Sinners and the Sea (28 page)

When he is no more than thirty cubits away, he rows without ruddering and turns to face us.

I recognize him, though he looks older than his six hundred years. His wet tunic reveals both his strength and his mortality. The muscles in his left arm bulge like a mercenary’s, but loose-hanging folds of flesh on his chest and neck are no longer hidden by his beard, which has been turned by the sea into one thin long rope that he has thrown over his shoulder.

His bare feet are pressing against the cradles of his cousins’ necks. His back is bent. He is tired.

Still, he comes closer, in small arcs made by the strokes of his left arm. After each stroke, he leaves the plank in the sea to maintain his course toward us. It seems to me as though he comes more quickly than these efforts could bring him. As though the bodies beneath him are rowing as well.

They are faceup, the breadth of their shoulders making one side of the raft wider than the other. Their eyes are closed as if in concentration.

“Husband,” Zilpha says, “please lift me higher. I want him to see me above all else.”

“I see you, daughter of the great prophet.” I know the prophet Manosh speaks of is not Noah.

“He would kill his own cousins in order to float upon them?” Japheth says of Manosh as if he were not close enough to hear.

“At least, dear Japheth,” Ham replies, “they are not his
brothers.
”

Without taking his eyes off the sea, Shem says, “Bodies do not float until they are already drowned for a day.”

A miracle—my sons are speaking to each other, however harshly, and Noah has stopped crying. For a couple of breaths, despite the approaching raft of bodies, all is well.

Then Noah presses against the wall of the deck and leans out toward Manosh, as if this will keep his cousin from coming any closer. “You cannot come aboard,” he says. “Only me, my sons, and our wives will voyage to the new world.”

Zilpha writhes out of Ham’s hands and runs awkwardly—veering slightly one way and then the other—toward the rope. I wonder if it is the first time she has ever run. Japheth easily arrives at the rope first. He waits until she grasps it to bring his foot down on it. She turns to Ham. “Husband.”

It is unsettling to see my youngest son, the one who always knows to do the right thing, not know what the right thing is. He does not move.

“I cannot climb into the lumber I chopped from my own lands and dragged hundreds of leagues across the desert to bring you, cousin?” Manosh asks.

“Lands you stole—”

“What is the difference between stealing and conquering?”

“—and lumber that was not yours to give.”

“Yet you took it.”

“God told me I must.”

Manosh continues rowing toward us. He is only about ten cubits away. “He told
me
I must see that my little cousin is well.”

“She is sheltered, fed, and does little work.”

“Good. She must save herself for bearing sons.”

Zilpha lets go of the rope. “I am a prophetess, sons or no.”

Manosh takes hold of two large hooks lying beside him. He flinches as he raises his injured right arm to show them to us. “Throw me the rope, or I will do what I need to in order to climb aboard.”

Though Ham looks long at the rope, he does not take hold of it, and soon Manosh’s hooks sound against the hull. He climbs. He has more strength than a young man. Perhaps even more than one of the Nephilim. I am certain that no man who can climb an ark with only one good arm will exist in the new world. God no longer trusts men enough to build them so powerful.

His hooks are puncturing the hull loudly enough that even Noah must hear. “The ark—” I begin. But I do not have to warn Noah that Manosh’s hooks are damaging the hull.

“Send down the rope,” Noah commands.

Ham moves toward the rope, but I stop him. Noah may send someone to see if the ark needs patching, and I do not want anyone to discover Herai. “Not you, Ham—
Shem
can throw the rope over. You go to the first level and patch.”

“My great beast!” Zilpha says. She runs, slightly less awkwardly this time, to the hatch and disappears. Japheth hurries after her.

Manosh drags his body against the hull, struggling to bring his immense weight ever higher up the rope. The raft of his cousins
does not linger below; it drifts away from the ark. Manosh cannot retreat.

Ham does not go to patch the ark. He and Shem watch Manosh in silence. I do not know what they will do when he reaches the wall of the deck.

The wind begins to blow. Soon it howls against the hull where Manosh climbs, so it seems as though it were coming from him. Whenever he looks up to work his hands higher up the rope, I stare into his open mouth as if I could will the air from his lungs. I back away from the wall as he nears the top.

Behind me, I hear footsteps approaching. I turn around. Japheth is coming across the deck holding one arm across Zilpha’s chest, his knife at her throat. Zilpha does not struggle. The knife has been dulled by the blood and flesh upon it.

“This is one of the three girls who must bear all the children of the new world,” I yell at Japheth. “Take your knife from her throat and let us hope you have not harmed her too greatly.”

Ham takes a sword from Shem’s belt.

“My knife is closer to her throat than your sword is to mine,” Japheth says.

Ham hesitates, then sets the sword down. “The God you once feared will not look kindly upon you if you do not let go of my wife.”

“You should have pretended to believe in Him earlier than this,” Japheth replies. “Your timing is not very convincing.”

I move to stand by Ham. I do not want any more harm to come to Zilpha, but I am more concerned for my son. I hope I am strong enough to stop him from doing something foolish.

Manosh hoists himself onto the deck wall. He swings his leg over, long toes pointed, searching for the floor. He breathes heavily through his mouth.

“Stop,” Japheth says.

Manosh looks at my son, my least favorite son, the one I did not love as much as the others. The one I have let lose an ear. Manosh looks at him and goes still.

“Get back in the sea,” Japheth says.

Zilpha gazes through Manosh as if she does not see him. He is a sight. He balances atop the deck wall, the loose flesh of his neck shaking as if the ark still tossed in the storm. He gasps for air. He must see what I see when I look at my son: a hunger for others’ terror. A desperation for it that might make killing the daughter of a prophet the easiest way to become what he has always wanted to be: a feared man.

But I do not know if Japheth is willing to risk God’s wrath by killing Zilpha. Manosh does not chance it. He lets go of the wall. There is a splash, and the sound belongs not so much to Manosh as to Zilpha.

Japheth lowers the knife, and Zilpha steps forward. As she goes to the wall, I see no cuts upon her.

“Husband,” she commands.

Ham picks her up. The sea is rippling lightly, and she watches until it goes still.

“Thank you,” she says.

Ham might assume she is speaking to him, but I know it is not Ham she is thanking. A great man was willing to die for his belief in her bloodline. How can we not believe a little ourselves?

CHAPTER 44

THE POWER OF THE MARK II

W
hen my family has returned into the ark, still I stay near the deck wall. I gaze at the water below, the water into which Manosh has disappeared along with Javan, her brutes, the people of Sorum, the traders I served goat stew and lentils, and everyone from the village where I was born. The flames of those who once called for me to be brought from my father’s tent have been put out for good.

Can we truly be the last ones left?
I turn in a circle, looking across the water, straining to see to the ends of the earth. It seems the ark is the only raft that has made it through the storm. My mark has brought me shame, humiliation, hatred, and, I realize, life. Each event that I had thought was a horrible consequence of being marked—the villagers calling for my blood and Noah coming to take me to the last town on earth I wanted to live in—was bringing me another step closer to salvation. Salvation hidden in a cloak of near-ruin.

The mark has saved me.

The mark has saved me.

And not only has it saved me, it has given me three boys who did not drown when all the other mothers’ sons did. It has made me mother of all those who will come after me.

I reach up and tear the scarf from my head. I hold it over the sea, and then I am done holding it. It floats from my fingertips to the water below.

• • •

T
he next time Noah sounds the horn two short and one long blast, I wait so that I will be the last one to walk into the gathering place. Then I walk carefully, head tilted to the right so they can all see my mark. If anyone says anything about it or looks too long, I will tell them, “This is why each one of you is here. It is our raft. All but Noah owes his life to this mark.”

“Mother,” Shem says without looking at me. He says it more to Noah than to me. My sons and Zilpha are waiting with their bowls in their hands, eager for Noah to notice that I am nearing so he will dole out rations. They do not even notice that I do not wear my head scarf.

Once Noah has given everyone a portion of lentils and dried lamb, we squat and stare over our bowls at one another. Shem’s eyes come to rest upon the mark, but it is almost as if he does not see it. For a moment I wonder if somehow my head scarf floated up out of the water and fastened itself back over my brow.

Japheth does not dare look too long at it. He glances at it and then quickly away.

Noah does not notice. Ham smiles and then goes back to eating. Zilpha is the only one who speaks. “You have never needed to hide it from me.”

Later, when I go to see Herai, she touches it. When she takes back her hand, her eyes remain upon my brow. It feels good to have someone gaze upon the mark with simple, innocent curiosity, then smile, as if thanking me for the chance to see something new.

But for all except Herai, the mark is not the true object of curiosity aboard the ark. Zilpha is.

CHAPTER 45

PROPHETESS

E
ven Noah is a little bit afraid of Zilpha. He squints his old eyes at her as if there is something he must figure out. Japheth pretends to be unaffected by Manosh’s sacrifice, but he does not ever turn his back to Zilpha, though the flesh upon his knife was not hers. He killed the mammoth—both of them, really, since one of any beast is worthless to the new world.

My boys labor to get the grieving female on deck so that she will be easier to dispose of than the male, who had to be cut into pieces and thrown overboard. We had salt enough to save part of one flank. I do not know if I can bring myself to eat it.

With the female at the edge of the deck, quietly waiting to die, Japheth seems suddenly unsure.

“What stills your knife only now?” Noah says. He has given Japheth the task of stabbing the female’s flanks so she moves away from him, over the deck wall. “Already, their blood, and the blood of all the generations
of great mammoths who would have come after them, is upon you. You have taken one of God’s creatures from the world.”

I cannot watch, and I do not want to hear any sound that comes from this sad task. I go to the second level. But even from there I hear the breaking of the deck wall and a huge, horrible splash.

• • •

Z
ilpha often prays or appears to be praying. She sits with her little legs crossed, palms open on her knees, eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering. Once she caught me bending down in order to see if her eyes were really closed, and that answered my question. Or perhaps she heard me come near because of the creaking in my bones.

When she is on deck, Ham is always ready to lift her so she can gaze at the sea. He holds her there, at a respectful distance from himself, until his arms start to shake. I cannot understand what has happened to him.

Then one day, I realize: He has fallen in love with Zilpha. I would rather he had fallen into the sea. A place from which I could rescue him.

Now that Zilpha comes on deck sometimes, all the wings Japheth did not clip have started to flap again. Birds soar overhead and try to follow Zilpha back down the hatch when she leaves. Sometimes she sings to them. Her lips move, and though none of us can hear her, the birds start to chirp and caw.

I hope God can hear them. If He does, maybe He will remember us.

• • •

O
ne day I notice: “The sky is coming closer.”

“No, Mother,” Zilpha says. “The sea is rising.”

“But the rain has stopped.”

“The rain has stopped, and now begins the flood.”

Begins?

I go to the gathering place. “When will God be done with this madness?”

Noah does not open his eyes or get up from where he is kneeling. But he flinches.

“Is there no other way to destroy all life on earth?” I ask.

“Would you rather have nostrils filled with the smell of burning flesh?”

“I would rather the destruction were over.”

“When it is over, it will be truly over. We will not bounce around upon the sea ever again.”

“What will we do instead?”

“Tend our flocks—”

“How many of us will it take to tend a few litters of goats, a few of sheep—”

“They will flourish in the new world. When I pray, I feel the words flowing out of me once again, as though they are being pulled into God’s ear.”

Suddenly, I am laughing. “Do you notice, husband, how we pass hope back and forth between us so that we never have it at the same time?”

He opens his eyes partway. “Not only the herds but our children too will flourish.”

I am glad for his words. I drop down beside him on his blankets. “I am tired.”

“We must escort our children to the new world.” His eyes do not open all the way anymore. His hands tremble. “Then all of our work will be done.”