“I didn’t forget, but I didn’t care to celebrate at the time. We were still in mourning for the father of my fathers, and we were harvesting the herds.” He sighed, as if overcome by the memory of those long, miserable days of sorrow and endless work.
Shem hugged his father. “We can still be angry with ourselves for forgetting! Forgive us, Father, and we’ll celebrate your sixth kentum now. Look what our wives have done.”
Annah watched her husband, thinking, It’s good to see you smile again. I’ma was right; we’ve been mourning long enough. Even Khawm and Yepheth look happier already.
“Say you’ll play the harp for us tonight,” Ghinnah was coaxing Yepheth. “And Shem and Khawm should play the pipes and reeds.”
“If they survive this,” Tirtsah said. She presented a broad, flat basket of plain, crisp grain cakes and a clay bowl of bright red paste that she had prepared earlier in the day. She had refused all offers of help, and even Annah and Ghinnah did not know the ingredients Tirtsah had used. The paste was a brilliant, glistening, tempting red. Challenging everyone, Tirtsah said, “Some of the smallest, weakest people in my home-city ate this paste constantly. But many of the giants themselves were unable to eat it without crying.”
Khawm nudged Yepheth. “I dare you to try some.”
Curious, Annah dipped a grain cake into the paste and ate it. Her first impression was of salt and savory herbs, but then her mouth burned, and her eyes teared up as she broke into a sweat. The paste was fiery beyond belief, an intense concentration of all the most searing spices she had ever eaten. Gasping, Annah quickly ate a plain grain cake, then drank some water. By now, everyone had tried some of the fiery red paste, and they laughed at each other’s reactions. But only Tirtsah, Khawm, and Ghinnah took more. Noakh chuckled in protest as he refused a second serving, telling Tirtsah, “Thank you, daughter, but I would prefer to live.”
“Never make that red paste for me,” Shem whispered to Annah. “I think my face is numb. But I’m glad to see Khawm’s wife finally behaving as part of this family.”
Annah agreed, grateful that Tirtsah had finally accepted them—and the Most High. They ate their evening meal with only one interruption; the pen changed direction again, veering about so quickly that Annah had to put down her dish of food while her stomach settled. Shem continued to eat.
Apparently noticing her aversion and hoping to distract her, Shem nudged Annah, whispering, “We should give my father some sort of gift tonight.”
“I made a gift for you to present to him,” Annah replied, placing a small fold of leather on her husband’s knee. “Perhaps you can promise to carve him a small storage case later.”
In honor of this day, Annah had made a pendant of a gold leaf that she had originally created for Tirtsah. To Annah’s disgust, the gold leaf had been too long and heavy to use in Tirtsah’s hair bindings—but it was perfect for Noakh’s pendant. Shem grinned as he felt the weight of the gold in his palm. “I can guess what you’ve made, beloved,” he whispered, his voice making her shiver. “I’m eager to see it.” Immediately, Shem gave it to his father.
Seeing the pendant, Noakh protested, “Daughter, you should have saved your gold! I’m an old man, and you will have sons and daughters to provide for later.”
“If it were not for you and your family, I wouldn’t be alive today,” Annah told him. “And I would have had no chance to bear sons and daughters.”
Though there is no child yet, she thought, aggrieved. Her longing for children intensified with each passing month. Shem had tried to console her by pointing out all the disadvantages of having a child now, while they were so overwhelmed by the storm, but Annah begged him to stop trying to reason with her. His calm logic only upset her, making her feel irrational.
Sighing, Annah shook off thoughts of children and watched Noakh. He seemed genuinely pleased with the pendant. He had no gold of his own—all of it had been sacrificed to build this pen. He was equally delighted with the others’ gifts, a new long leather tunic from Naomi and a corded leather belt and carrying pouch from Khawm and Tirtsah. Then Yepheth and Ghinnah gave him the small, carved, painted storage box Ghinnah had taken from Qeb-al’s cart the day of her marriage to Yepheth.
“Open it,” Yepheth urged his father, smiling.
They all leaned forward to peer inside the box at what looked like a heap of smooth, waxlike, translucent stones. Noakh seemed perplexed until Ghinnah said, “Father of my husband, please, take the stones into a dark place.”
Noakh carried the stones away from the light of the hearth, and even as he was walking, he called out excitedly, “Come look at these!”
Everyone crowded around Noakh to see; the stones exuded a peculiar yellowish light of their own—faint but still impressive. Ghinnah explained anxiously, “They’re at their best after a day of full sunlight. I’ve had the box open all day, but there’s no light outside because of the storm. In a little while, you won’t be able to see any light from them at all. I’ve forgotten them for too long.”
“Were these fashioned by a man?” Noakh asked, fascinated.
Ghinnah lifted her hands, at a loss to explain. “I believe they were heated somehow, but I don’t know the materials or the method used to create them. They belonged to my father, and he forbade me to touch them or to speak of them. I’ve wondered if he stole them from someone.”
Noakh grunted. “When these stones have been in the sunlight for a full day, do they give off any heat?”
Ghinnah shook her head. “No. I told Annah once that these stones are like cold fire—a great mystery.”
By now, they were all touching the sunstones, marveling at them.
“I think a man created them,” Yepheth said, turning one over in his long fingers. “They don’t feel like natural stones.”
Noakh sighed heavily. “I agree. They are a secret we may never understand. So many wonders have been lost through man’s selfishness and violence.”
“We are finished mourning for them,” Naomi reminded everyone firmly. “Those violent ones and their knowledge.”
“Beloved,” Noakh said, smiling at Naomi, “you are right. And perhaps our children will show these stones to their children and teach those children not to forget the true Source of all knowledge.” To Ghinnah, he said, “Daughter, thank you for this gift! Now we have another reason to anticipate the sun in ten days.”
Khawm agreed happily. “We can use the stones to light our way in the lowest level when we check the animals, without risking a fire.”
“Yes, but until then, we will go back to our real fire, and our food,” said Noakh. “And my sons—who forgot my six-hundredth year—will play some music to cover the sounds of this storm.”
Eagerly they returned to their food and to music as Shem and his brothers played their pipes, flutes, and harp. To Annah’s delight, Noakh and Naomi pulled her to her feet, urging Ghinnah and Tirtsah to join them in a dance of pure joy. A celebration of life—although their steps were thrown off more than once by the churning of the storm outside.
Later, when everyone was exhausted, they carried a glowing resin-soaked torch to the far wall, where Noakh routinely carved notations of each day. Annah could not read her father-in-law’s series of curling lines, slashes, and dots, but that was unimportant; now she could only think that they were one day closer to the end of the storm.
“Look!” Tirtsah cried, gazing at a stream of light pouring through the high windows some distance away.
Exultant, Annah left her grinding stone and raced with Tirtsah toward the sunlight. The resins of the sunlit floor were warm beneath her feet. Thank You, Annah thought to the Most High, deeply moved by the mere sight and feel of this one ray of light. Her feelings seemed to be echoed by the birds sheltered in the branches behind the huge curtain of mesh; a number of them began to flutter, twittering and singing, their notes high and vibrant in the calm.
“This is the morning of the forty-first day,” Tirtsah declared, sounding newly amazed.
“The storm ended, just as the father of our husbands has said.”
They heard Naomi and Ghinnah calling to the others, then running up the ramp, all of them eager to see the sunlight.
“Move over!” Ghinnah commanded Annah and Tirtsah, happily pushing them aside and planting her bare feet in the patch of sunlight. Contented, Annah moved aside. Shem came to stand with Annah, wrapping his arms around her as he looked up at the sunlight. When Noakh came up from the lowest level of the pen, Ghinnah stepped out of the light, demanding, “Father of my husband, how many days before we can go outside again?”
To Annah’s dismay, Noakh shook his head. “Who can say but the Most High? Until then, we wait.” And he put out a hand, as if he could hold the sunlight in his long, work-roughened fingers.
Shem sighed and stirred in his sleep, unsettled, feeling the light, ticklish sensation of fingers combing delicately through his hair. “Annah,” he mumbled into the darkness, “what are you doing?”
Nestled beside him in their bed, Annah sighed drowsily. “I’m sleeping.”
Feeling the combing sensation again, Shem said, “You’re playing with my hair.”
“No,” she said, mildly indignant, “I’m not playing with your hair.”
Perturbed, Shem put a hand up to grab her fingertips. But the fingertips were not Annah’s. A squeak of protest and a light scratching across the back of Shem’s hand made him sit up straight. Wide-awake now, he demanded, “What’s this?” He swept his hands across his pillow in the darkness and caught hold of a small, warm-furred body—equipped with a long, soft tail that curled over his arm. “It’s one of the little tree-dwellers.”
“In our bed?” Annah sat up, incredulous. Shem could just see her in the darkness. To convince Annah that he was telling the truth, Shem put the tree-dweller in her arms. Annah laughed. “You thought I was some little-old-woman-of-the-trees?”
“Yes, I thought this creature was you.” Baffled, Shem ran his fingers over the top of the storage chest, found his tunic, and pulled it over his head. “Why didn’t I sense it there?” he asked Annah. “Did you sense its presence?”
“No.” Annah hesitated. “I didn’t. That’s strange. What are you doing?”
“I’m putting our little visitor back where she belongs.” As he bent to take the little creature from Annah’s arms, Shem felt the warmth and nearness of Annah’s face. He kissed her cheek, delighted as always by the scent and the unutterable softness of her skin. She was still an exquisite wonder to him—an incredible luxury and joy.
“You’re sure you are kissing the right creature?” she asked, teasing.
“Beloved,” he said instantly, “I forgot to tell you that you need to shave.”
“Go away,” she said, sounding amused. “And take your little beloved with you. I should be jealous.”
“I’m coming right back,” Shem told her. “Wait for me.”
“Where else would I go?”
Smiling, he ducked past the thick leather door-curtain and headed toward the ramp. It was not until he reached the second level that Shem realized what had just happened. “She laughed. She finally, truly laughed!” Studying the tiny, big-eyed creature in his arms, Shem said, “You’re one of those night-loving things. You would make me walk all the way down there.”
Yepheth was in the second level, making his nightly rounds, using the sunstones for light. Shem almost succeeded in startling him, but Yepheth looked up in time. “You didn’t sense my presence quickly enough,” Shem told him. “And I didn’t sense this creature either. It escaped.”
“How?” Yepheth asked, astonished.
“Come with me while I go down to the next level,” Shem urged. “You can light my way while I return this creature to its beloved.”
“Does the air feel colder to you?” Yepheth asked.
“Isn’t the night air always cooler?”
“Not like this. It’s strange. Things feel different tonight. And worse, you did almost startle me. It’s as if I cannot sense things clearly anymore.”
Frowning, Shem returned the little creature to its cage—which was half-opened. He closed the cage, warning the creature’s beloved, “Keep an eye on her. She wanders.”
“I’ll give them some more food,” Yepheth said. “You go back to sleep.”
“Thank you.” As Shem started up the ramp, he felt a current of cold air touching his face. “You’re right,” he said to Yepheth. “The air has changed.”
“I don’t like it,” Yepheth said quietly. “I’m going to make sure all the animals are secured, then I’m going to sit by the hearth until dawn.”
“Do you want me to keep watch with you?” Shem offered.
Yepheth hesitated, then shook his dark-curled head somberly. “No. Tomorrow night will be your night. I’ll wake Father if anything happens. He’d want to know. Go back to sleep.”
“Good night then.” Shem climbed the ramp, still feeling the current of air descending on him, chilling as water. What is this? he wondered. It’s been one hundred twelve days, and the air is still changing. Disquieted, he went back to bed.
Annah seemed half-asleep when he returned. She put an arm out to hug him, but immediately pulled away, shivering.
“You’re cold!”
“Never mind that,” Shem said, kissing her lips, her face, and her throat. “You laughed! Finally—my little tree-dweller.” To his immense pleasure, she laughed again and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Twenty-Four
USING A long-handled blade, Annah scraped the boards that slanted downward behind the multitudes of cages in the second level of the pen. Messy little creatures, she thought, allowing the mixture of trampled straw, manure, and various scattered foods to fall into the recessed waste pit near her feet. It’s bad enough that I have to scrape their manure down, but look how they mix it with their food. Ugh!
“You’re careless with your food,” she told the plump little creatures as she finished scraping. “I should be disgusted with you, but I’m not.” Sighing, she reached into a cage and stroked the luxuriant warm, gray-brown fur and long ears of one of the hares, resisting the impulse to pick it up. Instead, she checked the nearby cages containing long, sleek, black tree-foxes and a pair of smaller creatures—odd-hoofed, red-gold puffs of fur with sharp, inquisitive little faces and pointed snouts. “Greedy little ones,” Annah muttered, pouring an assortment of grains, nuts, and dried berries into their shared feeding trough. “Don’t scatter it this time.”
Hurrying through the cool air, Annah reached into a nearby bin for handful after handful of coarse strips of dried meat, which she cast into a waiting bucket of water. Later, when the meat strips were softened, she would return and distribute them to the sleek black tree-foxes, the odd-hoofed creatures, and the other little carrion-eaters in this section of cages.
A sharp whistle echoed at her from the opposite end of the second level. Shem, Annah thought, startled. She covered the bin of dried meat strips, put away her scraping tool, and hastily retrieved a long-sleeved leather outer tunic from the floor. More than thirty days past, Naomi had insisted that they should make the long-sleeved tunics and fleece-lined foot coverings to wear against the chilling air. Annah hated the weight of the extra garments and dropped them whenever she could. But Shem was approaching, so she pulled the heavy tunic on again and tried not to look too guilty.
“Where are your foot-coverings?” Shem scolded her fondly.
“I’ll put them on,” Annah promised, looking for the puffy leather coverings and corded leather bindings. “My feet got warm while I was working.”
“You still hate them, I know,” Shem said good-naturedly. “But if you don’t wear them today, your feet will be cold tonight.”
“My feet have been cold every night for weeks, with or without foot coverings, so they can’t be very important,” Annah protested. She tied the knots of the bindings in place at her ankles, then sighed heavily. Now that she was sitting down, she felt beaten. Looking up at her h
usband, she almost wailed, “It’s well past a month since this cold air has come upon us; will we ever be rid of it?”
“It’s that wind more than anything. It’ll change again, beloved. We just have to live with it for now.” He half-knelt beside her, his long, roughened fingers warm against her cheek.
Comforted, Annah leaned against him briefly. “I want to see the trees again,” she told him. “And I want to see the sky—not just clouds and sunlit mist—but the sky. And I want to feel grass beneath my feet. Instead, all I feel are these.” She kicked out one fleece-covered foot, knowing she sounded sulky and ungrateful. In another instant, she would be crying. “One hundred and forty-eight days—I’m just so tired!”
“We’re all tired.” Sighing, Shem rubbed her back. “One day this journey will end, and we can all go out and look at the sky together. Until then, I’ma and the others are waiting for us to join them at the midday meal.”
“I’m too tired to move.”
“Take my hand; I’ll help you up.”
Shem offered Annah his hand, smiling—his beautiful, tender, persuasive smile.
There has never been anyone like you, Annah thought. She smiled in return and allowed him to help her to her feet. “I sound like a spoiled child,” she said.
Wrapping an arm around her, Shem guided Annah toward the central ramp. “I think you’re just tired and hungry and wishing you had a tree to climb.”
“You shouldn’t tease me about climbing trees. After all, you were the one having your hair combed by that little-old-woman-of-the-trees creature.”
“Are you jealous?” Shem asked, his dark eyes shining merrily.
“No! She can have you.” Then, quickly, Annah took hold of his arm. “That isn’t true; she can’t have you. No one else can have you either, although there is no one else.”
“Even so, I would never desire anyone else.” Shem paused on the ramp.
Annah waited with him, suddenly tense. The current was changing, and the turning, shifting sensation of the waters seemed to come up through the very planks. Annah hated being caught on the ramps or ladders when the currents changed. It would be too easy to lose her balance and fall.
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