Storm (25 page)

So far, my plants thrive best in elephant dung. That makes Bash happy. The elephants greet him now. They both run the tips of their trunks over his shoulders and head. Bash says they do it tenderly; he feels like they honor him. They’ve become his favorites.

So this garden is the combined effort of the elephants and Bash and me. But I planted it and I tend it, and in return, it gives me back a slice of my old home, my old self. Sometimes I pet the leaves, like I used to do when I was a small child. It’s my job to water the plants, which is no small task, since sweet water is so hard to produce and I have to fill a bucket twice to satisfy all these plants. So, in a way, it’s my garden. And this bloom, this first bloom, is mine too.

We both lean our faces close to inspect it. It’s got two petals. One is deep purple and the sides curl in, the other is flat and lighter colored—pink really.

“What do you think it is?” I ask.

“I have no idea. But it will produce something edible. That’s all that matters.”

He’s so right. I have trouble remembering the taste of anything other than fish. And the smell of fish is always about me, particularly in this shift.

I study the plant. Lots of other little buds have formed. Maybe tomorrow they’ll open. Maybe the world will be pink and purple. “We have to build a fence for it. Now that we know it’s productive, we can’t just let the vine sprawl in the dung like that.”

“Fish spines?” he asks. And he’s already getting to his feet.

We have a whole pile of fish bones, big and little. We can fit them together so they make a sturdy fence. I can do it. It’s got to be a little like weaving. A little like fitting together branches to make a raft.

Loss hits me again like a slap. I close my eyes and swallow the lump in my throat.

“Sheba!”

“What is it?” I’m not fast at anything anymore. I waddle. But right now the excitement in his voice spurs me to move almost fast. I stand beside him and follow his gaze. Craggy, lumpy, gray hulks. “Why, they’re mountaintops!” Overnight rocky peaks have emerged from the water. I hug Bash around the waist. “It’s really happening. The earth is really coming back again.”

“You knew it would.”

“No. I only hoped it.”

“Remember when we grounded here and you asked me where we might be? Well, I had no idea then. But now I think maybe I know.” His finger goes up and down, drawing in the air. “The land of the Hittite people has a mountain range whose peaks make a pattern just like that. I think we’re in their country. I think we’re grounded on Mount Ararat.”

I give a little laugh. “Can you really recognize a mountain range from just a few boulders peeking out of the water?”

“No.” Bash grins. “But I have two other clues.” He pulls a bone knife from the side of his loincloth. He always carries a knife with him now; he never wants to get stuck without one again. “This came from a hog. And they raised hogs in the land of the Hittites.”

“Is that the only place people raised hogs?”

“No, but it was the place best known for hogs. And then”—he points to the bucket inside of which our five little nuts lie waiting—“there’s the pistachios that we’re saving”—he looks at my big belly—“for our celebration.”

“Don’t say that!” I’d clap my hand over his mouth if I could reach it. “Don’t ever talk about future celebrations. It’s bad luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“I do. Or I think I do.”

Bash frowns. “Can we talk about pistachios? They grew in the land of the Hittites.”

I’m irritable now. Testy. “Pistachios grew all over the place. They grew in my country.”

“Not this kind. You said it yourself.”

“I don’t remember saying any such thing.”

“You said these were smaller than usual. Anyway, Hittite land was covered with pistachios—while your Canaan is known for almonds.”

“All right. You win. You’ve been everywhere, haven’t you?”

“I’ve traveled.”

“How old are you anyway?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

I look away and pull on my fingers. “No.”

“Listen, Sheba. If this is going to be where we live, maybe it’s our job to bring back the pistachio trees. Instead of eating those nuts, we could plant them.”

He’s so right! I punch his side and drop my head so he can’t see my tears of gratitude. I hate being a crybaby. I pull him by the hand toward the bucket that holds the five nuts. It sits between the bucket that’s for sweet water and the bucket full of seawater heating in the sun.

Screamer’s sleeping by the pile of fish bones, which is behind the bucket with the pistachios. As we walk toward him, he wakes, gives a little screech of annoyance, and moves to the far side of the fish-bone pile. If cats can give dirty looks, Screamer certainly gives one to Bash. I like his naughtiness. And a thought occurs to me. “Are there any other swamp cats on the ark?”

“Bottom deck. In the cage with the hippopotamuses.”

“Does Screamer know them?”

“Sheba, stop right there! I won’t do your every bidding.”

“All right. It’s good enough that they’re on board. He’ll have others of his kind when we can finally get off the ark.”

Shutters bang open from below. Bash and I freeze.

“See?” It’s Noah’s voice. “I told you. I told you it wouldn’t be forever. Mountaintops. See?”

“No! Why are you closing the shutters again? Don’t.” It’s Ham.

“Move your arm.”

“I will not! Leave them open now.”

“The Mighty Creator wants them closed until . . .” and the shutters bang shut.

Noah. Exercising his right to rule everyone. But I can just imagine them going down the ladders, one by one, delivering water, then gazing out the portholes as long as they like. In my head I’m cheering them on.

We crack the pistachio nuts in our side teeth, Bash and me. The shells were shut, yet they are damp inside. They probably would have tasted awful anyway. I roll them between my palms.
I promise you all the water I can manage. Please grow into trees. Big, strong trees
.

We plant them. Then I stand and wave in every direction. “Hello, Mount Ararat. Hello, new home. We’re making you a present. Please smile on us. Please.”

I
t starts like a gas pain, not even uncomfortable, just barely noticeable, really. Yet I know immediately. “Get Screamer down to the lower deck.”

Bash doesn’t seem to hear me. His brow furrows in concentration. He’s bent over his latest project: a sled, from two long whale ribs with whale skin slung between them. He found the remains of no fewer than three whales caught in crags around the other side of one of the mountain peaks.

When he brought back the first rib bone and talked on and on about this new treasure, I was stricken. In my head I heard those clicks, on and on till silence prevailed. I cried. It seems that’s all I do these days. And I told him about the night Queen and The Male and I watched the baby whale die.

Bash was sympathetic. But only to the point of holding me
tight. He said none of these whales were babies, placed the rib in the center of the roof, and went right back down the rope and into the water for the next bone. He has since brought back every bone he could find. He’s making an arsenal of tools: a blade, picks, spears, a hammer. He looks at a bone and figures out from its shape what tool he can make from it with the least amount of work, and then goes at it, using mostly our hog-thighbone knives for carving. He’s constantly thinking about what we might need in our life ahead. We also now have a lean-to made from whale skin, and we can sit in its shade during the hottest time of day—and it gets very hot these days. We passed the longest day of the year about a month ago, and it keeps getting hotter.

Labor is harder the hotter it is. Anyone knows that. I’ve seen women pass out from straining in the heat.

I’ve seen them die.

I waddle over to him. “Hey, Bash.” I put my hand on the top of his head simply because I can, given that he’s bent over and I’m standing. The top of his head is a nice place. His hair is thick, and now that he swims every day, it’s so very clean and flyaway, furry almost.

“Hmm?” He is using a bone shard to drill a hole in another bone.

I close my fingers around his hair and pull. Hard.

“Ahi!” He looks at me, surprise on his face.

“Take Screamer back down to his cage. I don’t want him here when I’m in labor. I don’t want extra complications.”

Bash straightens up to his full height. I see the bump in his throat rise and fall as he swallows. “You’re in labor.” It isn’t a question. He pants now. “Is there time to worry about where Screamer is?”

I smile. “You don’t know anything about labor, do you?”

He shakes his head.

“Well, I do.”

“Of course. You told me about your younger brothers.”

“No, I was too little to help when they came. But I’ve helped at other births since I was twelve.”

“You’re a midwife?”

“No. It’s just part of what girls learn.” I smile again. “It’s handy sometimes, you know? Like now.”

“You’re awfully calm for a woman in labor.”

“It doesn’t hurt yet. But it will. I’ll scream at you. Maybe a lot. I’ll probably say that you’re doing everything wrong. That you’re an idiot. Cruel. A turd-brained monster. But no matter what I say, don’t leave me. And you have to stay calm. No matter what. Absolutely calm. I’ll need you to help me.”

His face is a mask, but his eyes glitter with worry. “I’ll do anything you say.”

I waddle over to fetch Screamer. And, oh! One of the pistachio plants is peeking up through the dung. My heart thwangs. For some stupid reason I just feel this is the best news, the best news ever. I pet Screamer awake, then pick him up by the scruff of the neck and hand him to Bash.

Bash goes down the rope with Screamer hanging from his mouth, looking dazed. He’s a fully grown swamp cat now—no one’s idea of a gentle kitty. But when he’s carried like that, he goes all limp and docile, like a baby. It makes me think of when my brothers brought him home to me. A whole world ago.

The little gas pains are still little gas pains.

I dip my hand in our full bucket of seawater and swish it around slowly. The water is sun hot. Our bucket of sweet water, on the other hand, still needs to be filled. In a moment of clarity I race to the side of the roof and look down the rope. Bash is climbing up already. His head is almost level with the roof. “Grab us another bucket.”

He looks up at me and squints against the sun, hesitating.

“You promised to do anything I say.”

He goes back down again.

I splash a section of roof with seawater. Good. It will dry clean in the sun. That’s where I’ll lie.

Bash comes up and clunks another bucket on the roof, then quickly turns and pulls up our rope. “What now?”

“Why did you pull up the rope?”

“Ham saw me.”

The news stuns me; I can’t stand. I sit down slowly, using my arms to ease myself down. “What will happen now?”

“Nothing. He saw me in your cage, when I was just about to go out the porthole. I hit him over the head and he went out cold.”

“Like the lion.”

“Like the lion. But when he wakes, he’ll tell. If there’s no rope there, they’ll think he imagined it. I’ve heard them all calling one another mad—delusional—or worse, liars. They’re at one another’s throats all the time. They won’t believe him.”

“Maybe he won’t believe himself.” I think immediately of Nela. I should have told her about Bash. Now who knows what she’ll think, what she’ll do? I look at Bash. If he’s having the same thoughts, he doesn’t show it.

“In any case . . .” Bash walks to me and holds up the new bucket. He leans over and swings it in my face. “Orders?”

“Fill it with seawater. Do the same with the old bucket. We’ll need to wash the babe thoroughly. And me, too. It’s not good to leave blood everywhere. And take off your loincloth.”

“Are we getting intimate?” He gives a forced smile. And his eyes now scream terror.

I feel sorry for him. But I feel sorrier for me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to count on him. I saw a husband run away during a labor and not show up again for days. And I’ve never seen one stay by his wife’s side. “Fish!” I bark. “Keep catching while I make enough sweet water. And I need that loincloth to do it.”

Bash drops his loincloth in front of me. He attaches a bucket to the end of the rope, lowers it over the opposite side of the ark, and brings it back up full of water. He does the same with the second bucket. Then he checks the sweet-water bucket. “There’s still some in here.”

“Give it to the plants.” My belly becomes hard as stone. It hurts.

“But . . .”

“Do it!” I snap.

Bash waters the garden. Then he catches fish. My belly goes hard again.
Ahi
. But then it relaxes and I’m fine. He fishes. He doesn’t know what my belly does, what it keeps doing, what it’s doing right now,
ahi
! He just fishes. Good.

Each fish that comes up, I slit down the middle. I set aside the backbones and the eyes. Then I wrap the fish in Bash’s loincloth and twist it tight over the empty bucket. I have to use all my might to squeeze hard enough. The liquid that comes out is mostly water. Fishy water, but sweet water, not seawater. It’s drinkable. I look at the precious new drops in the bottom of the bucket and my heart warms. We discovered this method of extracting water ourselves. Together. I look at the pile of fish that is quickly building up. We’ll do this. We’ll get enough sweet water fast. “Bash,” I call to him.

He drops the line and is beside me instantly. “Tell me what to do.”

“We do good together, Bash.”

His eyebrows lower in confusion.

“We made up this method of getting water. We have survived on the top of this ark for months and months. We do good.”

“Yes, Sheba. We do good.”

“Say, ‘my Sheba.’ ”

“Are you mine?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m taking a kiss now, before you change your mind.” He sits with one leg on either side of mine. He scoots toward me on his naked bottom and I have never been more aware of his maleness. How strange in this moment to acknowledge that. He puts his hands on my shoulders softly.