Noah (6 page)

* * *

Despite their predicament, Naameh and the children were so exhausted that they soon fell into a deep sleep. They huddled together for warmth, like animals in a burrow. Ham and Japheth curled up next to their mother, while Shem slept with his back pressed
against Naameh’s and his arm stretched protectively around Ila. Noah remained awake for some time after the rest of his family had fallen asleep, but at last even he too succumbed to his tiredness. All the same, he slept lightly and fitfully, his mind too beset with anxieties to allow him to fully relax.

His dreams—of pursuit, of imprisonment—were so close to the surface that it took no more than the slightest of sounds to jolt him out of them. He was alert in a moment and looking around wildly, fearful of attack.

Then the sound came again and he relaxed a little. It was only the girl, Ila, moaning in her sleep. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a low rumble, interspersed with an occasional jagged spike of sound, which reminded him of heavy metal implements clashing against rock. He was puzzled for a moment, and then he realized that it was the sound of the Watchers conversing in their deep, gravelly voices—though the intermittent outbursts seemed to suggest that they were arguing. He listened hard, but could not make out any of the words.

Abandoning the attempt to eavesdrop, he turned his attention to Ila. The girl was soaked in sweat, shaking with fever in her sleep. Noah moved closer to her and knelt down on the ground, intending to use his scarf to gently dab away the sweat that beaded her cheeks and brow. Before he could do so, however, her eyes popped open and she stared at him in utter terror. Sensing that she was about to scream, Noah smiled and spoke gently.

“Shh, shh. It’s all right. You’re safe. Sleep now.”

Little by little, he saw the blaze of fear fade from her eyes. Her rigid muscles relaxed and she slumped
back, licking her dry lips. Noah gave her a little water from his pack, which she swallowed gratefully.

In a feeble rasp she said, “When I close my eyes I see soldiers… My papa…”

Noah was deeply moved by the little girl’s anguish and grief. He knew all too well what it was like to be an orphan of war. Settling himself down, cross-legged, beside her, he said, “When I was young I used to have terrible dreams. I would lie in bed, remembering how my own father met his end. But then I would sing myself a song that my father used to sing to me, and my memories of him would become lighter, and it would enable me to sleep. Would you like me to sing it to you?”

Ila gave the barest of nods. “It’s an old song,” Noah told her, “from many generations ago…”

He paused a moment and then, softly, he began to sing.

“The moon is high

The trees entwined

Your father waits for thee

To wrap you in his sheltering wings

And whisper you to sleep

To wrap you in his welcome arms

Until the night sky breaks

Your father is the healing wind

That whispers you to sleep

The words were simple but comforting, and seemed to weave a spell around Ila. Her eyes were fixed on Noah for a while, and then they began to
close drowsily, the tiniest hint of a smile playing about her lips. Noah continued to sing, repeating the same few verses over and over, until he was sure Ila had fallen into a peaceful sleep. Only then did he stir, turning his head—to see that Naameh, although she had not moved, was staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Noah whispered.

“You didn’t.” Her smile was beautiful, serene. “And even if you had it would have been in a good cause.”

Taking care not to wake Ham and Japheth, who were huddled beside her, she eased herself upright and crept over to join her husband beside the now-sleeping girl. Gently removing Shem’s protective arm from around Ila’s upper body, she lifted Ila’s bandages with delicate fingers and carefully examined the wound beneath.

“How is it?” Noah asked.

Naameh frowned. “Ugly and deep. I am afraid her womanhood is gone. She will never bear children. But the damage is contained. If she survives the fever, I think she will live.”

Noah looked around at the steep walls enclosing them. “If any of us do,” he said ruefully.

Suddenly he heard a thump behind him. He turned to see that a rock had fallen into the pit, and that the candle flame was flickering, as if the still, cool air had been displaced, pushed downward. Looking up he saw a vast, dark, shadowy shape clinging to the rocky walls, lowering itself ominously toward them. Though he knew it was a futile gesture, he gripped the handle of his knife as Og, the Watcher they had first encountered out in the black lands, set one foot
and then another on the floor of the pit, and turned to face them.

Og’s eyes were blacker than the darkness. The pitted surface of his body glittered as light caught the shards of crystal embedded in his craggy flesh. Although the Watchers were undoubtedly powerful, they also gave the impression of being somehow crippled by their environment, weighed down by the material plain in which they were forced to reside.

Instinctively Noah placed himself between Og and his family, fully prepared to die to protect them.

“Don’t—” he began, but Og surprised him by quickly raising one massive arm and putting a stubby finger to the black slash that served as his mouth.

“Shh,” he said. “Follow me.”

* * *

It was early dawn, the insipid sun peeking over a horizon still crushed beneath the weight of an angry purple sky. The black wasteland, steeped in shadow, seemed to stretch to infinity in all directions. Across this desolate landscape moved five figures—the largest, Og, at the head of the group, beckoning the others to hurry. Noah, carrying Ila, struggled to keep up, but he was still some way ahead of his two boys, and also of Naameh, who was burdened with Japheth.

Og came to a halt, glancing back impatiently. “We must hurry. Your absence will soon be discovered.”

He waited until the last of the straggling family had caught up to him, though Ham continued to hang back a little, wide-eyed, obviously still wary of the giant.

Og looked at him, and his voice dropped to a soft, almost gentle rumble. “I’m sorry I frightened
you,” he said. “Watchers have learned to fear men.”

“Why are you helping us?” Ham asked, half shyly, half defiantly.

Og paused a moment, considering his words.

“The Creator formed us on the second day, the day He made the heavens,” the Watcher said. “We stood by His side and watched all Creation flower. To us, everything He made was beautiful, but Man was the most beautiful of all.”

It was clear that the stirring of his old memories moved Og. He resumed his story, his booming voice strained with emotion.

“We watched over Adam and Eve. We saw their frailty and their love. And then we saw their fall. And we pitied them.”

He sighed deeply and shook his head.

“Samyaza was the greatest of us then. He loved mankind most of all, and he decided that we should come down to offer our aid and assistance.”

Noah, listening to the story along with the rest of his family, gasped. All at once he could
see
in his mind precisely what Og was telling him. The pictures that formed were so vivid it was as though the Watcher was sharing his memories. As clearly as if it was happening right in front of him, Noah saw the Watchers as they had once been. He saw them descend from the skies in their heavenly forms, creatures of pure, effulgent light that filled the heart with gladness and awe. Their descent was controlled at first—they drifted down through blackness, and then through the clouds that hung above the earth. And then, as they drew closer to the realm of Man, they picked up speed. They began to plummet, faster and faster, until they resembled fireballs hurtling toward the ground.

“It was not our place to interfere,” Og said, “yet we chose to try and help mankind. And when we disobeyed the Creator, He punished us.”

Noah saw the Watchers hit the ground, the impact so powerful, so devastating, that he cried out and jumped back. The Watchers smashed into the ground with such force that each of them created a vast crater, causing tons of earth to explode high into the air in all directions and a series of rippling shocks to expand outward, as if the very world was trembling in fear.

“We were encrusted by your world,” Og told them. “Rock and mud shackled our fiery glow. Still, we taught mankind all we knew of Creation.”

Noah saw the earth split open, and the Watchers emerge, born anew. But as Og had said, they were no longer creatures of light, with the ability to transcend the heavens. Now they were formed of rock and mud and lava—still powerful, but heavy, cumbersome, misshapen, weighed down by the earthly realm in which they had chosen to reside. Their glorious wings, outspread as they had descended magnificently from the heavens, had shriveled, compacted into limbs of rock. Their serene and beautiful faces had become crude, lumpy masks.

The images faded in Noah’s mind, and suddenly he was standing on the black, barren soil of the blasted plain once again, listening to Og’s words.

“But the Creator was right to exile mankind,” the Watcher was saying sadly. “We gave men magic and science. Knowledge of plants and stars, metals and fire. With our help they rose from the dust, became great and mighty. But then they turned our gifts to violence. We were hunted for the tzohar inside us.
Many of us were killed.” Og looked at Noah. “Only your grandfather helped protect us.”

In his mind’s eye Noah saw Methuselah, his grandfather, as a young man. A huge warrior, his armor glowing as if with unearthly fire, his red cloak flying in the wind. He saw Methuselah step forward, into the path of a charging horde of Watchers behind which, like a sea of insects pouring across the land, were thousands of screaming, pursuing men waving swords and clubs. He saw Methuselah stand his ground as the charging hordes of Watchers and their pursuers bore down on him. Then he saw the line of Watchers part down the middle and stream past Methuselah on both sides, as if he was an immovable object, like a vast tree with roots that stretched all the way down to the center of the earth.

And when the Watchers were behind him, when Methuselah was the only living creature that stood between them and their murderous pursuers, he unsheathed his sword. As he drew it from its scabbard, the blade first glowed with a pure white fire that dazzled the eyes, and then burst soundlessly into flame.

Methuselah raised the sword, as though to give the army a chance to stop, to turn, to give up their pursuit. But the army kept coming, and so, with no further hesitation. Methuselah gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands and drove it deep into the ground.

Immediately, as if he had used the blade to slash through the chain that secured the gates of Hell, a giant wall of fire leaped from the earth in front of him and swept across the ground like a tidal wave, devouring all that lay before it. The sand turned instantly to liquid black glass and the thousands upon thousands of men who had meant the Watchers
harm were incinerated in a split second, their flesh and bones crumbling to black ash, which fell to the ground and became one with the earth.

It was death on a massive scale, and although it was horrifying, Noah saw that it was cleansing, too, and therefore necessary.

Og’s words, however, were bitter.

“Those who lived remained prisoners in these stony shells, marooned upon this barren land. For eons we begged the Creator to take us home. But He was always silent.”

Og’s head bowed, his shoulders slumped, and he fell into silence. For a moment the family neither moved nor spoke. Then Ham walked forward and took the Watcher’s massive, rock-fingered hand in both of his own.

Slowly Og raised his head and looked at the small boy, who stared fearlessly up at him in return. Then Og did a remarkable thing. He smiled. With a grinding of rock, his dark slash of a mouth curved upward at the edges.

The huge Watcher leaned forward, gently picked Ham up and held him in the crook of his arm. When he turned, Noah saw that his black eyes were glistening.

“We should carry on,” Og said gruffly. “We still have a long way to go.”

T
he mountain seemed to deflect light, or perhaps to absorb it. When they first saw it creeping over the edge of the horizon, some time the next morning, it looked as if darkness was beginning to rise directly from the earth, making a renewed attempt not merely to blacken the sky, but obliterate it.

The closer they got the more the mountain seemed to loom over them, as if stretching forward to draw them in. Even so, it was a welcome sight, if only because it meant they had reached their destination and could set up camp and rest a while. Naameh wondered briefly where the next stage of their journey might take them, once Noah had spoken to his grandfather—assuming, of course, that Methuselah still lived, and that he was still resident, if the tales were to be believed, within his mountain cave.

As they trudged toward the base of the mountain, Og, still carrying Ham, turned his head to peer down
at Noah, who was walking by his side. It had been some hours since he had told his story, but he picked up the thread of his earlier words as if he had uttered them mere minutes before.

“It has been a long time since the Creator last spoke to us, and now you claim that you have heard His call,” the Watcher said. “Samyaza cannot accept this. A man? When it is men who broke the world?”

He stopped, and motioned for Noah to do the same, then turned and leaned forward to peer deep into Noah’s eyes.

“But I look at you and I see Adam again,” he said, his voice a soft rumble. “The man I knew. The man I came to help.”

Noah stared back at him. He knew that the Watcher’s words were more than a compliment. They were a profession of his utmost faith. Although almost overwhelmingly touched, Noah simply nodded, his expression unchanged.