Then a stifling, life-choking storm-blast of fine red sand buried both the female and her nest of eggs, preserving their remains from the floodwaters that followed.
They sat as a family around the barely flickering hearth of the pen, listening to the storm. This vast downpour of water, punctuated by deafening, inexplicable sounds of destruction, was beyond all of Annah’s imaginings. Throughout the evening, everyone prayed and watched in tense uncertainty. No one ate. And although their few conversations were disjointed, they were unwilling to leave each other for very long.
Now, in the nighttime darkness, Annah felt trapped. All the creatures throughout the pen were hushed and stilled, as if they also were listening to the fury of the storm outside. Another jolt of fierce, breathtaking, white-blue light flashed beyond the shuttered windows. Then came a terrible, heart-stopping crackling explosion of noise that shook the very air, making Annah tremble. O Most High, she prayed, fingering the cord of the precious shell-carving around her neck, I realize that this is all happening as You warned, and that You are protecting us, but I am afraid.
As Annah was thinking this, Shem clasped her hands comfortingly, his eyes encouraging her: Don’t be frightened.
To answer her husband, Annah nodded, leaning against him. Seated beside Annah and Shem, Ghinnah spoke loudly, nervously as she huddled in Yepheth’s arms. “At least the shaking of the earth has stopped for a while.”
Yepheth tightened his arm around her and said clearly, “Has it? I didn’t notice because you’re still shaking.”
“Child.” Naomi beckoned Ghinnah. “At least have something warm to drink; perhaps it will soothe you.”
Shivering visibly, Ghinnah refused. “Thank you, I’ma-Naomi, but I’m sure I can’t drink anything. I don’t believe this is happening….” Her words stopped awkwardly and she ducked her head, obviously afraid she had offended Naomi and Noakh.
But Naomi nodded in silent understanding, and Noakh’s mouth twitched as if he were reluctantly amused.
Seated near Shem, Khawm grimaced. He was holding the silent Tirtsah’s hands, rubbing her fingers as he called to Ghinnah. “Now, sister, if you don’t believe what’s happening, we’ll gladly push you up a ladder to the windows so you can look outside.”
Ghinnah stared at him, her eyes huge. “I … no–no … forgive me. I do believe you.”
Hugging her, Yepheth said, “Don’t be so frightened. We won’t make you go look outside—unless you really want to go.”
“No, I don’t want to go!” Ghinnah cried, glaring at her husband, almost in tears. “Please, don’t make fun of me.”
A spectacular flash of light and a rumbling boom from beyond the high windows startled them all, making them look up. As the noise faded, Noakh raised his voice. “O Most High, Living Word, thank You for protecting us according to Your loving will. Save us from our fears this night.”
As Noakh prayed, Annah saw Tirtsah wiping her face, and Khawm comforting her. Tomorrow would have been the eighth day for you, Tirtsah, Annah thought. Then you would have been glad to laugh in our faces and call us fools. You would have run in your eagerness to get away from your husband and his family. What are you thinking now? At least you’re no longer angry with your husband.
Tirtsah’s scornful, haughty demeanor was gone, replaced by the wide-eyed fearful attitude of a young child. Annah held her breath, praying that Tirtsah would finally accept the Most High, and the Lodge of Noakh. But Tirtsah straightened suddenly and wiped her face. Like one who will not yield, Annah thought in despair.
When Noakh finished praying, Annah looked at him expectantly. It was, most likely, their usual time for sleep. Another flash of light illuminated their faces and the darkness behind them, ending with a frightening burst of sound.
The noise finally ended, and Ghinnah pleaded with Noakh. “Father of my husband, can’t we wait here tonight? We won’t be able to sleep.”
“We should try to rest, daughter,” Noakh answered kindly. “Even if we cannot sleep with all this noise.”
Pressing Annah’s hand, Shem spoke to Yepheth and Ghinnah. “If you wish, Annah and I will stay here to keep watch with you.”
“We’ll stay too,” Khawm added, reacting to a nudge from Tirtsah.
“We should try to rest,” Noakh repeated. “But perhaps we can make ourselves comfortable here. We have some—” Another startling flash and rumbling interrupted Noakh. He finished his words by pointing to numerous rolls of hides and fleeces stored along the far wall.
Somberly, they arranged their sleeping areas not far from the carefully banked hearth, using the cured hides and fleeces. Annah lay beside Shem, staring up into the darkness. Sleep would be impossible, she decided. Even using the fleeces, the wooden, resin-coated floor was still too hard for comfort. And the noise outside could not be ignored. Even if she covered her eyes or plugged her ears, Annah could still see the eerie white-blue flashes of light, and she could still hear the terrible outbursts of noise that shook the skies. Then there was the incessant downpour of waters from the heavens; it was too powerful to be soothing. But Annah was glad to be lying down. She was exhausted.
This is like the most terrible dream, she thought, listening to the storm. But no, truly, the most terrible dream would be to be caught outside.
Annah stared up into the endless third night of the storm, dazed by fatigue but unable to sleep. Surely it would be morning soon, though the dark days were no different from the nights. She turned uncomfortably and glanced at Shem, who appeared to be asleep. How? she wondered, staring at him. How can you even keep your eyes closed? Another flash of light made Annah flinch. Shutting her eyes, she curled her fingers around the polished contours of her treasured shell carving. She stilled herself, remembering its glowing colors of luminous pinks and blues, its iridescent sheen, and the endless fascination of the delicately carved waves adorning its edges.
You were considering this destruction when you carved the waves into this piece of shell, Annah thought to her husband. Have you thought of this storm often? I kept telling myself that this destruction would be later, someday. It never seemed real, but now it’s here, like an endless nightmare.
There was a sudden shifting beneath Annah, an unnervingly buoyant sensation. We’re floating, she realized, frightened and amazed. The entire pen moved dizzyingly. She lifted her head to look at Shem and the others. They were all sitting up now, looking around anxiously, seeming to question their own senses.
Noakh said clearly, “If we are already floating, then the lodge is covered.”
If the lodge is covered, Annah thought, then the settlement, too, is covered, and they are all dead. Yerakh. Taphaph. Naham. And Haburah and Ayalah.
Another blinding flash of light and noise resounded outside. Remembering her sisters’ faces, Annah pressed a hand to her mouth, startled by her own grief. Why do I mourn you? she wondered to her dead sisters. You hated me, both of you. And I could not bear to be near you. But I never wanted you to die.
The pen shifted. Annah put both hands on the floor to steady herself. Then, overwhelmed by an unexpected sense of loss, she began to cry.
Shem moved over in the darkness, holding her, kissing her, murmuring, “We’re safe, beloved. Don’t be afraid.”
“They’re dead.” Annah took a quick, pained breath. “My sisters are dead, and I wanted them to live!” She clung to him and wept.
Twenty-Three
LIGHTING THEIR way with a resin-soaked torch, Annah crept through the second level of the pen, followed by Ghinnah. As Annah held the torch, Ghinnah listlessly checked the animals, making sure they had enough water and food. Not that it mattered; all of the creatures seemed to be in a stupor, moving little, eating less.
Like all of us, Annah thought. All we want to do is sleep. Just listening to this storm is exhausting. And we’ve been wandering about like mourners. I didn’t expect to feel such grief for so many days … weeks now. It’s like a continuous bad dream.
“Poor creatures,�
� Ghinnah sighed. “They’re all still moping. But they’re alive.”
Unlike your uncle, Qeb-al, and his Etsah and their sons, Annah thought, almost able to hear Ghinnah’s unspoken words. Unlike my sisters. Annah quickly shied away from those thoughts. Both women turned, sensing another person approaching from the central ramp.
“It’s Tirtsah,” Ghinnah guessed. “Our husbands and the father of our husbands are all checking the animals below. And I’ma-Naomi is above, preparing the midday meal—not that I could eat anything.”
Tirtsah came down into the quiet orderliness of the cages, stalls, and enclosures, pausing to look at some of the animals and to touch them, as if she doubted they were still alive. At last she met Annah and Ghinnah, her full mouth set in a grimace, her fine, dark eyebrows lifted in a token greeting. “Ma’adannah. Ghinnah. The mother of our husbands wants to talk to us together before the men come up from the lower level.”
The pen heaved swiftly, causing Annah to grab the upright post of a nearby stall. The swinging, sliding sensation nauseated her. With an effort, she remembered to hold the flaring torch out at arm’s length to avoid burning anyone or anything. Staggering, Ghinnah and Tirtsah clung to the post with Annah. Ghinnah pressed her hand to her mouth, and Tirtsah held her stomach as if she might retch. As everything seemed to sway about them, Annah shut her eyes. Slowly the pen righted itself in the waters, and the motions eased. Annah leaned against the stall, limp with relief. Sweat prickled over her skin, making her shiver.
Sagging against the post, Ghinnah uttered a despairing groan. “I’m so tired of being ill and creeping around like a would-be-dead person.” Then, recognizing her unfortunate figure of speech, she said, “Oh, forgive me. I should have used different words.”
“We understood what you meant,” Annah assured her. Glancing at the drooping Tirtsah, Annah became concerned. “Tirtsah? Do you need a bucket?”
“No.” Tirtsah ran a hand over her ashen face, then looked at Annah, mutinous, as if she expected to be humiliated. “I’ve been waiting for you to laugh at me, to tell me how wrong I was. And how right you were—that you knew this storm would come.”
Clearly aggravated, Ghinnah burst out, “Oh, Tirtsah, I’m sure you’ve been waiting, but Annah’s not ever going to behave so rudely. And she hasn’t laughed since this storm began. In fact, I’ve never heard Annah laugh. Think about it, Tirtsah; your husband and his family haven’t exactly been rejoicing in this destruction.”
Tirtsah remained stonily silent.
Disheartened, Annah focused on the flames of the torch. Please, Tirtsah, she thought, I don’t want to quarrel with you. Gently she said, “Tirtsah, even now, you don’t understand, do you? We didn’t care to be ‘right’ about this storm. It wasn’t something we wanted. I certainly didn’t want to believe the father of my husband when he first spoke of it.”
Pained, thinking of her dead sisters, Annah continued. “But the father of my husband was right. I couldn’t deny the truth; outside the lodge of Noakh, I’ve never met another person who was truly kind and loving, who also loved the Most High. Even my own father—the only person in the settlement who ever loved me—did as he pleased. Everything was according to his own will. He refused to believe in a Creator who desired harmony with him.”
“I believe in the Most High now,” Ghinnah confessed timidly. Her small round chin quivered as she added, “But I didn’t until the storm. And I simply happened to be inside this pen instead of outside.”
To Annah’s surprise, Tirtsah gave a choked little laugh, and her huge, dark eyes glimmered with moisture. Taking a quick breath, she nodded. “I didn’t want to believe either. But now I do. Though if it weren’t for the storm, I never would have believed. The Most High was nothing to me but a child’s story.” Tirtsah bit her lip, and tears slid down her cheeks. “Annah!” she cried. “I’ve been so afraid! If He destroyed all the others for believing as I believed, then why has He allowed me to live?”
“Perhaps because He realized that you would learn to trust Him and to love Him,” said Annah, hardly daring to hope Tirtsah would agree.
Gulping down an audible sob, Tirtsah shook her head. “I don’t deserve to live.”
“None of us deserves to live,” Annah said, her own eyes welling, burning as she recalled her previous hatred for Yerakh and everyone in the settlement. “It was the violence of our thoughts and deeds—as much as our shunning of the Most High—that helped to destroy the others. In my heart, Tirtsah, I am just as guilty as you.”
Tirtsah cried quietly, her tears gleaming in the light of the resin-soaked torch. At last, sniffling, she said, “I believe you. And Him. I’ll never understand why He should—as you say—desire harmony with me, but I’m grateful He does. I pray I never give Him cause to despise me further.”
“Turn to Him,” Annah urged, wiping her eyes. “That’s all He asks.”
Ghinnah was also wiping her eyes. She straightened suddenly. “Ugh! I’m tired of crying! I want to do something—anything else. Listen, if the waters have quit tossing us about for a while, then let’s go to I’ma-Naomi before our husbands finish their work. We can come back to check the animals later.”
“These poor creatures aren’t doing anything anyway,” Tirtsah agreed. She sighed, as if to clear her thoughts. Then she actually took Annah by the wrist, pulling her along as one sister would naturally behave toward another. “Hurry; I’ma-Naomi is waiting.”
Pleased by this new turn in their relationship, Annah allowed Tirtsah to lead her up the ramp to their living area. Naomi was at the hearth, keeping a close eye on the flames beneath a small iron rack, which supported a plump bronze cooking pot. Annah eyed the hearth appreciatively. The crackling glow of the fire was a welcome relief against the continual downpour of rain and chaos outside the pen.
Ghinnah reached Naomi first. “Here we are, I’ma. That last turn made us sick again, so we had to wait before coming up to see you.”
“And you’ve all been crying again,” Naomi observed, her dark eyebrows lifting in her calm, commanding face. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
Curious, Annah fastened the torch in a sturdy wall bracket and sat with Ghinnah and Tirtsah, facing Naomi expectantly.
Naomi pursed her lips, then spoke severely. “We have been mourning long enough. It’s been almost thirty days now. We are alive, and we forget that we should be thanking the Most High for His mercy in sparing our lives. I think even our husbands have forgotten how to laugh, they’ve been so busy watching the storm and the animals.”
Annah heard Tirtsah suck in a quick breath. Ghinnah actually laughed. “I’ma, we were just thinking the very same thing. We’ve all been crying for so long that we’ve worn ourselves out.”
“Then we agree.” Naomi relaxed as if she had been worried that they would be angry with her. “We need to remind ourselves that we are alive, and we ought to praise the Most High for His goodness.” Leaning forward, she said, “Also, we need to celebrate my husband’s six-hundredth year of life. We passed it while we were harvesting the herds.”
“His six-hundredth year, ” Annah repeated in dismay. “Six kentums. We didn’t know….”
Each one hundred years of life for any person, man or woman, was traditionally celebrated by feasting, dancing, visiting, and gift giving. Failure to celebrate was an insult to the person in question, as if that person was despised, and the years of their lives were counted as nothing.
“Does he think we hate him?” Ghinnah asked, sounding horrified.
Naomi smiled and shook her head, the gold talismans of her hair bindings sparkling in the light. “No, child. My dear one doesn’t think that at all. It was his choice not to celebrate. At the time of his six-hundredth year, he was mourning for our Methuwshelakh. And we were too busy harvesting the herds to take time for any celebration. After that, again, we were too busy preparing for this storm.” Naomi’s dark eyes were shining, almost mischievous. “But tonight, we should remind him of how very, very old he is! And
we should feast. I’ve made him a new tunic, and we can prepare all his favorite foods, but I’ll need your help.”
“We should keep this a secret,” Tirtsah added, her lovely face glowing. “It would be fun to surprise our husbands.”
As they all agreed, Annah’s thoughts raced ahead, trying to plan some sort of gift for her father-in-law. Six hundred years, she thought. How can we not celebrate?
“Spiced cakes,” Noakh said, his somber face brightening as Annah placed a basket on the mat in front of him. “And beans.” His eyes widened as Ghinnah presented him with a large dish of his favorite red beans; thick, sweet, darkened with spices, and simmered until they were almost a paste. Smiling, Naomi and Tirtsah offered Noakh an immense assortment of vegetables, all perfectly cooked and gleaming with olive oil and flecked with fragrant herbs. Now, Noakh became suspicious. “What’s all this?”
They waited to answer him, for the storm released a sudden burst of light and a massive, reverberating boom of noise. Glancing upward, Annah sighed, relieved as the noise faded. These vast, overwhelming sounds were less frequent now, thinning out in duration and intensity as the waters deepened over the earth. Hearing the usual rushing downpour, they all relaxed.
“What is all this?” Noakh asked again, bemused, looking at the feast set before him. “How can we eat all this food tonight?”
“You are the oldest, my dear one, with your six-hundredth year,” Naomi teased. “In your lifetime, you’ve eaten more than any of us; you could manage to eat a little more than usual.”
“My father’s six-hundredth year!” Khawm cried, slapping both hands to his forehead, almost wailing. “How could we have forgotten? We should be beaten!”
Seated near their father, Yepheth and Shem both groaned and looked equally stricken. But Noakh chuckled dismissively.
Heavens Before Page 27
