SiWren of the Patriarchs | Page 2

the goal, the prize, priceless beyond all calculation, the translation of
those ancient hieroglyphs so painstakingly stick-marked upon the
unimpressive-looking little tablets; a story written in the softness of
clay, and hardened to the rock of ages. It is a brittle, harsh tale of a
tormented adolescent girl who lived out her tragically short life in a
time of the greatest moral evil and physical beauty that the world has
ever known, a story from the dawn of human history.
PRELUDE
She never knew Jesus, the Christ, the only begotten Son of God, by
name, although He most assuredly knew her when He formed her in her
mother's womb. His time was not yet come.
She was never to hear of the Tower of Babel, or of Abraham, Isaac, and
Jacob, and of Egypt and Moses, of Babylon or the Jews, the Roman
Empire, the Cross, or any of the modern religions of the world. They
were not yet.
She lived out her short life, and eventually died, about the time when
mocking rumors were being widely spread abroad of a foolish old man
called Noah, a wise old Patriarch who was rumored to have been
directly commanded by no less a personage than the Almighty Himself
to build an ark, a great wooden ship. This man, Noah, was given Divine
instructions that he must waste no time, but work diligently to prepare a
safe haven for his family and himself against a terrible day of
judgement to be rained down upon a sinful world, a day when a
wrathful God would bring forth a watery flood so deep as to utterly
wipe out the unspeakable evils of an accursed race.
Many were amused at the rumors of Noah and his strange Invisible
God. Whether the rumors of impending doom were true or not none

could say, although there was none who would not readily agree that it
was a world worthy enough of such punishment. It was a cruel,
backward world, where "...every man did what was right in his own
eyes...", sometimes for the better, but more often, for the worse. Much
worse.
It was into such a world that the little slave girl, Si'Wren, was born...
Chapter One
- Little Jars
The young girl sang softly to herself as she filled another container.
Topping it off, she carefully stoppered the neck of the dainty clay vase
and laid it to one side with the others.
An orphan prize of the conquests of the House of Rababull, she was
small for her age, with long ebony hair nearly down to her waist in
back, and perpetually of a rather plain appearance as a child, which
safely hid her flowering beauty, unbeknownst to herself, from the
lustful eyes of others.
She liked to hum and sing while she worked, although not too loudly,
and was a painstaking, diligent servant. She had just finished filling
nine of the little clay jars. They contained a medicinal salve comprised
of rare aromatic resins and spices which were intended to be sold by an
agent of Rababull, her master, in the market place at great profit.
Rababull kept many slaves, wives, and concubines, and had many sons
and daughters. He was a strong, wealthy gentleman of noble birth, a
titled land owner who wore much crude jewelry, together with the
softest of furs and robes, and was always dressed in the finest weaves
of red and purple.
He had long distinguished gray hair upon his head. His beard was
elaborately curled every morning on a carefully heated rod of iron
which was always cleaned and tested first with the judicious
application of a wet thumb by his personal man servant, who kept it

meticulously polished and free of rust with a dash of virgin olive oil
and a cursory, daily polishing.
Rababull had hard, no-nonsense eyes and speech, and he always drove
a hard bargain, whether it be something of as little consequence as the
selling-off of an old slave or animal too advanced in years to be of
proper use to him anymore, or the buying and selling of great tracts of
land. He also saw to the scourging of slaves and the torture and
questioning of thieves and miscreants, not infrequently even unto pain
of death itself. Life could be cheap, depending on who you were, or
who your father was.
Master Rababull was more than six hundred and fifty years old,
although by the standards of the moderns, more than four thousand
years in his future, he would have been described as an exceeding fit
fifty-five. His life experience, like his age, was vast.
He was not afflicted by an old man's failings of the mind. He was
missing no teeth, neither smitten by cavities. He was sound of stature.
He was