Forty Days: Neima's Ark, Book One (5 page)

“
Jorin, wait!” I call
after him. He ignores me, and I turn to Kenaan, hands on my hips.
“What did you do that for?”

“
You didn’t really want
him tagging along after us, did you?” Kenaan walks faster, so I
have to hurry to catch up. “He’s like a lost little
lamb.”

“
Kenaan!” Yes, I’ve had
the same thought, but somehow it’s different, wrong, in Kenaan’s
sneering tone. He’s just out of temper, I tell myself, tired of
following Noah’s every ridiculous whim, like the rest of us. And
he’s taking it out on Jorin.

We walk in silence for a while, the
only sounds those of buzzing insects and twigs breaking beneath our
bare feet and, of course, the calling and chattering and singing of
birds above us. Already I’m dreading the thought of caging even one
of them, but hopefully we’ll be able to free them in a few days. I
breathe in long and deep as we climb higher into the hills—the air
smells of spicy pine and cedar and, best of all, it’s gloriously
free of all traces of pitch.

After a few minutes more we reach a
small clearing with a fallen log just the right size to seat two
people. Thinking of the slinking, slithering creatures Kenaan’s
brought back to the village the past few days, I inspect the log
carefully before deeming it safe enough to sit, while Kenaan begins
setting the traps. He arranges a complex pyramid of sticks that
will fall when the bird disturbs the trigger stick—which it will
surely do, thanks to the pile of writhing worms Kenaan places
beneath the trigger—before he moves on to the second trap on the
other side of the clearing.

“
With you here,” he says,
“we can carry more than one at a time.”

“
Mmm,” I say, not really
listening, for already a small brown bird is inching closer to the
first trap, eyeing the worms inside. It’s a yellow-throated
sparrow, with one bright drop of color below its throat the exact
golden shade of an egg yolk, placed as precisely as if someone has
dabbed it on with a brush. I have a nearly irresistible urge to
frighten the bird off, so I force myself to look away, toward
Kenaan. “What about the larger birds,” I ask, “the hawks and owls,
cranes and swans? Will you trap them as well?”

Kenaan snorts. “If Noah wants those
creatures on his ark,” he says, “he’ll have to find someone else to
catch them. Or else they’ll just die out when this supposed
flood—”

The snap of the sticks falling
reverberates inside me, as though someone has plucked a string
within the muscles of my chest, my heart. By the time I turn my
head, the swallow is already hidden beneath a layer of branches,
its squawk of surprise the only sign left of its
presence.

“
That was fast,” Kenaan
says as he makes his way back to me, not even stopping to make sure
the sparrow is secure in its new cage. “Let’s hope our second bird
isn’t so quick, or we’ll have little time to rest.” He brushes a
strand of hair off my face as he sits beside me, and when his hand
lingers too long on my neck, I bristle. I’m still irritated with
him for what he said about Jorin, and his fingers are hot and moist
against my skin. I try to pull away, but he cups my neck in his
hand and pulls me closer, until the tip of his nose nearly grazes
my forehead.

“
Kenaan— What are
you—”

“
Don’t tell me you haven’t
thought about this.” His breath hits my cheek with each word, and
then he gives that strange smile of his, lips pulled higher on one
side.

Once more I try to pull back, but he
lowers his hand to my shoulder and holds it tight, his face moving
closer still until his lips are against mine and…

“
Kenaan!” I wrench away
again, and this time he lets me go. “I— I’m sorry but…I don’t think
of you that way.” I can’t look at him, can’t be this close to him
so I stand and walk away, my eyes trained on the nearest tree
trunk, my heart thumping with shock and embarrassment.

“
You don’t
think
of me that way?”
His voice twists with bitterness and, I think, astonishment. “You
know we are to be married, right? You know no one else will have
you, and soon you’ll have to get over this childish stubbornness
and give me what I want.”

I can’t think, can’t believe this is
truly happening as I hear his plodding footsteps move closer,
closer, and when I whirl around to face him he’s right before me. I
take one step away from him, two, three, and my shoulder blades
slam into the thick trunk of the tree at my back. Kenaan’s dark
eyes pierce into me, something predatory there, more animal than
human, and my heart beats faster, the frantic flutter of a bird’s
wings. I’ve never seen him like this before: lips parted, teeth
bared, as though he’s about to bite down. Where is the boy I’ve
known all my life? The boy who helps Shai with her food at dinner,
who picks his little sister up and twirls her around? The boy who
flirts innocently with Derya at the river, and does every task his
mother asks of him without complaint?

He’s angry with Noah, not
with me,
I chant to myself.
He’s angry with Noah, not with
me
. But I’m the one before him now, and
it’s my body he grasps with both hands, making his way roughly over
my shift, squeezing my breasts so hard they throb and then moving
lower to my waist, and lower still, pinching the fabric of my skirt
with both hands and lifting…

My own hands are on his arms, pushing,
pushing but his grip is too strong and my heartbeat is booming, not
a songbird’s wings but a hawk’s, an eagle’s, and as his hand
clutches the bare flesh of my thigh I kick my leg out, hard, in the
direction of the bird trap.

There’s the snap of twigs again, the
bird rushing upward in a flash of brown and yellow, and Kenaan is
turning toward the broken trap, swearing, and I run.

He’s not coming after me, but I can’t
stop. My hawk-wing heartbeat pushes my legs forward; the foolish
tears pooling in my eyes turn my surroundings into a blur of green
and brown. So I don’t see him till I’ve nearly collided with
him:

Jorin. He reaches one hand out to
steady me, and I force myself to hold still.

“
Neima, are you all
right?” I still can’t see clearly, and I’m not sure if his voice is
concerned or only confused. “Where’s Kenaan? I saw you two, but I
wasn’t sure—”

He
saw
? He saw what was just happening,
and he did nothing to stop it?

I push his arm away and tear past him,
and though he calls after me once, twice, he doesn’t
follow.

***

Though I’m exhausted when I make it
back to the village, I pause only to drink some water before I grab
my cart for another trek to the ark. Getting straight to work seems
like the best way to avoid questions and conversation, and it will
provide an excuse for my sweaty, disheveled appearance. But more
than that, I’m afraid of where my mind might go if I stop moving
for even an instant.

I try to focus on the familiar ache of
my blistered hands, my sore legs and shoulders, but a question
keeps rising to the surface: Who can I tell?

Not Mother—she’d probably be thrilled
at Kenaan’s apparent interest in me, at the chance to force our
engagement.

Not Father—it’s improper to speak of
such things to a man, and even if it wasn’t, I can’t imagine
looking Father in the eye and telling him what Kenaan tried to
do.

Not Arisi—between Noah’s demands and
the baby, she has enough to deal with, and I wouldn’t want to worry
her.

Derya? Perhaps, but I haven’t seen
much of her the last few days. And she likes Kenaan so much… Should
I warn her? Would he do the same to her, or is it only that he
believes he and I will be married, so he has some right
to—

No. I have to put it out of my mind,
or I might go a bit mad myself.

I make two trips to the ark and back
again, three, four, until the sun hangs low in the sky, bleeding
streaks of orange and crimson into the horizon. I shovel food into
my mouth without tasting it, avoiding my parents’ faces, my
mother’s questions. I fall onto my pallet in the darkness, finally
allowing my tight limbs to turn to liquid as I collapse, and my
shoulder hits something hard. I force myself to sit up again, to
reach under my pallet for the offending item: the carving I
began…was it only a few days ago?

Carving useless objects out of wood is
a strange, stupid, pointless habit. I grab the wooden figure by its
crude shoulders and carry it into the kitchen, and then I throw it
onto the smoldering fire.

On the fourth day after Noah’s
announcement, the animals begin to arrive.

Even before that, though, the day
starts off strangely: Aunt Zeda is loading her cart with all manner
of supplies Noah never mentioned, flat clay oil lamps and flasks of
olive oil, woolen blankets, clay plates and bowls, extra tunics and
shifts. Can she have begun to believe in Noah’s predictions? She
mutters to herself as she works, shielding her cart as though the
rest of us are spies or thieves. Perhaps this endless dry heat is
making all of us a little crazy; it does seem to suck the moisture
from our very minds, leaving our thoughts as heavy and motionless
as rocks in a dry streambed. I wish the rain would come.

I do not wish Kenaan would come to
Grandmother’s courtyard, but he does, greeting his mother and
sister first before sidling over to me as if this is any other
morning. “I might try to catch a hawk today, Cousin,” he says.
“Maybe even an eagle. Would you like to accompany me?”

I won’t look at him, but I can hear
the smirk in his words. “No,” I say sharply, focusing on the grain
sack beneath my fingers.

“
I thought not,” he
mumbles under his breath as he saunters off. So this, I guess, is
the closest we’ll come to acknowledging what happened
yesterday—unless he finds me alone. And I won’t let that
happen.

***

When I cross the river on my way to
the ark, it’s not the animals I notice first, but the people.
Villagers are actually clustered on the far side of the river,
nearer the ark than I’ve ever seen them before. Jorin’s father
Munzir, a skilled carpenter and a powerful man in our village,
speaks in a low rumble I can’t quite make out and gestures wildly
with his arms. The others follow his movements with their eyes,
faces creased in what looks like worry or anger, looking
toward—

Oh. Barred wooden cages are spread
everywhere, some taller than any man in our village, and a few
strange men roam among them. The traders and hunters, I guess, and
I catch sight of at least four of them. How odd that they’ve all
arrived at once, as though Noah really has orchestrated all this in
a way beyond the power of any man. And Noah himself—he’s speaking
to one of the traders, peering into a cage, pointing at a row of
items spread out on a blanket on the ground.

Not just any items, though. I
recognize the way the sun glints off the metal, separating the sky
into golden bars and dazzling the eye, and I can’t keep from
running forward despite the growing pit in my stomach. I know even
before I’m close enough to see clearly that these are Father’s
greatest bronze works: spears and hammers, axes and knives, strong
shovels and durable jugs, cuffs and bracelets that exist for no
reason other than their beauty. This is years of toil, of time and
skill and sweat, laid out on the ground, and Grandfather Noah will
trade all of it for wild animals in wooden cages.

A high-pitched squeal
comes from one of the cages, and I turn toward it—and find myself
staring straight at two lions. Two
young
lions, not newborns but
certainly less than a year old, with eyes too large for their heads
and wide, clumsy paws. I breathe out an instinctive sigh of relief,
and then realize how foolish that is—they may be young, and
certainly preferable to full-grown cats three times their size, but
they’re still vicious beasts standing only a few paces from me,
with just a measly set of wood bars to separate us.

They don’t look vicious, though, at
least not at the moment. One placidly licks a paw while the other
explores its cage with unsure steps. It turns and looks right at
me, letting out another high, lazy yip: the sound seems to be
closer to a yawn than a growl.

One of the traders notices me looking
and moves closer. “Are you a member of Noah’s family?” he asks. His
accent is so odd, some vowels too clipped and others too long, that
it takes me a moment to decipher his words.

“
Yes,” I finally answer,
“I’m his granddaughter.”

The man nods, his expression serious
yet strangely sedate, as though dropping off young lions before a
massive ark outside a small village is an everyday occurrence. “You
should be safe to enter the cage to clean it and to feed the cats,”
he says. “As long as you don’t provoke them, they’re young enough
to remain docile.” To prove his point, he reaches through the bars
and rubs the nearest lion on the head. It doesn’t protest, but I’m
still not eager to follow his lead. “Just use caution and good
sense, and remember: their teeth and claws are sharp, and they grow
stronger and larger with every day.” I’m becoming used to his
accent, but I almost wish I didn’t understand his words. Especially
when he adds, “The same holds true for the cheetah and lynx. The
bears, though, I’d be wary of, even if they are young.”

He sees me jolt and laughs. “I take it
you haven’t had a chance to look around yet? At least your
grandfather asked for younger animals, where possible. It could be
worse.” Sense within madness, I think. “Although,” the trader adds,
“those wolves look full-grown to me.”

You’d think I could keep from jolting
again, but I can’t.

The trader follows me as I weave
through the scattered cages. I think my reactions to the strange
animals amuse him, though if you ask me, I’m taking this all rather
calmly. I’m not sure it’s really sunk in yet. In any case, the
trader certainly knows more about the animals than I do, so I don’t
mind his presence.

There are hyenas and jackals, two
stump-legged onagers with reddish fur and black stripes straight
down the center of their backs, and bizarre birds that stand on one
long, stick-like leg with the other bent. They have long necks,
too, that curve in one downward loop and one upward one, and beaks
larger than those of any swan or crane. But strangest of all is the
color of their feathers: a soft, blushing pink I’ve seen on no
other animal, though it reminds me of the honey-scented flowers
that grow between tree roots in the spring.

As we move closer, the birds open
their great beaks and squawk; they spread wings nearly as wide as I
am tall and wobble away from us until they hit the back of their
cage.

“
They’re skittish
creatures,” the trader says, “and they’re far from home. Your
grandfather will pay dearly for them.”

Two humpbacked camels, not penned in
but ambling around and chewing on the grass, keep wandering
perilously close to the caged flesh-eaters. At first I think
they’re only the traders’ animals, until I notice Noah inspecting
one of them and haggling with the nearby trader. The camel just
keeps chewing; it has no idea it will soon be trapped within the
walls of a wooden ark.

A bit farther off, two strange,
solid-looking animals are tethered to a small juniper tree by a
length of rope, though it looks like between the two of them, they
could pull the tree out by its roots if they were determined
enough. As I move nearer, I see that their gray skin is wrinkled
and tough-looking, almost like leather, with reddish hair scattered
across their heads and backs. They have wide, floppy ears and,
oddest of all, each has a long, tubular protrusion where its nose
or snout should be. I think these creatures are elephants, the
source of the huge tusks traders occasionally bring to our village.
But only one of the two has anything remotely like those tusks, and
they’re short, barely peeking out from either side of its long
snout. Despite the animal’s size and the weathered look of its
skin, it somehow reminds me of a baby smiling, displaying its first
two teeth.

“
They’re so big!” I say
when I’m close enough to realize the larger of the two—the one with
the tusks—is nearly as tall as I am, and its four legs appear solid
as tree trunks beneath its ample bulk.

The trader beside me begins to laugh,
a deep rumble that lasts long enough to concern me.

“
What? What is it?” I ask,
inching away from the strange beasts.

“
It’s just”—he places a
hand to his chest, as though he can push the laughter down—“if you
think they’re large, I’d love to see your face if you ever catch
sight of their mother.”

I still don’t understand.

“
These are three years old
at the most,” he says, “and still immature. A full-grown elephant
looms above any man, and it weighs, I’d say, three or four times as
much as these young ones here. The elephant is to other animals
as…as this great ark behind us is to the cottages in your
village.”

I try to picture such an animal, and a
shiver skitters up my arms despite the heat. It sounds as if a
full-grown elephant could crush me beneath just one
foot.

I’m ready to back away even from these
smaller specimens, but the trader places a hand on my arm. “They
are gentle giants,” he says. His voice is calmer now, all the
laughter expelled. “Plant eaters, peaceful and intelligent.” He
releases my arm but beckons me forward, and, though I’m still a bit
wary, I follow. “And friendly—look how they’re greeting
you.”

Both animals are waving their long
snouts in an almost comical manner, reaching them up and down,
twisting and curling them, stretching toward—me?

“
They’re trying to scent
you,” the trader says. “Here—” He reaches for the nearest snout.
“Take hold of the trunk and blow into it, like this.”

Trunk?
I decide I prefer the term to snout as I follow his lead. The
elephant’s skin is as tough as I imagined, but not
unpleasant.

“
There,” he says. “Now
you’ve greeted her, and she’ll remember your scent. Best not leave
her brother out.”

“
Are they really brother
and sister?” I ask as I take the trunk of the small-tusked elephant
and blow gently into it.

He shrugs. “They may as well be,
now.”

The elephant opens his mouth in a kind
of smile and waves his trunk before my face with even greater
enthusiasm, brushing against my forehead and nose. The female butts
her head against the trader, demanding equal attention, until he
pats her trunk. They really are as friendly as he said, and, in
their own strange way, lovely. I hate to think of them separated
from their parents, whether they’re truly siblings or
not.

“
You know a lot about
animals,” I say.

“
I’ve traveled quite a
bit.” He glances around as if ensuring we’re alone before
continuing in a lower voice. “The word is that your grandfather’s
trying to gather two of every animal in the world.” He tilts his
voice upward, halfway toward a question but not quite
there.

“
Um…” I bite my lip. “I
think he is, yes.”

“
Well,” the trader
continues, leaning toward me, about to impart a secret. Perhaps I
should be nervous, so close to a man I don’t know, especially after
what happened with Kenaan. But I like this man’s gentle treatment
of the elephants, and besides, there are plenty of people
nearby.

“
Well,” he says again,
“I’ve seen animals that are not here today, animals I doubt your
grandfather has ever heard of. I’ve seen beasts with leathered gray
skin and thick bodies like the elephants’, but shorter and squatter
and much less pleasant, with a head and horn like a bull’s and a
temperament to match. I’ve seen brown-furred creatures that swing
from hand to hand in the trees, traveling great distances without
touching the ground, and chattering to each other all the while
much like humans making conversation. I’ve seen—”

“
Please,” I break in,
forgetting to keep my voice down. “Don’t tell Noah about these
creatures!”

He laughs again. “All right, I won’t.
But perhaps you can tell me—what does your grandfather plan to do
with all these animals? Why has he built this great, smelly wooden
thing that seems almost an animal itself?”

I think of all I could
say:
Noah is mad
;
or,
A voice in his head commanded
him
; or,
A great
flood is coming
. Finally, I settle on the
truth:

“
I have absolutely no
idea.”

***

The villagers keep grumbling, led by
Jorin’s father, until there’s nothing to do but carry the animals
into the ark, where at least they’ll be hidden from prying eyes. My
father and uncles have laid a large plank of wood diagonally from
the door of the ark to the ground—a “gangplank,” my trader, as I’ve
begun to think of him, calls it—and they load the cages onto carts
and wheel them in. When Japheth—he looks too young for me to think
of him as Uncle Japheth, especially now, with that boyish,
ill-humored scowl on his face—comes to retrieve the elephants,
something occurs to me.

“
They won’t suffocate,
will they?” I ask. “If the ark’s doors are closed?”

“
Well aren’t you the sweet
one,” he says a bit bitterly, “worrying for the welfare of lions
and wolves and…these long-nosed things. Don’t worry.” He prods the
elephants along, and I want to tell him to be careful with them,
but he’s already far enough that he has to call out over the
snarling and yowling and whining of many confused, frightened
animals. “There are windows in the second level of the ark, and a
few openings between the lower and upper levels.”