Go aboard, you, you with your household, you and
all the animals.
The long languid rolling of the ark did less to unsettle his stomach than the
rapid lurching they’d endured during the worst of the storm. Then, as the sky
collapsed above them and waves lashed at them from both sides, it was all Japheth
could do to lie screaming on the floor without vomiting. This isn’t to say that
he hadn’t vomited (he had, over and again until he was empty and then continued
violently retching) or that all was calm, or that the rains had ceased, but
things were better now. He could stand upright – provided he remembered to
stand loose at the knees and the ankles, and he could eat a little food. Or
would eat a little food, if there were any to eat. The provisions that hadn’t
been lost during the storm and hadn’t spoiled, wet and rotted in the weeks
after, were carefully preserved for the animals. “We must ensure their
survival, son,” Father Noe had told him – his syllables slurred by the rocking
motion of the ship. (It had to be that, right? They’d brought no wine aboard,
had they?)
“But what of our survival?” Japheth had asked.
His father blanched green, burped a vile smelling belch, and moving his hand
lightly, waved the stench away, “the LORD
will provide. The Lord will…”
Japheth watched Father Noe stagger (unsteady feet because the ship rocked on
the waves, or because he was guttered on wine?) towards the avian compartment.
The cooing of the doves and the squawks of hawks and ospreys quieted as Noe
closed the door behind him.
“What has the LORD already provided for
us?” Japheth asked the wolves in the cages to his left. The wolves only snarled
and whimpered in response. They disliked the ship’s motion even more than
Japheth.
The dreams won’t cease until the rains stop falling. The rains won’t stop
falling until heaven’s cisterns are empty. Crows fly away but return, cackling
and cawing. Likewise the dreams. Let heaven disappear and let the rains desist,
so that the dreams will fade. The horses are saggy, plow worn nags. Couldn’t
Father Noe find a worthy, healthy representative of the species? And why the
flies, to buzz about the horse shit? And the maggots in the rotted meat? Why
are we set on preserving the future, father? Can you explain? What better world
will it be if we bring these pests into it with us?
The ark drifted in sun sparkled waters. The sky was empty, not a cloud
anywhere, 360° to the horizon, and if not for the water upon which they floated
the rain could have been a retreating memory. A fading dream. Fetid warm air
hung heavy below deck. No breeze. No circulation. Just the stench and squawk of
animals in close fitted cates. Shem shoveled the dung, down the trough, toward
the window, pushed it out over the side. It splashed into the water below. Shem
thought briefly about throwing himself over the edge as well. His splash would
be indistinguishable from the shit. And he could sink as quickly as the shit.
Could sink into the sink. Settle to the bottom. Just settle. Just…
Naamah, old Mother Noe, never went up on the deck, into the outer air. The
expanse of water terrified her. In the open infinitude she felt shrunken,
shrunk down into nothingness. She came up once, the day after the rain stopped,
took one look out and shrieked. She turned and tumbled back down the ladder and
refused to come up again. Not until the ark came to rest.
***
And he called his name Noe, saying, this same shall comfort us in our work and
in our toil, because of the ground that the LORD
hath cursed. But Noe found grace in the eyes of the LORD. And G-d spake unto Noe (why not us?). And Noe builded an
altar unto the LORD and a vineyard for himself. Was this what the angels taught
him-the art and way of healing? To make wine for our sorrow that we might
overcome the offspring of the Watchers? Did Uriel (the reflection, the
effulgence, the light like a molten god, like softened silver silk) come from
the presence of the One to demonstrate fermentation? As if we needed another
demonstration of rot and decay.
Canaan on the shore of the vast but receding lake squints, looking for the
opposite shore (for the apostate score). Was that smoke? Was that the sound of
drums? Music in the distance? The far-off calls to him but his mother and
grandmother refuse to let him go further than the thin woods at the edge of
Grandfather Noe’s vineyard. “Don’t wander!” they’d shout whenever he’d approach
the wild blasted woods. “Come close! Come back!”
One day, instead of foraging for firewood (nothing was dry enough to burn) he
wanders further than the field, into the wooden copse over the ridge. There he
discovers the putrefying corpse of one of the elder giants, grotesque in its
size and smell. It was drowned in the flood. Now its corpse lies rotting in a wretched
place under an unforgiving sun. Were those deformities the result of
decomposition or birth? Canaan pokes at it with a stick, prodding its bloated
belly–when, suddenly, it ruptures, belching foul gas and coagulated blood.
Bloat-flies swarm out of the open cavity, flying into Canaan’s face, into his
eyes, his nose, in his mouth. The smell is overpowering, worse than the hot,
fusty smell of the ark, worse than the noisome stench of the combination of
various animal manures, worse even than the mephitic exhalations of drunken Grandfather
Noe. Canaan spits and slaps at his face before tripping and falling backwards
He lands on a rotted log–crashing through the soggy bark, disturbing grubs and
worms and many-legged crustaceans in grey shells. Flailing and thrashing, the
boy runs back towards the ridge and the secure confines of the family plot at
the foot of the mountain.
Then sleep for his eyes, he dreams of Gilgamesh’s garden under the sea. Angels
of the deep and the monsters of sleep pursue him. He mounts the air like a
strong wind, and flies like strong eagles and leaves the inhabited world
behind; he escapes the great wasteland, the wilderness, the Desolation like a
bird. But the monster in his dreams buzzes and hums, thrumming fingers crawl
over his skin, lick his eyes as he sleeps. He feels the throb of his heart, the
pound of his pulse, the blood in his veins. Then the creeping fingers disappear
and the buzzing ceases. The silence is perfect but brief. His pulse slows,
returns to something like a normal rate. But sleeping within his dream is
another horror that will not be quieted. The roar of the rain and the screams
of the drowning wake him. Canaan starts and falls from his simple pallet to the
floor, slicked with reeking terror-sweat.
***
Few of the animals lingered, as the family had at the foot of the mountain, at
the edge of the retreating lake. Even those creatures that would have, in
antediluvian times, made their homes at the water’s edge in the shadow of the
mountain – herons, cranes, foxes, mink, deer – had scattered. Far. Without
hesitation. Freed from their cages and pens inside the floating zoo, they’d run
like escaped convicts. The shore was barren, the woods uninhabited, even the
waters of the lake were formless and void.
Grandfather Noe would not allow them to make tents
of goat skin. “The animalsh must be preserved,” he says, “else, why were we
shpared through the fl… through the flood?” The family showed him how rapidly
the goats had reproduced after their disembarkment from the ark, but
Grandfather Noe was adamant. They would build their rickety shelters from the
rotted trees and fallen branches gathered around the lake, from mud and from
stone, but not with the shedding of animal blood.
“Why must we stay here, Father?”
“No more questions, Canaan.”
“Why?”
“No NO.”
Through the woods, over the ridge, past the bleached bones of the giant, Canaan
follows a magnificent bird-a low flying pelican in the wilderness, leading him
further and further on. He packed a bag with food and a bedroll and left the
family. Left Grandfather Noe’s vines. Now he leaves, steps out into the unknown
and unpredictable world. He leaves Grandfather Noe snoring in his drunken
stupor, sleeping naked in the shade of his grape arbors
And after a time he begins to find proof of life. Canaan finds animal tracks,
paw prints and scat-the first he’s ever seen. He sees bird nests and bee hives,
fox dens and snake holes. The world is alive, fully, really, living, breathing,
dying, living. The grass is eaten by the rabbit. The rabbit is taken by a
snake. The snake by a hawk. And when the pinnacle hawk dies it, too, is eaten
by vultures, by fungus, and by bacteria too small for Canaan to see. But he
knows that they’re there.
Then he discovers something wonderful and frightening. Something more than the
hoof print of deer or paw prints of rock-badgers. Canaan sees a human foot
print in the dirt – five toed and round heeled, arched. Perfect in every
aspect. Perfect because it was recognizable. Perfect because it was like is own
– but it is not his own. It is smaller than his.
He stops and stares at that print for the rest of
the day, considering what it means, and what he should do. ‘Do I go home with
the news that we are not alone,’ he blinks, once, twice, and again, as he works
through his options. ‘Do I track the person who left this print, follow them to
their home?’ The sun slides down and he still hasn’t thought of an answer.
‘The sorrows of death encompass me, and the floods
of ungodly men make me afraid,’ he thinks. ‘But what men are these? There are
no others, no people but Grandfather Noe and timid, sleeping grandmother, my
calloused uncles – Shem and Japheth, laboring in the sun, my skulking father,
Ham, their wives, my brothers, my sisters, my cousins. Ungodly men, maybe, but
this is no flood. Why then am I afraid? Why am I afraid of a single lonely
footprint in the dirt? With the blast of His nostrils the waters were gathered
together, the floods stood upright as a heap, and the depths were congealed in
the heart of the sea, but here I am alone and not alone.’
Canaan follows the prints, scrabbling in the dirt, up the hill toward the
highlands. The path leads over rocks and stones, disturbing moss and lichens,
through fields bending stems, past trees breaking small branches. Canaan
follows where the impossible prints lead.
Grandfather Noe said the waters covered everything, waters smothered everything
and everyone. Every living creature under the sun. Every father, mother,
daughter, son under the moon. The rains came down and the waters of the deep
broke loose and flooded the entire world. There should be no prints here. There
could be no prints here. It is impossible. But here the print in the dirt was
scuffed, as if the one who left it were skipping. Skipping? Who could be
skipping through this field? Grandfather Noe said everyone but the family had
been killed.
He hears something ahead, laughter, but not laughter like the taunting, teasing
laughter of his sisters and cousins; this is a bright musical laughter,
sparkling. And he hears singing. But he doesn’t recognize the song or its
melody. It’s not one sung by his sisters and cousins or his mother and
grandmother. Come to think of it, he’s never heard his grandmother sing. She
rarely speaks and never sings. This song is charming and sweet even in its
melancholy.
He listens to the voice and the song:
The goat and flower,
the bee and the fish,
the sky above and
a lonely maiden.
Wind over mountains,
rain in the forest,
and the sky above
the lonely maiden.
The bird flies away,
the deer will startle;
everyone will leave
the lonely maiden.
Canaan sees her–sitting on a stone watching a flock of goats. She braids
lengths of flowers into her hair as she sings. “Don’t stop.” Canaan speaks. The
girl startles and turns toward whim with a small blade in her hand. Canaan
raises his empty hands and stands motionless. He is not a threat. “Don’t stop,
please. It’s such a strange song.”
She smiles a pleasant toothy grin, “It is my song,” she says.
“Did you learn it from your mother? My
mother sings sometimes. But not like this. My mother sings dirges.”
“No.” she says. “It is my song. Not my mother’s.”
***
“We saw the flood,” she says to the boy. “We saw the waters. But we went
further up the mountain with our goats to escape. The rains made a mess of our
village and our homes. My cousin’s house slid down the side of the mountain
when the dirt beneath it washed away. When the rains stopped we came back down,
cleaned the mud and the mold from the walls, repaired the roofs that had
collapsed, rebuilt the goat pens. We started over. But not everyone in the
village survived. Old Lazal and his wife died during the climb; they fell into
the water below. Monal was crushed by boulders in the mudslide. Several others
drowned. And we’ve heard the same from other villages and tribes as well.”
“But Grandfather Noe said the waters covered everything, that it killed
everyone, to pour out G-d’s fury on the wickedness of the world.”
“The what?”
“The sons of G-d, angels, apostate angels knew the secrets of the Templars and
their sin was great in the Earth and they taught men how to sin and to do
wicked things. And they killed many, and they begat giants. So G-d regretted
ever having made humans.”
“Seems to me that humans didn’t need angels to teach them cruelty. I’ve never
even seen an angel or any of the Nephilim and my cousin Leannet was beaten to
death by a man from our village when she refused to marry him. ”
“But how could she refuse?” Canaan stops
mid-sentence, his eyes wide. “It doesn’t matter. The flood was G-d’s wrath. It
covered everything. It killed everyone.” Canaan’s voice grows louder and higher
pitched with each word.
“The flood didn’t kill you…,” the girl says gently.
“Because Noe found favor with Yah. And our family was spared, told to build a
vessel to escape, and to preserve animals. But he told us everything else,
everyone else was gone. You shouldn’t be here! You should have drowned with
everyone else!”
She points, “Look there. You can see the
shipwrecked hulls of our fishing-boats. But your family was safe inside a
vessel built to withstand the storm. You were warned. Did you rescue anyone?
Did you save anyone else?”
“No.”
“Did you try?”
“No. The LORD told Noe it was for us. The
rest were too wicked, their violence too bloody.”
“But you liked my song.”
“A song is not enough.” A silence grew between them as deep and as daunting as
the flood.
“I have to take the goats home soon...,” she says but Canaan does not respond;
he is still staring and the broken ships on the rocks. “I have to take the
goats home now. Will I see you again?”
Canaan looks up. “Sing for me once more before you go.”
“I should sing?” the girl asks, “I should sing my song for you, a song that not
even my mother has heard, I should sing my song for you who would have me
drowned?”
“Please?”
“No. I must take the goats home now.” She stands and begins calling the
animals, counting them.
“Don’t go,” Canaan pleads with her. “Don’t leave me.”
“Why don’t you come with me?” She invites him with her words and with her eyes.
“To your family? But they’re… they’re…”
“Wicked?” she finishes for him. “Then stay here, or go back to your blessed,
drunken Grandfather Noe.”
“I can’t go back there,” he shrieks. The girl sighs. “Stay, just a little
longer. Stay and sing, please.”
“I can’t,” she begins to lead the goats away.
Canaan grabs up a stone from the ground, raises it over his head and crashes it
down upon her skull. A flood of blood sprays up from the wound, spattering him
across the face, a violent red rain. Again and again he brings the stone down
on her head until she is dead.
“You shouldn’t be here! You shouldn’t be here! You shouldn’t be here! You
should have drowned!”
***
When Canaan finally looks up from the bloodied corpse beneath him, already
cooling, blood forming thick dark mud in the dust, the goats have scattered. He
hears their bleating far off down the mountain somewhere. He drops the stone,
tries to wipe some of the blood from his face, but only smears it around his
eyes in gruesome streaks.
He flees back down the hill, toward the dark valley, towards the empty woods
and the lifeless lake, back toward Grandfather Noe’s vineyard. “We’re not alone.
There are others,” he shouts as he runs back to the cluster of family shacks.
“Others. There are others on the mountain. The flood didn’t get them all.”
The family gathers around him, asking questions: “What are you talking about?
Where did you go? Why did you leave?” His mother grasps him with both arms,
“You are bleeding son; what happened?”
“It’s not my blood, mother. It’s hers, a girl. One of the others.”
“This is her blood?” asks his father, Ham.
“Ye…ye…yes,” he stammers, out of breath and afraid. “I killed her, but … she
should have drowned, right? That’s what Grandfather Noe said. She should have
been killed in the flood. She shouldn’t have been there.”
“You killed her,” Ham says again, less a question this time.
“Yes.”
“Then they will be coming, blood for blood, life for life. That is the way of
it. They will be coming. Fear and dread are upon us. We are the horror of the
earth.”
Then Noe cursed his son, “Cursed be Canaan; he will be the lowest of slaves to
his brothers.”
The weeping eye of heaven is watching.
