Storm

by Donna Jo Napoli

“ ‘Get away.’ ”

  “She told you to get away?” says Nela. “In real words, just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you imagined them,” says Nela.

  “I didn’t!”

  “Maybe you did. Because I am betting that she couldn’t talk.”

  “Who couldn’t talk?” asks Ham.

  “The bonobo.”

  “What!”

  I curl into the smallest ball I can form and squeeze my hands between my knees. Don’t let them come inspect this cage. Please, please.

  “I don’t see any other explanation,” says Nela. “Shem says the cage was unlocked. And a bonobo could fit in my shift.”

  “How could a bonobo have gotten hold of your shift in the first place?” asks Ham.

  Nela’s hand is on her cheek again. “You’re right,” she says slowly. “And a bonobo would have no reason to put on a shift. You’re right, you’re right. I’m letting my imagination carry me away.”

  “It’s the ark,” Leba says as a pronouncement.

  “What?” says Shem.

  “Japheth swore he saw giraffes gallop past. He swore a lion clawed his ankle. But none of that happened. Japheth’s mind is addled. Now you two swear you saw Nela when it couldn’t have been her. We don’t think straight anymore.” She looks at Shem. “It is only because we don’t think straight—none of us—that I will try to forgive you for being alone with this phantom that you thought was Nela. Your mind is addled too.” She turns and goes up the ladder.

  Nela looks down, then hurries after Leba.

  “You heard her talk too, Ham.” Shem crosses his arms at the chest. “You heard her last words—you heard her say, ‘Get away. Go.’ I know, because you repeated it. You should have said something now. You should have backed me up!”

  “Do you think we were fooled by someone?” says Ham.

  “I don’t know. But you unlocked the lion cage. Don’t deny it. You already gave yourself away.” Shem points in Ham’s face—a trick he clearly learned from his father. “And you aren’t denying it! I really didn’t know for sure till just now—but your silence confirmed it. I bet you wanted both Nela and me to die. Both of us!”

  “Maybe I unlocked the lion cage,” says Ham slowly. “Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I heard someone speak and maybe I didn’t. Maybe none of it happened. Maybe Leba is right and we’re all sick.”

  “I don’t believe you think that. I believe you’re as confused as I am. We both know there was someone here last night. It wasn’t Nela, but it was someone.”

  “You can’t know what I think.”

  “Maybe not. But I do know what you’re capable of. Don’t for a moment think I’m addled. If you ever cross me again,” says Shem, “I’ll tell Nela about the lions. Don’t count on her even trying to forgive you for that, no matter whether she believes we’re all sick or not. You’ll be without a wife for the rest of your life.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Days 41–78

  Rise and shine!”

  I wake with a start. Last night I didn’t wander. Yesterday made me too sad. So I slept the night away. I thought Ham and Shem and Nela would all be sad too. But here’s Ham, coming down that ladder clack, clack, clack, shoulders back, a smile gleaming through his beard, his long curls flopping. I’m stunned. I’ve never seen any of them smile before.

  Shem comes down behind him. “Soon, you dumb beasts. Soon, soon, soon!” His face is aglow too. His eyes twinkle.

  Oh! I can see them well! I can see every detail of their faces! Light comes from somewhere! I wait till the brothers are each at different ends of the ark and I sit up quickly, twisting to see the porthole. Sunlight streams in! Sun! After all this time, sun again! Blessed, blessed sun. I jump to my feet.

  But then I fall back down again fast. We’re still in the middle of the sea. I can’t let them know I’m here until we are docked somewhere. Then I can exit through the porthole and run away on the land and never get in a boat again. Never ever.

  It won’t be long. That’s what Shem meant: soon, soon, soon. I squeeze one hand in the other in happiness. I have almost survived this.

  Ham and Shem seem to stroll through their chores. They don’t sing out loud, but I imagine them singing inside their heads. There’s a bounce in their walk.

  Leba and Ada and Nela clatter down the ladder. “Ham! Shem! Come! Help!”

  Ham and Shem clomp quickly across the floor. Eager. This may be the first time I’ve seen any of them act eager, too.

  “What is it?” says Ham.

  “Your father.” Ada looks at Nela. “You tell Ham.”

  Nela shakes her head. “You.”

  “So that’s what it’s come to, huh? You and your husband aren’t even on speaking terms?” Ada snorts.

  “What about our father?” says Shem. “We were just with him moments ago. He was fine. Has something happened?”

  “No,” says Nela. “Your father is fine.” She turns to Ada. “Ada, please.” She pulls on her fingers. “We came down here with a purpose. Don’t get us sidetracked. My problems with Ham don’t concern you.”

  “All right.” Ada looks from Ham to Shem. “Listen. The sun is out. After forty days and forty nights, the sun is finally out.”

  “We’re not blind,” says Shem.

  “Don’t be rude,” says Leba.

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” says Shem. “I’m your husband.”

  “Enough, all of you,” says Ada. “Indeed, Shem, you two are not blind. Nor are Noah and Japheth. And that’s because you’re working here, on this sunny deck, where there are portholes open to the outside, and Noah and Japheth work on the deck below, which is also sunny today, with so many portholes. But we work on the top deck.”

  “Which has windows,” says Ham.

  “Windows, yes. With shutters. And Noah, your father, will not allow us to open them.”

  “What?” says Shem.

  “That makes no sense,” says Ham. “Father welcomes the sunlight. We all do.”

  “He has some idiotic idea that we’ve got to keep the shutters closed until we’re nearly ready to get out of the ark.”

  “We can get out of the ark now,” says Shem.

  “And do what? Swim away?” says Nela. “To where?”

  “I don’t like your attitude, Nela,” says Shem.

  “Her attitude is fine,” says Ham. “It’s not your business to correct my wife. Besides, she’s right.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean we could get out today,” says Shem. “I meant, we’ll be able to get out soon.”

  “Not according to Noah,” says Ada. “He says we must stay another eleven months on this ark.”

  “Eleven months!” shouts Ham. “That’s ridiculous!”

  I chew on the fat pad of my palm. I can’t survive another eleven months of this.

  “Did he say why?” asks Shem.

  “Does your father ever answer why?” asks Ada.

  “You shouldn’t speak of him disrespectfully,” says Shem.

  “You’re always talking about respect,” says Ham. “But only the Mighty Creator knows what disrespect you might have paid me.”

  “Can’t you two stop it?” Leba clasps her hands in front of her chest.

  “I didn’t speak disrespectfully anyway,” says Ada. “I simply asked a question. Would either of you brothers like to answer it?” She looks at them sternly and waits. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Noah’s right not to open the windows yet,” says Nela slowly. “I just realized. All the birds are on our deck. If he opens the windows, they’ll fly off—and if they don’t find dry land and they can’t get back to the ark, they’ll die.”

  Ada looks at her. “You can’t seriously want us to stay in the dark because of birds. Not for eleven more months, Nela.”

  “Well, I for one won’t put up with this cursed ark for another eleven months. As soon as I see land outside, I’m getting off,” Ham says. He looks at Nela. “With or without the r
est of you.”

  “I don’t care what you do when you see land,” says Ada. “I care about sunlight. Now.” She looks at Nela defiantly, then back to the brothers. “The shutters on the windows have to open.”

  “Why come to us?” says Shem. “Japheth’s your husband.”

  “Japheth is with Noah right now. Japheth is always with Noah. They’re on the bottom deck. Possibly basking by a porthole. Noah simply forbade us to open the shutters, and he marched off down the stupid ladder with Japheth at his heels.”

  “He’ll be working all morning,” says Ham. “He won’t know what you do in his absence.”

  “Have you forgotten about your mother?” says Ada.

  “Oh, come on,” says Ham. “Mother loves sunshine. She raises her fat face to it and smiles like an imbecile.”

  “Mother Emzara is not an imbecile,” says Leba in a clipped tone. “She is a loyal, obedient wife.”

  “Mother doesn’t always obey Father,” says Ham.

  “She does when Puzur is around,” says Ada.

  “And Puzur never leaves the top deck,” says Leba.

  “Puzur Amurri,” says Ada with disdain. “It feels like his job is to keep watch on us women all the time. He’s practically become one of us. He’s beside us in all our chores.”

  “Puzur was brought on board to steer the ark after the rains subsided,” says Ham. “And that’s your answer! Puzur will have to open the windows. He’ll have to see out in order to steer.”

  “Noah says no one is steering anywhere for eleven months,” says Ada. “He claims it will take that long for the waters to subside enough to see even the topmost peaks of the highest mountains.”

  “And just how does he know that?” asks Ham.

  Ada glares at him.

  “Please, Shem. As my husband. Please, Ham. As my brother-in-law.” Leba talks softly now. “Please talk to Noah.”

  “He won’t listen to us,” says Ham. “The only one he listens to is Japheth. And I bet even Japheth can’t fix this. Once Father’s made up his mind, it’s too late.”

  Nela walks up to him. “If no one thinks they can persuade Noah”—she steps closer to Ham—“then would it be all right, husband, if we found our own solution?”

  Ham’s brow wrinkles. “What solution?”

  Leba leans toward Nela. “Yes, what?”

  “We can tell Mother Emzara you men need more help, so she’ll let us take turns coming down. Then we can stand by a porthole and soak up the sun. We don’t need the shutters open up top if we can get sunlight down here. Would that be all right?”

  “You’re a clever one, Nela. Maybe too clever.” Ham looks at her a long while. “But all right. I wouldn’t stop you.”

  And so it starts. That day and the next Ham and Shem feed us, water us, and clean out our waste. And the three wives come down the ladder at intervals and stand by a porthole, simply basking. The animals bask too—those that can reach a patch of sunlight within their cage. Queen and The Male often climb onto the lip of our porthole and just sit there, looking out, even though the air is still frigid. Other animals poke out their heads.

  But then, ironically, it turns out that the women are needed to help on this deck and on the one below, as well—so they’re not lying to Mother Emzara, after all. Delivering water becomes the biggest chore, a gigantic chore. Once the rains stopped, the buckets didn’t fill on their own. And seawater can’t be drunk. Even with all that rain, the sea is salty still. So the women pass the entire day on water duty. They tend fires on the top deck, boil seawater, collect the sweet water condensation in buckets, and trudge it down the ladders to the lower decks.

  They don’t complain, though. Or not much. Each time they carry down a bucket, they stand awhile in front of a porthole. It seems they’ll never get their fill of sunshine.

  Mother Emzara helps with the water too. After about a month of carrying that water and then dutifully rushing back up the ladder to fetch another bucket, she finally succumbed to the seduction of sunshine. And in a most sensual way. She dropped her cloak on the floor and stood there in her shift, bare-armed. Then she lifted the shift so that her pale legs showed. She’s done that every day since. She says nothing to her sons as they move around her in their chores. Her skin has changed from its washed-out color to something deeper again, healthier. All the women look different since the sun came out thirty-seven days ago—that’s how long it’s been, exactly how long; I can keep track now that there’s such a clear difference between day and night.

  I smile at the change in the women’s skin. Noah, however, never seems to notice. I can see how it wouldn’t be in his best interest to. These people are learning, slowly and painfully, perhaps, but inexorably, what to notice and what to ignore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Night 78

  Shem comes down the ladder, carrying an ax. I’ve been expecting him.

  Everything changed after Ham and Shem caught me in Nela’s shift that night. The next day they fought, and Nela denied everything. That wasn’t the end of it, though; the mystery of who the brothers had talked to in the dark goes on haunting them. Relentlessly. Right after all that terrible confusion and treachery, the sun came out and a new daily routine was formed. But just as the day came to have its new routine, so did the night.

  And this is the first part of the routine: Shem. He goes from cage to cage, checking the rocks to make sure the swinging doors are locked. Then he stands in front of our cage and watches Queen and The Male. They immediately oblige with a sex show. Like usual.

  “Is that all you do?” Shem asks lightly. “Come on, tell me. Tell me about the other things. About how you get out of your cage and parade up and down the deck. Tell me.” I think he might actually be daft enough to harbor at least a tiny suspicion that they really can talk. But now he laughs, and I’m pretty sure he’s laughing at himself. So maybe he knows it’s nonsense. He leaves in a good mood. It’s as though he’s happy that he hasn’t learned anything from his inspection of the deck. Perhaps he fears whatever truth lies behind the mystery of Nela’s shift.

  Soon enough Ham comes down. Tonight he has an awl in one hand and a hammer in the other. Sometimes he carries an ax, but not now. My whole self goes heavy at the sight of him. Ham is the most unhappy man I’ve ever seen. He walks up and down the deck tonight, talking to himself. He does that every night. And he talks loud enough that I can catch most of it. So I know that he questioned Ada about Nela’s whereabouts that night. Ada backed Nela up, of course, and went further to say that Nela’s shift had disappeared before then. He was surprised by that—and convinced. So he questioned Mother Emzara—he questioned his own mother about what she had done that night. That led to no satisfaction either. He’s such an idiot.

  “Death!” he shouts now as he spins on a heel and shoves his face against two cage poles. The wolf inside howls. I don’t flinch; I’m onto his tricks. Ham tries shouting like that in order to out the ghostly shift-wearer. A single word. Or an animal noise—a growl, a roar. Then he’s silent. Sometimes he throws something into a cage. He’ll pull a wad of rotted fish from his pouch and sling it hard between the poles. Now and then he hits an animal and a squeal of pain or alarm sounds. But it’s a random method of attack. It’s like shooting an arrow blindly into the air, hoping to bring down a bird.

  Fruitless. Absurd. But he won’t give up. He’s determined to solve the mystery.

  He blows between his lips at the baffled wolf and walks back toward our cage. And he stops in front. “She doesn’t love me.” His voice breaks on the words. I’ve never heard him say this before. I watch him through the straw. He’s hollow-eyed, gaunt. “How could she?” he says. “How could anyone?” He leaves.

  I don’t like Ham. I don’t trust him. But pity washes over me all the same.

  I wait, hugging myself and rocking side to side just a little. Ham’s misery has pierced me.

  Now Nela sneaks down the ladder on bare feet. This is the third and final part of the nightly r
outine. The mystery of the shift drives all of them to act batty. But Nela is the closest to understanding, for she doesn’t walk the whole deck. She comes only to our cage. She knows the answer lies here. Once she even took away the rocks and put both hands on the poles, readying herself to lift the swinging door and enter. But The Male came dancing up to her so boldly, she quickly stopped. The Male can be counted on for certain things. He makes me smile.

  But Nela makes me cry. Because she cries. Right now she pads over to us and simply sits on the floor and sobs. Sometimes she bares her teeth and presses on them, as though they ache. Sometimes she mutters so softly I can’t catch the words. Tonight there is nothing but weeping. I put my fingers in my ears to block the noise, but I don’t close my eyes. At some point she may take action, and I have to be ready. I can’t anticipate what action because none of them seem completely rational—so I lie here anxious, blinking hard.

  Gradually the sobs subside. Nela holds the hem of her dress up in front of her face. Ah, I recognize this. She’s done this several times now. She picks out an end of yarn, pulls on it just a little, then cuts it off with her teeth. She chews it and swallows it. Nela is slowly eating her dress, that fancy dress, as Ham called it. This makes her seem the least rational of them all.

  I clench my teeth. I should reveal myself. Every night it takes more effort not to. That would at least stop part of her torment—she’d know where her shift had gone. I feel in another life—a different world from this one—we could have been friends. But even if we somehow managed to befriend each other now, here, it would only make other problems for her. Keeping secrets would drive a wedge deeper between her and the others on the ark. And it’s hard to keep secrets; it’s easy to slip up.

  Besides, she might not feel about me like I feel about her.

  I clench my teeth harder and will myself to just stay still, stay silent.

  Finally she stands and goes back up the ladder.

  I am on my feet already. There is no reason to delay—because none of them ever come back twice in a night.

  The humans aren’t the only ones suffering. The animals are tortured by life on the ark. They didn’t choose it. They have no notion of why they are here. The Mighty Creator might talk to Noah, but he doesn’t talk to them. They are confused and weary, and many of them are sick. You don’t bite your own foot if you’re healthy. You don’t end a roar in a cough if you’re strong. There’s no evidence yet that the sea’s receding. I look out our porthole as often as I can, searching. Not one speck of land. No, their torment will continue.