Storm

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “Don’t you weary of being such a jerk, Ham?”

  “Enough,” says Shem. “I’ll feed the big cats. But I’m going to refill this sack first.” He throws a mess of fruit into our cage, then leaves his empty bucket at the foot of the ladder and climbs up behind Japheth.

  Queen and The Male hug each other before they pounce on the fruit. The little antelopes wait patiently at the side. I didn’t know we would all get fruit, too. They better leave some for me. Please let them leave some for me. Come on, Queen—remember me. Please remember me.

  Shem clumps down the ladder again, with his cloth sack bulging. He takes his bucket off to some side hole I can’t see from here and returns with fish brimming out of it. He picks up a blackened stick that lies on the floor in front of the second latticework cage. “Get back, tigers,” he shouts. Then he pulls a thick piece of wood out of a rope loop. He pulls on the lattice, and a little door opens high up at his face level. A window, really. He pokes inside with the blackened stick. He grabs a handful of fish in the other hand and flings it in and shuts the window, latching it with that piece of wood again. He moves on to the latticework cage where the lions live. He does the same.

  Then he comes over to my cage. He drops his head forward. “I know what’s going on,” he says quietly.

  I’m glad my stomach is empty, or it would pitch forth again. I’ve heard the rules. This ark is allowed to carry only its original passengers. If they discover me, what else could they do but cast me overboard? I cradle Screamer to my chest.

  “Father didn’t ask the question that was on my mind.” Shem tilts his head now. He looks directly at The Male. “Who put those snakes up high? Huh?” He slaps his fist against a palm. “Tell me, big boy. The gorillas and chimps—all the rest of the apes, in fact, and all the monkeys, too, they’re all at the aft. All but you. You were put here, with other animals from your part of the world—those aardvarks and the miniature antelopes . . . the duikers. You’re the only ones near enough to that lattice—the only ones with hands—who could have done it.” Shem squints his eyes, and those thick brows make a continuous straight line across his forehead. “I wish you could answer me. But then, you’re unruly. You’d probably lie.” He shakes a finger at The Male. “I’ve seen you. None of you is supposed to mate. No one on this whole ark is supposed to mate. But you do. All the time. The Mighty Creator will punish you if you put a baby inside your female.” He crosses his arms on his chest. “And I’ll punish you if you throw snakes anywhere again. I don’t know how you got them, but I know you did it. I won’t stand for any more of that. You hear?” Shem waggles his head. “Noah’s an old man. Don’t pester him. And don’t make him take his worries out on us. Being on this ship is trouble enough. I mean it.” His voice gets thick. “We are so very sick of this stinking ark!” Finally, he takes his bucket and walks on.

  I count the boards in the deck over my head. I count and count to keep my mind steady while the two remaining brothers feed everyone and cart away the droppings of all the creatures. Counting helps fight panic.

  The Mighty Creator told the old man—that Noah—that he should build this ark. He must mean El Elyon. Or maybe Ba’al. Maybe both those most powerful gods speak to Noah.

  I have thought very little about the deities since the rains started, beyond my initial and fruitless prayers to Ba’al. In truth, I’ve paid little attention to the gods all my life. It seemed to me that they didn’t concern themselves much with the matters of humans.

  My major task at home was plants—I loved putting seeds in the ground, watering them, harvesting them. Fertility of the crops—that’s what mattered to me. That was beautiful, as well as practical. And that was enough.

  Then the rains came. And Aban appeared. And life was reduced to the quest for survival.

  Almost. There was something else, too. My cheeks grow warm. There was how I felt when Aban smiled. Yes.

  And there’s Screamer to take care of. And now Queen, who somehow has a bond with me. And the little shrike, who trusts me enough to perch on my head.

  Plants are no more. Whenever this rain ends, if it ever ends, all plants will be gone. Maybe forever.

  So it’s good that I have other sources of joy now, other reasons to live. I mustn’t let those men discover me. I mustn’t get thrown into the sea. I lick my lips. They’re sour from vomit. I crawl to the pile of fruit. Those remaining are mashed and bruised. I eat them, skin and seeds and all. Every last one. And still I’m hungry.

  What will Screamer eat? For him, it’s flesh or nothing.

  But the kit already bolts out through the poles before Queen can stop him. He’ll find meat to eat somewhere. Maybe another mouse. For surely The Male isn’t the only one on board who refuses to observe the ban on mating. Mice are idiots. Mice must be mating like . . . mice.

  What a fine thought. I feel a small ember of revolt. If a mouse can disobey, so can I.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Night 27

  I feel up and down the pole with both hands. Then the next pole. The tiger and lion cages have windows that open high up. Shem threw food in through them. I saw. So maybe this cage does too. The last time I checked for a way out, when I first got on board, I shook the poles to see if any were loose. But now I’m examining them differently; I’m feeling for hinges. I move slow and silent along the row of poles that face the central corridor. The aardvarks give a few little grunts as I maneuver past them, but that’s all. The others are asleep. Except Screamer. He’s off prowling.

  I want to prowl. At home, before this eternal, infernal rain, I never explored alone. The only place I was allowed to be alone was our field. And even there, my father and brothers checked on me often. But here on this ark there is no one to tell me to stay put. I’m in charge. How funny. I’m in a cage in an ark on the middle of the sea, but I’m still somehow freer here. I’m in charge of myself. My breath comes in deep, deep. My insides feel huge.

  I run my fingers along each pole all the way to the next cage. I can’t reach high, of course, but who would put a window higher than my reach, anyway? The food-mongers have to have access, after all, and they aren’t that much taller than me, except for Japheth.

  I go back to where I started and feel the poles in the other direction. This isn’t a large cage; even feeling carefully, it doesn’t take much time. There’s nothing. Nothing.

  I sink to the floor in the corner, my side pressed against the poles. I was so sure. But I was stupid. The animals in this cage aren’t dangerous. The food-mongers simply throw in food between the poles. They don’t worry about huge paws lashing out at them. Only the latticework cages, the ones that hold the wild cats, only those cages have the food windows. My insides shrink; I’m stuck here.

  An aardvark comes up. It nuzzles my foot. It’s the male; I can tell by his scent. Both of them smell like rotting fruit—which is strange, since that’s not what they eat, it’s just their natural odor—but the male smells stronger. I can’t see his claws in the dark, but I know how long they are, how strong and sharp. I’ve looked closely at them in daytime when he’s been asleep, curled on his side. He’s not a meat eater; nevertheless, his proximity makes me hold still. His elongated nose travels my leg from my ankle to my knee, snuffling along, as though he’s trying to inhale me up that snout.

  I’m sitting with my knees against my chest. I slowly pull back my torso to put as much distance as possible between my face and the aardvark’s. The animal’s nose still easily reaches me—it moves along my chest. I hold my breath. His nose prods a nipple. I spasm.

  The aardvark somersaults backward over his thick tail and waddles away.

  I pant in relief. And blink till my eyes stop burning.

  My chest is sensitive, crazy sensitive. Like just before my monthly blood comes. I don’t want it to come. Who knows how The Male might react? Somehow my body has been on my side; I haven’t bled since the rains started. I mustn’t bleed now. Not while I’m locked in this cage with no escape.

&nbs
p; My arms are stiff behind me. I straightened them when I leaned back to get away from the aardvark. They supported me. Now I relax them and fold over myself, and my hands splay out to each side, limp and tired like the rest of me. I feel exhausted again, though I slept on and off all day.

  I yawn and stretch my arms longer, so long that one goes right out past a pole into the corridor. What? There’s a rock outside our cage. It’s pressed up against the bottom of this pole. I reach my hands out on either side of the pole and grasp the rock and push. It won’t budge. I feel it all over. It’s large and heavy, and a good part of the bottom of it is lodged in an indentation in the floor. I dig my fingers around it and lever it upward. It takes so much strength and I’m in a bad position—with my arms extended like this, I can’t fully use the power of my shoulders—but finally it rolls over once, out of its gully. I feel along the floor. The poles here don’t go down into the floorboards. Instead they end in a crossways pole at the bottom. I crawl along. There’s another rock, just as large. And in its own gully again. I dig and push and finally manage to roll it away. Immediately the bottoms of the poles move slightly. As a unit.

  I press. The poles swing outward at the bottom till they bump against the rocks I rolled away. This is some kind of hanging door, hinged at the top. That’s how they got the animals inside. Nothing but the rocks keeps us in. Prickles go up my neck. I can really get out.

  If I dare.

  I check behind me. Nothing has changed in our cage. Queen sleeps in the circle of The Male’s arms. The duikers sleep head to tail, upright. The male stands on only three feet—he’s not yet using the leg that got injured when the rope nearly pulled him out the side hole. The aardvarks search through the duikers’ droppings, swiping up insects. I know all this even though I can’t see any of them, because that’s what they do. It’s night—and that’s what they do.

  I reach my arms out and shove the two rocks far enough to let the hanging door swing freely. I squeeze out the bottom. My pulse throbs in my head. I’m free—or at least out of the cage. I push the rocks back into their gullies.

  I stand and begin to walk the corridor. Then I stop. How will I know which cage is mine when I come back? It’s so dark. All right, I’ve taken only a few steps so far. All I need to do is count the poles. I’m good at counting. I reach inside our cage and grab a handful of straw. I walk along, touching pole after pole. After I’ve touched ten poles, I take a piece of the straw and stick it in my hair. It’s easy to keep track this way.

  Then I reach a break in the series of cages—the break where I know there’s a side hole that the men fish and fetch water from. Of course. All I have to do is count the breaks. When I’m returning, once I reach this break, I’ll know how many poles to go back to my cage. That’s so easy.

  But I still touch the poles as I go. They reassure me. Otherwise I feel like I’m floating through dark.

  I pad silently and listen. Sounds of sleep come from everywhere. But at least some of these cages have nocturnal animals. They go shush, shush, shush or click, click, click as they pace. Something hisses at me. I snatch my hand back from the pole I just touched.

  This ark is huge. I walk slowly, alert, ready to retreat. Finally I’m at the rear. I know because the cages are in front of me now, not to my right side. The bars are closer together here. Light comes through the row of holes along the rear wall. I make out the silhouettes of animals sleeping in mounds.

  It’s funny that I think of this as the rear. I sense no forward motion. We seem to bob at sea, going wherever the waves take us. Maybe the old man Noah doesn’t know much about seafaring.

  On the other hand, where is there to go? Even the mountain-top back home must be under water by now.

  We have no destination because there are no destinations.

  I drop to my knees at the thought.

  Two red glowing balls appear in front of me. Eyes. They stare. Screamer’s eyes glow in the dark too. This creature isn’t a kind of cat, though. She’s small; I could hold her easily. She grasps the pole with bare hands. Short fur covers the rest of her. Her round ears are tiny, even for her petite head. Black rings those big eyes, and I know from their gaze that she is intelligent. She’s sizing me up. She senses my sadness. She’s sad too. I’m overcome with pity for us both.

  I stand. Instantly the big-eyed one scurries hand over hand up the pole, out of reach. But the glowing red eyes never stray from me.

  I turn around and touch the poles as I go. I’ve learned nothing useful tonight. Disappointment makes my teeth clench. I walk faster and faster, then run. My fingers smack, smack, smack against the poles.

  Something moves behind me. I don’t dare slow enough to look back. A shiver shoots up my spine. I race. It flies past, then circles me. Screamer! I stop and lean forward, my hands on my knees, till I catch my breath. Screamer, Screamer, good old Screamer.

  I straighten up and take a deep breath and I smell it: fruit. The smell hangs in the air. So many smells mingle, but the fruit stands out.

  Whenever I put my face to our hole, I realize how cold the world is outside. It’s not just the effect of the rain; autumn has come. Early. The rain is icy. But inside the ark, we’re warm, even with nothing covering the holes. All these animals, so close together, all of them eating and sleeping and breathing, all of this makes heat. A humid heat that carries scents well. Too well sometimes.

  But now I’m glad of this heavy air, because there’s fruit in this cage I’m standing beside. Figs. There is no fruit better than figs.

  And I’m convinced now that no creatures on this deck wander outside their cages except Screamer and me. So I’m safe. I stand still in front of the cage and listen hard. For a long time.

  Nothing paces in there. I’m sure of that.

  And two creatures sleep. They have slow breaths. I try to breathe that slowly and I can’t. So they’re probably really big. But there are poles here, not latticework; whatever is in there can’t be that dangerous.

  I let my nose lead me. All right, I’m directly across from the figs now. My stomach contracts. If these two creatures were hungry, they would have eaten the fruit before they went to sleep. So I need it, and they don’t. They won’t suffer.

  I reach in an arm and feel around. I get flat on my stomach and sidle up against the poles so I can reach as far as possible. I know it’s there. It’s right there. It has to be.

  And the creatures are sleeping. If I can just slip in . . .

  I crawl along the edge of the cage now. Here’s a rock. And a second one. I roll them aside and crawl in.

  My hands find the figs fast. I stuff one in my mouth and slosh the slightly fermented mush around my tongue. Then I gather as many as I can in my arms.

  Screamer yowls from outside the cage. I know all his noises, of course. This yowl is eerie—terrified. I turn my head.

  A brown bear sways on unsteady feet. He woofs and flattens his ears.

  I drop the figs and back away toward the swinging door.

  The bear woofs again. He stretches his nose toward the figs.

  Don’t attack, bear. Please don’t attack.

  I press my back against the poles and wind up scrabbling out sideways, like a crab. I roll the rocks back into place. Tears leak out the corners of my eyes.

  The bear woofs again. I can’t believe these rocks could hold the door closed if he threw his weight against it. The food-mongers must be idiots.

  I turn and run.

  But where is our cage? I have no sense of how far I’ve gone now. I failed to notice breaks between cages. I put my hands in my hair and tug. I have to think straight. Help.

  Screamer disappears into a cage up ahead. Of course!

  CHAPTER TEN

  Day 28

  Queen chases The Male around our cage with her hand grasping his testicles. They race in circles in and around the stupefied duikers and the sleeping aardvarks, making high-pitched squeaky sounds.

  Sandals come clack, clack down the ladder. Clatter, cl
atter, clatter, crack! Ham lands at the bottom. He must have been carrying a bucket, because it rolls away on its side now. He stares at our cage. “What?”

  I’m under the straw in the back corner, but Screamer jumped from the shelter of my arms when Ham fell. The kit stands stock-still, looking at Ham. Queen and The Male don’t even falter, though. If anything, they race faster. I’d swear they were putting on a show for Ham’s sake. I’m so grateful; Ham doesn’t seem to notice Screamer at all.

  “Stop that!” shouts Ham. He scrambles to his feet and takes a few steps toward our cage, his jaw jutting out ahead of him, swaggering with those powerful shoulders. “Stop that, you godless creatures!”

  Queen and The Male stop, and good grief, they make faces at Ham. They jut their jaws forth, like him. But then they move their lips and tongues and foreheads in crazy ways. They turn in a circle and grimace the whole time, and it feels as though they are making fun of him. Is that possible? But it was only a brief pause; they’re running again.

  “Insolent!” Ham shakes his head. He runs up the ladder.

  I quick grab for Screamer and catch him by the tail. He screeches and claws at my arm. “Hide, you idiot!” He digs deeper till I have to let go. He races away, out of our cage. Stupid me. Let him be smart enough to stay out of sight. His raking raised a row of welts on the back of my forearm. I lick the blood.

  They come down the ladder one after the other, Ham and a woman and Shem and another woman.

  Queen and The Male stop. They sit on their haunches and watch the humans.

  “They’re not doing anything . . . strange,” says one of the women. She is thin in the face, but her lips are full, familiar. With a pang of loss, I think of Hurriya.

  “Go on,” says Ham, pointing at Queen. “Chase him. Let them see how you behave, you filthy things.”