Forty Days: Neima's Ark, Book One (7 page)

“
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.”

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 surprised 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: