been invited as a personal guest of the king. If his parents had been alive, they would have been truly shocked. They had been a part of Zeniff’s court, but after the old king died, everything at court changed. Alma’s father, Cephas, had been Zeniff’s intellectual advisor, a meticulous scholar. But now a new king was in power, and the old ways of the previous king had been put to rest.
Alma gazed about the room, seeing that there was nothing intellectual going on in this festivity. He looked at his hands, strong and hardened through his occupation. Crafting furniture could never compare to his father’s scholarly abilities.
Trying not to let the memory of his parents ruin the evening, Alma focused on the new bride. No one could argue against her beauty. Her dark hair shimmered like copper, even in the dull glare of the torchlight. Her skin was flushed, yet it had no blemish or dark spot of any kind. But it was her melodic voice that had entranced Noah when she’d first come to sing at court.
Alma smiled. On that day, a few weeks earlier, it seemed every man had fallen in love. Alma had just delivered a newly constructed judgment-seat to the palace when the singer was led into the throne room. Her voice carried throughout the halls, and Alma hovered in the entryway, listening in fascination.
The mere fact that Alma was Maia’s distant relative had brought Noah’s attention to him, and suddenly he was the favored citizen—the man to secure the betrothal. It hadn’t been hard, at least not after he’d presented the bride price to her parents. The young virgin had urged her parents to take the gold and silver. They would be able to live the rest of their lives in comfort, and the only cost was for their daughter to marry the king.
The chance of a lifetime.
And now at the wedding, Alma tapped his foot in time with the rhythm. The final magician created a haze of smoke and disappeared. Noah clapped loudly, and Alma joined in with the others, bringing his calloused hands together. Then everyone grew quiet as the young bride stood. Maia cast a smile upon her king—now husband—then gazed over the audience. For an instant, Alma’s eyes locked with hers. He was surprised to see not delight and gratitude, but a deep melancholy just beyond her thick lashes. However, the impression was quelled in the next moment as she opened her mouth and sang.
The beautiful words of a traditional wedding song seemed to fill his entire being. The melodic prose was haunting and soft, soon growing in strength and power.
The most alluring moon has risen over the forest;
It is going to burn suspended in the center of the sky
To lighten all the earth, all the woods—shining its light on all.
Sweetly comes the air and the perfume.
Happiness permeates all good men.
The girl smiled as she sang the sweet words about a man and woman’s joyous coming together. Alma smiled in reply, although he knew the girl sang to her new husband. While the singing was beautiful, the lyrics left him unsatisfied in a strange way. He lifted the jeweled goblet to his lips and drank heartily of the free-flowing wine. As the sweetness coursed down his throat, it became easy to ignore the sense of the girl’s sadness and to believe in the good fortune that any girl had in marrying a king. He watched her smile at her new husband, and Alma decided that Maia had made a good future for herself. When she finished, the gathering broke out into another song.
A hand reached through the crowd and squeezed Alma’s shoulder. He turned to see Amulon, a giant of a man, already staggering with drink. His chest was bare, but over his shoulders hung a coat of jaguar skin. Jewels dotted his fingers and earlobes. The elaborate headdress he usually wore was replaced with a band of gold. The man was at least forty, but his muscular physique made him look younger than their thirty-five-year-old king. Amulon slung an arm around Alma and gave him a friendly embrace. “You are on the record, my friend.”
“What?” Alma asked, not sure he’d heard correctly over the singing. He’d had enough wine himself not to be offended by the man’s foul breath.
“The king’s record. We discussed your name last night.” Amulon jabbed Alma with an elbow. “This union, this marriage”—he held his goblet in the air, sloshing wine over the brim—“is all because of you. And the king doesn’t forget those who help him.”
What’s the record for? Alma wanted to ask, but Amulon had joined in the bawdy singing that made speaking impossible. A young boy sidled up to them and refilled their wine goblets. I’ve had enough, Alma thought. He looked around, seeing that everyone else continued drinking, not seeming to care how much they consumed. He took a few more gulps as the song finished.
“And now, my new friend,” Amulon said into his ear, “the female guests leave, and the real entertainment begins.”
Alma craned his neck to see a group of ladies lead the bride out of the room. The crowd thinned as the other women also took their leave. Alma’s heart thudded in anticipation. One part of him said that now would be a good time to slip away, but the other part was too curious. After all, he was a personal guest of the king.
Noah commanded his priests to join him in the center of the room. Cushions were brought in by servants, and the men took their places around the king. Amulon grabbed Alma’s tunic and pulled him along. “You’re invited, too.”
“I’m not a priest,” Alma started to protest.
“Don’t worry about that, my friend,” Amulon said with a hearty laugh.
They pushed through the crowd, and when they reached the king, Alma suddenly felt the excess agave wine rebel in his stomach. His vision wasn’t as clear as usual, and his head felt like it floated above his body. Noah smiled at the two of them and waved them over to a pair of cushions. Amulon settled next to Alma. “See what I told you? You’ll be made a priest soon enough.”
Priest? A priest of King Noah? Alma could hardly believe the words. His besotted mind tried to mull over the changes it would bring to his simple life. Everything would change. He stared at the goblet in his hands, watching the varying color of wine illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Being a priest meant duty, power, honor, residence at court . . . gold. He would be equal to his father at last . . .
An image flashed through his mind—the face of his father and a clear picture of his disappointment as Alma served an impious ruler.
Wild clapping caused Alma to look up from his goblet and shake his reproving thoughts away. His parents were long buried and no longer held any power over him. This was another time, a different king, and altered rules. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Alma stared at the scene in front of him. Several veiled women had entered the room. They slowly danced, circling the king and each priest. Apparently they weren’t aware that Alma wasn’t one, because he received a good deal of attention. Somewhere from the other side of the room, he heard low music, but his senses focused on the girls.
What would Noah’s new wife think? Alma wondered, realizing at the same moment why she’d been taken out of the room. Did she know what was going on here? Alma’s stomach rumbled loudly, capturing his attention. The lightheadedness returned as one of the girls moved very close to him. Close enough to touch. He kept his hands gripped on the goblet, noticing that the other men didn’t refrain from touching the women. Some of the priests stood and moved with the women as the others shouted encouragement. Alma glanced at Amulon—the man’s eyes were glazed in pleasure, perspiration beaded on his face and torso.
Instinct told Alma to leave the room and get away from this carnal scene. The stories he’d heard of King Noah’s court were now confirmed.
But then a feather touched the back of his neck, and he turned. He looked into the large, beautifully painted eyes of a woman. She took his hand and pulled him toward her. He reluctantly stood, feeling embarrassed. But the others didn’t seem to notice his hesitation. His face heated as he thought of excuses for why he couldn’t dance with her. Amulon’s laughter cut through his uneasy thoughts, his voice sailing over the pulsing music. “Relax, my new friend. Enjoy your success.”
Alma’s mind reeled as the woman’s hands caressed his arms. She guided him into sensual movements, and he found himself following. He closed his eyes, thinking maybe it would all go away like a strange dream. But the music continued, and the dancing continued, and the wine . . .
Oh no, Alma thought as his stomach pierced with pain. He tried to mutter an apology to the woman before dropping to his knees. In an instant, all that he’d eaten or drunk that night was lost.
* * *
Everything hurts, Abinadi thought. There was probably not one part of his body without a bruise. Even so, he was grateful to still be alive. He stared into the darkness at his surroundings. The attacker had left him in a clearing with several other victims. Some of them weren’t moving at all, and he heard pitiful moaning coming from one nearby. Even with his arms and legs tied, Abinadi was able to struggle into a sitting position. In the moonlight, he barely made out the groaning man’s features—and the clothing that identified him as a shepherd.
Scooting closer, he said softly, “Are you all right?” When the man turned, Abinadi saw that he was young—perhaps twelve or thirteen.
The boy said, “I’m better off than the rest.” His eyes shone with unshed tears. “It’s my cousin I’m worried about. She planned to meet me at the fields tonight.”
“She?”
“Yes. It’s dangerous enough for her to go against her father’s wishes, but now I have no way to warn her.” His pleading gaze met Abinadi’s. “They killed some of the shepherds already.”
“Who did?” Abinadi asked.
“Lamanites,” the boy said, his face registering surprise at the fact that Abinadi didn’t already know. “They’ve been closing in on the borders for weeks. But I didn’t think they’d attack us.”
Abinadi nodded, his questions falling silent. He’d known about the extra military force along the borders of the land, but for Lamanites to come as far as the grazing fields was unheard of. “What part of the city are you from?”
“South of the king’s palace. My name is Seth.” He looked around as if worried someone might overhear. “I’m not really a shepherd. I’m just helping with my uncle’s flocks.”
So he’s not a commoner like me if he lives south of the palace. “I’m Abinadi.”
“I thought I recognized you,” Seth said.
Abinadi stiffened, wondering if that were good or bad. He had never seen this young man before.
“I’ve seen you with Ben,” Seth added.
It was as if a knife pierced Abinadi’s chest as Seth spoke the name. He’d forgotten that the boy should have been at the meeting too. He inhaled sharply as myriad thoughts passed through his mind. “Yes, I know Ben,” he finally said, wondering how much he should reveal. Nothing that wasn’t necessary. “He was supposed to meet me tonight. Have you seen him or heard anything about him?”
“No,” Seth said. “I doubt the Lamanites would bother a young boy.”
I hope he’s right, Abinadi thought. Ben was only eight years old, but he had the intellect of a much older boy. Abinadi prayed the child was smart enough to stay clear of the enemy. He looked at Seth again. “How much time do you think we have before the Lamanites return?”
“Not long. I think they’re probably raiding the wine presses,” Seth answered.
“I hope they’ll drink themselves into a stupor.”
Seth nodded. “Except they might be even more ill-tempered then.” He scooted to Abinadi’s side and peered at him closely. “If you know Ben, you’re probably one of them.”
“Who?” The hairs on Abinadi’s arms stood. Such a statement had never led to anything positive.
“The religious ones—I don’t know what you call yourselves—but the king keeps a close watch on your leader . . . what’s his name? Gideon?”
Abinadi’s heart sank. This young man knew more than he should. The Teacher was in fact Gideon, but not many knew that. “How do you know him?”
Before Seth could answer, the piercing cry of a howler monkey cut across the clearing.
They’re coming. Adrenaline sliced through Abinadi as he waited for the first appearance of the Lamanites. The dozen or so living captives instinctively edged toward the center until they became one mass. It probably wouldn’t make a difference, but for a brief moment, it gave them a small sense of security.
