But perhaps our family is not saved at all. I look out at the rolling waves and wonder if this God might be toying with us, tossing and turning us like those waves, prolonging our suffering before we too are destroyed. After all, how long can we survive in this watery world before our food runs out, or the ark leaks, or some other disaster befalls us?
“Perhaps…” It takes a moment for me to realize the voice comes not from my thoughts, but from Arisi beside me. “Perhaps…” she starts again, and it sounds as though all the breath has been torn from her, the same way my own voice sounds in my head. “…it is not the whole world. Perhaps there is dry land just beyond our sight, with people and animals walking upon it; perhaps the sun is even shining there.” Arisi’s words would seem too full of false hope, too sickly sweet, like a meal made entirely of honey, were it not for the quaver in her voice. And besides, she’s right: the world extends far beyond what we can see, and we have no way of knowing or predicting what exists outside our small corner of existence. The trader with his stories of animals too strange to imagine is proof enough of that.
But all these impossible questions are making my head spin. I suppose the world has always been a mystery too vast to take in at once, but now, with such darkness and danger above and below us, it seems that way more than ever. So I’m almost relieved to hear the clomping, impatient footsteps of my father coming to retrieve us. At least I think it’s Father—
—until I turn to face Uncle Ham, lugging a large wooden bucket in each hand. “As long as you’re up here,” he says, “you can fetch some water.” I’m not sure whether he’s addressing me or Japheth, but I know Japheth will want both hands free to help Arisi down the ladder, so I grab one of the buckets by its handle. Then I find myself staring dumbly at it, wondering if Ham means for me to stand here waiting while it fills with rain. It feels strange and difficult and somehow wrong to set my mind to mundane tasks after what I’ve seen.
“Over here,” Ham continues, his voice rough and unsympathetic—or perhaps that’s only an effect of the warping wind. He walks across the deck to a huge wood barrel that seems somehow bolted to the floor and must hold ten buckets’ worth of rainwater. Just one more example of Noah’s foreknowledge of this disaster. It would make me sick, if I weren’t already.
I fill my bucket and make my way back inside the deck house and down the ladder, a difficult task on wobbling legs. As soon as I’m within the ark, Father rushes forward to take the bucket from me, but I shake my head—I won’t let him do my work any longer. I head for the next ladder down to the lower level, and I realize my mother, Aunt Zeda, and even Shai are preparing to accompany me, along with most of the men. Noah, Father, and Uncle Ham all shout instructions at once, and their voices form one dizzying swirl:
“Buckets and shovels for cleaning are against the right-hand wall. Keep the water buckets separate from the waste containers…”
“Don’t approach the flesh-eaters—Kenaan and Japheth can handle that…”
“Just bring the refuse up here and we’ll toss it over the side…”
“Make sure to ration the animal feed—especially the meat…”
The voices fade as I descend farther, into a smell so thick and noxious it seems to hold weight. The stench pounds against my body, trying to force me back up the ladder, and the shaking in my legs and even my arms increases. I barely make it to the floor before I drop the bucket, lean over, and retch the last meager contents of my stomach.
Just one more thing for me to clean up.
***
It’s darker down here, where there are no windows—the water must be battering against the walls right beside me, a thought that makes me shiver in my still-damp shift—and my vision takes some time to adjust. My ears too need a moment to recover from the onslaught of animal noises, which gradually fades into an ever-present background that I can almost shut out, if I’m determined enough. The smell, though—there’s no shutting that out, and breathing through my mouth is almost worse, for then I can taste the foul odor in the back of my throat.
My water bucket is empty before I’ve made it through a single row of cages, so I join my mother, Aunt Zeda and Shai at the right-hand wall. Along with the others, I grab a shovel and a smaller bucket, one of the ones designated for waste material; then we spread out and set to the odious task of collecting animal dung. I can tell Shai wants to follow me, but Zeda grabs her arm and leads her in the opposite direction. It’s just as well—if she asked me what I saw on deck, I’d have no idea what to tell her.
Father told us to stay away from the meat-eaters, but when I make out the tiger’s telltale growl amid the din, it somehow draws me closer. That feral sound seems to encapsulate everything I’ve just witnessed up above: a world turned dark and dangerous, savage and incomprehensible. So I follow the low rumble till I’m standing only a hand’s breadth before the tiger’s cage, its amber eyes aimed right at mine, two dim flames in the dusky air. Though still massive, the creature now seems more bones than muscle as it paces slowly, deliberately back and forth, back and forth, letting out that desperate snarl all the while. Why? its eyes ask me. Why? its rumble of a voice demands. But it’s answers I want, not more questions, so I just shake my head and walk away.
Soon I reach the young lions, and I wonder whether Father wants me to stay away from them as well. Probably, but after all I’ve seen today, two baby animals just don’t seem like much of a threat. Besides, I’m not sure the poor things can even move. They’re lying on their sides, letting out little mewls of discomfort, and their cage floor reeks with the sticky remnants of vomit. As I open the door and step inside—the lions don’t even seem to register my presence—I realize the vomit really is only remnants, residue…as though the creatures have eaten it and licked the floor nearly clean. No wonder they’re so miserable.
As I continue through the cages, I find that many of the animals have eaten their own vomit, their droppings, or both. I’m torn between a kind of relief—it’s less mess for us to deal with—and worry. The animals must be so hungry, and I’m afraid their eating habits might make them sicker, or at least prolong the discomfort caused by the rocking ark. I’m amazed to realize that I myself must actually be adjusting to the constant movement—standing and walking and working is making me feel better, not worse.
I make two trips back up the ladder with full buckets of animal waste, and on the second I take the refuse up to the deck myself, along with an empty water bucket. I want to fill an entire bucket just for the elephants, whom I haven’t seen yet—they’re fenced all the way in that back corner, after all.
When I’ve nearly made it back to the elephants, I start to worry that they won’t remember me, or worse, that they’ll somehow blame me for trapping them in this miserable place. I’m trapped too, I remind myself. Still, I’m relieved when I hear a welcoming trumpet call and see two gray trunks waving in my direction. Once I’m close enough, Enise and Bilal tickle my face as I dump the water in their trough, and then they quickly abandon me to slurp the water up their trunks and spill it into their mouths. They drink greedily, almost desperately, and don’t waste a single drop by throwing it on their backs or into my face as they did before. In moments the trough is empty again, and this makes me as sad as anything I’ve seen today. I know my reaction’s illogical, perhaps unforgivable—so many people dead, including my best friend, and I’m worried about two elephants—but I can’t help the way I feel.
Setting down the empty bucket, I take Bilal’s trunk in my hands and examine the newly cracked, dry edges. “Your name doesn’t fit so well anymore, does it?” I ask, and both Bilal and Enise turn their wondering full-moon eyes toward me.
I look away, unable to bear their gazes, and something just outside the elephants’ pen catches my attention. I stoop down to pick it up: a piece of wood Japheth must have left behind when he built this fence. It’s bigger than the remnants I usually carve, but if I attempted to recreate these elephants out of wood, it would be the perf
ect size—
No. What am I thinking? I cast the wood piece down and rub both Enise and Bilal on their broad foreheads. It’s getting darker, and I’ll have to leave them soon. I have no desire to maneuver past tigers and wolves and jackals in pitch blackness, even if the animals are caged. I give Enise one last pat and turn to go, but a trunk pokes me between the shoulder blades. No, wait—a trunk wouldn’t have such a sharp edge.
I swivel back around and find Bilal holding the wood piece in his trunk, offering it to me. I shake my head. “You keep it.” His eyes turn down in what looks like disappointment, and I give him another pat on the head as well. “But thank you,” I add under my breath as I finally walk away.
On my way back to the ladder, I catch sight of two more scraps of wood: one by an open doorway, with a long, slender shape that reminds me of the flower-birds; then a thicker, more solid, somehow muscular piece by the tigers’ cage. Odd, but I’m too exhausted by this point to think much of it.
***
Back on the second level, I return to the women’s room to see twin spots of flame piercing through the darkness, an echo of the tiger’s eyes below. Zeda has lit two of her oil lamps—
—and she’s drawn Noah in here to fuss with her. “You’ll set the ark aflame!” he protests, whirling so the ends of his long robe fly out. If anything catches fire, it will be his trailing garment. I’ve always hated that robe, with the musty scent that clings to it even through the driest months.
“We’re going to be here awhile,” Zeda snaps back, “and you can’t expect us to go on when we can’t see our own hands before our faces!” So she knows what’s happening outside as well. And while she may have the strongest stomach of all of us, it appears her mind is not so sturdy: she must be truly distraught, if she dares to challenge Noah. She’s spent so many years flattering her father-in-law, and now she risks undoing all her work in one moment. If Ham finds out what she’s done, he’ll be furious.
“Husband.” Nemzar speaks softly, soothingly, as she approaches and places a hand on Noah’s arm. We’re all beyond bedraggled, but she still looks somehow beautiful in the low lamplight, the hints of red in her hair flickering along with the flame. “We’ll be careful. We could all use a little light.”
Noah just harrumphs, but he walks away without insisting Aunt Zeda extinguish the flames. He stops in the corner where Japheth and Arisi are tucked together, whispering, and clears his throat. “Your wife may be unable to work,” Noah grouses, “but you, Japheth, have no excuse for lazing about. We need you on deck.” Then, without waiting for a response, he storms off, his robe fluttering behind him.
I’m still standing near the doorway, and Noah brushes right past me on his way out of the room, so close I can hear him grumbling under his breath, can see the slight tremors in his hands that he does his best to hide. Yet he doesn’t acknowledge my presence; I’m not sure he sees me at all.
Aliye the dove, on the other hand, certainly does recognize my presence—and she’s not quiet about it. As I approach she coos so frantically, you’d think she was trapped in a cage again, and she hops up and down on her crumpled blanket as if she just can’t understand why her wings no longer hold her aloft. “Shh,” I scold her as I drop down onto my own blanket. Luckily Zeda and Nemzar are too deep in conversation to notice; Mother does, but she just shakes her head and looks away, leaning against the ark wall.
Aliye quiets when I place a finger on her sleek but trembling head, and we sit for a moment in silence—or rather what feels like silence, for the drum of rain on the roof and the echo of animal noises from below have become so familiar, I no longer hear them. I watch Grandmother and Zeda attempting to scrounge up some food for us, with Shai hanging behind them. Japheth finally stands to leave, but he’s taking his time about it, like a sullen child reluctant to obey his father’s orders. And then my mother speaks.
“What—what was it like out there?”
I’m surprised. It’s not like Mother to rely on others when she can do something herself, and surely Father wouldn’t object to her going on deck after the rest of us have. “Why don’t you go up and see?” I ask.
She reaches for a nearby blanket, grips it in two tight fists, and closes her eyes. “I’m not as brave as you are.”
Now I’m not just surprised, but shocked. Has my mother actually complimented me? “I’m not— It’s just—” As I stammer, it occurs to me that perhaps Mother’s comment is more criticism than praise. I did defy Father, after all. “I’m only curious,” I finish, my voice fading to a mumble.
“Just tell me,” she says, eyes still closed, tension rising in taut lines from her fists up her arms. “I don’t want to see, but I need to know.”
So I do. But as I speak, I look away from her squeezed-shut eyelids, toward the dove with her wide-open eyes. I study them—two flame-colored rings around black pupils—till they eclipse all visions of the world outside. When I’m done, Mother says nothing, and I realize I have a question for her as well. “Do you know how long we’ve been here?”
In some ways it feels like years have passed since we stepped onto the ark, and in others it seems that only moments ago I stood on parched earth, dreaming of rain.
“This is the fifth day,” Mother says, in a voice as cracked and dry as the earth I remember with something like longing.
I glance around me; Nemzar, Zeda and Shai are still occupied with our dismal supply of food, while Arisi sits and stares blankly into a corner. No one’s paying me any attention, so I turn to face the ark wall and pull my carving knife from my belt. Mother lets out the first hint of a protest but quickly stifles it.
I dig the knife into the wood much deeper than necessary, once, twice, again and again and again, until five jagged lines march their way across the wall. One for each day since the world ended.
Chapter Eight
Derya and I are seven years old, collecting fleece with the other children as the entire village shears sheep. A tuft of wool flies out of nowhere, landing atop Derya’s gleaming black hair, and I can’t help but laugh—then another tuft sails right into my open mouth. Derya’s eyes turn a bright, piercing green as she searches out our tormentors. My own gaze darts toward Kenaan and Jorin, but both are straight-faced, focused on their task. We stare at the boys, and a moment later, Jorin’s mouth tugs toward a satisfied smile…and we tear small hunks of wool from the nearest clump of fleece and pelt them at the boys. They counter our attack, and the world dissolves into a soft white rain…
…the air darkens, cools, and Derya and I are leaning against the wall of her hut as evening falls, listening to her father play his pipes. The melody dips and rises like a bird’s wings buoyed on the wind, lulling us toward sleep, and Derya leans her head on my shoulder. I close my eyes…
…and we are fourteen. Derya laughs and spins so her skirts fly around her and her black braid swings. She is so beautiful, already several young men of the village have spoken to her father, but she wants Kenaan. That’s why she’s spinning in circles now, laughing at nothing in the middle of the day, in the middle of our chores—she’s caught sight of Kenaan passing by, and she hopes to lure him closer. I just stand there, watching her till my own head spins…
…spins and spins and spins, the whole world spinning in a blur of blues and greens so vivid I can taste them…
…and out of the whirlpool of color comes Derya, sixteen now, looking just as she did only days ago, by the river. Her long, slender arms reach for me, her mouth open in a wide smile. She speaks, but her words are lost to the wind that whips tendrils of black hair before her face, obscuring her eyes and plastering dark strands to her cheeks. Behind her hair, her features begin to twist, distort; I blink my eyes to clear my vision, but still her face—no, her entire body now—wavers as though I’m seeing her through water. She comes closer, and her beautiful hands are expanding, bloating, her fingers transforming into grotesque and slimy things as she clutches my wrist. “You let me go,” she says, her words suddenly cle
ar and hard. “You let me—”
“Neima!” The voice turns softer, younger, and the grip on my wrist slackens as I open my eyes to find Shai peering at me through the darkness. “You were dreaming,” she says. “You were shaking and—”
“Did I wake the others?” I whisper, casting a worried glance around the room. It’s too dark to make out more than huddled shapes against the walls.
“No,” Shai answers softly, “I was already awake. I came over here to see Aliye—”
We both look down at the dove in her blanket-nest. The white of her feathers gleams against the dark, and I can see the outline of her head tucked against her breast. Sleeping standing up—I’ll never understand how birds do that.
“—because I couldn’t sleep,” Shai finishes. “Is it—is it true that the whole world is covered with water? That we will be trapped in here forever?”
“Oh, no,” I say automatically, reaching my arms toward her. She falls into me, and I hold her warm body close against mine—but I can’t help thinking of Derya’s arms reaching, of her cold, wet dream-hands.
“Are we”—Shai’s whisper is muffled now—“are we going to die?”
“No,” I say again; I picture Derya’s dream-face contorting as she accuses me of lying. Shai’s fingers press into my arms, as if she’s asking me for something more, but I’m not sure what to give her. Our grandfather—and perhaps, by this point, Shai’s parents as well—would say that Noah’s one God will protect us, that he has chosen us to survive. But whether those words are true or not, they don’t seem very comforting to me. So instead I say, “You’re with the people who love you most, and we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe.”
Shai doesn’t respond, and soon I feel her body grow heavier against mine as she falls back into sleep. But I can’t shut out Derya’s voice telling me, You let me go. You let me… Because it’s true: I did let her go. I could have worked harder to make her believe me, during that last fight. I could have looked for her the morning of the storm. I could have dragged her into the ark with us, just as a precaution, even though we didn’t know what would happen…