by Mark Morris
“Come closer,” Methuselah said, his voice as dark and rough as ancient oak, yet still melodious. “Let me see you.”
Shem suspected that Methuselah could see him perfectly well. He looked to his father for guidance. Noah nodded, urging him forward.
When Shem was sitting on the ground, facing the old man, the two of them so close that their knees were almost touching, Methuselah said, “You’re a lucky boy. I think you must have your mother’s looks, not your father’s.”
Shem laughed, and Methuselah tilted his head and winked at Noah.
“So, Shem,” Methuselah said. “Tell me something about yourself.”
Shem’s face went as blank as his mind. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Under his great-grandfather’s scrutiny, he blushed again.
Gently Methuselah said, “What do you like most in the world?”
Shem’s mouth opened and closed. Then abruptly he blurted, “Berries.”
Methuselah looked taken aback. “What?”
Shem would dearly have loved to say something more intelligent and insightful. However he was too tongue-tied, and too intimidated by the situation and by the reputation and great age of the legendary figure sitting before him.
And so, almost unhappily, he said again, “Berries.”
Methuselah leaned back, smiling broadly.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, as if Shem’s reply had opened up a whole new vista of possibilities for him. “Berries! Yes! What can compete with fresh, ripe berries? Nothing. You know, it’s been so long I can barely remember the taste of them. Tell me, did you bring me any?”
Shem shook his head, crestfallen.
“No?” said Methuselah. “Hmm. I’m craving them now. Oh well. Perhaps one day…” He stretched luxuriously, and then leaned forward. His voice became softer, almost conspiratorial. “You must be very tired, Shem. It’s a long way up here. Why not rest?” He reached out with one gnarled hand and touched Shem’s brow. Instantly Shem’s eyes closed and his head drooped against Methuselah’s palm. Slowly and carefully, as if the boy were the most fragile and precious artifact in the world, Methuselah lowered Shem’s head into his lap.
He looked down at the sleeping boy, angelic in repose.
“How perfect,” Methuselah murmured. Then his blue eyes flickered up to regard Noah. “But what we need to discuss is not for boys.”
“You know why I’ve come?” Noah’s eyes narrowed.
Even though the handle of the battered metal pot must have been blisteringly hot, Methuselah reached across and lifted it off of the geothermal vent without a qualm. He poured the boiling water into a pair of clay cups on a rock by his side. The smell that rose from the cups—earthy, tangy—suggested that there were herbs of some sort in them.
Methuselah handed Noah one of the cups. Noah took it and sipped, then pulled a face. The tea was very strong, and tasted foul.
“Yes,” Methuselah said in answer to Noah’s question. “Before he walked on, my father Enoch told me one day that if Man continued in his ways, the Creator would annihilate this world.”
“Then what I saw was true?” Noah muttered. “All life blotted out because of what men have done.” He looked appalled. “Can it not be averted?”
Methuselah sighed. “Noah, you must trust that he speaks in a way that you can understand. So you tell me, can this destruction be averted?”
For a moment Noah looked as much at a loss as Shem had been. He sat back, his eyes glazing as he pondered the matter. Then finally, in a soft, sad voice he said, “No.”
Methuselah looked sad, too. Noah, however, was desperate to cling to a crumb of hope.
“But He sent me here,” he said. “Why send me, if there is nothing I can do to stop it?”
Shrugging, Methuselah said, “Perhaps He simply sends you to share a cup of tea with an old man.”
Noah slumped, defeated. Despite the tea’s foul taste, he took another sip.
“So is that all you saw?” Methuselah asked. “The fires of destruction and this place?”
“Not fire,” Noah replied. “Water.”
Methuselah raised his eyebrows. “Water? My father said it would be fire.”
“I saw water,” Noah confirmed. “Death by water.” He lapsed into silence, suddenly deep in thought again. Then, his conviction growing by the second, he said, “I saw death. And I saw new life. There is something more, Grandfather, something I am to do. I know it. I just didn’t see what it was.”
“New life,” Methuselah mused. “Well, perhaps there is more for you to see. Did He not send you here to drink tea with an old man?”
He gestured at Noah’s cup. Noah looked down at it and was surprised to see that it was empty.
“The medicine always tastes bad,” Methuselah said, his voice seeming to boom, to echo.
Noah looked up. Methuselah was gone.
Shem was gone, too.
Noah was alone.
He looked back down into the cup, and was just in time to see a seed float up out of it. It rose lazily, drifting past his face.
Why is it floating? And then he realized.
It was because he and the seed were underwater.
All at once he couldn’t breathe. He was surrounded by water, immersed in it. He thrashed this way and that, his body dragged down by the weight, bubbles rising up around him.
And then, just as before, he was surrounded not merely by water, but also by the dead. It seemed as if all of humanity was drifting around him, white-faced and open-eyed, limbs rising and falling in a ghastly imitation of life.
Noah wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.
And then the floating bodies around him began to split open, silently and bloodlessly, and from each emerged an animal. Within seconds animals of every kind imaginable—all the animals of the world—were breaking through the bodies of humanity and kicking upward, swimming toward the surface, as though showing him the way.
Noah looked up. Above him, framed in a twinkling halo of sunlight, was the underside of some vast, seagoing vessel. It was a massive, black rectangle, filling his vision as it passed directly overhead.
At the sight of it, Noah felt struck by a dawning revelation, a growing epiphany.
It was within his grasp when the rectangle suddenly flared to blinding white, searing his vision and emptying his mind.
He blinked awake to find himself back in Methuselah’s cave, lying in a pool of sunlight that spilled down on him from above.
Hearing voices, he raised his head. As his blurred eyesight slowly regained focus he saw that Shem was awake and that he and Methuselah were chatting casually.
Shem, who seemed to have shaken off his earlier awed reticence, was saying, “Mother helped her while I held her hand.”
Methuselah’s rich, husky voice seemed to fill the cavern. “That must have made her feel safe.”
Noah sat up. His head throbbed. He realized that Shem and Methuselah were playing Cat’s Cradle as they chatted. They both turned to look at him.
“Well?” Methuselah said.
Noah rose to his feet. All at once, despite his headache, he was full of conviction.
“Fire consumes all. Water cleanses. It separates the foul from the pure, the wicked from the innocent, and that which sinks from that which rises. He destroys all, but only to start again!”
Methuselah smiled mischievously. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Noah said. “The storm cannot be stopped, but it can be survived.”
“Then you may need this.”
The old man held out a small green bag, cinched at the top with a drawstring. Noah took the bag. It was incredibly light. It seemed empty. Was this a trick or a test? He opened it, and turned the bag upside down over his outstretched palm. Something brown and spiky and virtually weightless dropped into his hand.
Noah examined it. It was a seed. The same seed from his vision. His eyes widened. His head jerked up and he looked at Methuselah, to see the old man nodding in response to his unspoken
question.
“Yes. It is from the first garden. From Eden.”
Noah didn’t know what to say. A sense of well-being, of achievement, of hope, swept through him and he smiled.
“Now go,” Methuselah said. “Take it.”
“And plant it?” Noah asked quietly, but Methuselah merely shrugged. So Noah replaced the seed in the green bag and put it in the pocket of his tunic. He gestured to Shem that it was time to go, and then held out his hand toward Methuselah.
“Come, Grandfather. Come down the mountain with me. Meet my wife, your great-grandchildren. Help us to start a new world.”
But Methuselah remained seated. Slowly but deliberately he shook his head.
“One world was enough for me,” he said almost sadly. “Leave me to walk with my father.” He held up a finger. “But remember this, Noah. He chose you for a reason.”
Noah nodded, and then he and Shem said their goodbyes and left.
* * *
Methuselah watched them go, and an expression of pity appeared on his face.
“It will not be easy,” he murmured when Noah was out of earshot. “In fact, my boy, it will be much harder than you think.”
7
THE SEED
The fever had broken, and though Ila still moved gingerly, holding her side, she was livelier than Naameh had thus far seen her. The girl even had a little color in her cheeks, and now that she was no longer at death’s door it was abundantly clear what a pretty girl she was, and what a beautiful woman she would one day become.
They were eating dinner. Having consumed two bowls of stew and as much bread as Naameh could spare, Ila was now sitting with Ham and Og, playing a game which involved taking turns to etch symbols on a complex grid. Og had scratched the grid into the sandy, baked soil with one of his huge stone fingers.
He was indulging the children, Naameh knew, allowing them to win at least one game out of every three. Observing them from her seat beside the tent, where she had been bouncing Japheth gently on her knee and making him giggle, it was clear what a bright and lively mind Ila possessed. Ham played Og’s game tentatively, uncertain where to make his marks. But Ila was more confident, instructing and advising him, albeit in a subtle, self-effacing way.
Suddenly Og’s head jerked up, and he pointed at the mountain.
“There!” he called.
Everyone turned to peer in the direction he was indicating. Noah and Shem, looking dusty but—in Noah’s case, at least—invigorated, appeared over the lowest ridge, and came trooping down the path toward them.
“Father!” Ham called, abandoning the game and running across the parched ground to throw himself into Noah’s arms.
His father laughed and swung his son high in the air. Despite the fact that his face was grimy with dirt and sweat, his arms and legs covered in small cuts and bruises from his arduous climb, it was immediately clear to Naameh that the expedition had been a fruitful one.
“What happened?” she asked.
Noah, still holding Ham in the crook of his arm, smiled at her.
“As soon as Shem and I have cleaned ourselves up, I’ll tell you all about it.”
* * *
A little later the family and Ila sat in a circle inside the main tent, waiting for Noah to join them.
He was outside talking to Og, who was a little too large to squeeze into the small space with the rest. Shem was making use of the delay by teaching Ila the rudiments of Cat’s Cradle. Naameh had noticed how he had been unable to take his eyes off the girl since he had come down from the mountain, and how both Shem and Ila giggled and blushed every time their fingers accidentally touched as they fumbled with the strings.
Eventually Noah entered the tent, and the two of them reluctantly put aside their game to listen to his words.
“Grandfather lives,” he said, beaming at them all. “He’s helped me see what we’re here to do.”
“Can we meet him?” Ham asked.
Noah shook his head distractedly. “Men are going to be punished for what they have done to the world. There will be destruction. There will be tragedy. Our family has been chosen for a great task. We have been chosen to save the innocent.”
There was a puzzled silence.
“Who are the innocent?” Shem asked. He had not yet been told of his father’s vision, despite the hours they had spent together descending the mountain.
“The animals,” Noah replied.
Ham frowned. “Why are they innocent?”
It was Ila who answered. “Because they still live as they did in the Garden.”
Noah nodded and smiled, clearly impressed. “We need to save enough of them. Enough of them to start again.”
“But what of us?” Ham asked.
Noah looked surprised at the question, almost as if he hadn’t considered it before. “I guess when all this is gone we start again.” He swept his arm in an expansive gesture to encompass them all. “We start again in a new and better world. But first we have to build.”
“Build?” asked Shem. “Build what?”
Noah indicated that they should all follow him outside. From his tunic he took the green bag that Methuselah had given to him and upended it over his palm. The brown seed dropped out. Holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger he showed it to his family, and then he used a stick to gouge a small hole in the dry ground.
“A great flood is coming,” Noah told them as he hacked at the earth. “The waters of the heavens will meet the waters of the earth. We build a vessel to survive the storm. We build an Ark.”
He stepped forward and dropped the seed into the hole.
GENESIS 6: 13–14
And the Creator said unto Noah, “I have determined to make an end of all flesh; for the World is filled with violence through Man; behold I will destroy them… Make yourself an Ark…”
8
THE FOUNTAIN
Noah jerked awake. What had he heard? Sitting up he looked quickly around the tent. Naameh was sleeping peacefully beside him, and the children, too, seemed undisturbed. Shem and Ila held hands as they slept, as though Shem wished to protect the girl even in her dreams.
All was silent—and yet Noah felt certain he had heard something. A sound that had disturbed his subconscious, that had raised an alarm in his mind. He was on edge. He sensed danger.
But from where?
He rose slowly from his bedroll so as not to wake his sleeping wife. He would take a walk around the camp to settle his nerves, perhaps seek out Og and speak to him. Did the Watcher sleep? Or did he remain forever vigilant, as his name seemed to suggest?
Though no candle burned in the tent, there was enough light by which to see. As he moved toward the entrance, Noah judged it to be early dawn. Outside it would be cold, the sky streaked with purple and pink and red as the sun rose in the east. He was only a few steps from the entrance flap when he again heard the sound that he was sure had woken him—a dull scraping, as of stone on stone, followed by a scuffle of movement, which made him think of an animal desperate to free itself from a trap.
Quickly he untied the tent flap and ducked outside. In the early dawn light he saw, in the middle distance, Og being dragged away by a group of Watchers.
So the Watchers had caught up with them. But Noah did not have time to be alarmed. He began to run toward the group, waving his arms.
“Stop!” he yelled.
The group came to a halt, their heads creaking around to regard the running man. One of them was Samyaza, the leader. He swung around and stomped toward Noah like a crude but gargantuan statue given life, his thundering footsteps sending a tremor through the earth.
“Og is not your concern!” he roared, his voice echoing back from the black mountain.
Noah stopped and spread his hands in appeal.
“There is much work to be done. The Creator’s work. Help us.”
Samyaza’s face crunched into an expression of fury. He marched across to Noah in two great, thundering strides
.
“Help you?” he bellowed. “We tried to help your kind once. We lost everything because of you!”
He raised a massive arm to pulverize Noah where he stood. Noah did not try to resist or run away. He simply waited, looking up into Samyaza’s face, bracing himself for the killing blow.
Which did not come.
Samyaza froze, his great arm hanging in mid-air, his attention suddenly focused elsewhere. He had heard a sound—a sound that Noah also heard. The reason it had had such an effect on the Watcher was because it was a sound that had not been heard on this black and barren plain for a long time. It was an impossible sound. A sound of hope and celebration.
It was the bubbling of water.
Samyaza’s great stone jaw dropped open. He turned to see water bubbling up from the spot where Noah had planted Methuselah’s seed the night before. As if it had been waiting for their attention, the water suddenly erupted upward, bursting exuberantly from the dry earth, a geyser that caused the Watchers to cry out in surprise like gleeful children. As if content with the impact it had made, the geyser settled down to become a gently gurgling fountain.
While the earth around the fountain cracked apart, and the water rushed into the cracks to form rivulets, which began to expand outward in all directions, Noah saw Naameh, Ila, and the boys emerge slowly from the tent. They looked first in terror at the Watchers, and then in wonder at the fountain.
The Watchers, who had now released Og, stepped backward, out of the way of the ever-expanding rivulets which first crept toward them, and then streamed past them, as though on a mission to revive and replenish the entire desert. Noah glanced up at Samyaza, who was still standing beside him. The Watcher’s arm had fallen back to his side, his murderous intentions forgotten.
Unhurriedly Noah walked toward the fountain, taking care not to obstruct the flow. Once he was standing over it, he bent down, cupped his hands and thrust them into the bubbling water.
It was remarkably clear, remarkably cold. He raised his cupped hands to his mouth. But even before the water touched his lips he knew how it would taste.
