Forty Days: Neima's Ark, Book One (13 page)

I study his face—the set of his jaws,
the lowered brows, the darkened eyes—and the certainty I see there
frightens me.

“
All—all right,” I say,
sure there’s something I’m not understanding, perhaps something he
hasn’t told me. But then my thoughts turn in another direction.
“You—you’ve been following me for days. You left those wood
remnants for me!”

He casts his gaze downward, sheepish
yet satisfied. “I can see it in your eyes, Neima, when you look at
those animals—you want to capture them in the wood. You should do
it. You should let yourself do something just for the pleasure of
it. You need it—we all do.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I
settle on a more practical question: “How do you even know I have
my knife?”

He smiles again, but it’s softer, more
subdued. “Because I know you, Neima.” Something seems different
about him, something beyond his physical transformation. A new
sadness hides behind his words, beneath the curve of his lips—a
sorrow I’ve never seen before, not even when he spoke of his
father. This disaster has changed him, as it’s changed us all. He
reaches for me, tentative now, and brushes his fingers across my
shoulder…

…
and I pull away, suddenly
irritated. “You followed me. Watched me without my
permission.
Frightened
me.”

“
I’m sorry, I
just—”

“
It’s… It’s…” I search for
the right word. “It’s
wrong
. It’s an
intrusion.”

“
I know. I said I’m sorry,
all right? I think I wanted you to find me, if that makes you feel
better.” I scowl at him, and he throws his hands up in frustration.
“I just had to make sure you were safe, in case Kenaan tried
anything. After I failed you last time…”

My breath catches. With the surprise
and relief of finding Jorin alive, I completely forgot why I was so
angry with him. Now, he takes advantage of my confusion and grabs
my hand.

“
Listen, Neima: that’s
what I wanted to tell you. When I saw you and Kenaan, I—I thought
maybe you wanted him to… So I hung back, and by the time I was
sure, you were already fighting him off, and I tried to come help
you, but you were so fast—”

I look away. “It’s all right. It
hardly seems to matter anymore, with all that’s happened.” I force
myself to stare into those brown eyes, not so open and hopeful as
they used to be, but still flecked with hints of gold. “I don’t
suppose Derya’s hiding here as well?”

Now he looks away. “No. No, I’m afraid
not.”

A moment stretches out in what seems
like silence, despite the animal jabbering that fills the room;
then a wolf’s howl rents the air, high and keening and mournful. I
shiver and say, “Look, Jorin, I’ve promised not to reveal your
presence; will you promise me something as well?”

His hand squeezes mine. “Of
course.”

“
Don’t follow me anymore.
It’s eerie enough down here without—”

“
But…but Kenaan! If he
tries anything, I’ll never forgive myself.”

I drop his hand and reach for my belt,
pulling up the handle of my knife tucked within until Jorin can see
it. “I can take care of myself. I did before.”

“
All right,” he agrees,
but his hands clench into fists at his sides. He opens his mouth to
say more, and then—

“
Neima!” Mother again,
though the echo of her voice tells me she’s still a safe distance
from us. “We’re all going upstairs. Hurry and finish
up.”

“
Yes, Mother,” I call back
as frustration fills me. Why must she choose this day to be
concerned? I wait a few breaths before whispering to Jorin, “I
should go, or they’ll get suspicious. But I’ll come back tonight,
when they’re sleeping. I’ll see if I can find you a fresh
tunic—Aunt Zeda brought extras—and a blanket, some bread and water—
How have you survived for so long?”

Jorin casts his eyes downward, rolls
his shoulders inward: sheepish again. “I’ve been poaching off the
animals. But just a little from each one, I swear!”

“
Not the tigers, I
hope?”

He grins, relaxes his shoulders. “No,
not the tigers. Nor the wolves or jackals.”

“
All right, well—” I can
hardly bear to leave him. I’m afraid he’ll vanish again, that all
this is no more than a desperate wish, a vision brought to life by
my own hunger and confusion. But I have to go. “Tonight. I’ll meet
you by the elephants?” Impulsively I grab his arm once more,
squeezing the solid flesh.

“
Ow!” He shakes his arm in
pretended agony. “You don’t have to maul me! I’ll be here, though I
have to say, it will be quite an imposition on my valuable
time.”

I smile again; it feels good.
“Tonight,” I whisper, and then I turn to go.

***

I intend to doze awhile before I bring
Jorin the supplies I’ve gathered and hidden under my blanket: a
full water skin, a sack of bread and raisins, and a tunic of
Kenaan’s I’ve taken from Zeda’s stash. If she notices it missing,
she shouldn’t have any reason to suspect me.

Still, once night falls
and even Aliye and the other birds next door quiet down, I find my
body and mind unwilling to fall into sleep. Maybe it’s a good
thing, since I won’t suffer through another nightmare of Derya’s
ghost… Then something occurs to me.
That’s
why I didn’t dream of Jorin’s
ghost. Some part of me must have sensed his presence here, alive
and only steps away from me in the depths of the ark.

When I can hear not only the snoring
of the women beside me, but the even louder breaths and snorts and
wheezes drifting in from the men’s room next door, I know it’s
time.

I hold my breath as I gather my hidden
stash, rise to my feet, and tiptoe toward the doorway. My greatest
fear is that Aliye will wake and call out, but to my relief, she
doesn’t. Then I have to weave a perilous path through the sleeping
men, within a darkness so deep it seems solid, in order to reach
the ladder. Halfway down the rungs, my foot lands too hard, and the
wood groans below me. I freeze, certain I’m about to be discovered,
but when the snoring continues I creep the rest of the way down to
the lower level.

I know the blackness hides wild things
with sharp teeth—I can hear some of them crying out and others
pacing, prowling in their cages—but I’m too excited to feel much
fear. Still, I wish I’d thought to bring one of Aunt Zeda’s oil
lamps. Though I hold my arms out before me, I knock against cages
quite a few times, but eventually I make it to the far wall. I’m
feeling down the length of it for the doorway when a hand falls
onto my shoulder, and my whole body seems to snap in
shock.

I’ve just recovered enough
to breathe again, and I’ve opened my mouth to tell Jorin off for
scaring me, when a pair of lips presses against mine. Fleshy,
demanding, somehow
familiar
lips, and I know—

It’s Kenaan.

I drop my sack to the ground, use both
arms to push him away with all my strength. He goes willingly
enough, only to snarl out, “Still playing coy, Neima? Surely you
know there’s no point to that any longer.” He moves closer again,
so I can smell the sweaty, animal stink of him, and kicks the sack
at my feet. The sloshing sound of water reverberates in my gut as
he asks, “Water for your precious elephants, huh? They can’t wait
for morning like the rest of these miserable creatures?”

A pause; I can sense his body coiling
with tension, a predator about to strike. “Or was there another
reason you snuck down here?”

I freeze, willing myself not to panic,
not to reveal how close he’s come to the truth.

“
You know what I think?”
He moves closer still, so I can feel the hot puffs of his breath
hitting my face, can see the gleam of his teeth against the
darkness. My back is pressed against the ark wall now; I have no
space left to retreat. “I think you wanted me to hear you, to wake
and follow you down here. I think you want this as much as I
do—”

I actually relax the smallest bit;
Kenaan’s inflated ego has him so thoroughly deluded, I won’t have
to worry about him discovering the truth. But then he breaks
through the meager space left between us, closes his lips over mine
once more…

…
and I realize I still
have plenty to worry about. I can’t breathe, can’t escape the acrid
taste of him and the insistent pressure of his body against mine.
Though I can’t see them in the darkness, a vision of his eyes swims
before me: black and narrowed, shrewd and cold. Hungry. Jackal’s
eyes. Wolf’s eyes. Then his hands are on me, pawing at my
threadbare shift, but they don’t touch my belt and I realize the
darkness gives me an advantage as well. Kenaan is so sure of
himself, he’s not even bothering to restrain my arms.

I take a deep breath. Steel
myself.

And then, all in one movement, I pull
the knife from my belt and place the cold, sharp edge against his
throat.

His mouth goes slack against mine. His
hands fall from my shift. He steps back, and I let him, but I
continue to hold the knife up before him.

“
Have you gone mad,
Neima?” he asks, his voice shifting from bluster to disbelief.
“Where did you even get—”

“
I have not gone mad,” I
cut him off, fighting to keep my own voice from trembling. “But we
are not married yet”—I step toward him, and he stumbles back, away
from the knife—“and I will not allow you to touch me.” We move in
an awkward sort of dance, keeping a safe distance between us,
dodging cages as we make our way back to the ladder. I’m afraid my
heart will beat itself out of my chest, but I manage to keep my
steps sure, my breath steady, till Kenaan reaches the ladder and
scrambles up it.

I wait to see if he’ll return with the
others, though I don’t think he will—he has too much pride to
reveal what happened tonight. By the time my heartbeat has slowed,
I’m sure he’s not coming back.

I tuck my knife into my belt and take
a few steps away from the ladder and into the darkness. I know that
once again, I’m not alone, and there’s no point in trekking all the
way to the elephants.

I take a deep breath. “All right,” I
say. “You can come out.”

By the time Jorin and I reach the
elephants, my limbs have stopped trembling, but my muscles seem
about to melt with the sudden release of tension. Jorin clearly
knows this maze of cages better than I do, and he’s led me through
the darkness without a single misstep or collision; still, I’m so
exhausted that, after fumbling through the latched door of the
elephant’s fence, I nearly collapse onto the filthy floor. I feel
around for Bilal and Enise’s familiar leathery skin, and I find the
nearest of the two lying on its side, legs and trunk outstretched.
My hand catches on the cold smoothness of its little tusks—so this
is Bilal, not Enise. I’ve never seen the elephants sleeping before,
and somehow I imagined they’d do so standing up, like Aliye
upstairs; but I like the fact that they sleep lying down. It makes
them seem more childlike, somehow. More human.

I lean my back against Bilal’s broad
stomach as it moves in and out in the slow, peaceful rhythm of
sleep. Jorin lowers himself to the ground beside me, and I’m sure
the elephant will sense our combined weight and wake, but he
doesn’t. I curl my knees to my chest, resting my head upon them,
and listen to Jorin rifling through the sack. He finds the water
quickly, and the sound of him gulping it down lasts far too long.
“Some of that was for washing,” I grumble. I remember his
grime-streaked face, and I know he must stink, though the stench of
the animals drowns out everything else. I stink, too—we all do—but
at least the rest of us have the rain to wash off the worst of the
sweat and dirt.

“
Sorry,” he gasps out
between more hurried sips, “just…so…thirsty…”

“
I’ll bring you more
tomorrow, when I’m tending to the animals.” My voice comes out
sharper, snippier than I intended.

A few last sips and then I hear the
sound of the empty water skin hitting the floor, the collapse and
the soft escape of air. “I kept my promise, didn’t I?” Jorin says.
“I didn’t follow you—or, well, I didn’t come too close. I let you
handle Kenaan.”

“
Yes…yes, you did.” Still,
all the excitement of this night, the thrill of seeing Jorin and
sharing his secret, has scattered and dissolved into the murky air
around us. Ruined—not by Jorin, but by Kenaan. I know Jorin feels
it too; I can tell by the way he distracts himself, sifting through
the rest of the pack and examining the contents by touch and smell.
Most of the animals are quiet, and I almost wish for the grumbles
of wildcats and the howls of wolves, or at least the dull thud of
the rain on the roof that’s become such a constant
upstairs.

Rain.
Jorin can’t hear the rain down here, and I’m sure he can’t
imagine the extent of the disaster outside. No wonder he refuses to
reveal himself—he probably thinks that in just a few more days, the
waters rocking the floor beneath us will recede, and we’ll all
leave this wretched prison.

“
It’s still raining, you
know,” I say. “The water has risen higher than you can imagine, and
it seems to be holding steady, if not rising further. Even Noah
hasn’t told us when we might expect—when this will end.” I’ve
wondered if my grandfather has some idea, but I’ve been afraid to
ask, to hear confirmed what I already suspect: that Noah has no
more real knowledge or understanding of this disaster than the rest
of us. “Someone else will find you eventually, or you’ll be forced
out when I can’t bring you enough food. I don’t see why you can’t
just—”

Jorin’s hand, warm and
soft and miraculously dry in this dank place, closes over my arm.
“
No
. You don’t
understand—”

“
So
tell
me.”

I hear him breathe in, out in
hesitation, and then: “I heard them. I heard the people banging on
the side of the ark, shouting, begging to be let in.”

“
You—what?” His words are
strange, indecipherable. Nonsensical.

He puts his other hand on
top of mine, squeezes tight. I imagine his eyes piercing straight
into me, the gold in them flashing, though I see only darkness. “I
found this nook between the ark walls, right where the two sides
join together. It’s actually—it’s just behind us, there.” He takes
one hand from my arm to point, a wasted gesture in the blackness.
“Your father and the others only come by about once a day, and they
make so much noise that I have plenty of warning first. Those first
few days, when I could still hear the rain driven sideways against
the walls, and then when the floor started to shift, I just lay
there with my head against the wall and I…I could
hear
them. Not all the
words, but the screaming…”

I remember those first few days I sat
with my own head leaning against the side of the ark, one floor
above this one. I didn’t hear any screams. It can’t be…

“
You were probably
confused,” I say. “We all were—we were dazed and sick and
frightened. The wind can sound like voices, and it would have flung
trees and fences and bits of houses against the ark—”

“
No, Neima. I thought I
might be imagining it at first; I
wished
I was imagining it. But then
I overheard—”

He stops, lifts his remaining hand
from mine. “What?” I ask, needing to know now. “You overheard
what?”

Jorin lets out a long, heavy breath
before responding, “Isn’t that enough? They were begging to be let
in, and your grandfather wouldn’t allow it.”

I shake my head, though I
know he can’t see it. “Even if people were outside the ark—and I
still think you imagined it—we couldn’t hear them up on the second
level. We didn’t
know
.”

“
They knew, Neima. Your
grandfather and the other men—they heard. They
saw
, when they were up on
deck.”

“
No…” But as I penetrate
the haze of those first few days, it comes back to me, muted, as
though seen through a fog: Noah climbing up and down the ladder,
his hands trembling on the rungs. Ham and my father and Japheth,
following after him.

“
They came down here to
argue about it, Neima, and that’s what I overheard.” Jorin flings
the words out now, each one like a little stone. “Noah said his God
intended for those people to perish, that they were not righteous.
Ham seemed to agree. Japheth wanted to rescue whoever they could,
but…”

He stops. I still think he might have
imagined all this—I remember my own confusion, my own nightmares,
and I had water and air and company where Jorin had only darkness
and the smells and cries of beasts. Despite my thoughts, though,
his stone-words seem to have settled in my stomach, weighing me
down. “But what? What about my father?”

A pause, another heavy breath, and
then… “He…he didn’t say much. He seemed to agree with
Noah.”

I’m on my feet before I’ve fully
comprehended his words. “You’re lying.” I’m shaking my head,
wringing my hands, but I know to Jorin I’m just a disembodied
voice. “My father would never allow innocent people to die, not if
he could do something to help.”

Jorin pushes himself up too, moving
toward me, though I’m already backing away. “I didn’t want to tell
you, Neima—” he starts, but I break in.

“
You’re lying. There’s
some other reason you don’t want to reveal yourself, so you
invented—”

“
No.”

His voice is rising, and mine does too
as I continue, fumbling for the latch in the fence. “You’re lying,
or you’re confused, or— You’re just wrong.”

“
I—”

A sudden series of sounds drown out
Jorin’s words: a creaking of the wooden beams beneath us, a
shuffling and shifting of some massive weight, and finally a bellow
of distress. “See what you’ve done now?” I snap at him. “You’ve
disturbed the elephants!” Both of them are crying out now—Enise’s
cries are shorter and higher than Bilal’s bellow, and even more
trying to my ears.

I expect Jorin to offer some flippant
reply, but to his credit, he doesn’t. I finally find the latch, and
I’m half in, half out of the pen when a trunk wraps around my
wrist. “Not now,” I say, shaking it off. Even the elephants are a
nuisance tonight.

“
Neima—”

“
Good night, Jorin.” I
sigh. “I’ll leave your water here tomorrow.”

***

I wake, groggier than usual, to the
familiar sound of Noah railing at Japheth. It’s always something
different—Japheth is too slow to start work, or too quick to
finish; he feeds the animals too much or too little; he carelessly
drops a bucket of water or fails to notice a hole in a sack of
feed. It’s always something different, but it’s always something. I
suppose my grandfather and his youngest son have always bickered
like this; I was simply never forced to witness it so often
before.

Japheth’s response is always the same,
too: first he pretends he doesn’t hear Noah, which only makes his
grandfather louder and more vehement; then, inevitably, Japheth
will mumble something that sends Noah into a complete fury. Father
will loom over son, jabbing a shaking finger at Japheth’s forehead,
or even near one eye, and then…

Only this last part varies. Usually
Japheth ends up stalking away, head lowered, shoulders slumped,
hands fisted as though he’s holding all his anger within himself.
But sometimes—like now, for instance, as I sit up to find I’m the
last one to awaken, that the rest of the men are trickling into the
women’s room, in search of a few bites of bread—Grandmother Nemzar
intervenes.

I watch her step behind Noah, place
her hands on his shoulders, and whisper something in his
ear—something soft and soothing, judging by the way his expression
slackens and his complaints fade to mutters. Japheth takes the
opportunity to slink away, back to Arisi, who offers a smile so
convincing, even I almost believe she’s oblivious to the tension
around her. How does she do it? How does she stay so patient and
considerate of others when she’s sick and starving for salt and
meat and even dirt?

I turn my attention back to my
grandmother, who is subtly leading Noah away from Japheth and
Arisi, and similar questions flood my mind. Doesn’t Nemzar get
tired of taking care of everyone else, of snuffing their anger out
like flames between her bare fingers? Doesn’t she have any anger of
her own? Doesn’t she ever want to just scream at everyone to stop,
to take care of their own problems, to leave her alone? Or does she
worry that if she started screaming, she wouldn’t be able to
stop?

Or maybe that’s just me.

Mother walks by then, scowling. “Why
aren’t you up, Neima?” she demands. “We have work to
do.”

What does it matter
anyway? We’re all going to die here, so why break our backs lugging
food and water to animals who are dying already?
No—it’s not so easy to say what you
think.

I push myself to my feet, grab an
empty water skin and head for the ladder, though first I scan the
room for Kenaan. He’s in the corner with his parents, eating and
scratching himself. An involuntary ripple of disgust rolls through
me before I turn my eyes elsewhere, relieved; I want to go on deck,
where I can breathe, but not if Kenaan’s up there. Before I can
escape, though, my gaze snags on another face I don’t want to see.
To tell the truth, right now this one troubles me even more than
Kenaan’s.

My father. He’s rooting through a bag
of supplies, not looking anywhere near me, and I can’t help but
study him for a moment. His hair and beard have grown too long,
wild and disheveled, and his eyes have a strange gleam to them, a
determination that hovers just at the edge of despair. It’s how I
imagine my own eyes must look, now, and—

Father wouldn’t leave innocent people
to die, or even guilty ones. It isn’t possible.

I shake my head to clear the murk
inside, and then I head up the ladder, toward the familiar
rainfall.

***

Later that morning, I manage to leave
some water for Jorin, as promised; and he stays away, hidden
somewhere in the shadows, as promised. I no longer feel eyes on me
throughout the endless gray afternoon; I no longer stumble over
oddly shaped pieces of wood in my path. And strangely enough, I
somehow feel a little disappointed, even lonely. Well, there’s no
reason to, and I’ll just have to put it out of my mind.

And then, when the animals have all
been given their paltry portion of food, and the cages are as clean
as they’ll get for the day, which isn’t very, I make one last trip
to the deck so I can rinse some of the muck off in the rain. And I
find my father, standing alone, gazing out at the gray-green
waves.

This is it. This is my chance to prove
Jorin wrong, to settle my worries once and for all. I move toward
Father, my steps muffled by the rain, and I’m sure he won’t hear me
coming. I’ll be able to back out, if I decide to, right up until
the moment I put a hand on his arm and ask—

He whirls toward me, eyes narrowed,
when I’m still several arms’ length from him. He looks so on guard,
as if he fears being caught at something, that it makes my throat
constrict. Then he seems to realize it’s only me; his eyes soften,
his mouth lifting in a tentative smile. “You startled me,” he says.
Has his voice always sounded so thick and parched, so weary? Or is
it just warped by the unceasing echo of the rain?