Storm (8 page)

From somewhere off to the side comes a high-pitched fox howl. I’ve heard the foxes yapping at night, but this is the first I’ve heard them in daytime. The second one joins in. Though I know little about foxes—they live in the mountains, not near my family’s field—I understand what they’re saying now: They’re hungry. They smell what’s in the bucket. Their noses are keen. I’m hungry, too. I can’t smell the food, but I can imagine it. I think of sinking my teeth into strong, clean squid flesh. My mouth waters. I’m as hungry as when I was living in the cedar tree with Aban. Hungrier, even. I’m hungry all the time these days. I could howl too.

Noise comes from the deck above.

I grab Screamer by the scruff of the neck with one hand, like Queen likes to do, and quick push the straw with my other hand and both feet until it forms a thick pile near the back wall of the ship. I wriggle in under it, then peer out through a little peephole.

Just in time, for someone’s clattering down the ladder again. And behind him a second man. A third. A fourth. The last one is gray. All are bearded, with head hair in tight curls. The first is the one who came down before, the one with long hair and a head band. The others wear turbans with long locks only at the temple.

They each have a cloth sack slung diagonally across their chests. The sacks bulge, and I can see greens protruding. So there are four food-mongers, not one. I never dared look closely, so I
didn’t know. They hold those light-stones up high and look at the latticework cage, where two lions roar and flash pale orange through the holes.

“See!” The man with the headband points.

Hanging through the latticework near the top of that cage are strips of serpent. Three of them. The shrike’s treasure! What a funny bird. Is he saving them? What for?

“Get down,” says the old man. He presses on the headband man’s shoulder.

“What?”

“Get down, Ham.”

“What did I do? I didn’t do anything!”

“I didn’t say you did anything. Just get on your knees.”

Ham kneels, but he blows through his lips in disgust.

The old man jerks his head toward another man—taller than Ham but slighter. “Go on, Japheth. Climb on his shoulders. Get those things down.”

Japheth straddles Ham’s shoulders, and Ham gets to his feet and stands straight. The muscles in Ham’s back and shoulders bulge.

Japheth swipes his long arm through the air. His fingertips graze one of the snake parts, for it swings now. “I can’t reach them.”

“Stand on his shoulders.”

“Are you crazy, Father?” Ham leans against the latticework. The lion inside roars and Ham stumbles away a few steps, with
Japheth clutching at his head. The third man has to catch Ham to steady them.

Roars come from the next cage. It’s made of latticework too.

The sound of claws scraping on wood turns my stomach. The creatures inside either of those cages could rip all four of them to shreds. I retch into the straw and shove a fist in my mouth to quiet the gasping sounds.

The old man jerks his head around. “What was that?”

I am still as stone.
Please, please
.

“Some animal shitting,” says Ham. “They do that, Father. You’re not the one who cleans it, or you’d know.”

“Japheth and I take care of the lowest level,” says the old man. “The animals there are huge, and what they produce is huge.”

“None of the animals on the deck below are meat eaters,” says Ham. “Nothing stinks as bad down there. Ask Shem. We face the foulest stench every day.”

“Stand on his shoulders!” shouts the old man at Japheth. “Stand on your brother’s shoulders.”

“And if I fall?”

“Shem will catch you.”

The third man, Shem, knits his big bushy eyebrows together and nods. “I will. I swear.” He slaps one fist against the other palm.
Slap, slap, slap
.

“We could both fall,” mumbles Ham.

But Japheth grabs the latticework with hooked fingers. The
lions inside growl and bang against it. Japheth quick moves his hands higher. He clings there as he manages to place one foot on Ham’s shoulder. Now the other on the other shoulder. He’s stooped over Ham’s head, grasping the latticework with all fingers spread. The lions go wild. They growl and hiss. Japheth straightens just a little and snags a snake bit and drops it into Shem’s hand, then quickly hunches over again, grabbing lower. A lion bangs hard against the latticework high up. Japheth screams. He jumps off Ham’s shoulders, hits the ground, and rolls.

“Cockroach,” says Ham, rubbing his shoulders. “If we have to get the other two, I’ll stand on you instead.”

“And lose your fingers doing it,” says Japheth. He holds up a bloody hand, then licks it slowly. “That lion is some jumper.”

“Japheth couldn’t support your weight anyway,” says Shem to Ham. He sniffs loudly, and his nose goes wide and large. In this moment he looks like a younger version of the old man. “It’s my turn next. Who’s climbing on my shoulders?” He puts both hands over his face and draws them away from each other, over his bushy eyebrows and across his temples, as though he’s getting ready for the challenge.

“We don’t need the other two,” says the old man.

“Ha! That’s just like you,” says Ham. “Once I’ve done the hard work, it’s over, right, Father? You’re so predictable.”

The old man shrugs one shoulder. He turns the piece of snake in his hands. “This is definitely a sea serpent.” He looks across the three men. “Who fed them a serpent?”

They shake their heads.

“One of you did. One of you had to. Who?”

The brothers shake their heads again.

“Ham?”

“I knew you thought it was me! Well, it wasn’t. I had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re so easy to provoke.” The old man waves off Ham’s protests. “You three don’t know how lucky you are. Sea serpents breathe air. They can live out of water. Mostly they bite dry, but if they bite wet—if they shoot venom into you—you die.” He points in Ham’s face, then Japheth’s, then Shem’s. “That snake could have killed you. And it could have killed one of these creatures, the Mighty Creator’s creatures.” Now he puts his face in each of theirs in turn. “Not a single one of the creatures on this ark can die. Exactly the same number of creatures we led on board must be led off at the end.”

“It’s not our fault if a sea serpent got on board,” says Ham.

“Nothing new is allowed on board.”

“We remember,” says Ham. “You told us that in the first days on board, over and over. It’s impossible to forget. We didn’t allow anything. It just happened.”

Shem holds a staying hand up toward Ham. “Maybe the serpent was here at the outset, Father.”

“He wasn’t,” says the old man.

“How do you know?” says Ham.

“The same way I know everything.” The old man shakes
his head. He looks shaggy and tired, like an aging ram. “It’s my fault. I should patrol every deck every day.”

“I can patrol,” says Shem.

“Right,” says Ham. “Put us in charge of things. You can’t be in charge of everything, Father.”

“I have to. The responsibility was given to me. I’ll patrol.” The old man rubs his fingers as though they hurt. “Go on. Feed them. They’re restless. I’m going down the other ladder.” He clumps along the deck toward the other end. I didn’t know there was another ladder over there. He stops and calls back. “Japheth, help your brothers. Then get your wife to attend to that hand. You don’t have to help me today. And Ham, cut your hair.” He disappears into the dark. I can hear his
clack, clack
down the far ladder.

Ham kicks his bucket again. “The same way I know everything,” he says in a snide mimic of his father. He swaggers as he talks.

“Don’t do that,” says Shem.

“Why not? It’s his answer all the time. It puts an end to every discussion.”

“The Mighty Creator talks to him. He doesn’t talk to us. So we have to trust him.”

“And how do you know the Mighty Creator talks to him? Father might just be saying that. He might have made it all up. He might be a lunatic.”

“The Mighty Creator said it would rain,” says Japheth.
“How did Father know to build this ark otherwise? So stop it, Ham. We have to get these creatures fed. Somebody tell me which ones get what.”

“Just throw something at every animal,” says Ham.

All three go to a side hole between two cages. It’s the hole closest to my cage. Shem leans out and lifts in buckets full of water. Ham takes two and goes about filling water troughs. Shem pulls in a fishing net and fills buckets with fish. He throws the net back through the side hole into the sea. Then he and Japheth go from cage to cage, throwing in food. Their sacks carry leaves and fruits for the herbivores. The top deck must be a huge storage room, as well as their home.

“Who’s going to feed the tigers and lions?” calls Japheth. “I won’t go near them with a bloody hand. The smell, you know. The smell could make them vicious.”

“They’re already vicious, you cockroach,” calls Ham. “You heard them growl . . . tigers and lions, the most vicious of all.” His voice seems to emanate from the dark end of the ship. It sounds distant, as though this ship—this ark—is even more enormous than it appeared to Aban and me when we were on the raft.

“They can’t help it,” says Shem. His voice comes from someplace alarmingly close. I pull back inside the straw, but I can still see, I can still watch. “It’s their nature. But these are the best behaved ones of their kind. We just have to be careful.”

“You be careful,” calls Japheth. “My hand is killing me. I’m quitting.”

“Go let your little wife attend to it,” calls Ham. “Be Noah’s good little boy. The two of you, cockroaches. But don’t count on me picking up the slack. It’s always Ham picking up the slack. Well, I won’t!”

“Don’t you weary of being such a jerk, Ham?”

“Enough,” says Shem. “I’ll feed the big cats. But I’m going to refill this sack first.” He throws a mess of fruit into our cage, then leaves his empty bucket at the foot of the ladder and climbs up behind Japheth.

Queen and The Male hug each other before they pounce on the fruit. The little antelopes wait patiently at the side. I didn’t know we would all get fruit, too. They better leave some for me.
Please let them leave some for me. Come on, Queen—remember me. Please remember me.

Shem clumps down the ladder again, with his cloth sack bulging. He takes his bucket off to some side hole I can’t see from here and returns with fish brimming out of it. He picks up a blackened stick that lies on the floor in front of the second latticework cage. “Get back, tigers,” he shouts. Then he pulls a thick piece of wood out of a rope loop. He pulls on the lattice, and a little door opens high up at his face level. A window, really. He pokes inside with the blackened stick. He grabs a handful of fish in the other hand and flings it in and shuts the window, latching it with that piece of wood again. He moves on to the latticework cage where the lions live. He does the same.

Then he comes over to my cage. He drops his head forward. “I know what’s going on,” he says quietly.

I’m glad my stomach is empty, or it would pitch forth again. I’ve heard the rules. This ark is allowed to carry only its original passengers. If they discover me, what else could they do but cast me overboard? I cradle Screamer to my chest.

“Father didn’t ask the question that was on my mind.” Shem tilts his head now. He looks directly at The Male. “Who put those snakes up high? Huh?” He slaps his fist against a palm. “Tell me, big boy. The gorillas and chimps—all the rest of the apes, in fact, and all the monkeys, too, they’re all at the aft. All but you. You were put here, with other animals from your part of the world—those aardvarks and the miniature antelopes . . . the duikers. You’re the only ones near enough to that lattice—the only ones with hands—who could have done it.” Shem squints his eyes, and those thick brows make a continuous straight line across his forehead. “I wish you could answer me. But then, you’re unruly. You’d probably lie.” He shakes a finger at The Male. “I’ve seen you. None of you is supposed to mate. No one on this whole ark is supposed to mate. But you do. All the time. The Mighty Creator will punish you if you put a baby inside your female.” He crosses his arms on his chest. “And I’ll punish you if you throw snakes anywhere again. I don’t know how you got them, but I know you did it. I won’t stand for any more of that. You hear?” Shem waggles his head. “Noah’s an old man. Don’t pester him. And don’t make him take his worries out
on us. Being on this ship is trouble enough. I mean it.” His voice gets thick. “We are so very sick of this stinking ark!” Finally, he takes his bucket and walks on.

I count the boards in the deck over my head. I count and count to keep my mind steady while the two remaining brothers feed everyone and cart away the droppings of all the creatures. Counting helps fight panic.

The Mighty Creator told the old man—that Noah—that he should build this ark. He must mean El Elyon. Or maybe Ba’al. Maybe both those most powerful gods speak to Noah.

I have thought very little about the deities since the rains started, beyond my initial and fruitless prayers to Ba’al. In truth, I’ve paid little attention to the gods all my life. It seemed to me that they didn’t concern themselves much with the matters of humans.

My major task at home was plants—I loved putting seeds in the ground, watering them, harvesting them. Fertility of the crops—that’s what mattered to me. That was beautiful, as well as practical. And that was enough.

Then the rains came. And Aban appeared. And life was reduced to the quest for survival.

Almost. There was something else, too. My cheeks grow warm. There was how I felt when Aban smiled. Yes.

And there’s Screamer to take care of. And now Queen, who somehow has a bond with me. And the little shrike, who trusts me enough to perch on my head.

Plants are no more. Whenever this rain ends, if it ever ends, all plants will be gone. Maybe forever.

So it’s good that I have other sources of joy now, other reasons to live. I mustn’t let those men discover me. I mustn’t get thrown into the sea. I lick my lips. They’re sour from vomit. I crawl to the pile of fruit. Those remaining are mashed and bruised. I eat them, skin and seeds and all. Every last one. And still I’m hungry.