“Fish,” a high voice calls just behind me, and I turn to see Shai. I didn’t even realize she was here. “Feed them fish.”
“I don’t think…”
She’s already run off, and she returns a minute later with a handful of salt-cured fish. I frown down at it.
“They live near the sea,” she insists, breaking the fish into small pieces and throwing it right into the birds’ full water trough.
“Shai! What are you doing?”
“The trader told me!” she protests in the pouting voice of a child too used to being scolded.
Before I can say more, both birds hurry over and dip their heads into the water, their beaks opening and closing so fast they appear to be shaking, or shivering. In a few moments, the fish are gone.
“Well.” I put one hand on Shai’s shoulder, glad she was here to help me. “Good job.”
Shai follows me to the elephants, and I find that someone—probably Japheth, as he’s skilled and quick with wood—has built a two-sided fence, enclosing them against the ark walls, and filled the space with hay. Perhaps Japheth sensed how much I liked the elephants, and he wanted to give them what little comfort he could. I’ll have to thank him.
Japheth has even built a little latched door into the fence, and I step through it, dragging the pig trough, while Shai follows with a water skin. As soon as I empty the water into the trough, the male elephant lumbers over, sucks the water up with his trunk…and dumps it all over his back.
I want to call out the elephant’s name in reprimand, but he doesn’t have one, so I just put my hands on my hips and say, “What a waste! I had to carry that water all the way from the riv—”
The elephant blows the last drops of water from its trunk right into my face, and I gasp. Shai’s laugh rings out, and I swear the elephant is laughing too, along with his sister behind him, both their mouths open wide. And, all right, I’m smiling as well. The cool water is refreshing, even if it’s wasteful.
“You—you—” Clearly I’ll have to give the elephant a name. “I’ll call you Bilal”—wet—“because that’s what you’ve made me.”
The female elephant taps her trunk on my shoulder, reminding me not to leave her out.
“We could call her Enise,” Shai suggests, patting the elephant atop her head.
Enise means lovable or friendly, and both seem perfect to me.
***
By the time we leave the ark, the sun is low in the sky—or it would be if we could see it, but the clouds have grown even thicker, nearly hiding the sun’s rays completely. At first I’m just happy to breathe air free of animal odors, but then I see Noah facing Munzir and the clump of disgruntled villagers behind him. My chest tightens, and when I catch sight of Jorin standing beside the river, looking from his father to me with those wide, worried eyes, what last bit of breath remains is squeezed from my lungs.
Mother clutches my hand and yanks me forward. “Come on,” she mutters, “leave the men to their arguing. We still have supper to prepare.”
But as we move closer to the crowd, we can’t help but listen to Munzir’s shouts. His voice is so acrid, hateful, even, that I find it hard to believe he’s Jorin’s father. “I’ll give you one more day,” he says, “and if that tiger isn’t gone, I’ll, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” Noah breaks in. His own voice is lower, calmer, yet it thrums with the strength of his conviction as he proclaims, “For God will smite down any who interfere with His will.”
Munzir opens his mouth, perhaps to laugh; but just at that moment a single drop of rain falls from the sky, so slowly, so agonizingly slowly, and lands with an audible plink on the crown of Munzir’s forehead. It traces its way down the center of his nose, over the curves of his now-closed lips, and down his chin until it falls from the tip of his beard, disappearing into the dry, thirsty ground.
We all wait, breaths held, for the next drop to fall, perhaps on our own sweat-soaked, thirsty foreheads. But the clouds seem to be holding their breath too, and no more raindrops come. Instead, the words fall from Munzir’s mouth:
“If that tiger isn’t gone by the day after tomorrow,” he says, “I’ll burn down your precious ark, and every creature within it.”
Chapter Five
On the sixth day, we feed and water the animals.
While Noah remains in his cottage all morning, unconcerned, my father and uncle argue over whether to leave the tiger outside the ark, where it—she—will antagonize the villagers, or bring her inside, where she will antagonize the other animals. Eventually they bring her in, and the instant squeals and grumbles, whimpers and moans, and even a few low growls from throughout the ark astound me. The animals seem to possess some innate sense, beyond hearing or smell or sight, that alerts them to the presence of a true predator.
Even disregarding the tiger, though, the animals are clearly suffering from their confinement. Some pace and snarl in agitation; others appear listless and apathetic. I imagine that they, like me, are waiting for the slap-slap of the first raindrops against the ark’s wooden roof. I suspect that the echo of falling rain will dance beneath the ark’s high rafters, like a cacophony of eager footsteps; that it will sound nothing like the familiar hiss and sizzle of the raindrops disappearing into the thatched roof of our cottage. But I don’t find out, for since that first drop of rain against Munzir’s forehead, the clouds have held their breath. It feels like the world itself has teased us, tricked us, promising relief and then withholding it. My throat is so dry it aches, but I know every sip of water I take is one less for the animals
I save the elephants for last, and though Shai and I spend as long as we can petting and soothing them, Enise and Bilal still bellow after us when we must go. We can’t allow Munzir to destroy the ark and—
Apparently my father and uncles have the same concern, though perhaps not for the same reason, for I find them gathered before the ark’s open doors, arguing again. Noah is here too, proclaiming that God will take care of Munzir, that we need only to wait. Ham nods in agreement—sincere or not, who can tell?—while Father murmurs that Munzir’s threats are likely just hot air, and Japheth says that the rain sure to come at any moment will distract the entire village. My stomach churns; my throat burns even hotter. They aren’t going to do anything. They aren’t going to protect the animals we’ve stolen, wrenched from their wild homes for no reason at all. The whole thing makes me sick to my stomach.
I hurry ahead to the cottage, wanting nothing more than to be alone. The villagers’ threats and taunts, Keenan’s lies, Jorin’s and Derya’s betrayals—it’s all too much. I have never felt so small and so powerless.
***
I sleep poorly and wake early to a hissing sound, like a serpent against my ear. I curl into myself, shivering a bit, when I realize it:
The temperature has dropped. The hissing sound is wind, and water. The rain has come.
I jump up, my shivers gone—it’s not cold, just wonderfully cool, with a whirling breeze carrying the scent of rain through the window—and hurry outside. As I expected, the whole village seems to be standing outdoors, faces tilted upwards, the children laughing and squealing and catching raindrops on their tongues. The rain is light, a mere tickle on my skin, and it lifts the tension from my muscles as surely as it’s lifting the drought and heat from the earth. How could anyone think of fire, of flames and destruction and death, at a time like this? Even Munzir’s spirits will lift today, and he’ll hold off. I’m sure of it.
By the time I’ve tended to our own sheep and goats—they’ve certainly been neglected these past seven days, poor things—and headed back inside, my tunic is soaked through. I change into a dry one and, on impulse, wrap a wide cloth belt of cornflower blue around my waist. I want to feel as fresh and new as the world around me, if only for a moment, before I’m wet and muddy and disheveled again.
Mother tells me not to go to the ark—only the men are going today, in case Munzir does try something—and I’m surpr
ised to find my mood deflating. I realize I was actually looking forward to the ark, despite the wretched smell and endless work, for the chance to see Bilal and Enise, the flower-birds and even, from a distance, the tiger.
Mother has her spindle out, and I begin to thread the loom, which will occupy so much of my time in the rainy months to come. I choose a light gray yarn, dyed with iris root, that reminds me of the shade of Bilal’s skin. By the time I’ve woven this cloth, Bilal and his sister will be long gone, roaming near some ample lake where they can waste as much water as they want splashing each other…
It seems that only a moment has passed when the whisper of rain against the walls dissolves all at once, swept away in a sudden torrent of sound, a rush of water tumbling earthward with the roar of some great beast. Rain spits sideways through the windows, threatening to turn our floor to mud, and Mother jumps up to close the wooden shutters.
“It’s really coming now,” she says, quite unnecessarily, but I understand—this strangely transformed world just begs to be acknowledged aloud, as if only doing so will make it real.
A crash comes out of nowhere, a sound not of water but of something solid rending, splitting, falling, followed by shrill screaming. I run to the door without thinking and the water hits me like a wall, blinding me, pushing me back. It takes all my strength to force my way outside, where, eyes narrowed, I make out children bracing themselves, hands on knees, some down on all fours in the now-slippery earth. The rains can be ferocious, yes, especially when they first arrive…but have they ever been like this before? Not in my lifetime, I don’t think.
I struggle forward till I can just glimpse the cause of that solid crash, blurred through a curtain of rain: a cottage has crumbled to the ground, its roof split down the middle, its foundation collapsed under the weight of the roof and the water. My throat tightens: that is—or was—Hannah’s dwelling. As a widow with no sons, Hannah had no one to shore up her cottage before the rainy season. How many years have passed since anyone’s even offered to patch her roof?
I look for Hannah herself, knowing Mother would want me to offer her shelter, but I can’t see past the crowd of taller villagers quickly forming around her cottage. Someone will take care of her, at least.
Another crash rings out over the rain, the sound reverberating down to my bones, and before my eyes the roof of another cottage slides forward, over the still-standing walls and all the way to the ground, as easily as mud sliding down a hillside. And this is Emir’s house. I saw him repairing his roof just a day or two ago.
I’m trapped in place, suddenly, my body turned solid as stone in my bewilderment and fear, even as the world is tearing to pieces before me and the rain seems determined to knock me onto my knees. And then, through the swirl of wind and water, a single word rises, a harsh, cutting word, repeating and gathering strength like a chant:
“Curse. Curse. Curse. Curse. The ark has brought this curse upon us.”
I need to move. I need to run to the ark and warn the men, or hurry back to my mother and tell her—what? That our roof may cave in on her?—and Arisi and Grandmother Nemzar and even Aunt Zeda, I must tell them too. Why can’t I move?
When I see my father appearing out of the chaos, his form parting the sheets of rain before him, I don’t trust my eyes. But his rain-slicked hand on my arm is real enough, and my feet finally remember how to lift and step forward, as he leads me back to our own cottage.
Inside, my mother grabs Father’s arms and pulls him to her, but he shakes her off—along with quite a bit of water. “We must go now,” he says, “or the river will be too high to cross.”
“Go?” Her brows furrow. “Go where?”
“The ark, of course.” He casts his gaze desperately around the cottage, looking, I guess, for any supplies he can grab. “Noah wants me to bring our goats, but you two can run ahead and—”
“But Father, they’re saying the ark has caused—”
He shoots me a warning glance nearly as fierce as the weather outside. “Don’t alarm your mother. Not even Munzir could keep a torch lit in this downpour, and the ark will be safer than this cottage. If we can get there now. Grab what you can—blankets, bread—and go! I’ll tether the goats and catch up.”
“The ark, safer? Why?” Mother asks, but Father is already running out the door. I think of the roof caving in over our heads and decide I don’t want to spend one more minute beneath it. I grab a shawl to tie around my head, a blanket and a few extra shifts, and then, impulsively, I reach under my pallet and pull out my bronze knife, tucking it beneath the blue cloth at my waist.
I lead the way to the open doorway, Mother at my heels, and when we step outside she reels back, shocked by the force of the water and wind. I grasp her hand, and she squeezes mine, clutching so hard it’s as if she needs my support to move forward. It’s a strange feeling—I don’t think either one of us has supported the other in years, more like politely tolerated each other’s presence and nothing more—but I can’t dwell on it now.
The raindrops pelt us with the weight of stones as we go on, the ground beneath our bare feet so slippery we nearly slide down like that cottage roof with every step. There’s another crash, and Mother gasps, squeezing my hand even tighter. I don’t even look, not wanting to know whose home has collapsed this time. The only upside is that the villagers are now too distracted to rail on about curses.
“Neima!” My name twists toward me, swirling on the wind, and my eyes follow the sound to see Arisi fighting her way through the wall of water. Japheth has a hand on her arm, doing his best to support her, but he’s also dragging two panicked sheep behind him. I awkwardly shift my bundle of fabric beneath one arm so that, once Arisi’s close enough, I can grab her free hand in mine. Then, with my mother on one side and Arisi on the other, we head farther into the storm.
***
The ark comes into view gradually before us, its dark form separating by degrees from the clouds surrounding it, until it grows so solid and formidable I can almost believe it is cursed, the cause of this destruction around us, still standing strong while everything else falls. But in spite of this we’re moving toward the ark, not away, hoping it will offer us some safety. What else can we do?
Before we can reach the ark, though, we have to contend with the river. I have never seen it rise so fast, the water rushing and roiling toward a boil, and already the flat wooden bridge has nearly disappeared beneath its surface. When we begin to cross, the chilly water swirls around my calves, and it reaches almost to Arisi’s knees, leaving her wobbling and unsteady. But worst of all are the sheep, who tug on their tethers and refuse to set foot in the river, no matter how Japheth yanks them forward. He tries to leave the ewe on the bank and pick up the massive ram, but the ewe bolts for the village and he has to abandon the ram to run after it. It quickly becomes clear I’ll have to trust my mother to guide Arisi across, while I go back to help Japheth.
I clutch the ewe tightly as Japheth half carries, half drags the ram across the rising water. The sheep’s fleece is so slippery I can barely keep my grasp, but I’m afraid if I hold only her tether, she’ll choke in her struggle to escape me: she wants so badly to run from the river, she fights my hold with a force that almost seems to equal the rain above us. By the time Japheth returns to take her from me, I’m gasping for each breath, my heart racing and my arms shaking from my effort.
When I cross the river this time, the water nearly reaches my own knees.
I’ve been so focused on my task that not until I’m across, and have taken a long moment to catch my breath, do I notice what Mother, Arisi and Japheth are all staring at, wide eyed, slack jawed: a bright red spot of flame burning, impossibly, in the midst of this wet gray world.
Munzir and a few other villagers have wrestled a white tarp over a tree and pinned it to the ground, like one side of an open tent, and beneath it they’ve somehow managed to kindle a small fire. Munzir holds a long torch and keeps thrusting it into the flames, but each time
he pulls it out, the rain instantly extinguishes it. As if he senses my eyes on him, he turns his face toward mine: the rain has soaked his hair and beard till it’s black as pitch, black as Kenaan’s curls; his features twist in fury and hatred, and raindrops settle into each crevice of his skin. What has my family done—what have I done—to make him hate me so much? Again I find it hard to believe this man is Jorin’s father. If Jorin’s expression ever contorts with such viciousness, if his eyes ever turn so dark, I don’t know what I’ll—
There’s a blur of movement behind the fire, a figure stepping out from the back of the clump of villagers. I can barely make out his face, and I certainly can’t read his expression, but I know the shade of that hair, golden and distinctive even when it’s so wet it’s plastered to his head:
It’s Jorin. He’s not holding a torch like his father, like the others gathering close to the fire, but he’s there, standing beside them. And that tells me all I need to know.
I scramble to catch up with Mother and Arisi, my heart thudding against my ribcage, my mind whirling like the gusts of air around us. Will they find some way to keep the torches lit? Will they really try to burn down the ark—with us inside it? From the corner of my eye I glimpse sparks of flame moving closer, flying on the wind, and I’m not sure whether I’m imagining them.
“Neima!” I’m startled to hear a male voice calling and then relieved, a moment later, to see Father dragging our goats behind him. His mouth moves, but most of his words are lost to the storm. Still, he waves the goats’ tethers toward me, and I know what he wants.
As soon as I take the goats, Father runs for Munzir and his followers. I look between him and the ark, where Mother and Arisi are already stepping inside, while Noah bursts out past them, his long blue and white robe waving in the wind. I need to bring the goats in, but somehow I’m frozen again, watching Noah approach the fire with a look of wrath to equal Munzir’s on his face.
“Why did you not listen?” Noah roars out over the tempest of sound. His voice is louder than I’ve ever heard it, powerful and assured, no longer the voice of an old man. In fact, it barely seems human. “I warned you,” he goes on, “that God will smite down—”