Noah (20 page)

After what had happened to Na’el, Ham wanted to see his father humiliated, broken. He wanted to see all his years of toil and sacrifice fall to ruin around him.

There was a small part of him that was sickened and shocked by his feelings, and most especially by the level of hatred that he felt toward his father. But there was a much greater part that was even more sickened by the callous way in which his father had left Na’el to die. Ham was certain he would never stop seeing the terror, the sense of betrayal in her eyes just before the screaming mob had overwhelmed her. He would be tainted by that memory forever.

It would haunt his dreams.

And it was all his father’s fault.

The hole in the wall had become large enough for Ham to have stuck his head and shoulders through if he had wanted to. Not that he did, of course. He had no idea who was out there, and was afraid of finding an axe in his skull.

This axe was a particularly savage-looking blade, curved like a half-moon, with viciously sharp prongs at the top and bottom. As Ham watched, the blade hacked back and forth, splintering the wood and widening the hole with each blow.

He wondered what the owner would look like. He knew he would soon find out, and although the prospect was like a freezing cold hand gripping his heart, he couldn’t deny a certain amount of delicious anticipation mixed in with the fear.

Suddenly the chopping ceased. Aside from the endless staccato of rain, there was silence.

Ham tensed, wondering what would happen next.

There was a grunt, a thump, and a shuffle of movement. A moment later a dark, bulky shape slid in through the hole and crashed to the floor.

The figure lay there, breathing heavily in a series of rough, rattling gasps, its body heaving and deflating like a stranded fish. Ham remained motionless, his heart beating wildly, his fingers and toes turning cold with fear as the blood drained from them. He wanted to jump to his feet and flee before the man recovered—if it
was
a man.

Yet he was too terrified to move. What if the man was only pretending to be exhausted? What if, once Ham made his move, the intruder suddenly leaped to his feet and came at him with the axe?

Then the prone figure gave a guttural groan and rolled over on to his back.

It was Tubal-cain, the warrior king whose sword Ham once had carried. His leg was so badly wounded that Ham was surprised he was not already dead.

* * *

When Naameh entered the Hearth, she found the floor covered in ash, and Shem, Ila, and Japheth clustered together in a shivering knot, their arms wrapped around one another.

“What happened?” Naameh gasped, rubbing her back. She was still nursing her own bumps and bruises.

Quickly Ila told her. Naameh looked at her youngest son with horror, then rushed across the room, dropped to her knees and embraced him.

“Thank the heavens you’re safe,” she whispered.

There was a creak as the door opened behind her. She twisted around to peer over her shoulder.

Noah, looking old and exhausted, stood in the
doorway. He was shaking with cold and shock, water dripping from his hair and beard, and from his saturated skin and clothes. He looked like a drowned man returned from the depths. He clutched a spear in his hand.

Staring at the spear, Japheth gasped.

The point was dripping with blood.

Noah turned slowly and stared at the spear. It was as if he was seeing it for the first time.

Then he opened his hand, dropping the weapon so that it landed with a clatter.

Turning slowly, ponderously, he pushed the door closed behind him.

And then, with a groan, he collapsed heavily against it.

…On that day, all the fountains of the great deep burst forth, and the windows of heaven were opened. And rain fell upon the World forty days and forty nights.

T
ubal-cain was lying on a hard surface which had been cushioned by something soft—leaves or straw or sacking. He felt weak, feverish, shivering and sweating at the same time, both hot and cold.

Gasping with effort, he pushed himself upright, onto his elbows. Immediately he felt faint, dizzy. Nausea rushed through him. He fought it down.

He tried to move his legs, to use his feet to brace himself so that he could sit up. The movement caused him to howl in pain—then quickly, instinctively, he stifled it by ramming the fingers of one hand into his mouth.

Nobody can know that I am here.
But why? He couldn’t remember. His thoughts felt waterlogged, his head full of roaring, hissing.

Like rain.

He turned his throbbing head toward the wall he had breached. But he was surprised to see that
there was no hole. The wall was intact.

And then he stiffened.

Someone had patched it.

Somebody knew he was here!

He shook his head, desperate to clear it, to take stock of the situation. Why was he feverish? It was his leg, wasn’t it? Something was wrong with his leg. Waves of heat were flowing from it, pulsing upward through his body. He had injured it, hadn’t he? Yes. He remembered now. He had injured it when the Watcher had exploded.

He looked down.

His leg had been bandaged. It was no longer a clean bandage—blood had seeped through, staining the material—but it had been carefully applied and secured, all the same. And next to his makeshift cot, which had been positioned out of sight behind rows of wooden compartments—each of which contained one or more sleeping reptiles—was a loaf of bread, some dry fruit, a jug of water.

It was only then that he realized how hungry he was. He snatched up the food, began to devour it, and then took a long drink of water.

How long have I been here?
he wondered.
Hours? Days?

He ate and drank his fill, and then, carefully, taking care not to jolt his injured leg, he peeled back the stained bandage and examined his wound.

It was terrible. Worse than he’d remembered or realized. The flesh was mangled, burned, stripped away.

He lay back, exhausted, sweating, teeth chattering. Who had been looking after him? Noah? His wife? One of the children?

The boy perhaps. The one who had been so
proud to carry his axe. What was his name?

He couldn’t remember. His mind was so dark, so confused.

He closed his eyes, and within seconds had slipped back into a fitful, feverish sleep.

* * *

As always, Japheth woke listening to the rain.

He liked it. It soothed him. It was the last thing he heard every night, and the first thing every morning.

Most of the time, during the day, he didn’t hear it. There were too many things to do, too many people to talk to.

But when he was alone he liked to sit and listen to it. He thought that if he listened hard enough, he might one day hear the voice of the Creator speaking to him, just as He sometimes spoke to Father.

Reaching beneath his pillow, Japheth pulled out a small triangle of metal, part of a broken blade he had found in the clearing one day, before the rains had come.

If mother found out that he had it, she would probably try to take it from him. She didn’t like weapons.

But Japheth didn’t use the blade as a weapon. He used it merely to record the days.

Each day when he woke up, he put a fresh scratch in the wooden floor beside his bed, and that was what he did now.

Another scratch, next to the four scratches that were there already.

The fifth scratch.

The fifth day.

* * *

It was the cries for help that drew Shem and Ila to the huge hatchway door. Shem untied the knots in the thick ropes that secured it, and together he and Ila heaved it open.

They stepped out on to the top of the ramp. The rain was still pouring relentlessly from the endless shifting bruise of the sky. The gray sea through which the Ark drifted was pockmarked with droplets, twitching and jerking like a living thing. The cold wind plucked at their layers of clothing, and Ila shivered and huddled into Shem, who wrapped her in his arms and held her tight.

Not all of the mountains had been submerged. Not yet. The tallest few still jutted above the surface of the ocean, their peaks forming rocky, barren islands. The shrill cries for help, desperate and heart-rending, were coming from one of those islands. Ila and Shem saw that despite the rain the craggy rock was coated with ice, and that the dozen or so people clinging to it were thinly dressed, shuddering, their skin blue-white with cold.

They were not soldiers. They were a family group—or at least they seemed composed of the remnants of several families. There were a few men, a few women, and half a dozen children.

The men were waving their arms, the women holding out their hands in supplication, or gesturing at their thin and bedraggled children as they begged for mercy. All eyes were on Shem and Ila, and she could see the blend of desperation and hope on their faces.

“We’ve got to help them,” she said.

Both of them jumped as a gruff voice spoke behind them.

“No.”

They turned as one. Noah was standing there, a brooding presence, his face grim. He eyed the small knot of survivors with suspicion and resentment, almost as if he believed they had been put there to test his resolve.

“We could throw out ropes, drag them—” Ila began.

But Noah cut her off. “I said
no
!”

She quailed in the face of his anger, but Shem persisted.

“You can see they aren’t soldiers, Father. They’re just people. There’s room.”

Noah was immovable as granite. “There is no room for them.”

The Ark drifted away from the island. When the people realized there was no help forthcoming they began to scream and wail. Full of guilt and pity, Shem and Ila watched as a man leaped into the sea, followed moments later by a woman, and both of them tried frantically to swim toward the Ark.

But the pair were too weak, and the sea too cold, too rough.

Before they had covered even half of the distance, both sank beneath the waves, and were lost.

* * *

Although the Hearth was warm and cozy, and the rugs and cushions that the family sat on were comfortable, dinner that night was a somber affair. Only Noah and Japheth ate with anything like enjoyment. The rest of the family picked unenthusiastically at their food, while casting glances at Noah that ranged from disappointment,
to disgust, to—in Ham’s case—downright hatred.

He had rejoined them a short time before, and though Naameh had tried to make him feel welcome, he persistently refused to speak.

For all of them, conversation was minimal, perfunctory. The atmosphere was laden, heavy and awkward. Noah ate steadily, and when he had finished, he gently placed his plate on the floor at his side. Only then did he look up, his gaze focusing on each of them in turn before he spoke.

“Soon everything we know will be gone,” he said. “All that is left of Creation will lie within these walls. And outside—just the waters of chaos again.”

His voice was calm. No one said anything in reply. Noah’s gaze shifted. He looked directly at Ham, who started, then looked away, then made ready to leave.

“Please,” Noah said, raising a hand. “You’re angry. You judge me. But listen, Ham. Let me tell you a story. It is the first story my father ever told me. The first story his father told him.” He looked around at them all, then his voice grew quieter. “And it is the first story I ever told you. All of you. Listen to it one more time, and then judge me.”

Ham, who had half-risen to his feet, sighed and sat down again. Noah nodded, a silent gesture of thanks.

“In the beginning,” he said, “There was nothing…”

He leaned across and covered the tzohar lamp that was lighting the room with a cloth. The room went dark. The shadows gathered around them. In the gloom the clattering of the rain and the howling of the wind seemed closer and more mournful than ever.

Noah’s voice was rich and soft, but it cut through the wailing of the storm.

“Nothing but the silence of an infinite darkness.”

Perhaps it was only coincidence that caused the wind to diminish and the rain to lessen at that moment. Perhaps it was something else.

“But the breath of the Creator fluttered upon the face of the void, whispering, ‘Let there be light’.”

Noah uncovered the lamp again, and the shadows went away, scuttling like spiders into the nooks and crannies.

“And light was,” he said. “And it was good. And light separated itself from darkness, and darkness from light. And this was the First Day.

“And the formless light took on substance and shape. A Second Day.

“And the world was born. Our beautiful, fragile home. A great warming light nurtured its day—a sign for seasons, for days and years.

“And a lesser light ruled the night. And there was evening. And morning. Another day.

“And the waters of the world gathered themselves, waters unto waters. And in their midst emerged dry land. And it was good—for the water was pristine and the land rich and fertile.

“Another day passed. And the ground put forth grasses and trees… the boldest flowers, the sweetest fruits. Not just our tiny forest in a lonely corner of a dead world, but a thick blanket of green and growing things, stretching across all Creation.”

* * *

Noah’s voice was soothing, lilting. It rose and fell with the cadence of poetry. Sitting cross-legged, his belly full and his thoughts a little woozy, Japheth stared up at his father’s grizzled, bewhiskered face, and he saw it all in his mind’s eye—the world rising from
darkness, the seas gushing forth, forests blooming and dying and blooming again.

As the words unfolded, so they turned the boy’s thoughts into pictures. Into life.

“And the waters too swarmed with life,” Noah continued. “The great monsters of the deep that are no more.

“And the multitudes of fish who still swim beneath the seas.

“And soon the sky was streaming with birds.”

He swept his hand through the air above his head, and Japheth
saw
the birds there. A million designs. A million colors. Beautiful, exotic, breathtaking. A miracle of Creation.