by Mark Morris
She clung to him, pressed herself against him. “I love you so much,” she whispered. “Are we really to be the last ones to ever feel this?”
There was such sadness in her voice. The prospect was almost too unbearable to contemplate. Avoiding the question, Shem said, “I’m just thankful I will have you with me for the rest of my life.”
He leaned down and kissed her on the lips.
“Isn’t that enough?”
“I hope so,” Ila whispered, wrapping her arms around him and holding on tight, as if she never wanted to let him go. “I truly hope so.”
But she didn’t look sure.
* * *
Japheth woke. He listened to the rain.
He reached under his pillow for the sliver of blade, used it to make another scratch on the floor beside his bed.
He counted the scratches as he did every morning.
Day thirteen.
* * *
The rain, mixed with sleet now, was relentless, unceasing, the gray, rolling skin of the sea dancing and twitching with thick, glutinous, icy droplets which battered against it.
Noah stood at the top of the ramp, just outside the hatchway door, silent and unsmiling. He stared out over the gray ocean as if its terrible beauty both fascinated and appalled him.
Naameh slipped through the gap between door and frame and stood beside her husband. She shivered as the icy wind plucked at her, and pulled her layers of clothing more tightly around her body.
For a while neither of them spoke. And then Noah said, “No more land. Even the tallest mountains are covered now.”
He paused, sighed.
“They all must be dead.”
Naameh tossed a sidelong glance at her husband. His face was grim, stoical, his eyes as gray and impenetrable as the ocean. And yet she knew that deep down he was not as resolute as he appeared. He was a compassionate man, a man who valued life above all things. What he had been forced to do in order to carry out the Creator’s wishes had been a terrible burden for him.
“Did it really have to be this way?” she asked gently.
His eyes met hers, and she could see how troubled and sad they were.
“It is what He wanted, Naameh. Creation will be the better for it. You do see that, don’t you?”
There was a desperate appeal in his voice, a yearning need for her to understand and support his deeds and motivations.
She felt pity for him, and with it a great deal of love and admiration, and yet even now she found that she couldn’t whole-heartedly subscribe to the single-minded commitment of his cause.
“What I see is how hard this was for you to do,” she said. “As a man who respects life. A man who loves his children. I could not have borne the burden. Not like you.”
She reached out, took his hand in hers.
“You have been strong. But it’s done now, husband. It’s done. You can put that burden down.”
He looked at her, and suddenly, shockingly, now that it was truly over, now that all human life beyond the Ark was dead, the mask of icy determination that he had been wearing for so long cracked, and then crumbled. Noah sagged against his wife, and he wept and wept, his sobs echoing out across the ocean, his great shoulders heaving.
* * *
Ila was wrenched from sleep.
She felt horribly ill. Waves of nausea rolled through her body. The darkness pressed in from all sides, stifling her. She groaned and scrambled out from beneath Shem’s embrace, thinking that if she could get a little cool air she would feel better. But sitting up made her feel worse. She groaned, retched, pressed a hand to her mouth.
In the darkness behind her, Shem stirred. He reached out and placed a hand on her back. Ila’s skin was so tender that although his touch was light, it felt heavy and hot and made her feel worse. She shrugged him off.
“Ila?” His voice was puzzled, sleepy.
* * *
Ham stood and watched as Tubal-cain, his back propped against the wall, toyed with his knife. His teeth were clenched in a savage grin. Although the warrior king was injured, and could move only slowly, Ham was nervous all the same. Tubal-cain had never done him any harm, but he seemed unpredictable, like a wild animal that would appear to have been tamed for only as long as it was fed and looked after.
Tubal-cain held up the blade, watching it flash as it caught the light.
“Good,” he said.
A little hesitantly Ham handed over a bag, which Tubal-cain emptied on to the floor. A number of tools spilled out—a hammer, a metal spike for punching holes in wood—which made Tubal-cain grin.
“They are only for him,” Ham said hastily, realizing as he did so that he was in no position to give orders.
Tubal-cain, however, nodded. “I will not harm your family, Ham. Only him.”
Ham guessed that Tubal-cain’s leg wound must be causing him considerable pain, but the warrior king, though his face was damp with sweat from the fevers that still shuddered occasionally through his body, refused to show it. Dragging the leg behind him, he shuffled across to one of the wooden, hive-like compartments, reached in and pulled out a horned chameleon. The lizard hung from his fist, a dead weight, completely acquiescent. Before Ham could say anything, Tubal-cain bit the creature’s head off, chewing as its blood ran down his arm.
Ham’s eyes widened in horror.
“What are you doing?” he exclaimed.
Tubal-cain frowned. “I must get my strength back.”
Deftly, he sliced the lizard open, scooped out its innards and peeled off its skin. He hacked off a chunk of raw chameleon flesh and shoved it into his mouth with bloody fingers,’
“But the… the beasts are precious,” Ham stammered. “There are only two of each.”
Tubal-cain sneered, chewing, dark blood oozing from between his lips.
“And there is only one of me.”
“But the rain…” Ham persisted, gesturing vaguely around him to indicate the incessant barrage on the outer hull of the Ark. “All these miracles are for them.”
Tubal-cain laughed, flecks of raw meat flying from his mouth.
“Them?” he scoffed. “Your father fills a ship with beasts while children drown? We are the miracles, Ham. The beasts are here to serve our needs. Your father belittles you by telling you that we are here to serve them.” He shook his head. “When the Creator finished making the sky, the ground, the sea, and this beast, He was not satisfied. He needed something greater. Something to take dominion over it and subdue it. So He made us in His image. Us.”
He cut another chunk of meat from the body of the chameleon and offered it to Ham on his knife blade. Ham stared at it, but he didn’t take it.
“This is your world,” Tubal-cain told him. “Seize it.”
He jabbed the blade in Ham’s direction, encouraging him to take the meat. Ham stepped forward, hesitated a moment longer, then plucked the meat from the knife. It oozed squishily in his fingers, a line of dark, brownish blood trickling down his palm. Ham grimaced, sniffed the meat.
And then, watched encouragingly by Tubal-cain, he put it in his mouth and chewed.
19
THE SILENCE
Japheth woke to rain. He listened to it hammering against the walls and roof of the Ark.
He took the blade from beneath his pillow, scratched another line on the floor.
Day thirty-three.
* * *
Ila leaned against the wall of the Hearth, groaning, holding her stomach. Only she and Naameh were there. Noah and the boys had gone about their business, tending to the animals, undertaking minor repairs to the Ark’s internal structure, making sure everything was in good order.
Earlier that morning, Naameh had taken a little of Ila’s blood and saliva and urine and was now mixing the two substances with various herbs, as she carried out a number of tests. Ila watched her for a little while, and then went to lie down in the tent she shared with Shem. She lay there, dozing, holding her stomach, trying to fight down the na
usea that was becoming more and more frequent.
Eventually Naameh called, “Ila.”
“Coming,” Ila said wearily. She rose from her bed and went out into the main area of the Hearth.
Naameh was sitting cross-legged on a cushion, and indicated that Ila should sit on another one in front of her. Ila did so, feeling cautious, wary. Though Naameh tried to hide it, she looked drawn, pale, her lips pursed, her eyes full of concern.
“What is it?” Ila asked. “Is it bad?”
Naameh reached out and grasped Ila’s hands. She took a long breath.
“You are not sick,” she said finally.
Ila frowned. “So what…” And then she saw the look on Naameh’s face. Suddenly she understood.
She felt as if her thoughts were swelling in her head, making her dizzy. “But that’s impossible!” she exclaimed.
She began to laugh hysterically. Then she clamped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes still danced with disbelief and joy. However she did not see the same emotions reflected in Naameh’s eyes.
“What is it?” Ila asked.
Naameh spoke just one word, her voice heavy.
“Noah.”
Ila jumped to her feet, her happiness superseding her nausea. “Let’s go tell him.”
“No!”
“Why not? Surely he’ll be happy? The baby will be his grandchild.”
But Naameh shook her head.
“You heard his story. You are aware of his beliefs. We are supposed to be the last. Who knows what he will do?”
Ila looked momentarily alarmed. But then she frowned, dismissing Naameh’s fears, unwilling and unable to believe that Noah could possibly be anything but pleased.
“Nonsense,” she said airily. “It is his grandchild. He will believe it to be the Creator’s will.”
The door opened and both women whirled to face it, Naameh half-fearful that it would be Noah, a knife in his hand, already dispatched to carry out the Creator’s work.
But it was not Noah, it was Shem. Bemused, he looked at the two women.
“What are you two plotting?”
Ila laughed out loud, ran across the room, threw herself into his arms and bombarded his face with kisses.
Delighted and somewhat overwhelmed, Shem began to laugh.
Naameh watched them both, her face tight with worry.
* * *
Noah stepped out of his workshop on the mammal deck—and blinked in surprise. Naameh, Shem, and Ila were standing outside, as if they had been waiting for him to emerge. Each of them looked wary, nervous. Shem had an arm draped protectively around Ila’s shoulders.
“What is this?” he asked mildly. “Is everything all right?”
Tightening his grip around Ila’s shoulders, Shem said, “Father—”
Before he could say any more, Ila turned toward him, held up a hand, and placed it on his chest. Suddenly she looked determined, even fierce.
Shem fell silent.
When she seemed satisfied that he would not interrupt, she turned back to Noah and took a deliberate step forward.
“Noah,” she said, and then she swallowed, paused. When she spoke again her voice was a little stronger. “I am here to ask you to bless my child.”
Noah frowned, confused. “What?”
“I am…” Ila began, and then half-turned to indicate Shem. “We are with child.”
Noah stared at her, his face, for several seconds, utterly blank. He seemed unable to move, unable to speak, as if he had been literally stunned by her words.
Almost dreamily he said, “But this is… not possible. You’re barren.”
He frowned.
“How?”
He scowled.
“How?”
Then he took a step forward, clenching his fists—and suddenly his face twisted and turned red. His eyes bulged with fury. His voice rose to a bellow.
“How is this possible?”
His arm rose. He held something in his hand—a stone pestle for crushing herbs. It was not a weapon, as such, but it was hard and heavy, and would do a great deal of damage if smashed down on a human skull.
Ila screamed, flinched. Naameh leaped in front of her, holding out her hands.
“Don’t blame Ila! This is not her doing. This is my fault. I went to see Grandfather. I wanted to give our children a future. I wanted to give humanity a future.”
Noah rounded on his wife. He looked enraged, his face almost bestial with fury. Throwing the pestle to the floor, he grabbed her arms tightly with both hands and shook her as though she was a child.
“You fool!” he bellowed into her face. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? All those lives! All those lives, for nothing!”
He raised his arm again, his hand curling into a fist this time, as if to strike Naameh.
She stood her ground, glaring back at him.
Instead of hitting her, however, Noah whirled, and with a roar he began to flail at the wooden frame of his workshop, smashing it with his fists, destroying it. He swept his tools to the floor in a whirlwind of rage, and then he stomped down on everything, crushing it all underfoot.
Naameh watched, hands clenched by her sides, the expression on her face a mixture of fierce anger and deep sadness. Ila and Shem cowered in a corner, Ila in tears, her face pressed to Shem’s chest. Noah barely registered them. His mind was spinning. He was trying to deal with what he had just been told, trying to decide what he should do about it.
He swung around, pushed past Naameh as if she wasn’t there, stared up at the vast mammal deck, which contained tier after tier, chamber upon chamber, of sleeping animals.
All of Creation.
A vast, breathtaking network of life.
All his work.
All the blood on his hands.
Everything he had done to appease his Creator, to carry out his commands.
Surely nothing more could be expected of him? So why had he now been burdened with this?
He loved Ila. And he loved Shem. But he couldn’t allow their child to live.
If he did it would ruin everything. Make a mockery of his years of toil. Of his beliefs. Of the sacrifices they all had made in His name.
He looked at Shem and Ila. Saw them clinging together in terror. Terrified of him. Of their own father. The man who had loved them and cared for them.
And suddenly it was too much. He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t breathe. He felt angry, and confused, and full of despair.
He turned.
And he ran.
He ran and ran, breath tearing at his throat, tears stinging his eyes. He ran through the Ark, pounding along walkways and scaling ladders, clambering past tier after tier of mammals and reptiles and birds. He ran past the closed door of the Hearth, and eventually he came to the huge hatch door. He clawed and tore at the knots securing it in place, his fingers feeling fat and numb, and eventually he heaved it open. He stepped out once more onto the narrow platform at the top of the ramp, and he threw back his head and spread his arms as the endless black rain slashed down at him like a million tiny arrows, and he screamed a raw, primal scream of anguish at the sky.
When he was freezing cold and thoroughly soaked, he lowered his head and began to walk down the ramp. Waves crashed on either side of him, covering him with spray. The sea clawed at the base of the ramp as if hungry to claim him. Noah’s boots thumped on the wood. He glared into the lashing rain, which pounded into his face, his eyes, his open mouth.
At the bottom of the ramp he dropped to his knees. He raised his hands and screamed again at the heavens, his voice rising above the downpour.
“Please! Please! I cannot do this. Tell me I don’t need to do this. Please? Have I not done everything that you asked of me? Is that not enough?”
He lowered his head, spat rainwater onto the wooden boards beneath him.
“Why do you not answer me?” he asked. “Why?”
Then he slumped forward, sobbing, his forehead pressed against the w
et wood.
“I will not fail you,” he mumbled, “I will not fail you… I will not fail you…”
The rain pounded on his back, a ferocious drumbeat. Swallowing his sobs he said wearily, defeatedly, “It shall be done.”
The rain hammered down on him for several more seconds… and then it began to slow. Noah shifted as he felt it ease, as he felt the furious blows become bad-tempered thumps, then conciliatory pats, then…
Nothing.
All at once, after weeks of torrential rain, and the constant background hiss of falling water, there was an astounding moment of absolute and perfect silence. Even the waves had stopped crashing against the sides and base of the ramp, the sea becoming as smooth and glossy as sealskin.
Noah was suddenly aware of the sound of his own breath, the wet shifting of his clothes as he sat up.
He raised his head, peered at the sky. The dark clouds were lightening, breaking up.
Water dripped from his clothes.
More calmly, more resolutely, he muttered, “It shall be done.”
* * *
On the mammal deck, next to the shattered remains of Noah’s workshop, Shem and Ila were still standing together. Ila still wept into Shem’s chest, while Shem, his arms wrapped protectively around her, kissed her head and whispered into her hair, promising her that he would let nothing and no one harm their child.
Close by, Naameh was on her hands and knees, wearily clearing up the debris that Noah had left behind, salvaging what she could and shoving the rest into a pile to be thrown away later.
Then, in unison, the three of them looked up, suddenly aware that something had changed. At first Naameh couldn’t put her finger on what it was, and then she suddenly realized.
It was silent.
The rain had stopped.
* * *
Naameh, Shem and Ila emerged from the hatchway door, blinking in the natural light. For so long they had been used to gloom and shadows, to skies so black that the world beyond the Ark had slipped perpetually from night to dusk and back to night again, without even a hint of true daylight to relieve it. Now their eyes were sensitive to even the small amount of illumination that spilled through the fraying canopy of storm clouds above.
Naameh shielded her eyes with her hand, staring through a shimmer of tears at the calm, flat sea, and at the dark, blurred shape standing at the bottom of the ramp, like a sentinel. She blinked the tears away, and the blurred shape came into focus.
