by Mark Morris
It was real. Cold.
The contact cleared his head a little. He realized what the rock signified.
“Land,” he croaked, as if to confirm it to himself. “We’ve reached land.”
He turned slowly. His body ached all over.
Then he froze.
Tubal-cain was lying on his back, arms outspread, less than a dozen steps away. He was sprawled across the body of a ram, his head resting on its haunches. A wolf was lying beside him, huddled up against his leg like a faithful pet beside its master.
Slowly, dragging his left leg a little, Noah shuffled closer to him.
Was Tubal-cain dead? Certainly Noah could see no signs of life. He stared at the warrior king’s huge barrel chest, but it didn’t seem to be moving.
He shuffled a little closer, and then closer still. Close enough to lean over Tubal-cain, to stare into his upturned face. Wondering if he should make certain that the man was dead, slash his throat or ram a wooden spar into his heart.
“The evils of mankind will not live in this new Eden,” he muttered.
He glanced to his right, looking for something suitable among the debris.
The instant he turned his head, Tubal-cain’s eyes sprang open. With startling speed, he whipped a small knife from his belt and stabbed it upward toward Noah’s throat. Just moments earlier, the blade might have hit home.
But Noah’s head had almost cleared, and he reacted quickly. Rearing back, he flung his arm out in a defensive parry. The back of his hand whacked against the underside of the warrior king’s forearm, connecting with such force that it not only deflected the blow, but jerked the knife from Tubal-cain’s hand.
Before his opponent could recover, Noah lunged forward, thrusting out his arms and closing his hands around Tubal-cain’s throat. The last few months might not have been kind to him, but he still retained a sinewy strength. Without hesitation, he pressed his thumbs as hard as he could into his opponent’s larynx.
Quickly Tubal-cain’s scarred face turned purple and his eyes bulged alarmingly. His mouth opened wide, his tongue lolled and he started to make awful choking noises as he fought for breath. His huge arms flailed and his body bucked, trying to dislodge his foe. But Noah clung on for grim life, as a poisonous spider will cling to larger prey once it has bitten it.
Slowly the whites of Tubal-cain’s eyes began to turn pink and his pupils began to roll upward into his head, as Noah throttled the life out of him.
* * *
At first, when he came round, Shem thought that he had broken his left ankle. The pain pulsing up from it, expanding out into his entire body, was so great that he thought he might pass out again.
By the time he had dragged himself, inch by agonizing inch, across the floor to the wall, however, the pain had started to ebb to such an extent that he was hoping it was no more than a bad sprain. Using the wall as support he clambered painfully to his feet. Once he was upright and his head had stopped spinning, he assessed the damage to his body.
Aside from his ankle, his left shoulder felt as though the stone fist of a Watcher had punched it hard, and the left side of his ribs were so bruised that it hurt every time he breathed. The fact that his left elbow was throbbing too was ample confirmation that it was this side of his body that had taken the brunt of the impact.
He shuffled forward to pick up his spear, which had landed on the ground close to where he had fallen. As he straightened up, wincing, he peered hard into the chaotic gloom of the vast space ahead of him, and his mouth opened in shock.
Animals were lying in sprawled and disordered heaps all over the deck. Some were sleeping, while others, almost certainly, were dead.
It was as if the Ark had been picked up like a toy and tipped to one side, dislodging its contents. What looked like half a mountain had penetrated one side of the hull, causing a huge amount of destruction. The floor was awash with water, which was still leaking in. A great deal of wooden debris floated in it.
Because many of the lamps had been destroyed or extinguished, the vast space was mostly in shadow. It was the suggestion of movement, therefore, among the jumble of animals, which drew Shem’s eye.
Peering hard, he could just make out the back of what appeared to be a kneeling figure, leaning forward in the gloom. He couldn’t tell what the figure was doing—tending to an injured animal perhaps?—but he immediately recognized who it was from the torn and dirty robe that it was wearing.
It was Noah, his father. The man who had sentenced his newly born granddaughters to death. The man Shem had come here to kill. What had just happened had not changed Shem’s mind, nor dampened his resolve. To the contrary, if the Ark had finally struck land, as the protruding rock face seemed to suggest, then he was more determined than ever that his daughters be given a chance to start a new life in a new world.
Hefting the spear in his right hand, its point aimed at his father’s back, Shem hobbled forward. He was afraid that he would be heard, but Noah seemed intent on whatever it was he was doing.
Drawing close, Shem turned the spear around, and drew it back.
Although his father’s back presented him with a wide and easy target, Shem hesitated. He began to remember, thinking of how he and his father had worked tirelessly on the Ark, of family evenings sitting in the Hearth, bathed in the warmth of the furnace. Of the stories with which Noah would regale them.
His father had taught him all about herbs and plants, what was good to eat and what could be used for medicine. Had loved animals because they were innocent, without rancor.
But weren’t Shem and Ila’s daughters innocent, too?
Perhaps Shem could convince him of this fact. Perhaps Noah could become a teacher to his newborn granddaughters. Perhaps they could be the first children of the new world born free of man’s wickedness.
An involuntary sob escaped him. In front of him Shem saw his father’s shoulders stiffen. Noah half-turned, which caused Shem’s heart to flutter with panic.
“Leave us alone,” he shouted. Suddenly, instinctively, he rammed the handle with all of his might into the back of his father’s head, where it connected with a sickening crack. Noah collapsed sideways like a tree, blood flying from his temple.
Aghast at what he had done, Shem hurried forward, just as Noah rolled limply onto his back. Dazed and confused, his eyelids fluttering, Noah gazed up at his eldest son.
Shem opened his mouth to apologize, to explain—but the words dried in his throat as a huge black shape suddenly rose from the shadows beyond them.
“Who are—” Shem began, but with frightening speed the shape leaped forward, filling his vision. The spear was wrenched from his grasp as something hard and black shot from the darkness and smashed into his face. There was a crunch, a vivid white flash of pain, and a gush of blood down both his chin and his throat. The pain was so massive that it seemed to suck every bit of warmth and awareness and mobility out of the rest of his body.
Shem’s face suddenly felt like a burning sun, and he was spinning backward into darkness.
* * *
Tubal-cain swung around, brandishing the spear he had snatched from the boy’s hand. Noah, blood seeping from a lump on his temple and still gushing from his broken nose, struggled to sit up. Tubal-cain took two steps forward and kicked him hard in the face. Noah went down again, the back of his head hitting the wooden floor with a crunch.
Noah blinked up at him, helpless. Tubal-cain grinned again, enjoying his victory.
“The Ark is mine,” he gloated. “The beasts are mine. Your women are mine. I will build a new world. In my image.”
He paused a moment longer, wanting to watch as his words registered in Noah’s mind. He wanted to see the anguish, the horror, the terrible sense of loss fill Noah’s eyes before he brought the spear down and watched those same eyes glaze over in death.
But suddenly he sensed a flash of movement on his left-hand side, and a second later an icy numbness began to spread through his body. It blossomed
from his heart and seeped into his limbs, which all at once felt incredibly heavy. Try as he might, he couldn’t prevent his arms from dropping to his sides, or the spear from slipping from his nerveless fingers. His legs gave way and he dropped to his knees. As the coldness crept into his brain, dulling his thoughts, he looked down and saw the shiv buried in his chest. His lifeblood, his heart’s blood, was pumping from the wound that it had made.
He looked up again—his head feeling so, so heavy now—and saw Ham standing there. The boy had his hand outstretched and partly open, as though he could still feel the shape and weight of the shiv in it. He looked shocked by what he had done, but also fiercely proud.
Summoning up his last vestiges of strength, Tubal-cain reached out, grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him close in an almost fatherly hug. Fumbling with his other hand, he removed the snakeskin from around his neck.
He pushed it into Ham’s hand.
“Now you are a man,” he croaked.
He looked into Ham’s eyes and curled his lips into a final terrible grin.
Then he died.
* * *
Every time his head pulsed, more blood oozed from it and his vision went gray and blurred at the edges. Noah still had enough of his wits about him to see and understand what had happened, though. He sat up slowly. He was hurting all over. He felt a hundred years old. Ham was looking down at Tubal-cain’s body, the snakeskin draped limply across his outstretched hands.
Noah spat blood from his mouth.
“Ham,” he rasped.
Ham looked at him. His face was blank.
“Her name was Na’el,” Ham said. “She was innocent, father. She was good.”
Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked away.
Noah watched him go. He didn’t try to call him back.
So this was what it had come to—the Ark ruined, many of the animals injured or dead, his middle son a murderer, and his eldest son determined to defy the Creator’s wishes, whatever the cost.
Noah’s heart felt heavy with grief as he rose wearily to his feet. He saw the knife lying in a puddle of water on the floor, where it had fallen. He limped across and picked it up.
Then, leaving Shem lying unconscious with blood on his face, he shuffled from the room.
22
THE RAINBOW
Naameh had taken the brunt of the impact on her back and right hip, crashing into the far wall of the Hearth with such force that she knew she would be stiff and aching and black with bruises by the following morning. But the babies were unharmed, which was all that mattered.
Once the Ark stopped shuddering, she rose to her feet, crossed gingerly to the tent, and slipped inside.
Ila, still awash in her own sweat and birthing fluids, had slid along the floor, but instead of shooting out of the entrance she had slammed to a halt against the canvas wall. When Naameh entered she was in the process of dragging herself across the floor and back to the dubious sanctuary of her saturated, blood-smeared bedroll.
Naameh limped across to her, knelt down with a wince of pain, and opened her arms, presenting the new mother with her babies.
“They are beautiful, my darling,” Naameh said softly. “Twin sisters.”
Ila looked up at Naameh, desperation in her eyes.
* * *
Despite all that had happened, Noah’s single-minded determination to fulfill the Creator’s wishes had not deserted him. Hunched, battered and wounded, he dragged himself, step by painful step, up each ladder and along one corridor after another.
* * *
Naameh was standing like a guard outside the entrance to the Hearth when Noah appeared. She stared at him in horror as he limped steadily toward her. His face was swollen and bloody, his clothes torn and wet and disheveled. He had been in a fight, and a terrible one at that. Her heart clenched.
“Shem!” she cried, her voice shrill with alarm. “What have you done to Shem?”
Noah ignored the question. He glared at her.
“Move away,” he growled.
He was almost upon her now. Naameh raised her hands defensively.
“It’s a boy!” she cried. “A boy!”
Noah halted, stared at her, scrutinizing her face. “If that was true, you would not sound so desperate to make me believe it, nor look so fearful.”
He stepped forward and swept out an arm, brusquely pushing her aside.
Naameh stumbled and fell, howling in pain as her already bruised hip made contact with the hard wooden floor.
Without so much as a backward glance at her, Noah shoved open the door of the Hearth and clomped inside. Japheth was sitting against the wall, clutching his knees. He looked up fearfully as his father entered.
Ignoring him, Noah crossed to Shem and Ila’s tent and pulled back the entry flap. Inside he saw bloody bedding, and bowls of equally bloody water. But there was no sign of Ila and her offspring.
He turned to Japheth, scowling. “Where is she?”
Japheth quailed.
Naameh, having picked herself up, followed her husband into the Hearth.
“They are twins, Noah!” she cried. “Beautiful twin girls. You can’t kill two of them!”
Noah opened his mouth to ask again where Ila was, but before he could do so he heard the thin, high wail of a baby. It came from somewhere above him. He looked up at the ceiling.
“No,” Naameh begged. “Please.”
* * *
Noah emerged from below deck, climbing out on to the roof of the Ark. The island into which the vessel had crashed was on his right, waves lapping at its shore. His attention, however, was wholly focused on the slight figure at the far end of the deck, her back to him. She was looking out to sea, as if contemplating diving off the edge and going for a swim. Her light brown hair was blowing in the wind.
Noah sighed and drew the knife from his belt. He began to limp toward her. As he got closer to Ila he could hear her sobbing, loudly and uncontrollably. As if sensing their mother’s misery her babies were crying, too.
“Ila,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.
She turned slowly. The babies were swaddled in blankets, one in the crook of each of her arms. Her eyes and nose were red from weeping, her face wet with tears.
“Please, Noah,” she begged. “Please. These are my children. Your granddaughters.”
Noah stepped forward. Gently but firmly he reached out and tried to pry one of the newborns from her grip. Ila shook her head, resisted, gripping the child more tightly. It began to wail, to scream, and then its twin sister echoed it.
“Forgive me,” Noah said, but he continued to try to wrest the child from her grip. She clung on, doggedly, desperately.
“Please, child,” Noah said, raising his voice above the screaming infants. “You cannot stop me. Don’t make it more distressing than it already is.”
Ila, still sobbing, began to nod. “All right,” she wept, “all right.”
Noah paused, waited. Ila took a deep, shuddering breath. She sniffed hard, swallowing her tears.
Finally, as though she was offering her own arms to be hacked off at the elbows, she slowly held the babies out toward him. As soon as they felt themselves becoming detached from the warmth of their mother’s body, however, they began to squeal all the louder.
With an almost animal-like moan of pain, Ila pulled the babies back to her breast.
Noah scowled. “Now!” he said. “There is nothing to be gained in delaying this.”
“I know, I know,” Ila whispered, tears still running down her face. “I cannot stop you. But please…”
She forced down her distress. For the sake of her babies she tried to compose herself, to appear calm.
“They’re crying,” she said softly. “Don’t let them die crying. Let me calm them. Please? I won’t stop you, it’s just… let them be at peace.”
She looked at him so beseechingly, so yearningly, that there was a part of Noah, deep down, which wanted to take her in his arms an
d comfort her, too. However he forced his face to remain stern.
He nodded.
Ila flashed him a look of gratitude. She began to hum. And then, gently, she started to sing.
“The moon is high
The trees entwined
Your father waits for thee
To wrap you in his sheltering wings
And whisper you to sleep
To wrap you in his welcome arms
Until the night sky breaks
Your father is the healing wind
That whispers you to sleep
That whispers as you sleep.”
It was the lullaby Noah had sung to her, many years before, when they had been held captive in the Watchers’ pit and she had been feverish, recovering from her wound. Noah felt emotion welling up in him, but he forced it back down. The wails of the infants dwindled to whimpers, and then eventually to silence. They gazed up at their mother, as if in wonder.
Calm.
At peace.
At last Ila stopped singing. Silent tears were streaming down her cheeks, reflecting the light from the sky above, shining like liquid fire. She stepped toward Noah and held out her arms, offering her babies to his knife.
“You do not need to see this,” Noah said. “Go inside.”
But Ila shook her head.
“No. I will hold them, keep them quiet. But do it now. Do it quickly.”
Noah stared into her eyes for a long moment, then he gave a single curt nod and stepped forward. He raised the knife. Its blade flashed in the sun.
Ila stared up into Noah’s bruised and blood-smeared face. Neither defiant nor calm, but stoical, choosing to accept for the simple reason that she could resist no longer.
Time seemed suspended. Noah stood with the knife upraised.
The babies stared trustingly up at him.
Noah’s hand began to shake. The blade of the knife vibrated.
Then his granite reserve crumbled. He groaned, sobbed. Tears began to pool in his eyes and run down his face, into his beard, mingling with the blood. His shoulders slumped. He staggered backward, his arm sinking to his side. He opened his hand and the knife clattered on to the wooden deck.
