Shem found her first. Bending to kiss her, he said, “I turned over in my sleep and you weren’t there.” He hesitated and stared at her intently, his eyes widening in the dim light. “You’re having pains.”
“Yes,” Annah agreed through clenched teeth, unwilling to communicate further. Another pain closed around her, squeezing her tight. Elated, Shem hugged her; Annah pushed him away hard.
Undismayed, Shem went to wake the others. They gathered around Annah delightedly, discussing her appearance and arguing about when she would actually deliver the child. Annah shut her eyes, struggling through another contraction. When the pain subsided, Naomi, Ghinnah, and Tirtsah helped Annah to her feet. Against her will, they led her back to her room.
The morning passed in a swift, pain-filled blur. Trying to cope with her misery, Annah moved restlessly around the room. All the while, she was vaguely aware of Naomi watching her, while Tirtsah and Ghinnah hovered close by, all of them apprehensive.
“Is the pain too much, Annah?” Ghinnah begged at one point.
“No,” Annah muttered, turning her face away. Another pain gripped her and she clung to the storage chest for support, feeling the urge to bear down, producing a warm, drenching rush of birth water.
Naomi took hold of her and spoke sternly. “Ma’adannah, it’s time. You have to let us help you; stop pushing us away.”
It’s time, Annah thought, repeating Naomi’s words in her mind. She obeyed Naomi, finally settling down on the hastily arranged birthing area of mats and hides. Ghinnah and Tirtsah were supporting her back and shoulders, encouraging her through each new contraction. At last Naomi cried out, jubilant, “There! One more breath, daughter, then push again.”
Gasping, gritting her teeth, Annah obeyed, thinking of nothing but ridding herself of the pain. It vanished suddenly, as the amazingly angry howl of a newborn filled the room. Tirtsah laughed and hugged Annah, as Ghinnah shrieked into Annah’s ear, “A son! You have a son!”
Immediately, Ghinnah and Tirtsah abandoned Annah to watch as Naomi bound and cut the birth cord, then hastily wrapped the squalling infant in a fresh blanket. Annah was leaning forward to catch a glimpse of her new son when another pain struck. Frightened, she called to Naomi, “I’ma, another pain!”
Busy with her grandson, and the admiring Tirtsah and Ghinnah, Naomi answered happily, “It’s only the afterbirth, daughter, don’t worry.”
“I’ma!” Annah cried, enraged, aware of more than just the pain now, “does afterbirth kick?”
Gaping in astonishment, Naomi thrust her new grandson at Tirtsah and returned to Annah. “Another child?” she asked in disbelief. “A hidden one?”
Engrossed with the renewed onslaught of pain and the urge to bear down, Annah ignored the question. After four birth pains, Annah delivered another son. But this second son was different from his howling, shut-eyed brother. This second son cried plaintively at first, then opened his dark eyes and hushed, looking about, alert and curious. Seeing his odd expression of newborn wonder, Annah laughed, overcome with joy. Visibly startled, both of her sons began to cry.
Nestled in her bed, Annah watched the gentle flickering of the oil lamp set on the nearby storage chest. She smiled, listening to the others laughing and celebrating over their evening meal in the main room of the lodge. They are passing my sons around like little gifts, Annah thought, pleased by the sounds of their happiness. There were loud discussions earlier, however: Shem had asked Noakh to name the twins, and everyone gave suggestions, each of them groaning when their suggestions were discussed and rejected.
At last, against Naomi’s will, Noakh had named the firstborn infant Elam—the hidden one—because Elam would not open his eyes. And Elam’s younger brother was called Asshur—the guiding one—because Asshur was alert and watching everything.
“This Asshur will lead his brother,” Noakh said, making everyone laugh, including Annah, who strained to hear every word spoken about her sons.
My sons, she thought. I have two sons. And they are as beautiful as their father. Dreaming, Annah closed her eyes. A sound startled her then; a small stone, gently tossed, landed beside her in the bed. Shem. She turned to see him watching her from the doorway, his face lit by the flickering of the evening fire.
Shem lifted his dark eyebrows, concerned, questioning: Are you well?
Smiling, Annah nodded faintly, motioning with one hand: Yes. Thank you.
His answering smile was relieved and radiant. Widening his eyes emphatically, and raising two fingers, Shem silently indicated his joyous astonishment: Two sons!
“Move away and let her rest,” Naomi commanded him sternly from beyond the doorway. Shem smiled and kissed his fingertips to Annah in reluctant farewell.
Annah repeated the gesture to him, smiling as he retreated to the main room. Then she shut her eyes, clasping the small stone in her hand. Dreaming again, she remembered the first time Shem had beckoned to her from beyond the river near the settlement, silently encouraging her to live. Truly he had acted by the prompting of the Most High.
Annah clenched the small stone tightly, thinking, O Most High, You sent my beloved to find me that day. You caused him to see me and to save me. You arranged everything according to Your plan. I see that now, and I am amazed. Again I wonder why should You love me—a nothing-creature—when I can give You nothing in return? Only my love, and my thanks. And my joy in Your presence.
Sensing His unchanging presence now—the presence of a watchful, loving Father, Annah smiled. Wholly at peace, she drifted into sleep. Thank You always.
Epilogue
SEATED ON a grass mat just outside the lodge, Annah steadily twisted puffs of wool into long strands, then twirled them onto wooden spindles. Naomi, Ghinnah, and Tirtsah were seated close by, also preoccupied with the wool, which they were planning to use to make tents for the men to take into the fields when they had to watch the herds. As they worked, they talked softly, fearful of waking Ghinnah’s daughter, Bekiyrah.
“I wish she would sleep like this at night,” Ghinnah sighed, pausing to stroke Bekiyrah’s dark tousled curls. “She’s going to be impossible when the new baby comes.”
Annah studied Ghinnah’s fatigue-shadowed face. “Perhaps we should try to keep her awake during the day. Then she’d have to sleep at night,” Annah suggested.
“She would be so irritable,” Ghinnah groaned. “She doesn’t play as long or as hard as your sons do. Look at them.”
They all looked at the little boys playing nearby, and Annah had to smile. Her sons were nearly two years old, sturdy, vigorous, and handsome, with thick dark curls and big brown eyes. They were laughing and running in circles with Tirtsah’s son, Kuwsh. As the boys ran, they called to each other, “Got-you, got-you, got-you!” Their words became a monotonous chant in Annah’s ear.
“Little wild men,” Tirtsah laughed, her lovely face glowing with pleasure and with the effects of her pregnancy. Her second child was due within the next two months. Studying the boys, she said, “Kuwsh lost one of his foot coverings. Annah, you’re thinner than I am; please go make him cover his feet.”
“Thinner by a few months,” Annah murmured wryly. Her third child was due after Tirtsah’s, near the time of Shem’s first hundred-year celebration. Shem was delighted by the coincidence, insisting that this child would be enough of a gift for any kentum.
And you are one child this time, not two, Annah thought, standing, rubbing her full stomach comfortably. This new child already was more peaceable than his brothers—Annah was certain the baby was a boy. Now, picking her way around the crackling, stone-lined outdoor hearth, Annah found Kuwsh’s abandoned foot covering and scooped him up, though he was in midstride.
Kuwsh howled indignantly, arching his small, strong, leather-clad back and kicking Annah with quick, hard little feet. Swiftly, Annah turned Kuwsh in her arms until his back was against her, but he continued to kick and scream. Give up, Annah thought wearily. You won’t win against me. Aloud she said, “Kuws
h, stop. You are kicking my baby. Don’t kick the baby.”
Distracted now, his attention caught by the word “baby,” Kuwsh gave Annah a dark little frown and pointed toward the sleeping Bekiyrah. “Baby,” he insisted, as if to explain to Annah that he couldn’t possibly be kicking the baby; she was too far away.
Annah laughed and kissed her nephew’s brown cheek, soothing him as she sat down on the grass to replace his foot covering. She made a game of it, tickling Kuwsh’s toes lightly, then hugging him and kissing him again; it was the best way to get the little boy to cooperate. As she tied his foot covering, Asshur and Elam crouched beside Annah, bright-eyed, watching critically.
Asshur stretched a determined little hand toward Kuwsh’s foot covering and said, “Me do it.”
Kuwsh slapped his hand away hard, bellowing, “No!”
As Asshur prepared to retaliate by slapping Kuwsh, Annah grabbed both their hands, her voice severe. “No. No hitting. This is bad. Bad. No hitting each other.”
Both little boys were chastened. Briefly. Then Kuwsh lifted his chin at Asshur and said in a husky, self-satisfied voice, “Bad.”
“Bad!” Asshur said, accusing Kuwsh in return. They repeated the word back and forth until it was a chant, a game, punctuated by their laughter. Fondly exasperated, Annah turned Kuwsh out of her lap and chased the boys off with a wave of her hand.
Elam stayed behind. Burying his gleaming, black-curled head in Annah’s long overtunic, he begged Annah to pick him up, saying, “Ma–ma–ma, up!”
“You’re getting too heavy,” Annah told him gently. But he was obviously tired, and Annah gave in. Hoisting him up awkwardly to her hip, she returned to the hearth.
Naomi brought out the dough to prepare soft cakes for their evening meal. By now, they had learned that by making dough and storing it ahead of time, the dough—and the resultant wheat cakes—became puffy and soft inside when they were baked.
While this new type of wheat cake had been an agreeable surprise to everyone, their joy in this new discovery was offset by the realization that cooked food spoiled quickly in the new environment. Annah believed it was because of the change in the air. The air also caused metals to change colors or corrode. Now, blades of stone were easier to make and maintain, because Annah’s knowledge of collecting, heating, and working metals was frustratingly inadequate for their needs. It would take years of experimentation before they could create new metal tools to replace their old ones.
So much knowledge has been lost, Annah thought. She settled Elam beside her on a grass mat, then picked up a blade of stone to help Naomi cut the puffy, resilient dough into small cakes. As she worked, she watched Elam drift into sleep. Perhaps you will help us relearn metalwork later, Annah told her son silently. In a few years, I’ll show you how to work the gold—though we are too busy now. How I miss working the gold!
“One day,” Ghinnah mused pleasantly, “I will describe the home of my father to our children, and they’ll build ones like it: houses of carved stone, with many rooms and two or more levels, and walls encircling them, with beautiful gardens inside. And the gardens will have all kinds of flowers….”
“Tell those two wild men.” Tirtsah nodded toward Asshur and Kuwsh. “I think they will accomplish whatever they decide to do.”
Annah listened, suddenly uneasy. Would it be right to create such visions and ambitions in the minds of their sons? Perhaps it would be better to teach them to live close to the earth, remaining dependent upon the land. Their hearts would be more satisfied by simplicity; and they would remain close to the Most High, Annah thought, trying to quell her anxiety.
“Ma’adannah.” Naomi nudged Annah. “Here comes your husband.”
It worried Annah that Shem was returning to the lodge this early—until she recognized her husband’s joy. Asshur and Kuwsh were charging at Shem happily. Grinning, Shem paused long enough to allow them to catch hold of his hands. Then he dragged the two little boys toward the lodge, protesting in mock dismay that they were both so strong they would soon pull him off his feet. Their shrieks and laughter awoke Bekiyrah. She sat up, her pretty, rosy little face bewildered, her soft brown eyes enormous with fear until she saw her uncle and her cousins playing. Bekiyrah looked up at Ghinnah pleadingly, pointing to the others. “Me, too.”
“Run to them,” Annah urged her niece. When Ghinnah nodded agreement, Bekiyrah trotted to Shem, her dark hair shining, fluttering in the light breeze.
“Ugh,” Ghinnah groaned, disgusted. “Bekiyrah’s wet.”
“My husband won’t care,” Annah said comfortingly. Shem loved Bekiyrah’s sweetness—he often expressed hope that their next child would be a daughter. Annah laughed, watching as Shem picked up Bekiyrah and kissed her, then held her out at arm’s length, teasing as he brought her back to Ghinnah.
“We’re going to douse you in the spring, O daughter of my brother! We’re going to rinse you until you squeak, little-wet-one. Then I’ll hold you and tell you stories.”
As he freed himself from the three little ones, Shem bent to greet his mother with a kiss. Then he gave Annah an enticing smile. “Come, walk with me,” he urged. “My brothers and I found something that will please you.”
“Go with your husband,” Naomi agreed, patting Annah on the arm. “I’ll finish making the wheat cakes, and we’ll watch Elam while he sleeps. Asshur can stay too.”
But Asshur would not stay. He clung to his father insistently. Annah touched Shem’s arm, saying, “Perhaps he needs your company today.”
Exhaling reluctantly, Shem nodded. “Come then!” He scooped Asshur up in his arms. “Are you wet too? No? I don’t trust you.”
They made a quick stop at the enclosed waste pit, then rinsed Asshur’s hands and face in the spring. Finished, Shem lifted the little boy to his shoulders. “It’s a long walk,” Shem told Annah apologetically. “If you get tired, let me know and we’ll rest.”
But Annah did not get tired. The day was clear, bright, and cool. She scanned the grasses and low-growing bushes and small trees for signs of animal life. The animals had been avoiding them completely since their first day of freedom on this new earth, but now and then, Annah would spot the tiny field creatures or one of the great cats. She even saw a small herd of hoofed, tawny, darkmaned grazers, which instantly fled in the opposite direction.
At least we know they are surviving and bearing young, Annah consoled herself. It still pained her to see every sort of animal fleeing from her as if she were a monster. They had not yet killed wild animals for food. It was easier to net fish from nearby ponds. And once they had reluctantly culled animals from their own flocks. The children craved meat, requesting it often. They will gladly hunt the wild creatures, Annah thought.
“Your surprise is over there,” Shem told Annah, indicating a field that sloped downward to a small, rushing creek.
Wondering, Annah followed him. As they walked, she heard a sharp whistle of greeting from some distance to the east. Khawm, Annah thought, smiling at him. Khawm waved briefly, then returned to his work; he was clearing large stones from a field, dumping them into a cart to haul them away. Later, he would harness an ox to a one-bladed plow and drag the plow through the fields in preparation for a crop of grain.
“Here,” Shem said, sliding the drowsy Asshur off his shoulders, down into the crook of his arm. “Tell me what you see.” He indicated a bare-limbed young tree, no taller than his chest.
Annah stared at the slender, bare, gracefully drooping tree branches, recognizing its form. “The Tree of Havah,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “Not the actual tree,” she amended, glancing up at her husband.
“But one of its kind,” Shem agreed, his voice pleased. “It’ll show leaves soon.”
Annah smoothed the drooping, bare limbs with their tiny hints of leaf buds. She was smiling and crying at the same time. “I thought I’d never see such a tree again.”
“Would the Most High deprive you of such a joy?” Shem asked. Shifting th
e sleeping Asshur in his right arm, he embraced Annah with his left arm. “Look now, I want to build our lodge here, a lodge of stone and wood. What do you think?”
With an effort, Annah looked away from the graceful form of the young tree. And she saw the beauty of the land, the promising sweep of it, and the rugged charm of the stream cutting downward through the lower hills. This is right, Annah thought. This is where we should stay. “Yes,” she agreed. “Our sons will love it here.”
“And our daughters,” Shem added, touching Annah’s rounded stomach.
“He is not a daughter,” Annah said. “But I think he will be your quiet one. He’s not like his brothers.”
They sat down to rest and to discuss the land. They both agreed that one place in particular, a reasonably level rise not far from the stream, would be the ideal place to build their lodge. As they talked, an eagle circled above them, repeating its shrill cry over and over until Asshur woke up from his resting place in Shem’s lap.
Staring up into the sky, Asshur pointed, clearly awed. “Pretty,” he said, his small finger following the flight path of the bird. As the great bird flew off and vanished beyond the nearby crags, Asshur continued to gaze at the sky, obviously daydreaming.
Watching him, Annah thought, I’m glad you love this sky. But you have known no other. What will you say one day, when your father and I try to describe the heavens as they were before? Will you be able to imagine them as they were? Soft and low and pink as the color in my shell carving.
I pray you’ll believe us. And I pray you will remind yourself and your children that this new sky—so beautiful to your eyes—could one day suffer the same fate of total destruction because of the violence of men. How I hope you will listen and remember our words, you and your brothers.
Heavens Before Page 31
