Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Ham,” Rahab said, scandalized. “You can’t mean what you’re saying!”

  “Well—”

  “He would have to sleep with one of his granddaughters. And that’s outrageous. I can’t believe you would even think such a thing.”

  Ham muttered something about the awfulness of loneliness.

  “I understand that,” Rahab said. “But Noah is well over six hundred years old, almost six hundred and fifty. Why, the idea that a girl barely in her twenties should go to him as his wife—that’s preposterous.”

  “What about Methuselah?” Ham asked.

  “What about him?”

  “He was over nine hundred years old when he had a wife in her one hundreds.”

  “Yes, and I always thought that was… well, improper, at the very least. Didn’t you think so?”

  Ham shrugged. Even as a young man, he had never thought that. It had seemed to prove Methuselah’s virility, that here was a man to emulate.

  “But that isn’t even the point,” Rahab said. “The only available women are Noah’s granddaughters.”

  “You’re right,” Ham said. “But—”

  “How can you think up ideas like that, husband? Sometimes I simply don’t understand you.”

  “I said you’re right. Must you nag me about it now, too?”

  Rahab’s mouth firmed. She sat on a cushion and rubbed a deerskin stretched on a small, wooden frame.

  Ham sighed. “You’re not nagging me. I’m sorry I said that.”

  “Are you certain I’m not a nag? That’s the last thing in the world I want to do, nag my husband.”

  “Yes, I’m certain,” he said, rising, sitting down beside her and rubbing her shoulders.

  She relaxed into his strong fingers.

  He kissed her neck, patted her back and rose. “I need to stretch my legs.” He hurried from the tent before she could begin a new conversation.

  He peered at red clouds from a setting sun. He felt sorry for his father, all alone in his tent, with no woman to cook his meals or to sleep with. True, people often visited him, but that wasn’t the same as a wife. He cocked his head, then turned around and poked it into the tent.

  “I’m going to see Noah.”

  “This late in the day?” Rahab asked.

  “Don’t stay up for me.” He whistled for his favorite hound, grabbed his quarterstaff and hurried up the trail. He was used to his hip aching; that was simply a part of life. Ah, the foolishness of youth. Who but a young man would have been stupid enough to think he could defeat a giant?

  That got him thinking about this summer’s grape harvest. Noah had called them together to help harvest the thick clusters and then had great-grandchildren tread grapes thrown into a bin. The youths laughed, walking barefoot on purple fruit. The juices ran down a trough and into a vast brass pot. The juices in these pots Noah boiled until they turned into a jelly or thick syrup. This he stored in leather jugs, new wineskins, to prevent fermentation. Later, this syrup could be squeezed out of the bottles onto bread or dissolved in water to make a grape drink. This “wine” made a sweet drink, too sweet for Ham’s tastes. For one pot, however, Noah forewent boiling and had it poured directly into skins, and had stored those wineskins in one of his many sod root cellars. Ham wondered about those particular skins, curious to know if the fruit juice had already fermented. The idea left him breathless. He had almost forgotten what it was like being drunk—almost, but not entirely. It was one of the most wonderful feelings in the world. Tensions and pain vanished. He wondered why Jehovah frowned on drunkenness.

  Ham sighed, watching the stars appear, naming to himself the many constellations he had been taught as a boy. At least they hadn’t changed. They were still the same star clusters as in the Antediluvian Era: Orion, the Centaur, Virgo and the stars of Pleiades, Libra, Leo and Taurus the Bull. All together, they told the grand story of the coming Redeemer, how He would free mankind from the curse of sin and death. Up there in the stars, for all to see—Ham grinned, encouraged as always by them.

  In time, he came to Noah’s tent, the stars twinkling and the breeze cool. The tent stood alone among the sod root cellars. Each sod building brimmed with food and one in particular with skins full of grape juice. For just a moment, a flash of irritation filled Ham. Why couldn’t he plant vineyards and allow himself sips now and again of heady wine? Why had they all ganged up on him those many years ago and embarrassed him in the Ark, making him pour out all his carefully hoarded supply of heaven-on-earth?

  He snorted, shaking his head. He hadn’t come to argue, but to cheer Noah. He almost called out. Muted lantern-light flickered within the tent. Noah must be awake. Perhaps he read Old World scrolls, or maybe wrote a new one.

  Several hounds rose from where they lay and ambled to his hound, sniffing its butt. Strange creatures, dogs. Ham shrugged, trudged the last distance and softly knocked on the tent pole. Ham raised his knuckles to knock again… when he heard snoring.

  Did Noah sleep with a lantern burning? Hmm… he’d better put it out for his father.

  Ham drew back the flap. His eyes boggled. Noah lay sprawled on his couch, naked, his robe on the floor and an empty wineskin nearby. Ham stared in bewilderment. Then it dawned on him that Noah… Ham stepped in. His father said it was shameful to be seen naked. That a man and woman needed to keep clothed unless they were in bed together.

  Ham picked up the wineskin and sniffed the nozzle. It had been over forty years, but he knew the smell. He shook the skin and drank the remaining mouthful. The wine hit hard, bringing goosebumps to his arms. He felt the familiar and long-missed warmth of it going down.

  He peered at the loudly snoring Noah and inched closer. He leaned near and sniffed as his father blew out. Wine! Noah had been drinking!

  Ham stepped back, shocked. Noah was… Noah was drunk. He must have ingested lots of wine… thrown off his clothes so he could parade around in his tent naked drunk… and then he must have fallen in a drunken stupor and gone to sleep.

  A bark of laughter escaped Ham. This was too much. Noah. Drunk. All the shame and rage of over forty years ago flooded back into Ham. He remembered how his father had made him pour out every wineskin, leaving him with nothing to fight the horror of the Flood. Yet now, when Noah faced hardship—he’d searched out vines, planted them year after year and then salted away a root cellar full of fermenting wine. So this is what the mighty preacher had come to, eh? This man who had stood over him and kept him from enjoying what he had really wanted to do all these years. Now, when no one was watching, what did Noah do? He got drunk, naked drunk so he could parade around his tent in shame.

  Ham laughed again, in delight—and it seemed as if a vast weight lifted from his shoulders. As he peered at his father sprawled out in drunken slumber, he thought to himself that this changed everything. If Noah could get drunk… what would his brothers say if they could see this?

  Ham covered his mouth to stifle a caw of laughter. His brothers had to see this—well, Shem at least. He didn’t care what Japheth thought. One thing was certain. They would never believe him if he told them that Noah had been naked, stinking drunk. And maybe Noah would lie about it. If he got drunk here on his own, who knew what Noah was really capable of?

  Ham backed out of the tent. Then he turned and flew down the hill to tell Shem. Oh, he could hardly wait to see his reaction.

  4.

  Gasping, with stray giggles escaping him, Ham limped into Shem’s camp. He wiped sweat from his brow and zeroed in on the bonfire. Assur and Elam spoke together, along with several of their sons. To the side, Shem leaned against a wagon and talked with Japheth.

  Ham slowed, wondering if he should come back later. He didn’t want Japheth to know. Then he shrugged and decided to be magnanimous, for tonight to let bygones be bygones. Plus, short of breath, and with an aching hip, he didn’t want to travel anymore tonight. He grinned, envisioning many nights with a skin of wine to help ease the pain. Putting a hand over his mouth, forci
ng the grin away, he hurried to his brothers.

  Shem saw him first. Small Shem with his long, dark hair and his intense eyes, he fit the image of a patriarch with his long, brown robe and streaks of gray in his beard. He was almost one hundred and fifty years old, and, after Noah, was the most religious of them and knowledgeable about Jehovah. Japheth, too, had gray hairs, although one couldn’t tell. His bushy, blond beard hid it well. A tall man, only recently had his shoulders begun to stoop. Japheth had the clearest blue eyes in all humanity.

  “Ham,” said Shem. “What are you doing here?”

  “I caught you two conspiring,” Ham joked. “Admit it.”

  Japheth eyed him with distaste, with his lips pursed.

  Ham’s grin stretched wider, and his eyes, he imagined, must be merry and sparkling, if that was possible. “Could I speak privately with you two?”

  Japheth lifted his eyebrows.

  Shem waved at his sons and told them it was time to retire.

  Assur and Elam led the way from the bonfire. They didn’t ask why Shem ordered them off, they didn’t argue with their father. They simply obeyed the patriarch of their clan. Ham wished his sons listened half as well.

  As his children filed into the darkness, Shem said, “Is it about father?”

  “Indeed,” Ham said.

  “You’ve just seen him?” Japheth asked.

  “You noticed, I suppose, that I came down the mountain,” Ham said. “Not up, if I was coming from my tent.”

  Japheth blinked in that superior way of his, as if it pained him talking to his youngest brother. “Is father well?”

  Ham wanted to gush out his tale and to savor the moment. He couldn’t decide which was more important. Oh, this was delicious, a morsel of rarest vintage. Thinking of vintage caused him to giggle.

  Shem and Japheth traded glances.

  “Is father hurt?” Shem asked.

  “Even Ham would already have said so,” Japheth said.

  Not even Japheth’s arrogance could steal his joy. And it dawned on Ham that this was the moment he’d waited for his entire life. Since birth, he’d been the son of a religious zealot, a man burning for Jehovah. He’d never been able to live up to what his father was. What his father had been, he amended to himself.

  “My sons have retired,” said Shem.

  “You’re never going to guess what I just saw,” Ham said, laughter tingeing his voice.

  Once more, Shem and Japheth traded glances.

  “Noah’s drunk,” Ham said, no longer able to contain himself.

  Neither Japheth nor Shem looked shocked. They looked blank, as if unable to understand his words.

  “Not only that,” Ham said. “But he’s naked, buck naked, thrown everything off so he could parade around in his tent.”

  “What?” said Shem, outraged.

  Ham nodded vigorously. “He’s snoring on his couch, out cold from drinking himself into a stupor.”

  Anger thundered on Japheth’s brow. “You’d better be careful what you say, brother.”

  “Me?” Ham asked. “What are you talking about? Haven’t you heard what I just said?”

  “We heard,” Shem said. “And I agree with Japheth. It’s despicable.”

  “That father’s drunk?” Ham asked.

  “No!” Shem said. “That you would dare say such a thing.”

  “But it is true,” cried Ham. “Why do you think he searched for grapevines? I’ll tell you why. To make wine. To get drunk and to forget about mother.”

  “He’s a man of Jehovah,” Japheth hissed. “How dare you impugn him with your vicious slander. We’ve always known you don’t see eye-to-eye with father, but this is too much.”

  “If you don’t believe me, then go see for yourself,” Ham said.

  For a third time, Shem and Japheth traded glances.

  “It can’t be true,” Shem said.

  “Agreed,” Japheth said. “Except I don’t think that even Ham would lie about it.”

  “I’m getting a little tired of this even Ham talk,” Ham said.

  “It can’t be true,” whispered Shem.

  Japheth nodded as he studied Ham. “I think he’s telling the truth, as unbelievable as it sounds.”

  “What are we going to do?” Shem asked.

  “Do?” Ham asked. “It means we’re free.”

  “Free?” Shem asked, bewildered.

  “Noah can’t lord it over us anymore,” Ham said. “We can plant our own vineyards if we desire.”

  “Is that all you can think about?” Shem asked, disgusted. “You’ve shamed our father.”

  “Me?” Ham asked, finally getting angry. “I’m not the one who paraded around in his tent, drunk and naked, no doubt singing pretty ditties from Methuselah’s old compound.”

  Shem paled. “Father saved your life, brother. He obeyed Jehovah and saved all our lives from the wrath of Jehovah. You owe him everything. There would have been no Ark except for Noah.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “We must do something about this,” Japheth said, with calculation in his eyes.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Shem said. “Come. I know what we must do.” Without another word, Shem and Japheth hurried up the mountain.

  Ham watched them go as a bad knot formed in his gut. What was wrong with them? He turned away, staring at the crackling flames. “Is there something wrong with me?” he whispered. Then he, too, turned and headed into the night, going down the hill back to his own tent.

  5.

  Shem and Japheth stood under the stars and outside Noah’s tent. The lamp yet burned within, throwing shadows against the tent wall.

  “We can’t do what Ham did,” Japheth said. “We cannot, we must not look upon our father’s nakedness.”

  “Agreed,” Shem said. “There has been enough shame for one night.”

  “Nor do I think we should call out and wake father while he’s…” Japheth grew pale. “Can father truly be drunk?”

  Shem inched toward the tent. He placed his ear near the flap. “He’s snoring.”

  “Snoring doesn’t prove drunkenness.”

  “Granted. But it’s a heavy snoring.” Shem drew back. “Ham wouldn’t make up such a story, would he?”

  “Not when we could check for ourselves,” Japheth said.

  “And his reactions were very honest,” said Shem.

  “Revealing, is what you mean.”

  “Yes,” admitted Shem.

  “Then…”

  Shem glanced around, and he hurried to the nearby wagon. Japheth trailed after as Shem rummaged under the buckboard until he pulled out a blanket, the one Noah usually sat on when he rode the wagon. He held it up and explained to Japheth what they had to do.

  “What if we trip?” Japheth asked.

  Shem shook his head while shaking out the blanket and grasping one end. Japheth took the other. They edged backward into Noah’s tent, the blanket over their shoulders. Groping, feeling with their feet, they zeroed in on the loud snores. Never once looking back, they draped the blanket over Noah’s unseen nakedness.

  They glanced at one another and trembled. Shem pointed with his eyes at the hanging lantern. Japheth took it, while Shem bent down and scooped up the wineskin. They hurried outside.

  “What do we do now?” Japheth asked, with his blue eyes haunted.

  Shem wiped sweat off his brow. “Now, we see how it plays out.”

  Japheth glanced sidelong at his brother, hesitating before he said, “Maybe you should come back tomorrow and explain what happened. I’m not sure father would believe me.”

  Shem studied his brother before heaving a deep sigh and nodding.

  6.

  Late at night and after a tiring trek up and down the slopes, Ham limped into his clan clearing. In the moonlight, a gust rippled his tent, while nearby dogs busily sniffed the hound he’d brought back.

  Had he done the right thing? Should he have told his brothers about father? He made a face. His hip ached. Shem a
nd Japheth had been such… such conceited prigs. Ham scowled and limped into his tent, a single flame flickering from a stone oil-dish.

  Rahab, who knitted now that everyone else was asleep, turned and regarded him.

  He told her what had happened.

  She opened her mouth once, but closed it and said nothing. A strange brooding look altered her features.

  “Not you, too,” Ham said, louder than he’d intended.

  A child stirred and Rahab became withdrawn.

  Ham muttered a curse and stomped out. Didn’t anyone understand?

  He grinned as he thought about his boys. So, even though it was late, he woke Kush and Menes and had Canaan build a fire away from the tents. Put was out on a trek, so he would miss this delicious moment. There, in the dark, with a crackling fire blown big by the night wind, Ham lovingly detailed Noah’s drunkenness and the nudity.

  Kush’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened. Menes appeared thoughtful. Canaan, after sucking down a lung full of air, brayed laughter. Canaan whooped.

  “Naked?” Canaan shouted.

  Ham leered. This was his boy—the one after his own heart.

  “Stark naked?” shouted Canaan.

  “Yes.”

  “Because he was drunk?” Canaan howled.

  Ham nodded.

  Canaan threw back his head and howled with mockery.

  Kush, blinking, his wits returning, started chuckling.

  Menes grinned.

  “Naked!” roared Canaan, wiping away a tear. “Grandfather Noah likes to strut about in the nude.”

  Ham laughed.

  Kush and Menes laughed.

  Canaan wiped his eyes as more whooping sounds consumed him. “Look at me!” Canaan hopped and high-kicked around the fire. He grabbed the lower edge of his tunic and lifted it to his chest, exposing himself. “Look at me! I’m Noah!”

  The laughter grew. They seemed like hyenas, shrieking madness, until they gasped, slapping one another on the shoulders. Giggles ruled thereafter. Then, a sobered Kush wiped his forehead and stared at the flames.