Downtown Bangor, Maine
The oldest being on the planet, the first immortal, the original Noah, stood trembling on a village sidewalk in the pouring rain. He wore a dripping wet bed sheet, wrapped in the old style around his body, covering one shoulder. He’d arrogantly refused to don the clothing that had been offered him when he’d first been resurrected. The type of clothing that he now realized was necessary if he hoped to become invisible among mankind in this strange new age. People looked askance at him, ordinary humans, mortals, dashing past him from their speeding mechanical conveyances to the small and poorly designed buildings that lined the streets. In and out they ran, as if the rain would melt them. Up and down the streets they rolled in those machines. Automobiles. Cars, he’d heard them called.
He wanted to know how they worked. But later. First he wanted to become invisible. He would prefer dead, but death wasn’t an option for him right now.
Right now he had very few options, in fact. But he did have needs, and the immediate ones were urgent enough to distract him from the problem of attracting too much attention. That would come after his initial needs were met. He needed warmth, shelter from the ice-cold, unforgiving rain. So much rain.
It would have been a blessing in his time—unless it went on too long. He wondered briefly whether this rain was normal in today’s civilization, or whether the gods, the Anunaki, had yet again decreed that mankind must be brought to its knees.
Utana shook off the shiver of apprehension that thought induced and tried once again to keep his focus on his immediate requirements. He needed food, lots of it. His belly was rumbling, twisting and gnawing at him, demanding sustenance. And water—he needed sweet water to drink. Those things were first. The rest could wait. The garments to help him blend in with the mundane commoners as thick on this land as fleas upon a desert dog, the knowledge he so craved and must acquire in order to make his way in this world, the mission he must accomplish in order to extract forgiveness from the gods—all of those things could come later.
Food. Water. Shelter.
Those first.
And so he looked at the buildings he passed—red brick or wood, no beauty nor art to them, with wide openings in the walls that appeared to be empty but, he had learned, were not. In the rain it was easier to see the droplets on the hard, transparent walls. When dry, the things—windows, they called them, made of a substance known as glass—were nearly invisible.
And yet, not quite.
He moved closer to one of the windows, drawn by the smell of food, only to pause as he stared at the image he saw there. The image of a man, wearing exactly what he wore and moving exactly as he moved. Clearly a reflection, he thought, lifting his hand, watching as the image did the same. Much like what one would see when looking into still water.
He tipped his head slightly and studied his image in the glass. It was no wonder, he thought, that the mortals were disturbed by him. He looked menacing. Wild. Standing in the rain, letting it pour down upon him, while they all raced for cover. He allowed it to soak his hair, his garment, his skin. And he was bigger than most of them, too. Taller, broader. He sported several days’ growth of beard upon his face. Dark it was, and dense, and he noticed that most of the people he encountered kept their faces shaved to the skin. A few had allowed their beards to grow, but they were trimmed carefully, tame and neat.
He pushed a hand through his long, onyx-black hair, shoving the dripping locks backward. And then he returned his attention to the window, and to the people he could see beyond it. They sat at tables, enjoying bountiful food that was brought to them by smiling servants who seemed content with their lot.
Finally something that made sense to him.
He watched for a while before going to the door through which others came and went. As he started to push the door open, a man appeared and stood blocking it. Skinny, but tall enough, and smiling even though his eyes showed fear.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re full tonight. Do you have a reservation?”
Utana looked from the man’s head to his shoes, and up again. “I know not … reservation,” he said. “I wish food.”
“Well, um, right. But as I said, we’re full tonight.” He lifted a hand, a helpless gesture. “No room.”
“Bring food here, then. I wait.” Utana crossed his arms over his chest.
“Um, right. From out of town, are you?”
Utana only grunted at the man, no longer interested in conversing with him. Silence would best convey that the discussion was over.
“Yes, I see. Well, the thing is, it doesn’t quite work that way here. I do have a suggestion for you, however.”
“I know not suggestion. Bring food. I wait.”
“Why don’t you try the soup kitchen? Methodist church at the end of the road. See? You can see the steeple from here.”
He was pointing while he babbled, and Utana only managed to understand a word here and there. He was learning the language rapidly, but interpreting the words spoken in the rapid-fire way of the people here was still difficult. He followed the man’s pointed finger and saw the spire stabbing upward into the sky. “Ah, yes, church. I know church. House of your lonely god.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s it. Go to the church. They’ll have food for you there, and a place to sleep, as well, if you need one.”
Utana nodded, but he was more enticed by the smells coming from within, and impatient with the man, who was clearly trying to send him away without a meal. It was all very good to know there would be a bed for him at the house of the mortal’s singular god. But there was food here now, and he wasn’t leaving without partaking of some of it.
So he simply pushed the skinny man aside and continued opening the door. As he was about to enter, another man ran up and pushed against the door from within. But Utana pushed harder and shoved the man back hard, sending him flying into the wall, where he caught himself with one hand, rubbing the back of his head with the other.
Utana walked into the food place.
There was noise at first, people talking, and the clinking, chinking sounds of their ridiculous eating utensils and dishes. But as their eyes fell upon him, the eating and conversation ceased, and dead silence ensued.
Utana eyed the tables, the food, the stares of the stunned diners, no doubt surprised by the appearance of a large, dripping wet man, dressed in what James of the Vahmpeers had told him was meant to be used as bedding, but he cared not. He was focused only on food, on sustenance. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent of beef, and his gaze shot to its source.
A man in an odd white hat came through a swinging door in the back of the room, bearing in his arms a tray laden with so much bounty he could barely carry it. Each dish was covered by a lid of shining silver, and yet the aromas escaped, and Utana’s stomach churned in its need.
He did not hesitate. He strode toward the small, food-bearing man, who froze at the sight of him. His frightened eyes darted left and right as he debated whether to stay where he was or to retreat. In three strides, Utana was there, taking the tray. Then he turned and walked back through the room. People rose from their tables, backing
