The Sinners and the Sea

by Rebecca Kanner

  Not long after the shuffling began, it disappeared out the tent’s door flap.

  When the sun rose, I went out to the cookfire. Shem was sitting there, alone. “Javan will not let me see Ona.”

  Then where did you spend the night? I said only, “Maybe you will need to take another. Perhaps even one who is not a whore.”

  “You said we cannot afford two, and Javan has already told me I must bring goat meat and fruit for the child in Ona’s belly. She says he is an insatiable beast.”

  “What have you done, Shem?”

  “All will be well, Mother, if only Japheth marries Herai. You know Leah will not bear sons. I have never seen a woman so ancient. She must be eighty years old.”

  “And many years wiser. She has left.”

  Shem looked to see if I was serious. When he saw that I was, he said, “Then it is settled: Japheth will marry Herai.”

  “Tell this to your father.”

  “Cannot you?”

  “No, but I will try anyway.”

  • • •

  “Where is first wife?” Noah asked me when he woke.

  “She is gone, husband,” I said. I did not mention that much of our dried fruit and nuts was also gone.

  “Gone where?”

  “Away from us.” I did not want to give him time to come up with a different plan. I hurried on, “Japheth is in need of a wife. Unless—”

  “At what position of the sun did she leave?” he interrupted.

  “She was gone before first light. It is too late to catch her now. The girl you have gotten for Ham can be given to Japheth.”

  His eyes seemed to draw deeper into his skull. I was afraid he was considering going after Leah. Finally, he said, “Then who will Ham take for a wife?”

  “Herai.”

  He banged his staff against the ground. “Speak no more of Javan’s daughter. I will find Japheth another wife.”

  “There are few righteous and pure girls in the world, and here is one within reach. We must be practical. Javan has gotten five mules for a dowry.”

  He came close and squinted into my eyes. “Wife,” he said quietly, “Be careful. We are watched.”

  • • •

  Javan returned five days after bringing the mules. I had tried to sway Noah, then to scare him, then to wear him down. Each time I had spoken to him, he’d seemed more certain of Herai’s unworthiness.

  I was crouched by the cookfire and did not stand up to greet Javan. Just the sight of her wearied me. Before she had come within ten cubits, I said, “No.”

  “No? So where is Japheth’s wife?”

  “You know she has left.”

  “The will of the gods,” she said.

  I was too tired to think of any reply.

  “Shem told me Noah believes the world will end and only his family will be spared. And you are at the mercy of such a man?” She spoke with so much scorn that for the blink of an eye, I hoped Noah’s prophecy would come true. Then, without warning, and as quickly as always, she became serious. “You have more sway than you know. My girls can teach you things—”

  “No. I have done all I can. Leave me alone.”

  Every time she started to speak, I said, “No,” until finally, she kicked the ground near me and left.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE CARAVAN

  The next morning, Japheth stepped in a pool of blood outside the tent’s door flap. He looked back into the tent at Noah. “Father,” he cried. “A sign!”

  Noah got up from his blanket, put on his tunic, and went to crouch in the doorway.

  “Most people sacrifice animals for God, but Father, God has sacrificed one for us!”

  “Keep talking,” Ham said, “and one day you are bound to say something that is not foolish.”

  “God does not sacrifice goats,” Noah said. Japheth’s zeal did not please him. Quite the opposite.

  All of us besides Japheth knew that the blood was a threat. Javan was not going to take no for an answer, and Noah was not going to say yes.

  “Attend to this,” he told me. To Japheth, he said, “You will help your mother. It will be good practice for the cleaning to come. Our ark will be full of two of every unclean creature and fourteen of every clean one.”

  “Every creature?” I asked.

  “Every creature.”

  “Biting flies?”

  “The Lord has commanded me to take clean animals, animals that are not clean, birds, and things that creep on the ground,” he said.

  What about the Nephilim? I wondered. They would not fit in an ark. Was their great height enough to keep their heads above water?

  Without further explanation, Noah wandered out to the road and stood absolutely still, listening. For what, I did not know. Clean animals, unclean animals, birds, and bugs? Or perhaps he was listening, as he usually was, for the voice of God.

  I gathered a bowl of clay, a waterskin, and a small shovel, which we would use as carefully as possible so as not to create a ditch, and took them to our doorway.

  “Did you think three hundred cubits were only for us?” Japheth asked scornfully. He crouched over the blood, his expression a mix of insolence and awe. He was the strongest of my sons and, though he did not seem to know it, the most handsome. Men and women alike turned to look at him when he ventured away from Noah’s land to catch a loose goat or yell at a sinner about God’s wrath.

  Suddenly, Ham stood up from his sleeping blanket and ran from the tent, splashing Japheth and the tent with blood.

  “Curse you,” Japheth cried.

  Noah broke from his stillness. “Hush, boy!” He made his way toward Japheth, his staff hitting wildly from side to side upon the ground. It hit the little pool of blood, and he stopped. “Do you so quickly forget the things I tell you? How will you grow into a man if you cannot contain the recklessness of a boy? You will not speak again today.”

  Japheth glared at Ham, who had turned around to enjoy his brother’s chastisement. Since Noah had started using a staff to make his way around, the boys had gotten bold with their looks and gestures. Sometimes, when Ham wanted to goad Japheth, he even grabbed his tunic where it covered his loins.

  • • •

  Japheth was still crouched in front of the tent when Noah called, “Ham! Your wife approaches.”

  I looked to find a man riding upon a beast larger than any I had ever seen. It was taller than one man standing upon another and weighed enough to shake the earth as it came closer. Huge tusks protruded alongside a trunk that could have wrapped itself ten times around me. A cloud of dust hovered around its knees but did not rise up high enough to obscure the man on its back—a man who rode so upright that I imagined his flanks were riddled with calluses or open sores. Behind this beast were others. They advanced from the north in a single line, one animal following the one before it so precisely that head-on, you might not have known there was any more than one man upon one great beast.

  Ham was impressed by neither man nor beast. He looked hatefully at the caravan.

  “Ham, go help Japheth clean,” I said.

  “But my beloved approaches.”

  “At least stop frowning,” I said. Though he obeyed me, it did not improve his countenance. In fact, it made it worse. He stared coldly at whatever it was that approached.

  As if just realizing someone had gotten the better of him in a deal, Noah muttered, “She is the seventh saved. Not one of my sons but her.”

  “What is the importance of seven?” I asked, thinking that I wanted the very best for Ham and wondering how I could arrange it.

  “Seven is God’s number and represents perfection. He made the world in seven days.”

  He made it in six, and He does not seem to think it is so perfect, seeing as some of His creations have fallen so low in His favor that He wishes to destroy them. But I knew better than to argue with Noah.

  Japheth looked like he wanted to say something, but he could not disobey Noah by speaking. Perhaps he wanted to poi
nt out that he was seventeen. Poor Japheth. Maybe it was not his fault that he was so fervent about God and the sins of others. Shem’s waywardness drove him to it, and this self-righteousness of Japheth’s forced Ham into a rebellion of irreverence.

  Though I loved Shem and Japheth, I was glad Noah and I had not stopped son-making after Japheth. I hated to think of how miserable we might all be without Ham. Even Japheth. Without Ham, he would have only one brother to look down upon.

  I went to my favorite son and put my hand gently upon his arm. I could think of nothing comforting to say except, “She looks like she comes from a powerful family.”

  Ham’s bottom lip was trembling. He did not respond. I knew he was thinking of Herai. I was not sure if there was any other boy in the world who would cry because he could not have a girl so much older than himself, one who was thought to be slow because of demons or God’s punishment. But I hoped so.

  “I am sorry,” I told him. “I wish Herai could be yours.” And by “yours,” I meant “ours.” Unfortunately, neither Ham nor I held sway over Noah. But Ham at least would one day have his own family, and then he would make decrees instead of following them. It seemed I never would. I wondered who had more control over her life—one of Javan’s prostitutes or me. At least none of them would be forced to put their sons on an ark with a bunch of animals many leagues from the sea.

  I had thought myself into a dark state by the time the caravan was within a hundred cubits. Ham, on the other hand, no longer looked like a mixture of emptiness and fury. He was straining to see what approached as if he could not wait until it arrived to know what it was.

  At last I could make out the man at the head of the pack. Surely this is a mirage, I thought. A mirage so powerful, everyone could see it. The man appeared to be as old as Noah. His beard was so thick that it covered half of his torso and so long it rested on the strange beast he rode. On the beast behind his was another man, also ancient. And behind him, a little girl.

  A little girl. Reins in one of her little hands.

  Someone sat behind the girl, holding a parasol between her and the sun.

  After this came two more men. All in all, from the tusks of the first beast, to the tail of the last, they were quite a solemn procession. Not a sad sort of solemn but an important sort. Noble men on a noble errand. Their tunics billowed out behind them in the wind like banners, as if they ruled over every place they traveled.

  Do they mean to rule over this place?

  Though Noah had invited them, he stood stock-still in the middle of the road as if he were going to confront them.

  “Cousin,” the first man greeted Noah.

  “Welcome, Manosh,” Noah said. The way he said it was not very welcoming. By his tone of voice, I would have thought he was speaking of a great stench. Then his intonation became hopeful: “Did you have any trouble with the sellswords?”

  “No. Just as the God of Adam watches over you, so does He watch over us.” Yet a sword hung from Manosh’s belt—sheathed but with blood on the handle. It seemed God had given these men steady hands and swords and left the rest up to them. I wondered how many fewer sinners there were now in the towns to the north.

  The girl on the third beast looked young—seven or eight—except that the stiffness of her spine was too great for a child’s.

  “Which of these is my wife?” Ham asked.

  I did not think the blood on Manosh’s sword bode well for Ham’s insolence. I moved to step in front of my son, but he held his arm out so that I came to a halt.

  Manosh did not move or speak. He and Noah’s other cousins stared at us without emotion, letting any fear we might have mount in the silence.

  Then Manosh laughed. “You cannot tell which of these is your wife? You must have inherited your father’s sight.” This caused the rest of Noah’s cousins to laugh as well. You would not have been able to tell they were laughing by their chests or bellies. Only their faces moved. I thought: They are too controlled to be trusted.

  In almost perfect unison, they dismounted their beasts. Age did not seem a hindrance to their strength but, rather, an explanation of it, as if their great stature was due to growing taller each year of their lives. Their noses and ears were not out of proportion to the rest of their bodies, as with most old men.

  I realized the woman behind the little girl was a slave. She struggled to hold the parasol over the girl even as one of the old men lifted the child off the riding blanket and set her gently on the ground. Much more gently than Noah had ever touched me.

  Even in the shade of the parasol the slave held over her, I could tell that the girl’s skin was as light as any I had seen. Not deep olive, dried brown, or glistening black but a color like sand that had taken in a whole summer of sunlight. I wondered how it was possible for her to be even lighter than the parts of my body that were hidden. Had she never walked out into the sun without a parasol? Had she never seen the sky?

  My eyes were filled with the old men, the little girl, and the huge beasts. But when the slave glanced up for half a breath, I nearly forgot all but her. She had a mark upon her brow. I felt a confounding mixture of compassion and revulsion. I reached up to make sure my head scarf was secure.

  When I realized I was staring, I hurried my gaze off the slave’s face. I did not want the others to wonder at any connection between us. Instead, I looked at the men and the little girl. The girl pressed her cheek to the tusk of her great beast, which had lowered its head, as though to be nearer to her. Then she walked, as slowly as if she were floating, to stand with the old men, two on either side. The wind that billowed our tunics and blew our hair into our faces seemed not to touch her. She waited with the men for Noah to approach.

  These men looked as commanding as any army. The source of their power was not their stature or the great beasts they rode. It was how they seemed to move as one body. One large body with four sharp swords and eight steady hands.

  No one scratched an itch or cleared his throat or shooed a fly from his neck. We were as still as if the next movement might determine all that was to come. Then Ham shook my hand off and began walking toward the girl.

  “Son,” Noah said. “Stop.”

  Ham halted. He had some loyalty to his father in the presence of strangers. But he did call out: “Have you torn this little girl from her mother’s breast in order to make her my wife?”

  “This is the daughter of the prophet Kesh—our cousin, favorite grandson of our beloved, ailing Methuselah,” Manosh said.

  Noah’s face took on the expression of a man being bitten by gnats and trying not to show it. “Three hundred goats do not make a man a prophet,” he said.

  Manosh smiled. “Three thousand.”

  “The God of Adam told him of the end of the world before He told you,” another of the old men said to Noah.

  “But the Lord has left me here to survive it.”

  “He has left Kesh’s daughter Zilpha as well,” Manosh said. He looked at the girl, and she smiled faintly up at him. “We are entrusting you to her and her to you.”

  “As a wife or a ward?” Ham asked. I had never once raised my hand to Ham, and right then I thought this a terrible mistake.

  They were not accustomed to being mocked. “Ahh!” one of the old men cried. Another banged his staff against the dust.

  Manosh looked to Noah to chastise Ham. Noah said nothing and perhaps tilted his nose a bit more toward the sky after this insult to Zilpha. Manosh placed his hand upon the bloody handle of his sword and took a step forward.

  Zilpha reached up and lightly touched Manosh’s hand with her own, bringing him to a halt. I wondered how such a little hand could still such a large one, though I noticed that he did not take his hand off his sword.

  “Lay down your fear,” she told Ham. Her voice sounded like it contained apricots and cream and all other manner of good things, and after it left her mouth, it seemed to float above us. “My father said I would marry a difficult man, and we would be as happy as
two people born of prophets are allowed to be. Though this amount of happiness is small, it will be all we need.”

  Ham stared at her as if she had grown a second head, but luckily, he said nothing.

  This speech and Ham’s reaction seemed to meet the quota of awe that the girl needed in order to leave her place beside her second cousins. She raised her arm. (I would come to see her do this a hundred times over—every time she was about to walk.) The slave hurried to hold the parasol between the girl’s newborn-looking skin and the sun.

  To my surprise, the girl and the slave came to me. Because of the parasol, which was level with my chest, the little girl was not able to come close. The slave raised the parasol above our heads, nearly scratching my face, so the girl could walk forward. As the girl placed her arms around my waist and pressed her head gently to my belly, I stood as still as a stone, unsure what I should do.

  The girl stepped back and took one of my hands in both of her own. “Mother,” she said.

  Perhaps she called me “Mother” because she had nothing else to call me, but I do not think so. I had never wanted a daughter. A daughter would remind me of what I had made myself forget: My own mother had left me. And I was afraid if I had a daughter, she would be marked and there would be no old man righteous or blind enough to take her in. But I would not need to worry about this with Zilpha. She was more powerful as a girl than I ever would be as a woman. This did not please me.

  She let go of my hand and turned to Noah. In coming to me, she had already walked over half the distance between them, and she must have thought she had done her part. She waited for Noah to come to her.

  He did not move a hair’s width in any direction. Even the shock of hair on his head was so stiff that not even the desert wind could stir it.

  Enough. Though the land we stood on was Noah’s, along with the food, the cookfire, and even me, and though it was Noah’s right to invite guests to eat, seeing the girl’s sway over so many men made me bold. As if Zilpha and her second cousins had just arrived, I said, “Welcome! Won’t you gather around our cookfire and eat with us?”