Noah

by Mark Morris

  That whispers you to sleep

  That whispers as you sleep.”

  The words were simple but comforting, and seemed to weave a spell around Ila. Her eyes were fixed on Noah for a while, and then they began to close drowsily, the tiniest hint of a smile playing about her lips. Noah continued to sing, repeating the same few verses over and over, until he was sure Ila had fallen into a peaceful sleep. Only then did he stir, turning his head—to see that Naameh, although she had not moved, was staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

  “I’m sorry for waking you,” Noah whispered.

  “You didn’t.” Her smile was beautiful, serene. “And even if you had it would have been in a good cause.”

  Taking care not to wake Ham and Japheth, who were huddled beside her, she eased herself upright and crept over to join her husband beside the now-sleeping girl. Gently removing Shem’s protective arm from around Ila’s upper body, she lifted Ila’s bandages with delicate fingers and carefully examined the wound beneath.

  “How is it?” Noah asked.

  Naameh frowned. “Ugly and deep. I am afraid her womanhood is gone. She will never bear children. But the damage is contained. If she survives the fever, I think she will live.”

  Noah looked around at the steep walls enclosing them. “If any of us do,” he said ruefully.

  Suddenly he heard a thump behind him. He turned to see that a rock had fallen into the pit, and that the candle flame was flickering, as if the still, cool air had been displaced, pushed downward. Looking up he saw a vast, dark, shadowy shape clinging to the rocky walls, lowering itself ominously toward them. Though he knew it was a futile gesture, he gripped the handle of his knife as Og, the Watcher they had first encountered out in the black lands, set one foot and then another on the floor of the pit, and turned to face them.

  Og’s eyes were blacker than the darkness. The pitted surface of his body glittered as light caught the shards of crystal embedded in his craggy flesh. Although the Watchers were undoubtedly powerful, they also gave the impression of being somehow crippled by their environment, weighed down by the material plain in which they were forced to reside.

  Instinctively Noah placed himself between Og and his family, fully prepared to die to protect them.

  “Don’t—” he began, but Og surprised him by quickly raising one massive arm and putting a stubby finger to the black slash that served as his mouth.

  “Shh,” he said. “Follow me.”

  * * *

  It was early dawn, the insipid sun peeking over a horizon still crushed beneath the weight of an angry purple sky. The black wasteland, steeped in shadow, seemed to stretch to infinity in all directions. Across this desolate landscape moved five figures—the largest, Og, at the head of the group, beckoning the others to hurry. Noah, carrying Ila, struggled to keep up, but he was still some way ahead of his two boys, and also of Naameh, who was burdened with Japheth.

  Og came to a halt, glancing back impatiently. “We must hurry. Your absence will soon be discovered.”

  He waited until the last of the straggling family had caught up to him, though Ham continued to hang back a little, wide-eyed, obviously still wary of the giant.

  Og looked at him, and his voice dropped to a soft, almost gentle rumble. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said. “Watchers have learned to fear men.”

  “Why are you helping us?” Ham asked, half shyly, half defiantly.

  Og paused a moment, considering his words.

  “The Creator formed us on the second day, the day He made the heavens,” the Watcher said. “We stood by His side and watched all Creation flower. To us, everything He made was beautiful, but Man was the most beautiful of all.”

  It was clear that the stirring of his old memories moved Og. He resumed his story, his booming voice strained with emotion.

  “We watched over Adam and Eve. We saw their frailty and their love. And then we saw their fall. And we pitied them.”

  He sighed deeply and shook his head.

  “Samyaza was the greatest of us then. He loved mankind most of all, and he decided that we should come down to offer our aid and assistance.”

  Noah, listening to the story along with the rest of his family, gasped. All at once he could see in his mind precisely what Og was telling him. The pictures that formed were so vivid it was as though the Watcher was sharing his memories. As clearly as if it was happening right in front of him, Noah saw the Watchers as they had once been. He saw them descend from the skies in their heavenly forms, creatures of pure, effulgent light that filled the heart with gladness and awe. Their descent was controlled at first—they drifted down through blackness, and then through the clouds that hung above the earth. And then, as they drew closer to the realm of Man, they picked up speed. They began to plummet, faster and faster, until they resembled fireballs hurtling toward the ground.

  “It was not our place to interfere,” Og said, “yet we chose to try and help mankind. And when we disobeyed the Creator, He punished us.”

  Noah saw the Watchers hit the ground, the impact so powerful, so devastating, that he cried out and jumped back. The Watchers smashed into the ground with such force that each of them created a vast crater, causing tons of earth to explode high into the air in all directions and a series of rippling shocks to expand outward, as if the very world was trembling in fear.

  “We were encrusted by your world,” Og told them. “Rock and mud shackled our fiery glow. Still, we taught mankind all we knew of Creation.”

  Noah saw the earth split open, and the Watchers emerge, born anew. But as Og had said, they were no longer creatures of light, with the ability to transcend the heavens. Now they were formed of rock and mud and lava—still powerful, but heavy, cumbersome, misshapen, weighed down by the earthly realm in which they had chosen to reside. Their glorious wings, outspread as they had descended magnificently from the heavens, had shriveled, compacted into limbs of rock. Their serene and beautiful faces had become crude, lumpy masks.

  The images faded in Noah’s mind, and suddenly he was standing on the black, barren soil of the blasted plain once again, listening to Og’s words.

  “But the Creator was right to exile mankind,” the Watcher was saying sadly. “We gave men magic and science. Knowledge of plants and stars, metals and fire. With our help they rose from the dust, became great and mighty. But then they turned our gifts to violence. We were hunted for the tzohar inside us. Many of us were killed.” Og looked at Noah. “Only your grandfather helped protect us.”

  In his mind’s eye Noah saw Methuselah, his grandfather, as a young man. A huge warrior, his armor glowing as if with unearthly fire, his red cloak flying in the wind. He saw Methuselah step forward, into the path of a charging horde of Watchers behind which, like a sea of insects pouring across the land, were thousands of screaming, pursuing men waving swords and clubs. He saw Methuselah stand his ground as the charging hordes of Watchers and their pursuers bore down on him. Then he saw the line of Watchers part down the middle and stream past Methuselah on both sides, as if he was an immovable object, like a vast tree with roots that stretched all the way down to the center of the earth.

  And when the Watchers were behind him, when Methuselah was the only living creature that stood between them and their murderous pursuers, he unsheathed his sword. As he drew it from its scabbard, the blade first glowed with a pure white fire that dazzled the eyes, and then burst soundlessly into flame.

  Methuselah raised the sword, as though to give the army a chance to stop, to turn, to give up their pursuit. But the army kept coming, and so, with no further hesitation. Methuselah gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands and drove it deep into the ground.

  Immediately, as if he had used the blade to slash through the chain that secured the gates of Hell, a giant wall of fire leaped from the earth in front of him and swept across the ground like a tidal wave, devouring all that lay before it. The sand turned instantly to liquid black glass and the thousands upon
thousands of men who had meant the Watchers harm were incinerated in a split second, their flesh and bones crumbling to black ash, which fell to the ground and became one with the earth.

  It was death on a massive scale, and although it was horrifying, Noah saw that it was cleansing, too, and therefore necessary.

  Og’s words, however, were bitter.

  “Those who lived remained prisoners in these stony shells, marooned upon this barren land. For eons we begged the Creator to take us home. But He was always silent.”

  Og’s head bowed, his shoulders slumped, and he fell into silence. For a moment the family neither moved nor spoke. Then Ham walked forward and took the Watcher’s massive, rock-fingered hand in both of his own.

  Slowly Og raised his head and looked at the small boy, who stared fearlessly up at him in return. Then Og did a remarkable thing. He smiled. With a grinding of rock, his dark slash of a mouth curved upward at the edges.

  The huge Watcher leaned forward, gently picked Ham up and held him in the crook of his arm. When he turned, Noah saw that his black eyes were glistening.

  “We should carry on,” Og said gruffly. “We still have a long way to go.”

  6

  THE MOUNTAIN

  The mountain seemed to deflect light, or perhaps to absorb it. When they first saw it creeping over the edge of the horizon, some time the next morning, it looked as if darkness was beginning to rise directly from the earth, making a renewed attempt not merely to blacken the sky, but obliterate it.

  The closer they got the more the mountain seemed to loom over them, as if stretching forward to draw them in. Even so, it was a welcome sight, if only because it meant they had reached their destination and could set up camp and rest a while. Naameh wondered briefly where the next stage of their journey might take them, once Noah had spoken to his grandfather—assuming, of course, that Methuselah still lived, and that he was still resident, if the tales were to be believed, within his mountain cave.

  As they trudged toward the base of the mountain, Og, still carrying Ham, turned his head to peer down at Noah, who was walking by his side. It had been some hours since he had told his story, but he picked up the thread of his earlier words as if he had uttered them mere minutes before.

  “It has been a long time since the Creator last spoke to us, and now you claim that you have heard His call,” the Watcher said. “Samyaza cannot accept this. A man? When it is men who broke the world?”

  He stopped, and motioned for Noah to do the same, then turned and leaned forward to peer deep into Noah’s eyes.

  “But I look at you and I see Adam again,” he said, his voice a soft rumble. “The man I knew. The man I came to help.”

  Noah stared back at him. He knew that the Watcher’s words were more than a compliment. They were a profession of his utmost faith. Although almost overwhelmingly touched, Noah simply nodded, his expression unchanged.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  * * *

  They spent an hour setting up camp, Noah, Shem, and Ham quickly and expertly pitching the tents, while Naameh unpacked their belongings and fed Japheth. As soon as the first of the tents was ready, Noah picked up Ila, carried her inside and laid her gently on a bedroll so that Naameh could tend to her and change her bloodstained bandages.

  Og, meanwhile, created a fire pit, scooping out great mounds of hard-packed dirt with one of his hands, while using two of his others to fill it with stones carefully selected to absorb and retain the heat. When it was ready he called Ham over and held up a small whitish-yellow stone that seemed to glow with its own inner light.

  “You know what this is?”

  Ham nodded. “Tzohar.”

  “That’s right. Do you know how to make fire with it?”

  Ham nodded again.

  “Clever boy,” said Og. “Would you like to make fire now?”

  Ham glanced over at Noah, who nodded his permission. Puffing his chest out a little at being trusted with such an important task, Ham stepped forward and took the piece of tzohar from Og’s hand. Holding it as though it was a delicate egg, he scanned the ground until he had found two flat rocks, and then he carried the rocks across to the fire pit. With Og looking on, Ham knelt down, placed the tzohar carefully on the flat surface of one of the rocks, and then pressed the other rock down on top of it. With a quick, deft movement, he ground the two rocks together with the tzohar between them, and tossed the whole lot into the pit.

  There was a white flash and the tzohar ignited, an almost liquid-like fire spreading over the rocks, flames leaping high. Within seconds the rocks were glowing white-hot and the fire pit was pulsing with warmth. Og squatted beside it and with no hesitation at all Ham clambered on to his knee. After a moment Shem joined them by the edge of the pit, and a few moments later, after she had finished tending to Ila, so did Naameh, a contented and well-fed Japheth in her arms.

  The group ate breakfast together, though Noah spent most of the time staring pensively up at the mountain. When they were done he and Shem stood up. Ham slid from Og’s knee and stood up as well.

  “Why can’t I come too?” he asked.

  Noah beckoned Ham over to the tent so he could talk to him in private. Kneeling in front of him, he said, “I need you to look after Mother. It’s a very important job. Will you do it for me?”

  Ham sighed. He wasn’t so gullible that he didn’t know when he was being put off—but he nodded.

  “Thank you,” Noah said.

  The day was so still that even though Noah had spoken quietly, his voice had carried over to those sitting around the fire. Naameh sidled up to Shem and leaned across as if to plant a kiss on his cheek. Instead of doing so, however, she whispered, “And I need you to look after your father.”

  Shem smiled and nodded, and she tapped him playfully on the nose.

  Meanwhile Noah indicated with his eyes that he wanted to speak to Og. The Watcher rose from his place beside the fire and ambled across to where the man was standing.

  “Take care of my family while I am gone,” Noah said quietly.

  Og spread all six of his arms wide. “Don’t worry. They are in good hands.”

  Noah’s face broke into a rare smile. He thanked Og, and then, without another word, he gestured to Shem and the two of them turned and began to head up the mountain.

  * * *

  For a while they followed a mountain path that wound through jagged rocks, some as large as houses. Eventually the path petered out as the going became steeper and more treacherous, whereupon Noah and Shem began to climb. They did so with practiced ease, their hands and feet instinctively finding purchase as they scrambled up and over rocks like a pair of lizards. They had been climbing for maybe an hour until they came to a wide, flat ledge. They pulled themselves up on to it, one after the other, then turned and looked back down the mountain to assess their progress so far.

  The camp was far below them, the tents like brown stones, a lighter shade than the surrounding landscape. They saw Og, illuminated by the white-hot glow of the fire, sitting and contemplating the flames, Naameh and Ham flanking him like chicks gathered in the protective aura of a mother hen. Noah felt a pang of love and gratitude toward his wife and children, for believing in him and following him without question, but he also felt guilty for putting their lives in peril. He consoled himself with the thought that nowhere was safe anymore, that a little extra danger was worth the risk if it meant living in a better world.

  Of course, how that goal would be achieved he had no idea. His hope was that Methuselah would be able to set them on the right path.

  While Shem sat, resting his legs for a few minutes, Noah remained standing, his gaze shifting to the horizon, beneath which there was nothing but endless miles of sad, parched, empty earth. Sighing, he turned and looked up at the mountain, shielding his eyes against the light from the sky. In truth, the light wasn’t particularly bright—indeed, if anything, it was as gray as the dust that blew constantly across the plain back home. Noah
felt weary at the thought of how far he and Shem still had to climb, but he tried to dismiss his tiredness—along with the doubts and anxieties—from his mind, and concentrate only on the task ahead.

  * * *

  Finally a modest opening came into view in the mountainside, little more than a zigzagging fissure in the rock. It was late afternoon and the sun, such as it was, had passed beyond its zenith and was beginning to sink once more toward the western horizon. As Noah and Shem stood on a small plateau beneath the cave, catching their breath and enjoying the feel of the cool breeze that ruffled their hair and dried the sweat on their brows, a dark shape appeared in the cave entrance and seemed to beckon them before ducking back inside.

  Shem looked at Noah.

  “Was that Great-Grandfather?”

  Noah stared at the spot where the shape had appeared, as if trying to conjure it back into being.

  “Let’s find out,” he said.

  Although a little light had squeezed its way into the cave, it didn’t extend very far. However, that barely mattered. The roof of the cave had broken open in spots, and sitting in a beam of daylight, next to the warmth of a geothermal vent on which a battered metal pot bubbled, was the oldest man that Shem had ever seen.

  His face was so weathered and deeply lined that it seemed almost to be a part of the craggy rock wall behind it. The old man looked up at Shem, who gasped, and then blushed. Methuselah’s eyes—if that was who he was—were so alive and of such a vivid blue that they seemed like the eyes of a child. Shem was transfixed by them. He doubted he would have been able to move, even if he had wanted to. The old man scrutinized Shem for what seemed like a long time.

  Then, finally, Noah spoke.

  “This is your great-grandfather,” he said, placing a hand on Shem’s shoulder. “Show him respect. Tell him your name.”

  Shem cleared his throat. “I am Shem,” he said shyly.

  “My eldest,” Noah added.

  Methuselah smiled at Shem. His face was all wrinkles. Yet he was so old that in an odd way he seemed almost ageless. Sexless, too, as if he had passed beyond such petty concerns.