Noah

by Mark Morris

  It was Noah, his clothes and hair dark and wet and heavy. He was gazing out to sea, staring at the horizon. As she watched him, wondering what his next move would be, the hatchway door creaked open behind her and Ham and Japheth rushed out, blinking in wonder at the sudden novelty of a day without rain.

  As if their appearance had prompted him into action, Shem started down the ramp. He had taken eight steps, maybe ten, when he called out.

  “Father.”

  Noah turned slowly. He had regained his composure. His face seemed set with a new resolve. He did not seem surprised to see his entire family lined up at the top of the ramp, staring down at him.

  As he walked up toward them, Ila began to descend the ramp as if intending to meet him halfway, though she halted when she reached Shem’s side. Noah was still a good ten paces from them when she glanced up at the sky and said boldly, “The rains have stopped. The Creator smiles on our child.”

  Noah came to a halt. He regarded her thoughtfully.

  “The rains have stopped because of your child, yes. But He does not smile.”

  Like Ila he glanced up at the sky, as if he could read the Creator’s intentions in the clouds.

  Then he said, “If your child is a boy, he shall supplant Japheth as the last man. But if it is a girl, a girl that could mature into a mother, a girl that will become a new Eve, then she must die.”

  A gasp emerged in unison from his family, there at the top of the ramp, and from Ila. Shem, however, stepped angrily forward to confront his father.

  “Are you mad?” he shouted. “That is my child.”

  Noah regarded his eldest son as if with nothing more than a mild curiosity. Then he pushed past him, ascending the ramp to the hatchway door.

  Halfway there he stopped and looked at Ila calmly, without rancor.

  The words he spoke, however, sent a shudder of horror and outrage through all of them.

  “Should you bear a girl… in the moment of her birth I will cut her down.”

  GENESIS 7: 23

  And every living thing was destroyed which was upon the face of the World… Only Noah remained alive, and they who were with him in the Ark.

  And the waters prevailed upon the World one hundred and fifty days.

  20

  THE RAFT

  “There!” Japheth shouted.

  Naameh looked up, shielding her eyes as she followed her son’s pointing finger. The raven was a black speck against the white, featureless sky. They watched it circle the Ark, dipping and swooping, reveling in its freedom, before it finally descended and settled on the vessel’s flat roof.

  The two of them ran over to it, Naameh holding out her arm. The raven’s head twitched, its beady black eyes regarding them as they approached. And then, when they were no more than six paces away, it stretched its wings, lifted itself into the air, and landed obediently on Naameh’s outstretched arm.

  It stood there, its head raised almost haughtily, as she examined its beak and wings.

  “Anything?” Japheth asked hopefully.

  Naameh shook her head.

  Japheth watched his mother’s face as she gazed out across the ocean, which seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Although she did her best to hide it, he knew that she was deeply worried.

  * * *

  In the long months since the rain had stopped, the Hearth had undergone a change. No longer was it the enclosed space it had been during the forty-day deluge. The huge hatchway door had been tied back, allowing fresh air and light to pour along the once-gloomy corridors leading to the mammal deck. To all intents and purposes, the Ark seemed an altogether more appealing place than the rain-buffeted vessel that had ridden out the storm.

  But sometimes appearances could be deceiving, and although the darkness at the heart of a place was not immediately visible, it was still there.

  Ila was alone in the living space, packing food into a large bag. She moved slowly, her swollen belly straining against the maternity dress that Naameh had made for her. Suddenly she felt movement inside her—a sharp kick that made her gasp. She sat down, and placed a hand on her stomach.

  Her baby would be here soon. And despite what Noah had said those many months before, she couldn’t prevent an excited smile from creeping across her face.

  * * *

  Noah watched as Cain raised a rock and smashed it down, shattering the skull of his brother, Abel. He watched as vast armies clashed, his head ringing with bellows of hatred, cries of agony, wails of fear. He saw blood-spattered men killing not only other men, but also women and children. As they hacked off heads and limbs in an appalling frenzy of violence, he raised his arms and screamed at them to stop, screamed and screamed, but they wouldn’t listen.

  He was still screaming when he snapped awake.

  He sat up, panting, gasping, tears running down his face. He didn’t need to see himself to know what a harrowing toll this journey—and the decisions he had been forced to make—were taking on him. His skin was parched, his eyes sunken, and his hair and beard, which had grown long and straggly, were brittle and gray.

  But despite it all he would not waver. He would not shirk from his duty.

  Hauling himself to his feet with a groan, he turned and shuffled out of the room.

  * * *

  Naameh and Japheth climbed down from the roof, the raven perched on Japheth’s shoulder. They made their way along the corridor, past the closed door of the Hearth, and out of the open hatchway, onto the ramp.

  Outside they found Shem, hard at work, lashing barrels of fresh water to the raft he had made from logs and other wood scavenged from the interior of the Ark.

  The raft, which was large enough to support a small shelter for two people, seemed an appallingly flimsy vessel with which to tackle the open seas. It was attached to a simple launching track on the edge of the ramp, and secured in place by two restraining ropes.

  Naameh and Japheth watched him for a few moments. As ever, when Naameh looked at the raft, deep grooves of anxiety appeared on either side of her mouth. Behind her she heard the Hearth door open, and she turned to see Ila emerge, moving slowly and carefully, her belly huge. Not for the first time she thought how big the baby was going to be, particularly given the girl’s delicate, fine-boned frame.

  This worried her, too—the thought of Ila giving birth on the raft, with only Shem to care for her. But she tried to hide her anxiety, planting a smile on her face as the girl approached.

  Ila was not looking at Naameh, however. Her attention was focused on the raven on Japheth’s shoulder.

  “Anything?” she asked hopefully.

  Naameh shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  Ila’s shoulders slumped, but she pressed her lips together, her face set with determination. “We still have to go.”

  Naameh gestured at the seemingly endless gray sea. “There’s nothing out there. You have food and water for… how long? Weeks? A month?”

  “A month,” Shem confirmed, stepping off the raft and up on to the ramp. “But there will be fish.”

  Naameh looked less than reassured by his blind optimism.

  “Please wait a little longer,” she said. “At least until the bird finds land. Japheth, send him again.”

  Japheth stroked the raven’s chest with the tip of his forefinger. It nuzzled affectionately at his ear in response.

  “He’s too tired.”

  “Then wake another,” Naameh snapped, reaching into the pocket of her dress and taking out a bag of herbs, which she pressed into his hand. “One that can find us a home.”

  Before Japheth could reply, Naameh and Ila both became aware of a presence lurking behind them. They turned to see Noah leaning against the wall just beyond the door to the Hearth, trying to keep out of the light.

  He was staring at Ila, his deep-set eyes glittering. She shuddered and shook her head.

  “We leave today, whatever happens,” she said. “I feel my child stirring. It is time.”

&nb
sp; * * *

  Naameh couldn’t remember the last time she had had a proper conversation with her husband. Ever since Ila had told him about the baby, Noah had shunned his family, refusing to eat with them in the Hearth, or even to sleep in the tent he had shared with his wife. He had become a shadow, a shambling, half-seen figure to be feared and avoided. He spent most of his time in his workshop, which he had rebuilt after his destructive rage, or wandering the decks of the Ark, lost in his own thoughts, his own obsessions.

  And just as Noah avoided them, so they avoided him. Shem, Ila, and Ham had all been alienated by his refusal to compromise, or even consider the possibility that he might be misinterpreting the Creator’s instructions. Naameh had found his remarks to Ila—and his failure to apologize for them, or even to discuss the situation—absolutely unforgiveable.

  Japheth was merely confused and upset by all that had happenedçbut as his entire life had been spent in the shadow of his father’s great mission, to which Noah had dedicated almost all of his energy, he was naturally inclined to turn to his mother and his siblings for love and solace.

  As a result of his own actions, therefore, his own obstinacy and callousness, Noah was—perhaps irretrievably—alone and adrift.

  Alone with his Creator.

  Alone with his thoughts.

  Now, however, the time had finally come. Because of Noah, Shem and Ila were planning to leave today. They were planning to set out on a desperate and foolhardy journey that would almost certainly, in Naameh’s opinion, lead to their deaths.

  Something had to be done. A deadlock had to be broken. Naameh had to swallow her anger and resentment and make a final attempt to bring the family together, to make Noah see sense. Whether it would work, she had no idea.

  But she had to try.

  Which was why she marched to the door of his workshop, pushed it open and stepped inside.

  Noah was hunched over his workbench, carefully grinding a chunk of tzohar into a fine powder. He poured the powder into a small cloth bag, tied the bag closed. He didn’t acknowledge Naameh until she spoke. Her voice was cold.

  “They will die out there.”

  He turned slowly, the glow from the tzohar furnace emphasizing how sunken and skull-like his face had become. His voice was a rusty rasp, as if it hadn’t been used for months.

  “Not if they stay.”

  She took a step toward him, trying to control her anger. “And let you kill their child?”

  There was no expression on his face, no flicker of guilt or shame.

  “I did this,” Naameh said. “I went to grandfather. Punish me. Not them. Me!”

  She had thought she was going to have to control her anger, but in fact, that emotion was becoming something else. It was helplessness, desperation. She thought of Shem and Ila, who had suffered so much hardship, and for whom this birth should be the happiest event of their lives. Instead they were preparing to set out on a voyage from which they would almost certainly never return.

  The thought was too much for her. She couldn’t bear it. She dropped to her knees in front of her husband, and clutched at his filthy robe.

  “Please, Noah,” she begged. “Not the child. Please.”

  But he was unmoved.

  “It is not the child that is being punished,” he said. “It is we who are being punished. All of us. Do you think I want to do this? Don’t you think I have agonized over this decision? It is painful, yes. But it is just.”

  Now his words did spark anger in her—anger which she found impossible to control. It poured from her in a torrent.

  “Just?” she screamed at him. “This is not just. Do you want to know what justice is? Justice is you lose your sons. You lose Ila. You lose me. I loved you, Noah. I followed you. Everywhere. Through everything. I was ready to forgive you. When everyone was dead I was ready to forgive you. I was ready to die with you. But this I will never forgive. Boy or girl, I will never forgive.

  “You will die alone, Noah. Not just alone. Hated. By everyone you love.” She raised a quivering finger and pointed it at him.

  “That is just,” she said. “That is just.”

  Her words seemed to ring and echo through the room. He stared at her. Blinked. And for a moment, just a moment, a glimmer of doubt contorted his face.

  Then he gave a choked roar and shoved her aside.

  He stormed out, leaving her on her hands and knees, her head hanging down, weeping.

  * * *

  Tubal-cain teased a knot of wood out of the wall of the reptile deck with the tip of his knife, admitting a bright beam of daylight which illuminated his gnarled face. Now that the spate of fevers had passed from his body and his leg had healed, for the most part, he looked strong again, healthy, almost back to his old self. Although he had been left with a limp, it seemed barely to hamper him. Even lame, Tubal-cain was still a formidable opponent.

  Not that Ham thought of him as an opponent. No, he thought of the warrior king as a friend, or at least an ally. He watched as Tubal-cain peered through the hole he had carved in the wall in order to observe the activity below. Ham knew that the hole looked down on the ramp. Indeed, it was directly above the raft that Shem had made, and with which he and Ila hoped to escape from the death sentence that his father had passed on their unborn child.

  Whenever Ham felt guilty about concealing Tubal-cain for so long and nursing him back to health, he consoled himself with the thought that his family, if forced to make the choice, would rather see Noah dead than Shem and Ila’s child. Even his mother, he was sure, would rather lose her husband than her eldest son, adopted daughter, and grandchild.

  “What can you see?” Ham asked.

  “The girl, Ila,” Tubal-cain grunted. He licked his lips. His voice, though gravelly, was soft. “She is carrying bags of dried fruit onto the raft. Clearly she and your brother are almost ready to depart.” He scowled, and shook his head.

  It is not right, Tubal-cain thought to himself. Her body is strong and vibrant. Bounteous and full of life. She may be the last fertile woman on this world, and yet she is risking her life because of the madness of Noah.

  He pulled away from the hole, plugged it once again with the circular knot of wood, and swung toward Ham, lurching but moving swiftly.

  “Come,” he said. “It is time.”

  Ham paled. “Now?”

  Tubal-cain glared at him. “Do you want your sister to die on the seas?”

  This time Ham was more sure of himself. He shook his head.

  “No.”

  He followed Tubal-cain as the warrior king strode purposefully across the vast expanse of the reptile deck and lowered himself through a hole, onto a wooden ladder. Appearing unconcerned with the threat of being discovered, he descended the ladder, then swept along the corridors below until they reached the vast open space of the mammal deck, which was filled with the sound of deep breathing, and the comforting, hay-like musk of warm animal fur.

  Tubal-cain stepped over to a large wooden column, around which several animals were curled in slumber, and leaned against its shadowy side, where he would not be seen by anyone entering the deck through its main entrance.

  “Bring Noah here now,” Tubal-cain ordered.

  Ham hesitated.

  Tubal-cain held up his knife, showing him how sharp the blade was. “He will not suffer. One thrust and it will be over. But just in case…”

  He reached into his belt and produced a shiv, which looked small and ineffectual in his huge, gauntleted hand. He held the blade out to Ham, hilt first.

  Ham looked at it, but didn’t take it.

  “I don’t know if I—”

  Tubal-cain interrupted him with a flash of anger.

  “He killed your woman. And now he plots to kill your brother’s firstborn. Is that what you want? Do you want your sister to die on the seas?”

  He saw the doubt on Ham’s face. His voice grew softer.

  “A man is not ruled by the heavens. A man is ruled by his will. So I
ask you—are you a man?”

  Ham stared at him, a frown wrinkling his forehead. Slowly he nodded.

  “Good,” Tubal-cain said. “Because if you are a man, then you can kill.”

  Ham looked down at the shiv. He took it. Then he swallowed and looked up at the king.

  “But how can I make him follow me?”

  Tubal-cain smiled his terrible smile. “Every man is blinded by what he loves.”

  Then, to Ham’s horror, he raised his knife and brought it savagely down on the neck of a spotted wolf that was sleeping at his feet.

  * * *

  The provisions were stored on the raft, and the shelter had been erected. Shem and Ila were ready.

  Naameh was sobbing, her shoulders heaving—she looked utterly distraught. Ila stepped forward and hugged her. With her swollen belly suddenly she looked like the mother, and Naameh the frightened child.

  “Fear not, Mother,” Shem said. “We shall find each other in the new world.” But his words only made Naameh cry all the harder.

  Japheth, standing behind Ila, suddenly said in surprise, “Father?”

  Shem, Ila, and Naameh looked around, Naameh immediately swiping the tears from her eyes. Noah was standing at the top of the ramp, his knife in his hand, staring at them. He looked wild, his eyes darting from Ila and Shem—who had stepped forward to drape his arm protectively around Ila’s shoulders—to his wife. It seemed as if he was finding it difficult to reconcile the love that Shem and Ila clearly shared with the love that he had once had, and had now lost, with Naameh.

  He clumped down the ramp toward them. The four of them took an instinctive step back. But the knife wasn’t for them. Ila’s eyes widened in horror as she suddenly realized what Noah’s real intentions were.

  “No!” she shouted. “Stop!”

  But she was too late. Noah stepped forward and cut through the restraining ropes of the raft before anyone could stop him. Shem rushed forward as it slid from its moorings and splashed down into the sea.