“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?
“I—” I have to get this over with. “I have something to ask you, Father, if I may.”
His eyes narrow again, this time in confusion, or perhaps concern. “Yes?”
“Did you— Were there—” I take a breath and then let it all out, as quick as I can. “Is it true people were begging to be let on the ark, and you refused them?”
His eyes widen for a moment, his body slumps in a way I instantly recognize as guilt, and then he casts his gaze back down on the water. He doesn’t have to say anything; I already know.
His voice rasps like two sticks rubbed together as he begins, “How did you—” The question falls away unfinished, barely distinguishable from the rainfall.
I’ve already planned for this, so I
say, “I overheard Ham telling Kenaan.” It seems like something my uncle would do. I open my mouth again, ready to ask Father how he could possibly allow this, but the words refuse to come out. I am not supposed to question my father, just as he is not supposed to question his father. But the entire world is not supposed to fill with water, either, and our village isn’t supposed to be destroyed and my best friend isn’t supposed to—
What does supposed to matter anymore?
So I ask, “Why?”, and my voice comes out higher, more of a whine than I would like, as though I’m just a child who can’t possibly understand the ways of men.
I half expect Father to scream at me, even to slap me, though he’s never done so before. But then I’ve never questioned him like this before. For a moment, everything feels so silent that I’d swear even the rain has stopped, that the whole world is holding its breath.
When Father finally speaks, his voice is calmer, more resigned than I expected. “We had no choice, Neima. These were the same people threatening to burn the ark down just days earlier. What do you think would have happened if we’d let them all on board?”
“They—they wouldn’t really have burned down…” But they might have. Munzir might have, and now his son is on the ark, and I’m the only one who knows.
But that’s not what’s important here, and my next words come out before I’ve thought them through. “So you let them die? That makes you as bad as they are!” I clamp my hand over my mouth, too late. Now I’ve really gone too far.
Father takes my hand in his rough one and lowers it back to my side, his grip firm but gentle, without anger. “You didn’t see them, Neima. They were crowding, pushing, crushing each other like…” He closes his eyes. “Like animals. I wish we could have let the children on—that’s what Japheth wanted to do—but if we had lowered a rope even for a moment, we would have been swarmed. It would have been chaos. People fighting over food, space, each other…they’d likely have destroyed the ark, or buried it under their weight…they might have slaughtered the animals below…”
My stomach heaves as though, once again, the ark is tilting beneath me for the first time. I picture people—people I’ve lived beside my entire life—massing together like cattle, hovering like a flock of birds, or bats, panicked and thoughtless. Perhaps we humans really are beasts, monsters, even; perhaps we really should be destroyed.
Then I turn and look into my father’s eyes, and what I find there—two dark, heavy pools of regret—is somehow worse than any horrific image my mind can conjure. “I understand,” I say, and add silently, though I wish I didn’t, before I retreat to the ladder and descend once more.
***
Before I’ve even stepped off the ladder, the sound of Shai crying—wailing, really—floods my ears. Once my feet land on the rough wood floor, and four walls and a ceiling enclose me once more, I shut my eyes, clench my fists; I’m not sure I can take this right now. But I can’t ignore the feeling of Shai tug-tug-tugging at my skirt, my arm, so I open my eyes to find she’s pulling me toward Aliye in her makeshift nest. When we reach the bird, Shai holds back a gasp long enough for me to hear that Aliye is crying and moaning, too, nearly as loud as Shai herself. “She’s sick,” Shai says, “and Momma says we have to put her back in her cage, because if that bird screams near her ear one more time, she just might wring its scrawny little—”
She keeps going, but I block out her words as I suck in a deep breath. I look around for Shai’s dear “Momma;” she’s still occupied with her husband and son, deliberately ignoring the rest of us. I wonder where Grandfather Noah is right now, and how he would feel about his daughter-in-law murdering one of his precious animals. Aliye might be one of the last two doves left in the world, after all.
I could find Noah, tell him… Except I can’t imagine looking into his face—those hard, dark eyes, that leathered skin framed by the white hair and beard grown longer and more tangled than ever—and speaking so many words. I don’t speak to Grandfather, and he doesn’t listen to me. That’s the way it’s always been.
I kneel to examine Aliye, and let out a cluck of worry. Shai is right—the bird is thinner, noticeably so, her neck so scrawny I’m afraid it will snap as she bobs it back and forth. This doesn’t make sense: we spoil Aliye with bits of our bread and dried fruit, and while the rest of the animals are suffering, she should be plump. Her feathers should be thick and gleaming, not ragged and dull and so suspiciously sparse, I suspect many of them have fallen off and disappeared in the depths of her blanket-nest. “Perhaps she does need to go back in her cage,” I muse. “Perhaps she pines for her mate.” It seems too romantic an idea to be true, though.
“No!” Shai squeals, loud enough to startle me back onto my feet, Aliye in my cupped hands. Her protest has caught her mother’s attention as well, and Zeda turns our way with a scowl so fierce I can feel it from across the room. She starts toward us, but Kenaan reaches a hand out, pulls her back, whispers something low and urgent. And then he’s the one heading in our direction.
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
I avoid his eyes as he studies the bird, places a dark, dirt-streaked hand above her wing feathers. “Have you been feeding it gravel?”
“Gravel?” The word is out before I remember I’m not speaking to Kenaan. Shai repeats my question, and to my relief, Kenaan responds to her rather than me, kneeling down to meet her gaze.
“You have eyes”—he rests two fingers on her forehead, one above each delicate eyebrow—“two perfectly capable, perfectly beautiful eyes—”
Shai giggles, and I try not to blame her for it. She’s only ten, and Kenaan is charming. Insufferably so. Still, I wish he would get to the point.
By the time he starts talking about chickens, I’m ready to walk away, dove and all, until I hear, “…and you’ve never noticed the hens pecking at pebbles behind our house? The rock pigeons nibbling at sand and silt by the river?”
I realize that I have observed this; I’ve just never had reason to think about it before. I don’t respond, though, and Shai only shrugs, wide-eyed. Kenaan pinches his sister’s full lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, pulls it down to expose her small teeth, tweaks it a bit before releasing it and giving her nose a poke for good measure. I want to be disgusted, but there’s no malice or lust in his movements; he truly loves Shai, the way an older brother should love his sister. He would never hurt her—I can tell by the light in his eyes when they meet hers.
“Birds don’t have beautiful teeth like yours,” he goes on. “In fact, they don’t have any teeth at all. They swallow gravel so it can grind their food to tiny pieces in their stomachs. If they can’t find gravel, they get sick and weak, like your dove here.” He taps three fingers gently, almost affectionately atop the bird’s head as he rises to his feet again.
I’m stunned. How could Kenaan notice something like this, something so subtle and beautiful about the way the animal world works—worked, before it was all destroyed—when I’ve never even considered it? Wasn’t he too busy chasing after pretty girls like Derya, or admiring his reflection in the river?
“So why aren’t the other birds starving? Why is the hen below still laying eggs?” Once again my questions rush out, harsh and suspicious, before I can bite them down.
Aliye squawks peevishly in my hands as if in echo, and Kenaan answers nonchalantly, “Because I’ve been giving them gravel. I brought a big sack of it onto the ark.” He smiles down at Shai. “I’ll get some for your dove, and she should perk right up.” He lifts his eyes to mine for a moment, still smiling but tentatively now, before he turns—
—turns and leaves me utterly perplexed, more furious than ever. What right does he have to be kind and thoughtful now, when I need to hold on to my hatred of him? I can’t bear all this—living with Kenaan and his parents and our grandparents, the ark, the animals, the rain, the hunger, all of it—without the help of that hot, hard anger.
I look down at Aliye as she rests quietly in my hands,
calm and placid and even sweet. Is this the same bird who was shrieking my head to pieces minutes ago? And is this Kenaan, the one who’s returning now with a handful of sand and pebbles, smiling at his sister, the same boy who trapped me in the dark, pushed me against a wall and forced his lips to mine?
And while I’m asking impossible questions… How is my father, the man who held me close when I was Shai’s age, who promised he’d always keep me safe, the same person who let innocent children die? And how is Grandfather Noah, my mad, foolish grandfather Noah, our prophet and savior? Is he our savior?
I hand the dove over to Shai, walk away, let her and Kenaan take care of Aliye for now. My mind, even my body is too full of wanting to hold anything else. Wanting things to be simple, clear, the way they used to be, when I knew who was good and who was bad, whom to hate and whom to love.
Wanting the world to be whole once again.
Chapter Ten
Later that evening, while everyone’s preoccupied with dinner and various minor crises, I gather another sack of supplies for Jorin. A peace offering. I mean to take it to him that night, but though I try to sit up till the snores all around me echo against the rainfall, I can’t keep my eyes open. Soon I find myself tumbling deeper and deeper into dark, drowning dreams of Derya. I face her, both of us floating underwater; her hair twists and coils and knots like tangles of river weeds, hiding her face, arms, chest behind its shadowy mass. Black locks thread through my fingers, tickle my wrists, wrap around my arms and up to my neck—Derya’s hair was never this long or this strong, this alive, like a nest of snakes—pulling tighter, tighter till I’m gasping for breath, trying to propel myself back to the surface, to wakefulness.
By the time I force my eyes open, the dim light that passes for morning has crept its way into the corners of the ark, and my mother and aunts are already stirring. So I go about my day as usual, wait for a quiet moment to smuggle the supplies down to Jorin, and leave them by the elephants’ pen. He’ll understand what I mean by offering them, and he’ll know to expect me tonight.