In the Shadow of the Ark (12 page)

“Does he feel regret, then, this god of the Rrattika?”

“If He felt regret, He would create a new kind of human being. It is not human nature that is evil, it is just that humans have allowed themselves to become surrounded by evil. They will
get another chance after the depraved have been killed. The Unnameable will populate His new world with the same humans as before. Is that not a tribute to humankind?” She was silent for a moment. I could feel her watching me.

I stood in front of her with my mouth open. We were deep inside the ship, in the middle of the gallery, in a spot where nobody could hear us.

She said, “I have followed you because of your water. I want to know where you obtain it.”

“My sister draws it from a spring,” I replied calmly. “It is a long way from here, a really long way.”

“And you don’t know where it is?” she asked. “Then why is it that whenever I follow you into the hills, I never meet your sister?” She turned her head on that long neck of hers. She was, of course, thinking about how wicked what I did was. Unless I was a woman, I could not keep secret a place where there was water. Refusing to tell her the location of the spring was enough to split the planks we were standing on. But I was thinking mainly of the many who would die. Ham had told me about the god who was going to kill all those without principles, but now, in this place, the prediction sounded much more disturbing.

“My mother is lame,” I said quickly. “We have an orphan with us. We try to stay alive.”

She did not seem to want to insist. She wanted to let me believe that she did not need my water, that she could find water herself that was just as good. All this time she was looking at me intently. She put her hand on my hair and said, “You are not who you pretend to be. You’re disguised.” She grabbed me and kissed
me. I could not quite work out what caused her sudden sparkling laugh, her excitement. I could only frown and listen as she said, “You wash Ham and you are a girl! It is his ruse! Me he will save, he has said. Does he promise you the same?”

I could not manage a reply. My tongue felt thick and dry.

“Has he taken you as his wife?” she asked seriously.

“Yes.”

“Me also. How many sleeping places are there, have you counted them?”

“I haven’t counted them.”

“The ship is large. There is room for you as well as me. But is there room for my mother, even though she does not deserve it? For Zedebab’s twin sister? For your mother, who has suffered so much already?”

“No,” I said.

She moved her hand along my arm. “That’s why Ham tells you nothing. He cannot believe that he will have to choose. His god bewilders him. He cannot accept that the ship he has built is too small for his dreams.”

I
t was worst for my mother. Just when she had become convinced that rising waters no longer threatened her, this is what I discovered. I did not tell her. I would not have known what to say; the things I understood I could not tell, and what I could tell — that water was coming, that it would be terrible — I did not understand. Children drowned, I knew that, and the water in some pools could make you sick. But what water took account of your righteousness? And who were the depraved that had to be killed? Were they the men and women who sang at night near the big tents, the foremen with their dancing wives, the warriors carrying swords who wandered about chewing herbs and saying they could see themselves walk? Were they the women of the family farther along who threw their food scraps onto our path? The man who staggered drunkenly across our little fields at night? The child who had eaten a piece of my sponge?

But, of course, my mother felt that we were concealing things. As soon as I came near her, she made it clear with her one eye that she wanted explanations. Before I realized, I shouted at her, “Stop nagging at me. I’m telling you, I don’t know what they are planning!” That is how short-tempered I had become since I had understood I did not have Ham’s love to myself. Put and I felt
slighted and gulled, we racked our brains to find a way of discovering from which direction danger threatened. Would there be water that selected by poisoning? By drowning? Was it a question of seeking refuge on the right hill or in the right tent? Was the ship the right place, and if so, why all those animal cages? I assumed that everyone I knew in the yard would be saved. They were all people of good will, and if indeed they had sinned in their lives, the sins had only been lapses, not something that was part of their nature. And they were not evil. Even my father, with his natural aversion for the Rrattika, did not find these people depraved. What disturbed him about them was the absence of good qualities. He found them uninspiring, unable to arouse feelings. They were dim, characterless people, suffering a lack of enterprise, desire, or curiosity. At least, most of them were. As he got to know the Rrattika better, he saw the exceptions. The Builder he found outstanding: He was passionate, he had a plan, it was not surprising he had won a special place in the heart of his god. And similar to the Builder were his sons, with Shem the most sympathetic, and Ham and his timber workers the most challenging. Their attitudes were quite similar to those of the marsh people; they were totally different from the dull-witted, stinking pitch pourers, or the potters who, if a pot broke, pulverized it to prevent anyone from getting some gain out of the shards.

My father was not shocked by the news that people would go on the ark: He had built the living spaces. “Should this horrify me?” he asked. “How many predictions of disaster like this do you think I have heard in my life? I can’t keep count of the prophecies of doomsayers, that’s how it goes in good times.

These people have had some fat years, that’s when the fear of losing everything arises. People who have to scratch out a living don’t waste time on this sort of fantasy.” But his voice was not steady. His beaker trembled as he lifted it to his mouth. Porridge was left in bowls, and at night we listened to each other’s breathing.

I became more attentive. Painstakingly, like one gathering shells, I searched for signs and prognostications, even if they were not meant for me, and I noticed Put doing the same. The way Ham behaved with me had not changed. I reluctantly resigned myself to the thought that I had to share his love with Neelata. What had I expected? My parents had warned me, we knew Rrattika formed unions with woman after woman and arranged rosters for the night. And Neelata was so attractive — that was why I felt flattered in a strange sort of way when she conceived a passion for him. The main problem now seemed to be that Ham’s part of the tent was suddenly busy with visitors. As if we were being guarded, the curtain that closed it off moved constantly on its rod, and grass plugs kept falling from the gaps in the canvas.

I no longer went home when meals were served. Even if the grooming was long finished, there would always be someone with dirty hands or sore muscles, and I would be asked to stay. The cleanliness of their limbs made them dependent. Before, they had not known the desire for oil, but now that they were accustomed to their skin being clean, a dirty fingernail or a crust in the navel suddenly appeared much worse. They could no longer bear knots in their hair. Their clothes were washed four times as often as before. And I did not refuse any service: I thought that
from inside the tent I would have a better grip on whatever was going to happen, and that I would count for something.

If, after the bathing, Shem, Japheth, and Ham went to watch the dancing women, I did not go with them. I found a spot in the servants’ quarters near where the Builder and the dwarf were, and there mixed my oil according to my grandmother’s formula. I took good care not to make a sound. For a long time, I sat there and listened to the conversations behind the partition. It required patience. Question and reply were widely separated because each weighed his words. But on days when the Builder was in reasonable health and, thanks to the drink poured by the dwarf, his voice forceful, I could understand every word. Sometimes it was about the payment of the workers, sometimes about the layout of the ship. One time it was about the provisioning.

“There will be shortages. Perhaps we will go hungry.”

“You must procure all edible foodstuffs,” I heard the dwarf say, “and take them all with you to provide nourishment for you and yours.”

“How will I know if it is sufficient?” asked the Builder.

“You can take everything you can think of. The ship is large. Stow it full.”

“There is still no good water. There would be good water, you said, the Unnameable would provide it.”

“Do not humiliate me, lord, by making me search for water,” said the dwarf. “That will have to come from the women.”

“And when food becomes scarce? What shall we eat? The ashes from our fireplaces?”

“There are always fish,” said the dwarf.

“Who will want to eat them? I know there are people who enjoy eating them, but my boys have not been brought up that way. They will refuse it.”

“The insects then?”

“Insects? Am I taking insects? Nothing was said to me about that. Insects survive on driftwood, as far as I know. They do not need our ship.”

“You could eat the warm-blooded animals! The clean ones seem to have a good flavor.”

“Revolting!” exclaimed the Builder. “How can we eat something that is as warm as ourselves?”

“Have you never noticed, when making a sacrifice, that flesh becomes entirely different over fire? Doesn’t its stench turn into an agreeable smell? Why do you think it is that the Unnameable liked the smell of Abel’s sacrifice so well? Because he likes meat!” The dwarf was getting more and more worked up, I recognized the way he was speaking. He spat and sucked trying to swallow the spit he had lost.

The Builder tapped his staff on the ground. “Keep that barbaric talk to yourself. I don’t know how they did it where you come from, but I am not an animal. I do not eat of my own kind. The Unnameable wants to save his animal kingdom, we are not meant to cut into that cake, are we?”

“It was just an idea,” said the dwarf.

“But after the flood? Will there be food in that paradise?” The old man’s voice began to have a singsong sound, hinting at fatigue.

“You will have to grow the crops yourselves,” the dwarf replied.

“What shall we eat when we arrive? Will there be grain in the fields?” The Builder was breathing unevenly. There was a soft moan, I could not work out who from. A chair was moved, I thought the old man must be going to lie down, I heard soothing sounds.

The Builder’s questions were left in the air. The silence seemed unnatural, as if they were trying to stop each other speaking. I leaned forward and pulled a plug of grass from the partition to look in. Then I saw that the dwarf was bent over the Builder. He had loosened the old man’s belt and pulled his cloak up. In one hand, he held a jar of ointment, and with the other, he slowly spread it over the bluish belly and groin. The Builder’s eyes were closed. There were oozing blisters on his belly and groin. It was the blisters the dwarf was carefully rubbing the ointment into.

The Builder’s breathing became calm again, but his eyelashes were trembling, and his eyes moved back and forth behind their lids. The dwarf continued rubbing. He put on compresses and covered the Builder’s private parts with his cloak. Soon after, the eyes and face relaxed too.

When I was certain the Builder had dozed off, his lips parted and he said, “It should never get to that. We have an exact number. We know how many people are coming. If we know how much porridge, bread, and fruit they need per day … Thanks to the women there will be good water, both on the ship and after we arrive. We shall have to grow the crops ourselves. There will
be abundance. Water will flow from the hills. Our children will get used to the taste of fish. And if that is not sufficient …” He started to mumble. He was searching for words, or trying to remember something. “After the flood, we are allowed to eat the animals,” he said eventually. “That has been promised.”

“Exactly,” whispered the dwarf. “That has been promised.”

“Between here and paradise, it is simply a matter of careful calculation.”

“Exactly,” the dwarf whispered again.

“For me and my sons,” said the Builder. “And for my sons’ wives.”

The dwarf held his hands still. His gaze was intent. Bending forward, he put his mouth to the Builder’s ear. “You forget that the Unnameable has said ‘Noach and his family, and part of his family is his dwarf!’ That is what He has said.”

The Builder opened his eyes. He slapped at his ear as if at a mosquito. “Don’t play the devil,” he said listlessly. “Don’t confuse me.”

Meanwhile, the animals kept coming, they occupied the hills like a mutinous army. Gazelle, wild asses, and bison left their plains; bears came from their caves; panthers and ibex came down from their mountains; and sloths and chameleons left their woods behind. The old names of the hills were replaced with new ones: The Bare Shoulder became the “Rock of the Cloven Hoofs” and the Empty Bowl the “Pit of the Crawlers.” Rodents came, one kind bringing along the other, and they got into the stores. People came from the cities to be entertained by the
spectacle of the steady stream of never-before-seen creatures. The Rrattika saw their coming as a blessing, a gift, a confirmation of their god’s favor. Just here and there in the shipyard there were a few who were less artless. We heard them say to each other, “There must be a big fire burning on the other side of the mountains.”

I
t took a disaster to discover the whole truth. It was a cloudy, oppresive day that had made everyone shiver between the sheets on waking, and that had not cleared up, not even when it was already nearly noon, dough sticking to the stones and the porridge full of vermin. There was an unusual amount of shouting in the shipyard. Builders of small cages and reed weavers got under the feet of men moving wide, carefully measured plates, causing the plates to be bent, parts to shift, and precision work to be spoiled. The air was the cause of it all. Not a soul went out to do the weeding or gather eggs; everyone had to be in the yard, even those who had never been there before, almost as if the clouds spooked them and made them forget their usual behavior. It did not bother Put and me; those low clouds and damp air actually made us feel good.