Noah

by Mark Morris

  He glared angrily at his father, but instead of confronting Noah he yanked at the sleeves of his jacket, intending to shed it and jump into the sea, retrieve the raft, and haul it back to the ramp.

  Before he could do so, Noah took a small cloth bag from within the folds of his tunic. He lit it with a flint and tossed it almost casually onto the raft.

  The tzohar ignited almost instantly, burning with a white-hot flame. Within seconds the fire was devouring the dry wood and spreading to the canvas shelter and the painstakingly secured stacks of provisions.

  Shem and Ila watched in horror and disbelief as all their hard work went up in flames. Such was the destructive power of the burning tzohar that within minutes there was nothing left of the raft but an already dispersing layer of greasy black ashes, floating on the surface of the water.

  With the insouciance of a man who had just performed some menial task, Noah turned and began to walk away. Shem ran after him, grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him around.

  “You bastard!”

  “Shem, no!” Ila yelled, but Shem was already swinging a fist toward his father’s face.

  Raddled and reduced though he was, Noah blocked the punch easily, and then, when Shem tried to kick him, he hooked a foot around Shem’s standing ankle and whipped his leg out from under him.

  Shem crashed down on to his back, and Noah dropped on top of him, pinning his eldest son to the wooden ramp. Shem struggled, but his father might as well have been made of rock.

  “How could you?” Shem yelled at him, almost spitting the words in his face. “I thought you were good. I thought that’s why He chose you!”

  Noah shook his head. Though he looked ashamed, even anguished, he said, “The Creator chose me because he knew I would complete the task. Nothing more.”

  Ila was desperate to help Shem. Her instinct was to run across and haul Noah off him. But Naameh grabbed her, restrained her. Ila struggled to break free.

  “Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go!”

  All at once she felt a shifting inside her, had the oddest sensation of something collapsing, breaking away. Then she heard a splashing sound, became aware that her thighs were wet. She looked down. Water was running down her legs. A lot of water.

  She felt the baby move.

  “It’s your time!” Naameh cried, her eyes big with both joy and alarm.

  “Oh, no!” Ila wailed.

  At Naameh’s words, Noah and Shem stopped fighting. They both craned their necks to look at Ila. Noah relaxed his grip on Shem’s arms and Shem squirmed out from under his body. Ila was sagging a little, her face contorted with pain. Naameh was doing her best to support her physically while encouraging her to go back inside the Ark.

  Yet Ila was shaking her head, reluctant to do so without Shem. He ran to her side, clutched her hand with his, while putting his other arm around her for support. Then together he and Naameh half-carried Ila through the hatchway door.

  21

  THE BIRTH

  Ila lay on a blanket inside the tent she shared with Shem, breathing rapidly and occasionally crying out in pain, one arm raised to cover her eyes as if she wished to hide from the reality of the situation.

  Naameh knelt between her legs and reached beneath the blanket she had draped across Ila’s belly and thighs.

  Ila released a shuddering breath, then reached down with the hand she had been using to cover her eyes and grabbed Naameh’s wrist.

  “Please, Mother,” she whispered. “Please, keep it inside.”

  Naameh’s voice was soft, her face sympathetic. “It’s coming, daughter. Don’t think about anything else.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth when Ila went rigid, her back arching as a contraction hit her. She screamed out in pain.

  * * *

  Noah sat on the floor of his workshop, listening to Ila’s distant howls. His fists were clenched tightly together on his upraised knees, and his head rested on his knotted fists.

  “A boy…” he murmured to himself. “A boy… a boy…”

  Just then his head snapped up, a sixth sense telling him that there was someone close by. Ham stood in the open doorway, smears of blood on his face. He looked stricken. He held out his hands to show Noah. They were coated with blood.

  “They’re awake, Father. They’re eating each other.” His voice was high, strained.

  Noah was confused. He had no idea what his son was talking about. “What? Who?”

  “The beasts!” Ham said. “Hurry!”

  * * *

  Ham felt sick. Now that the time had come, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to go through with it. He was in turmoil, wracked with guilt, torn between the instinctive love he felt for his father—whom he knew deep down was a good man, a man who loved the world so deeply that he was prepared to put aside his own compassion in order to preserve it—and his conviction that his father must be punished for the callousness and cruelty he had shown in carrying out what he claimed were the Creator’s wishes.

  If his father remained alive, then Shem and Ila and their baby would be lost, perhaps forever. The death of Na’el, the girl Ham had promised—and failed—to protect, would go unavenged.

  But for a son to lead his own father, however misguided that father might be, unwittingly to his death…

  Ham’s stomach cramped with shame. Was there a more heinous crime?

  Now that the wheels had been set in motion, however, he wasn’t sure how to make them stop. He couldn’t prevent his father from following him, couldn’t simply turn and fend him off with an excuse, tell him he had been lying, or mistaken. Nor could he confess the truth. And so, not sure what else to do, Ham kept running, scrambling down ladders which took them past the different layers of the reptile deck, hurrying along the main walkway, passing through corridors, hurtling down more ladders…

  Until at last, feeling crushed beneath his terrible burden and trying to gulp back tears of shame, he came to a halt halfway along the main walkway of the mammal deck.

  Only then did he turn to face his father. Noah, hurrying in his wake, was looking left and right, concern and bewilderment on his face. His eyes roamed over the vast network of compartments and hollows, and across the recumbent forms of the thousands of still-sleeping animals.

  Ham knew what his father was thinking. Everything was quiet here. Where was the chaos that his son had described?

  Noah turned his restless gaze on Ham. His restless, trusting gaze.

  It was evident that it had never, for one moment, occurred to Noah that any of his sons might one day betray him. That fact was like the twist of a knife in Ham’s gut.

  “Which way now, son?” His father’s voice was soft, puzzled.

  It was that final word, that “son” that did it. Ham felt his resolve crumbling. He shook his head and looked beseechingly, apologetically at his father.

  Noah’s eyes narrowed, and Ham saw the truth slowly beginning to dawn on his worn, bearded face. He saw his father begin to realize that he had been deceived, that he had been led here under false pretenses.

  Behind Noah a dark, looming shadow slid out from behind a pillar.

  Ham wasn’t sure whether his father sensed Tubal-cain’s presence, or whether he saw the subconscious flicker of a warning in Ham’s eye. All he knew for certain was that as the warrior king rushed toward his father’s back, knife raised, Noah, belying his recent physical deterioration, spun round, as agile as a trained fighter, and jumped nimbly out of the way of the downward swing of Tubal-cain’s arm.

  The king staggered forward, dragged off-balance by the unconnected blow, even as Noah leaped away. However, of the two of them, it was Noah who fared worse. As he landed, his momentum caused him to stumble backward and trip over the outstretched legs of a miniature pachyderm. He went down, landing among a pair of intertwined apes, neither of which so much as stirred.

  By the time he had scrambled to his feet, Tubal-cain was stalking toward him, knife raised once again. For his part
, Noah gaped at his opponent, disoriented by the sheer fact of his presence.

  Then Noah peered at Ham, who was standing frozen a little way away, his shiv clutched in his hand.

  “You helped him?” Noah asked sadly.

  Ham said nothing, but the way his face reddened with shame and embarrassment was all the answer that was needed.

  Noah continued to back away, moving in a half-circle, carefully stepping over the bodies and trailing legs of sleeping animals, trying to find a bit of clear ground.

  Tubal-cain had no such qualms. He stepped on smaller mammals as if they weren’t there, deliberately so in a couple of cases, his teeth bared in a sadist’s smile. He even stabbed his knife into the neck of a tapir-like herbivore, killing it instantly.

  Noah stood his ground. He watched helplessly as blood gouted from the dead animal’s neck wound—but when Tubal-cain raised the knife to strike another sleeping creature, Noah sprang forward with a cry.

  Even though Tubal-cain had been trying to goad Noah, he still seemed surprised by the speed and ferocity of the younger man’s assault. He stumbled for a moment, his injured leg scraping across the floor. But then he recovered, thrusting his knife at Noah as he lunged for him.

  Noah managed to wrap his hand around the handle of Tubal-cain’s knife, just above the king’s own grip.

  The two men came together, punching and gouging with their free hands, wrestling over the knife. They fought savagely, their faces contorted with the long pent-up hatred of sworn enemies.

  Standing in the shadows, his shiv still clutched in his hand, Ham watched them with horror on his face, and wondered what he had unleashed.

  * * *

  Ila screamed with pain. Her eyes bulged. Sweat soaked her hair and ran down her face.

  “I can’t…” she sobbed. “I can’t do this.”

  Naameh was composed, a rock. She nodded gently but firmly.

  “You can,” she said. “You will. You are close. When you feel you have to push, you push.”

  Shem was kneeling at Ila’s side, clutching her hand, staring down into her face.

  “I love you,” he said.

  Ila tried to reply, but her body was wracked by another contraction. She screamed again.

  “Push!” Naameh urged.

  Ila pushed. She bore down, roaring, screaming, sobbing, her face turning bright red. Her heels dug into the ground. She squeezed Shem’s hand so tightly that he could feel the bones grinding together.

  Just when it seemed as if her head might burst with the effort, she let loose a final, bone-chilling, primal howl—and suddenly, in a gush of blood and amniotic fluid, a tiny, purple, slithering bundle rushed into the world, and into Naameh’s waiting hands.

  Its wail of protest at being ejected so abruptly into an alien environment cut through the air.

  Shem looked at Naameh, a flood of emotions—hope, fear, joy, wonder—all chasing one another across his face.

  Naameh looked at him.

  “There’s two,” she said.

  Shem gaped. This was the last thing he had been expecting his mother to say.

  “Two?”

  “Twins!” Naameh turned her attention back to Ila. “Push, Ila! Push again!”

  The second birth was easier. Ila bore down, and almost instantly a second squalling, blood-smeared scrap of humanity was sliding into the world.

  Naameh scooped them up, one in each hand, and examined them.

  “So?” Shem asked anxiously.

  Naameh’s shoulders slumped. The color drained from her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Shem looked stunned. His mouth moved, but at first nothing emerged. Then he forced out a single rusty word.

  “Both?”

  Naameh looked distraught. Her eyes shone with tears, which over-spilled her lower lids, trickling down her cheeks. “Sisters,” she whispered.

  “No,” wept Ila. She threw back her head, and dug her clawed fingers into the bedding beneath her. “No… oh, no…”

  Tears were running down Shem’s face now, too. He looked at Ila, anguished, bereft, sobs tearing out of her, and then he looked at his newborn daughters.

  He came to a decision. He wiped the tears angrily from his face, straightened up, and squared his shoulders.

  “No,” he growled. “No, he will not touch our daughters.”

  He stepped purposefully out of the tent. On the far side of the Hearth, leaning almost forgotten in the corner, was the spear that Noah had used to defend the Ark from the invaders, many months ago. A dark smear of long-dried blood still stained its tip.

  Shem crossed the room and snatched it up.

  “Shem!” Ila called from inside the tent.

  “He will not have our daughters,” Shem said. “I will die before they do.”

  And with that he swept from the room.

  * * *

  As Ham watched, Noah and Tubal-cain reeled and staggered and spun among the sleeping beasts as they fought for possession of the knife. They slammed against wooden columns, stumbled over the backs of spotted tigers and the outstretched legs of horses and camels. At one point they fell headlong on to a massive, double-horned rhinoceros, which twitched an ear in its sleep, as if bothered by nothing more than a pair of troublesome flies.

  The fight between the two men was long and fierce, and at first it seemed that, despite their disparity in size, theirs was a perfectly even match. Tubal-cain was heavier and more muscular, yet Noah was the younger by almost two decades.

  Neither would relinquish so much as an inch.

  Eventually, however, something had to give, and it was Tubal-cain who managed to gain the upper hand. Freeing the arm that wasn’t holding the knife, he swung his fist like a club and slammed it into the side of Noah’s head.

  It was the first solid blow that either of them had managed to land, and it sent Noah reeling. Dazed, he relaxed his grip on the knife by just a fraction—which enabled Tubal-cain to wrench it free and jab it savagely upward. The broad, flat side of the knife connected with Noah’s nose, which broke with a crunch.

  Noah staggered back, his arms flailing, blood pouring in a red ribbon from his broken nose. His heels connected with the solid, clawed feet of a silver bear and he fell backward into its warm, furry, sleeping mass.

  Seizing the advantage, Tubal-cain rushed forward, and stood astride him. Noah stretched out an imploring hand as Tubal-cain raised the knife high above his head.

  Standing a dozen steps away, Ham’s eyes widened. Though he knew it was hopeless, his muscles tensed as he prepared to rush forward in an attempt to stop what for months he had been convinced was his greatest desire, but which he now—too late—realized was his greatest mistake.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and saw Shem arrive, carrying a long, thin object. But then his attention returned to the combatants.

  Tubal-cain’s knife had already begun its downward arc when suddenly there was a deafening tearing, grinding, crashing sound. At the same time the mighty Ark, which had been plowing remorselessly through the waves for so many months, abruptly stopped.

  * * *

  The result was immediate and devastating. One moment Tubal-cain was standing astride Noah about to deliver a killing blow, and the next he, Noah, Ham, and hundreds of sleeping animals were tumbling through the air.

  The tearing sound continued, and as Ham was swept up off his feet and hurled across the room, bodies of all shapes and sizes sailing through the air above and below and beside him, he caught a flashing glimpse of the wall of the Ark caving inward. In the next second, what looked to him like a gigantic stone fist, surrounded by gouting jets of water, smashed its way through the hull.

  * * *

  Naameh and Japheth were huddled around Ila in the tent, attempting to comfort her, when the Ark crashed to a stop. Instantly the three of them were sent spinning and sliding across the floor of the tent and out of the open flap into the Hearth beyond.

  Naameh, st
ill holding the newborn twins, one in each hand, instinctively curled her body protectively around them as she was hurled across the room. Squeezing her eyes tight shut, she clutched the babies to her bosom and braced herself for impact.

  * * *

  As the Ark halted with a massive shuddering crunch, Shem was hurled through the air. The spear he had been carrying flew from his hand. Tumbling end over end, it fell with him.

  * * *

  Dazed, Noah sat up, groaning, and peered around. For several moments he couldn’t even begin to comprehend what had happened.

  When he had found himself hurtling through the air, his vision confused by a rushing mass of meaningless colors and shapes, his first thought was that Tubal-cain had struck him dead. That the sensation he was experiencing was of his immortal spirit departing its earthly body, prior to beginning its ascent to join the Creator.

  He had felt no joy at this prospect, however. To the contrary, he experienced a fleeting though acute sense of dismay, certain that he had failed to complete the mission that he had been given.

  Then he felt himself floundering in darkness, and wondered whether this was his punishment—an eternity of darkness in which to contemplate his failure.

  But now he was awake again. Bruised, battered and bleeding, but undeniably alive.

  Noah’s mind worked furiously as he tried to make sense of the chaos around him. Animals were lying in an unholy jumble, some of them injured, or worse. What looked like a jagged, rocky mountain had torn a huge hole through the hull of the Ark, scattering timber debris everywhere. Though the protruding mass of rock had mostly sealed the breach it had created, water was still spraying around it and into the Ark.

  Looking up, Noah saw that many of the walkways and ladders, constructed to pass from one level to the next, were now hanging down, having been ripped apart upon impact. The damage was extensive, and irreparable. Even from his initial, groggy assessment, Noah was certain that the Ark would never sail again.

  He clambered to his feet, chunks and shards of shattered wood falling from him. Head still ringing, he stumbled over to the towering jag of gray-green rock jutting through the hull, and placed his hand upon it.