Noah’s face has remained placid all evening, no matter how strange his words, but now his eyes narrow and his mouth twists. “You, my youngest son, will question my wisdom? You will question the Lord God’s word?”
So is it your wisdom, or God’s? I think but do not say. Japheth sits again—or rather, he nearly falls back onto the bench—and looks to my father, his eyes wide, beseeching. We all know that if anyone can sway Noah, it will be his eldest son. My father opens his mouth, closes it. Finally he says, “If we listen to all you say, Father, then will you listen to our concerns as well?”
Noah’s expression tightens further in disapproval, and his wrinkles deepen into fissures across his skin. He clears his throat, and then continues as if he was never interrupted. I suppose this is the closest he’ll come to agreeing.
“We must also carry as many bales of hay as possible to the ark, for we won’t be feeding only ourselves: God has commanded me to bring two of every animal, one male and one female, into the ark with us, so that they might survive the storm.”
A short, biting laugh echoes from across the table, an expression more of disbelief than humor. Ham casts a disapproving glare in his son’s direction, and Kenaan bites his lip and grows silent. I wish I could laugh as well, could say or do something to break the tension tightening throughout the room as Noah goes on:
“The kept animals, the goats and sheep, fowl and cattle and swine, we can take from our own—”
Noah keeps speaking, but my mind is already darting ahead to the cages Keenan has been building, the cages for scorpions and spiders and snakes. Any God who would ensure that those creatures survive while so many humans perish must be as mad as Noah himself.
Noah says that the men will need to trap rabbits and mice, foxes and deer, birds of all types, and, yes, reptiles and insects. Already it seems he has surpassed all his earlier lunacy in only a few words, but what he says next sends a ripple of shock through me.
“The savage animals, the tigers and lions and other great cats, the bears and wolves and hyenas, I do not expect you to trap alive. But God commands me to preserve all His creatures, so I have hired hunters to procure these animals.”
Shai lets out a whimper. I’d hoped she hasn’t understood all that Noah has said, but apparently she’s grasped enough. Zeda places a hand on her daughter’s arm, but my aunt’s fingers are trembling too much to provide much comfort. At the far end of the table, Japheth lays a hand on Arisi’s stomach as if to shield both her and the babe. The rest of us remain rigid, our bodies tight and taut, as though we are withdrawing into ourselves to escape some unseen threat.
“Father.” My own father speaks slowly, deliberately. “I have done my best to be a dutiful son, to obey and respect you in all things. But this—this I cannot accept. You can’t bring wild animals into our village. You will endanger our children, our homes, our entire community.”
“God will protect us from—”
I have never seen Father, have never seen anyone interrupt Noah, but he does so now. “If I don’t stop you,” he says, “the rest of the village will.”
Noah does not explode in anger as I thought he would, as he did when Japheth spoke. Perhaps he is too caught up in his own mind, in his strange ideas, to realize just what my father has done. “God will not allow the people of this village to disrupt His plan,” he says.
Across the table, Shai is crying.
“Nahala,” Father says to Mother, his voice hard, “take Neima and go home. I need to speak to Father alone.” Only a moment passes before Ham and Japheth say the same to their wives. We stand, leaving our untouched plates behind, and I can’t help thinking that later, Grandmother Nemzar will have to clean all this up.
***
Outside, the sun has disappeared, but the moon and stars shine so brightly it might still be day. I’ll miss these clear nights, when the rainy season begins and the clouds hang low, though I’ll welcome the drought’s end. Shai is still sniffling, and I want to comfort her, but Zeda grabs her by the arm and hurries off. My mother, too, walks ahead, her back rigid with displeasure. Can she possibly still be upset about me and Kenaan? Only Arisi and I walk slowly, taking in the open night air, which has cooled enough to feel like bliss after the stifling, overstuffed cottage.
“You know,” Arisi says—softly, though the village is quiet now, nearly everyone inside eating or sleeping already—“these animals Noah speaks of may not arrive. Perhaps he is so confused that he only believes he has procured them.”
“Perhaps.” I hope Arisi is right, but with all his years here, Noah has come to know every trader who passes through our village. Some of those traders deal in animal skins, and furs, and even great tusks. If the traders don’t hunt themselves, they surely know others who do. And Noah will spare no expense to get what he believes he needs. He’ll probably even pay with his sons’ food stores and livestock—after we’ve loaded the ark, of course—and then we’ll all go hungry this winter, if we aren’t mauled by wild animals first.
That is, if Father can’t talk Noah out of his madness.
“It will be all right.” Arisi’s voice jolts me from my thoughts, and I realize we’re in front of the small cottage she shares with Japheth. “Somehow,” she says, “it will be all right. We have to believe that, or else how can we keep going?”
I think of Mother stomping ahead, of Zeda yanking Shai away. Anger, or embarrassment, or fear of what others will think—so many things can keep people motivated, can drive them forward.
But I like Arisi’s method better.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, “and hopefully we won’t be baking a year’s worth of flour into bread we can’t keep.”
She smiles. “Tomorrow.”
When she’s gone, I make my steps even slower; I’m not eager to return to our cottage and my mother. But then I hear a voice ahead of me, breathless and irritated:
“Come…back…here…you…rascal…of…a… Neima?”
Jorin stops short, panting, but the goat he’s chasing continues scampering through his fenced courtyard, bleating and shaking and—well—shivering?
“See?” he says as he finally catches up to the goat. “I told you—she shivers at night.”
“But it’s not cold.” I find myself smiling for what seems like the first time in days, though I know it’s been only a few hours at most. It’s such a relief to see Jorin acting as if everything’s normal, as if the world isn’t ending in just seven days. Because it isn’t, of course, and our little world won’t end either, no matter what my grandfather says and does. Like Arisi said, everything will be fine.
Jorin places one broad hand atop the goat’s back, and she quiets and slows her shaking, though she doesn’t stop entirely.
“Poor thing.” I reach one hand over the fence to stroke the goat’s silky fur. “She’s nervous.”
Beneath my hand, her trembling slows further and then, at last, stops. Jorin moves his hand closer, until the tips of our fingers are touching, and looks up at me. “It seems she just wanted some comfort,” he says.
“It seems that way,” I agree. The moonlight settles against the sharp angles of Jorin’s face, and I stare a moment too long before I turn away.
“Jorin?” a rough voice calls from the door of his cottage. “Have you caught that goat yet? Who are you—”
The broad silhouette of Jorin’s father appears in the doorway, shoulders set and face creased with displeasure.
“I should go,” I whisper. Needless words—I’m already backing away.
“Good night, Neima,” I hear Jorin’s hushed voice from behind me as I continue home.
***
Inside, the cottage is dark and Mother lies on her pallet, her eyes closed. I doubt she’s asleep; more likely she just doesn’t want to speak to me, or to Father when he arrives home. I quickly shrug off this miserable woolen dress and slip into one of my linen shifts, and then I grab the wood remnant and my carving knife where I’ve stashed them under my own
straw pallet. In the kitchen, I stoke the fire just enough to see by and sit cross-legged before it.
I gaze at the wood, turning it over and over in my palm, trying to clear my mind of everything else: Grandfather Noah, the ark, floods and wild animals. I’m still not sure what shape lies within it, but I brace the wood against one hand and pull my knife toward me, following the grain of the wood, until a small pile of cedar shavings litters the floor around me. My heartbeat and breath slow, matching the careful rhythm of my movements, until I’ve pulled the curve of a head and slope of shoulders from the wood. I continue, molding a vague silhouette that no one else could identify, but I know who is taking shape from the wood: someone who’s no longer a boy, but not quite a man, with hair the same shade as the knife I use to carve his form.
Chapter Three
My parents’ urgent whispers, coming from the kitchen, wrench me from sleep. I stretch my arms and legs on my pallet, working out the stiffness in my limbs; I can tell by the sunlight and birdcalls streaming through the small window that morning has come. I don’t remember Father coming in last night…has he slept at all? Have he and my mother been talking all night?
“…he would not take our side!” I hear from my father.
More low mumbles—Mother is better at keeping her voice down.
“Of course I spoke to Ham alone,” Father breaks in, louder still. “He would not be moved!”
More from Mother, as I creep closer to the kitchen.
“No,” Father says, “I don’t think Ham truly believes in this God, or that the flood is coming. None of us do. But he thinks he can gain some special favor from Noah, and— Neima.” I jolt a little, but his voice softens. “I know you’re awake. You may as well come speak with us.”
I move into the kitchen, and Mother swiftly turns her back on me to tend the fire—though only after throwing a look of disapproval my father’s way.
“She’s not a child, Nahala,” Father says. He looks at me, his face sagging with sleeplessness, his hair rumpled as though he’s been running his fingers through it, over and over. “We can trust you not to repeat what you’ve heard, right, daughter?”
I nod. “So…” I swallow, suddenly aware of the dryness in my throat. “Uncle Ham would not support you?”
My mother rakes the bronze poker over the hearth with a sharp, metallic sound. “No, he’d rather let his wife and young daughter cart food to the ark for no purpose, let his son waste his time wandering the woods and trapping animals, let the rest of the village gawk and gossip and—”
I realize Mother is speaking against her own husband as well. Father does not look angry, though, only exhausted and somehow desperate, his wide shoulders drooping beneath the cloth of his tunic. I remember what he said to me so many years ago, when I first heard about the flood and the ark and ran to him in fear: I promise that if you, if any member of our family is ever in danger, I’ll do everything I can to protect you. But Noah and Ham are as much a part of our family as Mother and I are, so how can Father act against them?
Still, a small, petulant voice within me whispers: Shouldn’t he care for Mother, for me, most of all?
Now, Father clears his throat, interrupting my mother’s complaints: “It is only seven days. We will comply with Noah’s demands, but we will draw out each task, doing as little as possible, so we’ll have less to undo when the flood doesn’t come.” As he speaks, my father seems to grow taller, his stance broadening and his voice deepening. His brown eyes tighten in determination rather than defeat, and I realize it helps him to have a plan, to reclaim what control he can.
It should help me too, but I can’t help thinking of—
“And what of the tigers and lions and wolves?” Mother voices my own concerns, brandishing the poker as if to fend off an imagined beast.
Father sighs. “We will deal with the animals when—if—they arrive.”
And, I suppose, that’s really all we can do.
***
We begin by baking bread, moving between Grandmother Nemzar’s kitchen and the courtyard outside her cottage, where we slide the loaves into the round clay oven. We make the loaves flatter than usual and bake them for longer, hoping they’ll last and our flour won’t be wasted, though our teeth will surely suffer from the hard loaves. Noah has already sent Japheth and Kenaan out into the hills above the village to set traps; Ham and my father are at the ark, making any last adjustments my grandfather deems necessary. Noah himself, however, is still here, puttering around the cottage and watching us and grumbling, until I’m ready to cart supplies to the ark just to get away from him. And to escape the heat belching from the outdoor oven.
Aunt Zeda has brought a wooden cart over from her own cottage, as have Mother and I, so together with Grandfather Noah’s cart we have three. We fill three cloth sacks with grain from the clay bin in Noah’s courtyard, load them into the carts, and then Aunt Zeda, Mother and I each take one cart by the handle. We leave Grandmother and Arisi behind to tend the oven and grind more grain into flour, while Shai scampers after us.
I’m immediately jealous of Shai as she skips and twirls in circles, relishing her freedom from the courtyard, until her twin braids fly out at the sides of her head and wisps of dark hair escape. This cart is heavy and cumbersome and leaves me feeling anything but free. The river and the ark look impossibly far away, especially when the cart’s creaky wooden wheels jar over every stick and stone in my path, and I have to jerk on the handle till my shoulder aches.
It gets worse, though: it seems everyone in the village is outside, feeding animals or baking bread in their own courtyard ovens or patching their roofs before the rains come. And it seems every single person stops his or her task to look at us, until their gazes feel warmer than the sun bearing down above us. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck and under my shift like some insidious crawling thing, and I want to shake both it and the stares away, but of course I can’t. I swear the only villagers I don’t catch sight of are Derya and Jorin, and I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed. Either way, judging by the whispers spreading far faster than my mother, my aunt and I can carry our load, my friends will know what’s going on soon enough.
By the time we reach the flat wooden bridge that spans the river, my arms and shoulders throb as much from nervous tension as the physical exertion. We guide the carts carefully across the bridge, and then I’m closer to the ark than I’ve ever been before, the smell of the still-wet pitch so overwhelming I’d cover my nose if I had a free hand to do so. Shai coughs and shakes her head and cries out, “Momma, I can’t live in there, even if there is a flood. It’s cursed, it’s cursed!”
Aunt Zeda just hushes her, so Shai runs to me, wrapping a small tan hand in my skirt. “It’s all right,” I whisper, as much for my own comfort as hers. “We won’t have to live inside it.”
But my father and Uncle Ham are coming toward us, circling around the ark’s hulking black side, and it occurs to me that while we may not be moving in, someone must deposit the grain inside. We can’t leave it out here for birds and squirrels to peck at. And despite everything, I’m curious to see more of this project that’s consumed so much of my father’s and uncles’ time.
Father reaches us and lifts the sack from Mother’s cart, and without asking whether I should wait, I haul up my own sack—with much less ease than he does—and follow him to the other side of the ark.
There is a door—two doors, actually, one that opens to the left and one the right—both propped open and both extending higher than the roof of our cottage. I must be gaping, for finally I realize Father’s been tugging on the sack in my arms, but my grip still won’t loosen. “I’ll take it, Neima,” he says. “Go back to your mother.”
“No.” I shift the bag that’s growing heavier by the moment. “I want to see.”
He sighs as if he’d guessed as much, and then I follow him, stepping up, for the floor of the ark is more than a foot’s length above the ground, and through the massive
doors.
I expected one open, cavernous space, so I’m disconcerted to find myself in a dim hallway. I blink, adjusting to the sudden lack of light, and make out openings to rooms on either side of me; neither appears to stretch to the end of the ark. A ladder looms ahead of me as well, extending through a hatch in the ceiling, and Father notices me staring.
“It leads to the second level,” he explains. “There are two floors within the ark itself, and then the deck house you can see from outside.”
Two levels? Well, of course—the ceiling above me is as high as the doorway, but only about half the height of the entire ark. It’s just, the amount of work this must have taken…
And all these rooms… Father has led me into the one on the left, and two more open doorways lead off from it, further into the depths of the ark. But what did I expect? After seven years of work, with all the nomads Noah’s hired, some returning year after year, I suppose almost anything is possible.
If only all that hard work actually served some purpose.
“You can drop that here for now,” Father says, his voice gruff—I suspect he still feels guilty after this morning. I think he would do both Mother’s and my work for us, if he could. Out of nowhere, I have the strange impulse to wrap myself around him the way I did when I was much younger, when even on tiptoe I could barely reach his waist. But I’m far too old for that now, and besides, he’s already turned to walk back out of the ark, into the midday sun.
***
Though we work as slowly as we can without rousing Grandfather Noah’s suspicions, over the next days we cart dozens of sacks of grain, barrels of dried fruit and salted meat, and bales of hay to the ark. Even Arisi and Grandmother help, when we have no more flour to bake with and little grain left to grind. I’m not sure which is worse: the glares and whispers and even laughter that grow bolder each time we pass through the village, or the knowledge that in just a few more days, we’ll have to carry everything back again—and through rain and over mud, most likely.