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do against a band of giants, and a First Born? That was the problem, and Joash had no idea how to solve it.

Chapter Four
    Elohim’s Seraph

    Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you will answer me.
    -- Job 38:2

    Joash curled under his bear-fur blanket. The fire crackled, but a cold wind blew through the Hanun Mountains. Slowly, the lung-warmed air under the furs let his aching body relax. The stars twinkled in the heavens, reminding Joash that Elohim still ruled the Celestial Realm.
    He glumly studied the fire. A log splintered with a crack. Sparks shot into the air. One began to float, parts of it blackening. The guttering spark dropped toward the nearest white-haired man. They all slept here, the Nephilim pack animals. Like him, none of them tried to escape. The guttering spark landed on a bear fur, smoldering a second, sending up a tiny plume of smoke. Then, it died, just as they would all die.
    Could Tarag win past the guardian Cherub? Could the giants eat from the Tree of Life, and gain immorality? Would Mimir keep his word, and allow a mere man to eat?
    “Don’t even think about it,” Joash whispered to himself. He needed to escape. He would never stop Tarag unless he first escaped—and that was impossible. Mimir had told him that Gibborim prowled the dark. Anyone who left the fire was fair game.
    “You,” someone whispered, almost too softly to hear.
    Joash shifted. A white-haired man lay near his shoulder. The man had a large nose, pale blue eyes and a scar on his forehead. He was thick, with muscles like a wrestler. Recognition came. Mimir had selected this man as his mount.
    “You,” the white-haired man whispered.
    Joash was shocked. He’d never heard the white-haired men speak. “What?” he asked.
    The man cringed, and closed his eyes. When nothing happened, no blow to the head or kick in the ribs, he opened his eyes. “Speak softly,” he whispered.
    Understanding came. The giants had forbidden the white-haired men to speak. Maybe his gesture the other day had been more than noticed, but also ingested.
    “Who are you?” whispered the white-haired man.
    The question surprised Joash. “I’m Joash the Groom, of the Clan of Teman, of the Tribe of Amalek, of the Nation of Elon.”
    The white-haired man blinked in awe.
    “Who are you?” asked Joash.
    The man frowned. “Me?” he asked.
    “What’s your name?” Joash asked.
    “Ah. I’m Gort Six.”
    Gort was the name for a bushy-tailed ground squirrel. Hardly the sort of name one gave a man. “Six?” Joash asked.
    “There are many Gorts. We all belong to the High One, Mimir. He has given us numbers so he can identify us. He’s a kind master.”
    “He’s Nephilim.”
    Gort Six nodded.
    “No,” Joash whispered. “You don’t understand. Nephilim are evil, vile, servants of the rebellious Morningstar.”
    Gort Six’s eyes grew round. “Who are you?” he whispered again.
    Joash grew perplexed. He’d already told the man. Why did he keep asking?
    “You did not ride me,” the man said. “You took a beating for refusing the High One.”
    “It is wrong to ride a man as if he were a beast.”
    “Why is it wrong?”
    “Because we are men,” Joash said.
    “We are beasts, the property of Mimir the Wise.”
    Joash wondered what to tell Gort Six. Finally, he knew what he must say. “You were made in the image of Elohim. In His creation of man and women, Elohim gave them mastery over the Earth.” Joash quoted lessons the priest had taught him. “You are higher than the beasts of the field. You have an immortal soul that will someday either go to the Celestial Realm above, or below where the bene elohim are imprisoned.”
    Gort Six listened raptly. It was obvious he’d never heard the truth before.
    “The Nephilim are abominable,” Joash whispered. “They are the children of the First Born.”
    “Yes,” whispered Gort Six. “They are High Ones.”
    “They are low down rebels.”
    Gort Six blinked fearfully.
    Joash