Storm

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “Waters.” He looks at me, as though astonished. He wipes the rain from his lashes—a futile gesture. “My people lived on a gulf to the south and east. The center of the earth. They followed a river north, the Pishon, and I was born along the way. Washed in the river.” He shakes his head. “Water. It’s my fate.”

  My throat tightens. I, too, was named by my mother for the circumstances of my birth. I was born dead. Or that’s what they thought. But Mamma held me to her breast, naked body to naked body, all night long, and rubbed my back and pulled on my toes. At sunrise, when Papa reached to take me away, he heard a small noise. It was me, crying out. So Mamma named me after the sunrise.

  The contrast between our names seems fateful. Please, please don’t let Aban ask what my name means.

  But, oh, he doesn’t have to. He must know. He’s grown up with my language.

  “You weave, right?”

  I nod.

  Aban closes his eyes, but he doesn’t totter. He stands like a growth of the tree itself. When he opens his eyes, he smiles, as though he’s waking up all over again. I’ve come to like his smile very much. “You instruct then. Let’s get to work.”

  We work the three detached branches together, fitting larger forks flush against each other and tying them firm with strips from Aban’s loincloth. He says he has no need of it anymore anyway. Smaller fronds are interleaved. Not the neat kind of weaving at a loom, but as close to it as we can get. We work and sleep and work and sleep. It’s not that the job is so huge; it’s that our energy is so limited. Aban seems to have used up nearly the last of his on bashing the branches free from the trunk.

  The raft floats. Glorious raft. We kiss each other and grin. We are up to our knees in swirling water now, standing on that branch, working the last few fronds in and out of one another. The raft lies on the water. It is surprisingly large. But all at once my heart goes cold. This raft promises nothing really. I dread the time when Aban will say we must climb aboard.

  “Look!”

  Swimming toward us is a doe. One lone doe, alive. Meat.

  The doe turns her head this way and that. I recognize the terror in her eyes. We are her best alternative. And we are certain death. Poor thing. But maybe she doesn’t know. Please let her not know.

  The doe comes smashing against the raft with flailing legs.

  Aban is knocked off his feet, but he catches hold and hangs from the side of the raft. It doesn’t sink!

  I grab the rope that fastens the raft to the tree trunk and pull with both hands. The rope is simply more strips from Aban’s loincloth—but it doesn’t tear. Still, I have to fight the motion of the water to retrieve the raft. It’s so hard.

  And now Aban stands on the lower branch again. He straightens up and looks at me, saying nothing. I’m so grateful the raft held him. But that feeling is instantly overpowered by the sight of the doe swimming past—we’ve lost out on her. My stomach is so small now, I can barely feel it clench. The tree sap was the last thing any of us had to eat—and that was too long ago. A light-headedness makes me sway on my feet. That doe will simply die—and feed no one. It’s all wrong.

  But the doe turns around. Her face is stupid. Only her haunted eyes give away the suggestion, the merest hint of a suggestion, that she knows there is no better alternative. Whatever lies in the tree is yet unknown, but swimming means sure and imminent drowning.

  Aban shoves the raft to the far side of the trunk and takes his club in both hands. “Hold me around the waist.”

  I hug him from behind. I feel the rise and fall of his shoulders and arms, the contraction of his middle, the enormous effort of it all. I hear the final thunk that cracks the doe’s skull.

  We use a splinter of cedar branch to cut the throat. And we drink, Aban and Screamer and me, we drink right from the pulsing, gushing vessels. Cutting out the flesh will be laborious and take too long. We’re hungry now. We can’t wait. We guzzle. All I can do is hope the spirit of the doe will take our eagerness as an expression of gratitude.

  I saw a leopard doing this same thing once. Leopards can swim. I don’t remember how I know that, but I’m filled with gratitude that it was a doe who swam our way now, not a leopard.

  Maybe our luck is changing. Maybe the rains will stop. And recede. And life will go on. Maybe, maybe. I murmur thanks to the doe over and over.

  Crack!

  I look up. “No!” Our tree is on fire.

  “It’s all right.” Aban desperately saws at the doe’s chest. “We just need a hunk of this meat to take with us.”

  Impossible! But the deer hide practically tears with a tug of Aban’s hands. It has been softened by all the rain. I watch in disbelief as the rump muscles are exposed.

  Then I look up again. Fire consumes the crown of our tree. That the fire can burn so fast in this rain could make me marvel. I’m not impressed, though. The rain wants to kill, and the fire can only help it. They collude in this destruction. It doesn’t matter that Aban is pulling meat from the doe. It doesn’t matter; we are doomed.

  I become the doe. Which is better—a quick death in this fire or slow starvation on the raft, if it can even hold our weight? It’s no contest. I close my fingers tight around a cluster of cedar needles and stare into the flames.

  “Don’t.” Aban’s arm circles my waist, just as mine circled his only a little while ago. “Don’t even think that way. Climb onto the raft.”

  I turn in his arms so we are face-to-face. “You first.”

  He shakes his head. I can see he thinks I’ll set him adrift and not climb on. He’s right. The crackle of the fire nearly deafens me. My ears burn. Sweat drips from my forehead.

  “We’ll take care of each other till the end,” he says. No nonsensical words about him protecting me now. I like that. It charms me, this admission that no one can really protect anyone. Taking care is different from protecting.

  I climb gingerly onto the raft, holding tight, for all of me feels slippery. The raft goes down a little, but it still floats. Aban hands me a huge hunk of meat, then climbs on behind me. The raft sinks lower. Water covers it. But it doesn’t keep sinking. It’s buoyant.

  Aban tries to undo the knot that holds the raft to the trunk. It won’t come loose. Wet knots are like that. I know. I used to make all the knots in the bean parcels. I should have tied a twig in the middle. I wasn’t thinking straight.

  A burning branch falls from above.

  I push it off with my feet. “Ahi!” I yelp. Even with the water splashing on them immediately, my feet hurt.

  Aban saws crazily at the strips of loincloth. Then he bites the makeshift rope, jerking his head this way and that, till it finally shreds. We are carried away in the chaotic currents.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Day 22

  Something catches on the raft. That’s not new. Things bump the raft now and then. Branches. Bodies—animals and people. The debris of a world undone. And then they pass on. But this something has caught. It yanks and then pulls us along.

  I sit up. It’s a rope. A real rope. A thick one. I run my hand along it to feel the end. There’s a knot there. That’s why it snagged.

  The change in our motion must have woken Screamer, too. He drops from behind my neck and comes over to investigate, sniffing the rope in that dainty way of his.

  I now look up the rope. I tap Aban on the shoulder. He moans and curls away from me. I rap my knuckles on his head, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough that he has to pay attention. Please, let him pay attention. He sits up slowly.

  We stare at the looming hulk that the rope hangs from, the huge thing that drags us through the sea. It’s made of wood and pitch.

  “A boat,” I say doubtfully.

  He shakes his head.

  “But what else could it be?”

  “Not even the grandest warship is that big.”

  “And rain doesn’t go on and on and on.” I put my hand on his cheek. “Let’s climb the rope.”

  “You go.” Aban sink
s onto his back.

  His lethargy has grown worse. He’s confused a lot of the time. He hardly talks. And something awful happened a while ago, maybe yesterday, though I don’t really know what a day is anymore. Aban seized up, his mouth open, his body closing around some invisible ball, and he shook. All of him. His eyes rolled back so only white showed. And all I could do was hold his head and tell him it was going to be all right. He needs to get out of the rain. We all do, but he needs it more than Screamer and me.

  “We’re going up the rope.”

  Aban smiles at me. “Screamer agrees.”

  I look over my shoulder. The kit is climbing the rope. It’s thick enough that he could climb it like a tree branch if it were stable. But it swings about wildly and he clings on the underside of it now. He lets out a shriek—loud enough to earn back his name. He’s grown somehow, in spite of everything. His muscles bulge under his matted fur. Still, I don’t know how long he can hold on.

  “You go next,” I say.

  “Look at me, Sebah.” Aban holds his arms out. His skin puckers everywhere. “I’m waterlogged. I’m as good as dead.”

  “Don’t say that. We’ll get you on that ship. You’ll recover.”

  “What if it isn’t a ship?”

  “It’s something, Aban. It’s something that floats—and it’s got to be better than this raft. We need to try, Aban.”

  “I don’t have the strength to climb.”

  “You’re stronger than me.” Please let that be true.

  “I can swing a club. Or I could. That doesn’t mean I can climb a rope.”

  “Of course you can. You have to!”

  “Go, Sebah. Go, for both our sakes. Live. Promise me.”

  “Don’t . . .”

  “Promise me.”

  His eyes lie deep in purple pouches. The skin on his belly puffs bluish, but his stomach is empty. He hasn’t even mated with me since we got on this raft. And if he doesn’t have energy for that, he doesn’t have energy for anything. This ship is our only chance.

  “When I get on board, I’ll make them come down for you.” I take off my mantle and for one moment I clutch it tight, frozen by the vulnerability of being naked. But Aban needs covering more than I do. And I’ll move freer without it. I force myself to help him into it. He doesn’t fight. That’s more terrifying than anything. “Hold on to the raft no matter what. Promise me.”

  “I will.”

  “Be here when they come down to get you.”

  “I will.”

  “Just . . .”

  “Go, Sebah.”

  I scoot toward the rope. But the sea surges and before my hand can close around it, the knot comes free and the rope slides into the water. Away. Gone in an instant. I can’t even hear Screamer anymore. The rain closes him off from me.

  “You know how to swim,” says Aban. “You made a promise.” He pulls the mantle around himself and disappears inside it. I touch his shoulder, but he doesn’t respond. It’s as though he’s gone already. And Screamer is gone. And nothing is right with the world.

  I hear a howl of anguish, the sting of tears. I plunge into the waves.

  The water swirls in large and overpowering spirals. It’s not storming, so it’s just the effect of that enormous floating ship. I swim hard. I can make out the ship ahead of me, but the rope? Where is that rope? I dive under and then right myself and flap my arms hard to my sides so I shoot up, above the surface—high enough to see around me. No rope! No rope anywhere! I swim as hard and fast as I can, flailing my arms wide.

  And then I hear the scream. Marvelous kitty! I throw myself as hard as I can to the left and I’ve got it! I grab on with both hands now. In an instant I feel excruciating pain in my scalp. Hot weight on my head. Screamer clings there.

  I climb hand over hand. Once I’m high enough, my legs wrap around the rope. My scalp feels like a thousand knife tips pierce it. I won’t waste a yell, though. Screamer yowls for the both of us. I use my feet, my calves and knees and thighs, my hands, even my teeth, to climb, bit by bit. The rough rope shreds the new skin on my blistered feet. But it’s just one more pain. It balances the pain in my scalp. I am like a cedar tree—balance saves me. I can bear this. I climb.

  The rope swings, but not from my weight. My weight is nothing compared with the weight of the rope and the force of the waves. The swinging sickens me. My stomach rebels and I retch, right there on the rope, into the wild sea below. In defiance, I tilt my head back, face to the heavens, and fill my mouth with rain. I spit the sourness away. I drink. Then climb. Hand over hand. Foot over foot. My jaw aches. Every part of me feels raw. And my stomach threatens to pitch again. I grit my teeth and climb. I won’t look down, I won’t look up. My job is to climb, to think about nothing else. Climb!

  Screamer yowls nonstop. I can no longer feel the punctures in my skull. I can’t feel my feet or hands. But I can hear that kit. I climb. I climb for Screamer. I climb for Aban. I climb for dear life.

  And suddenly my head goes light, as though half of it is gone. Screamer is still yowling, but his cries have changed, and they move away from me. I look up the rope.

  A face peers into mine. Black, flat nose, protruding jaw, eyes totally brown with a black dot in the center. I close my own eyes and will the image to go away. This can’t be real. The face is human and not human. I’ve never seen people like this. Or is it an animal? My mind plays tricks I shouldn’t even be able to dream about. I open my eyes.

  The creature clings to the rope and gnaws at my hand. I shout, “Get away.” But I can’t let go to swat at it. I’ll fall. I grip tighter.

  The creature turns, moving nimbly on the rope, and rubs her backside on my shoulder. I go rigid, stunned. She can’t be human. She’s small, with long legs and arms, no tail, short fur. I could bite her now. Bite right into that vulnerable exposed thigh. But the creature’s jaws are formidable. I grip the rope so tight, I think it will cut through my fingers.

  The creature now climbs down the rope again, her feet gripping as easily as hands, looking in fact more like hands than feet. She climbs down past me and I feel a shove from behind. Whether it’s the creature’s shoulder or head, I don’t know, but the creature is pushing on my bottom, lifting me upward.

  I climb, and the lift from the creature makes it easier. Screamer’s yowls grow louder. I’m getting closer to him. A hand appears in front of my face. Long black fingers, knobby and wrinkled. I look up.

  It’s another creature. Like the first, but larger. And obviously male. He perches in a round hole high in the side of the ship. There is a line of such holes. And I passed another line below it as I climbed.

  A whole ship of these creatures.

  I think of letting go, disappearing into the sea. I let loose one hand and look down. The sea is far below. I feel the energy seep from me. It would be so easy to just give up.

  Screamer yowls. Screamer.

  And Aban. My Aban.

  The creature behind me nudges my dangling hand.

  I reach for the male’s hand, and I am half pulled, half shoved up through the hole and into the ship.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Day 24

  Something rustles nearby. How amazing and wonderful it is that anything should be dry enough to make a rustling noise. I swipe away the straw from my face and open my eyes to the dim light. The stink of this place goes heavy down my nose and throat, and I gag. But my coughing doesn’t disturb them: It’s Queen and The Male, as I’ve named them, mating so close to me that I could reach an arm out and brush their fur. Queen calls out, a high, thin scream. I tell myself not to panic—to relax. I’m no stranger to animal mating—no country girl is. But this mating is different; Queen and The Male mate at any excuse. At the arrival of food, at skirmishes among the animals around us, even out of pure boredom. I would be embarrassed if it weren’t for the fact that I can’t help but be used to it by now, and they clearly couldn’t care less who sees. They are entirely delighted with mating.

  Aban migh
t have liked The Male; he looked at mating the same way.

  Aban.

  I snake my hand through the straw that covers the floor, till it touches a coil of rope. The rope that hangs from the side hole is long enough to dangle clear to the water while still leaving a few loops here, on our deck. This is the rope I climbed to safety yesterday—or was it two days ago? I’ve slept on and off, and time never makes sense anymore anyway. Whatever, this is the rope that Aban should have climbed, too.

  “Aban’s out there,” I say, as I’ve said so many times. When Queen and The Male first pushed me into the ship through the side hole, I told them about Aban. I told them he was on the raft, waiting for rescue. I said it over and over. I say it now. “Please. Rescue him. There’s so much you need to know about him. So much that’s important. Listen. Once when I complained to Aban about feeling clammy and dirty all the time, he crushed a handful of cedar needles, pinching them between his nails till the pieces were teeny teeny, and then he rubbed them all over me so I was deliciously fragrant till we had to leave the shelter of the tree nook and climb higher and the rain washed it all away. See?” I point at Queen, who has now rolled away from The Male. “See? You should rescue him. Once, after we mated, he said we needed a celebration because it had been so sweet, and he scraped and scraped at the cedar bark and filled his palm with little green bugs and put half in my palm and said we should eat them all, all at once. And we did and I laughed—they were sweet! He said they made honeydew; he’d learned that from ladybugs. See?” I talk on and on, telling Queen and The Male everything about Aban, because I can’t do anything else. Every time I try to get to my feet, dizziness overcomes me and nausea rises in my throat. I’m exhausted and sick. The only thing I can do is lie still. And chew on the raw fish that Queen feeds Screamer and me.