Storm

by Donna Jo Napoli

  And talk. “Please. Go down the rope. Fetch my Aban.”

  Queen and The Male don’t understand a word I say—I recognized that immediately. I suspect they are smart creatures, but limited. Queen seems interested in everything. But The Male wants only to mate, and to please Queen. It’s Queen who saved me from The Male’s advances. As soon as I was on board, Queen examined me carefully, every part of me. I stayed completely still, too frightened to do anything but breathe. Then it was over, and Queen had determined to protect me. An instantaneous and firm decision. Every time The Male comes near me, Queen intervenes and offers herself. This has happened five times already. Queen’s so reliable, I’m not afraid of The Male anymore. Not really. Or I tell myself that, at least.

  I finger the thick, hairy rope now.

  Aban, Aban.

  He’s adrift on that cedar raft.

  I haven’t cried for him. I won’t cry. Crying means death. Aban can’t be dead. I hug myself.

  Screamer stirs. The kit has already formed the habit of sleeping through Queen and The Male’s activities, but he’s sensitive to my movements. He steps out from the little nest he’s made himself in the straw and stretches, his front legs long, his rear in the air. Then he leaps away.

  Seconds later he comes hurtling back through the air, splat onto my chest. Queen, of course. Both she and The Male have decided that Screamer belongs with me. They won’t let him wander even briefly. Queen likes to pick the kit up by the scruff of the neck and dangle him before her eyes before she flings him at me.

  All cats need to wander. Stupid Screamer. He should have raced faster while they were occupied. We are in an enclosure half the size of the main room of my family house, with poles separating us from the long corridor that runs down the center of this boat and from other animal enclosures on both sides. Cages, really. Screamer’s head is small enough that he could pass between the poles. So long as Queen doesn’t catch him. Well, at least it won’t be long till he’ll get his next chance, if only he recognizes it.

  I push myself up on one elbow and look around. Queen and The Male are quietly chewing on squid tentacles. They don’t seem to like them, but maybe they are practical. Food is food, after all. Clearly someone has recently delivered this squid, and water too. I usually hear him. He clumps up and down the ladder to this level of the boat on sandals that must be made of wood, they’re so loud. He comes multiple times a day. I haven’t managed to see anything but the legs and back of the mysterious food-monger yet, because I’m too afraid to peek out of the straw when he comes close.

  He fetches water for us in the morning and the evening. He gets it from a side hole in this boat, like the one I came in through. But he doesn’t have to enter an animal cage to have access to that side hole, because there’s a break in the row of cages. It’s close, just after the next cage—I can see it easily from here. Once I watched him lean out that side hole and then lift in a bucket that sloshed water on him. Buckets must hang on hooks along the outside there, to collect rain.

  He gets fish that way too. I saw him tug and tug on a rope hanging out that side hole, and then pull in a net full of fish. He filled buckets with them.

  I bet there are several side holes like that, easy to get to from the central corridor. Whoever built this boat was smart—that way people don’t have to carry water and fish far.

  I wanted to call out to the food-monger the first time I saw his brown legs descend the ladder. But Queen threw straw on me and then both she and The Male sat on me. So I understood: They were hiding me. The food-monger is dangerous. At least in their eyes. I will bide my time and decide for myself who’s dangerous and who isn’t.

  I grab a fish from the pile of food and tear the skin from it with my teeth. I give the head and tail to Screamer and suck at the rest of it. I don’t recognize this fish. It’s not like the ones I used to eat. I have no idea where we are, but it’s far from home.

  Home doesn’t exist anymore.

  Mamma, Papa, Barak, Talas, Amare. Hurriya, too. And now Aban. Nausea rises in my throat. I suck harder on the fish flesh to hold it down, settle my stomach. Then I cup my hands and dip into the water trough. Rainwater is sweet.

  Within our cage on my other side sleeps a pair of antelopes. They’re tiny in comparison to the antelopes and mountain gazelles that I’m familiar with; these don’t even come up to my knees. They seem unreal—like toys someone has carved for a child. Endearing. Brown with white underbellies. The male has two straight horns aimed backward and up. Right now they stand, sides pressed against each other, but heads facing the opposite directions. Their nostrils widen now and then; their ears swivel at any noise. This is how they pass the day—in this restless sleep. I haven’t yet seen them bed down for a deep sleep. At night they wander our cage, moving almost constantly. But it’s just their way. They don’t seem afraid. They pay no mind to Queen and The Male. They pay no mind to the animals that are brown with striped legs and have strange clawed hooves or to the gray bats or to any of the other animals that live in here.

  A shaft of light comes through the side hole in just the right way, illuminating these antelopes. It reveals a slight blue tinge to their coats. How unusual. I reach out to pet the closest one, when Ack! He falls and is dragged away, kicking. The rope in our cage is attached at one end to a ring in the floor. It uncoils fast out the side hole. The poor thing is caught in it!

  I lunge, but Queen grabs faster. She’s got the little male by a horn. She yanks hard. I hear a snap and a shrill whistlelike scream. Queen drops the little antelope into the straw. He struggles to his feet, but one leg hangs loose, awkward. He nuzzles against his mate.

  Queen and The Male whoop and scream. They alternately lean out the side hole, then jump around in excitement. Oh! Could it be Aban? Please, please let it be! I manage to get to my feet without vomiting. I’m woozy, but I won’t fall—I won’t let myself—no! Queen and The Male still scream. I’m larger than them, but not as strong. Still, I push my way between them to look out the side hole.

  It’s still raining, of course. The rain never ends. But down below there’s a new sight. Not a raft made of cedar branches with a man wrapped in a mantle. Not my Aban. My chest caves in disappointment.

  But there is something. Floating debris. A roof and walls. Wooden bowls. The wreckage of a home that somehow stayed partially together. The rope has caught on this wreckage. And there’s something special about it all: It moves as though it’s alive; it writhes. That can’t be. I stare. Snakes! The wreckage teems with sea serpents!

  Queen presses past me, out the side hole, and lowers herself down the rope.

  “Don’t!” I call. “They’re poisonous!”

  Queen doesn’t even look up at me.

  I push on The Male. “Do something! Stop her!”

  The Male just stares down at Queen. That’s what he did when Queen rescued me, too; he stayed close to the side hole. Maybe The Male can’t swim. Like Aban. But he should stop Queen anyway. Animals should know about the danger of snakes. How stupid could nature be, not to let them know that! Queen will die! I punch The Male in the shoulder. Then I pull back in horror at what I’ve done. But The Male only glances at me dismissively and looks down the rope again.

  Queen hangs from the rope with one hand and both feet and slaps her other hand into the water, over and over. Finally, her hand comes up full; she’s caught a serpent around the throat. I can’t believe Queen’s luck; that’s the only safe way to catch a serpent. Queen hurries back up the rope.

  What? “No!” I wave my arms. “No, no!”

  The Male knocks me aside, and Queen jumps down from the side hole lip into the straw. She drops the serpent. Instantly it throws itself around erratically. Screamer hisses and spits. I scramble away backward on my bottom. The serpent opens its mouth wide. I see two short fangs and so many teeth—uncountable teeth—before it strikes. The fangs catch me on the foot. I shout in terror, but in fact the bite hardly hurts. How can that be? A fatal wound should be e
xcruciating. I hate that snake.

  The Male snatches up the snake and bashes it over and over against the ship wall till it stops moving altogether. For a moment, we are quiet, all of us.

  I dare to eye my foot again. A tooth sticks up from the snake bite. I jiggle it out and watch my blood pool dark in the puncture wound. It hurts more now, a dull ache, but still not much. Why doesn’t it swell? Why aren’t I dead?

  Queen takes the limp snake, opens its mouth, and looks within. The Male peers over her shoulder into that gaping jaw. Then she stretches the whole body before her face, holding each end in a fist. She squats and nibbles at the fat middle. She tilts her head back and her eyes meet mine for just a moment before she focuses on the snake again. She pushes the straw away with one foot and sets the snake carefully down on the wood floor. She sticks her fingers into the hole she nibbled and rips. A sour smell fills the air. Large shrimp come spilling out. Dead, but still whole. By the looks of them, they were a recent meal.

  Queen and The Male feast.

  Queen hands me a shrimp.

  And I realize: This is purposeful, what these two do with the rope. Queen and The Male count on that rope to bring them oddities, to break the monotony of being locked on this ship in an endless rain. They were fishing when that rope caught on Aban’s and my raft. I am an oddity to them. I’m lucky they didn’t see me as food. I’m lucky they didn’t wonder at what might be in my entrails.

  Who is more dangerous, Queen and The Male or the food-monger?

  But the food-monger has clearly locked all these animals in here.

  And Queen didn’t let the little antelope go flying to his death. She saved him. All he has is a broken leg. He’ll mend.

  I touch my foot. It is still cool, still nothing but achy.

  A bird swoops in through the poles of our cage and goes to pick up the snake with his beak. He gets one end, but the whole thing is far too heavy. He flutters stupidly, unwilling to give it up. A shrike, with reddish feathers on his back, pink on his belly, and that black mask over his eyes.

  Screamer jerks his head toward the bird, alert and rigid. I’ve never seen the kit hunt. Does he know what to do?

  Screamer leaps and catches just the tip of a wing as the shrike flies off and away out of the cage, leaving behind the snake. And a single feather.

  Feathers bring good luck. I tuck it in my hair.

  Queen and The Male have watched all this, but lazily, as though none of it matters. Maybe they don’t eat birds. Or maybe they’re just too satiated to consider another bite.

  I stand. My foot hurts, but bearably. I go to the side hole and look out at the rain. There is nothing to see beyond the debris. I take the shrike feather from my hair and blow it away. It gets caught by the rain immediately and is gone.

  Tears stream down my face. I hate those tears. I want Aban to catch the feather. I want it to bring him luck. But I know it’s too late. I knew it was too late even as I climbed the rope.

  I sink to the floor and lean with my back against the boat wall. I hold up the shrimp Queen gave me and lure Screamer back to me with it. I share it with him, then close my hand over the kit’s head. He’s grown so much my palm only barely spans his face now. I know I’m doing it more for my comfort than for his. Maybe he knows too, for he doesn’t rebel as my tears soak him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Night 26

  Screamer slips out through the poles and disappears into the black. Apparently he’s grown up enough that his nocturnal ways are winning. Or maybe he’s noticed that Queen and The Male sleep most soundly at night, so he’s taking opportunities as they come.

  I feel an instant loss. What if he doesn’t come back? But that’s stupid. Just the other day I was wishing him some freedom.

  Besides, he’s right. This is our moment. I stand, but immediately the sensation of being obvious shakes me. A tall shadow is easier to detect than a short one. And I’m defenseless. I get to my knees and creep around our cage, avoiding contact with the other inhabitants, entirely silent. I grab every pole and give it a little shake. But always silent. Not a single pole moves. I go around the cage again, testing everywhere. And a third time.

  There’s no escape.

  I look through the poles into the cage on one side. I know the creatures that live inside there; I’ve watched them from the safety of my straw nest during the day. Two of them are enormous; they stand on legs far taller than me. And their necks look as long as their legs—like camels. But they’re different; they don’t have humps and their coat is patterned and they have little skin-covered horns. Right now they’re asleep on the floor, their legs bent under them, their necks curled backward so that their heads rest on their rumps. They won’t stay that way for long, though. They hardly ever sleep.

  There are tortoises in there too, lots of types. And wild sheep like the kind back home. If there’s anything else, it’s too small or too still to see.

  I creep to the other side and look into that cage. All I’ve ever glimpsed in there by day are two reddish-colored deer and some very large lizard-like creatures. Now I see there are other animals too, sleeping in scattered little mounds. No outlines show well in the dark, though.

  I press my face against the poles that look out onto the long, dark corridor. There’s no doubt there are cages on both sides of it the full length of the ship. But who lives in them is anyone’s guess.

  I turn around and sit with one shoulder leaning against a pole. I am alive. Somehow I survived the sea serpent’s bite. Somehow I keep surviving. I feel I am living on borrowed time. I keep thinking the rain will stop. Then I’ll jump out the side hole and swim to the closest land. But it doesn’t stop. Rain, rain.

  I listen to the night. Bats make leathery flaps around me. Good. This boat is swarming with insects. How much worse it would be without those bats.

  Instantly I feel guilty. My eyes pick out the short-legged, nearly hairless creatures that bump around in the dark nearby, two of them—and, oh, it seems all the animals on this ship come in twos, a female and a male. They search with their long snouts, then use an even longer tongue to swipe up whatever they find. They have rabbit ears and claws that look as strong as a brown bear’s and a naked tail that gets thinner and thinner as it goes down to a point. I have no idea what they are, but I’ve watched them, so I know they’re eating insects. If they’re smart enough, they might resent those bats. They’d hate me for wishing away their food. All right—let there be enough insects for all.

  Something crawls on my arm. I smack it. Then I laugh apologetically.

  As though in response, a quiet throaty rumble comes from somewhere across the corridor. It echoes in the vast space inside this boat. The little hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end. Another rumble, lower, meaner, little bursts of rolling threat. My breath seizes in my chest and burns me from the inside. There’s a lion on this boat. A very large male, from the sound of him.

  And if there’s a male, there’s also a female. Female lions are the more skilled hunters. Everyone knows that. Males sleep and mate and eat. Lionesses do all the work. Unless the male lion on this ship is so bored he’s ready to kill his own food.

  I wait for the next rumble. When it comes, I quickly crawl away from the poles, deeper into the cage. My hands move flat on the wood floor, silent but for the whisper of the straw as I push it aside. The rumbles come short and close together now, at an accelerating pace, like the lion’s growing impatient. I move fast. When the rumble ends, I stop moving instantly. I count the seconds. And lose track by the time the next rumble comes. I use that extended rumble to lie flat and cover myself with straw.

  How very stupid I am. That lion’s in another cage. He can’t get me. Yet his roar reduced me to a quivering mass of fear anyway.

  And now I sense vibrations in the wood. I put my ear to the floor. The vibrations spread through me everywhere, all up the back of my legs, my bottom, my spine, my shoulders, my palms, which are still flat on the floor. These vibrations are lik
e an even lower rumble, one that can’t be heard. They come from below. From the side holes, I figured there was a deck below as well as a deck above. Now I know the one below has animals too. Large animals, ones that can make floorboards vibrate even far away. But animals that are afraid of lions. What other reason would there be to send a silent message? If you want to threaten back, you go louder, not softer. No, whatever animal lives on the deck below was sending a warning to others to watch out for the lion.

  How many animals are there on this ship? And what types? And where, where, where is Screamer?

  What kind of poles hold in those lions? They have to be strong. The food-monger wouldn’t dare walk on this deck if the poles weren’t reliable. Unless he carries a weapon. Still, no weapon is secure against a lion. And no one could protect against two lions together. Why didn’t I see them before? Where exactly is their cage?

  And where is Screamer?

  Thump!

  Something slams against the side of the ship from the outside. I am tempted to go to the side hole and lean out to see. I know it’s raining. It’s always raining. But there’s a moon glow tonight too. It slides around the air near the side hole. I could see something if I looked. But if I move, the lion may rumble again.

  He’s a bully. The air on this deck is husky with the noises of nocturnal creatures. But he doesn’t rumble at them. He rumbles at me. He knew my laugh made me different. He senses my fear.

  Well, I won’t be bullied. I sit up quickly and crawl to the side hole.

  The lion roars.

  I freeze.

  Something furry pushes against my thigh. I cry out and roll away. But it’s Screamer, just Screamer, wonderful Screamer. With something funny dangling from his mouth. A mouse. Ha! Screamer has made his first kill.

  I pat him on the head.

  Screamer growls.

  I shake my head ruefully and stand. I walk to the side hole, knowing that my silhouette is visible in the moon glow if the lion is watching. Do lions have good night vision? I was always told not to go anywhere alone at night for fear of predators. Lions. Or men. Well, all that is past, all those old rules.