Noah (7 page)

“Thank you,” he said.

* * *

They spent an hour setting up camp, Noah, Shem, and Ham quickly and expertly pitching the tents, while Naameh unpacked their belongings and fed Japheth. As soon as the first of the tents was ready, Noah picked up Ila, carried her inside and laid her gently on a bedroll so that Naameh could tend to her and change her bloodstained bandages.

Og, meanwhile, created a fire pit, scooping out great mounds of hard-packed dirt with one of his hands, while using two of his others to fill it with stones carefully selected to absorb and retain the heat. When it was ready he called Ham over and held
up a small whitish-yellow stone that seemed to glow with its own inner light.

“You know what this is?”

Ham nodded. “Tzohar.”

“That’s right. Do you know how to make fire with it?”

Ham nodded again.

“Clever boy,” said Og. “Would you like to make fire now?”

Ham glanced over at Noah, who nodded his permission. Puffing his chest out a little at being trusted with such an important task, Ham stepped forward and took the piece of tzohar from Og’s hand. Holding it as though it was a delicate egg, he scanned the ground until he had found two flat rocks, and then he carried the rocks across to the fire pit. With Og looking on, Ham knelt down, placed the tzohar carefully on the flat surface of one of the rocks, and then pressed the other rock down on top of it. With a quick, deft movement, he ground the two rocks together with the tzohar between them, and tossed the whole lot into the pit.

There was a white flash and the tzohar ignited, an almost liquid-like fire spreading over the rocks, flames leaping high. Within seconds the rocks were glowing white-hot and the fire pit was pulsing with warmth. Og squatted beside it and with no hesitation at all Ham clambered on to his knee. After a moment Shem joined them by the edge of the pit, and a few moments later, after she had finished tending to Ila, so did Naameh, a contented and well-fed Japheth in her arms.

The group ate breakfast together, though Noah spent most of the time staring pensively up at the mountain. When they were done he and Shem stood up. Ham slid from Og’s knee and stood up as well.

“Why can’t I come too?” he asked.

Noah beckoned Ham over to the tent so he could talk to him in private. Kneeling in front of him, he said, “I need you to look after Mother. It’s a very important job. Will you do it for me?”

Ham sighed. He wasn’t so gullible that he didn’t know when he was being put off—but he nodded.

“Thank you,” Noah said.

The day was so still that even though Noah had spoken quietly, his voice had carried over to those sitting around the fire. Naameh sidled up to Shem and leaned across as if to plant a kiss on his cheek. Instead of doing so, however, she whispered, “And I need you to look after your father.”

Shem smiled and nodded, and she tapped him playfully on the nose.

Meanwhile Noah indicated with his eyes that he wanted to speak to Og. The Watcher rose from his place beside the fire and ambled across to where the man was standing.

“Take care of my family while I am gone,” Noah said quietly.

Og spread all six of his arms wide. “Don’t worry. They are in good hands.”

Noah’s face broke into a rare smile. He thanked Og, and then, without another word, he gestured to Shem and the two of them turned and began to head up the mountain.

* * *

For a while they followed a mountain path that wound through jagged rocks, some as large as houses. Eventually the path petered out as the going became steeper and more treacherous, whereupon Noah and
Shem began to climb. They did so with practiced ease, their hands and feet instinctively finding purchase as they scrambled up and over rocks like a pair of lizards. They had been climbing for maybe an hour until they came to a wide, flat ledge. They pulled themselves up on to it, one after the other, then turned and looked back down the mountain to assess their progress so far.

The camp was far below them, the tents like brown stones, a lighter shade than the surrounding landscape. They saw Og, illuminated by the white-hot glow of the fire, sitting and contemplating the flames, Naameh and Ham flanking him like chicks gathered in the protective aura of a mother hen. Noah felt a pang of love and gratitude toward his wife and children, for believing in him and following him without question, but he also felt guilty for putting their lives in peril. He consoled himself with the thought that nowhere was safe anymore, that a little extra danger was worth the risk if it meant living in a better world.

Of course, how that goal would be achieved he had no idea. His hope was that Methuselah would be able to set them on the right path.

While Shem sat, resting his legs for a few minutes, Noah remained standing, his gaze shifting to the horizon, beneath which there was nothing but endless miles of sad, parched, empty earth. Sighing, he turned and looked up at the mountain, shielding his eyes against the light from the sky. In truth, the light wasn’t particularly bright—indeed, if anything, it was as gray as the dust that blew constantly across the plain back home. Noah felt weary at the thought of how far he and Shem still had to climb, but he tried
to dismiss his tiredness—along with the doubts and anxieties—from his mind, and concentrate only on the task ahead.

* * *

Finally a modest opening came into view in the mountainside, little more than a zigzagging fissure in the rock. It was late afternoon and the sun, such as it was, had passed beyond its zenith and was beginning to sink once more toward the western horizon. As Noah and Shem stood on a small plateau beneath the cave, catching their breath and enjoying the feel of the cool breeze that ruffled their hair and dried the sweat on their brows, a dark shape appeared in the cave entrance and seemed to beckon them before ducking back inside.

Shem looked at Noah.

“Was that Great-Grandfather?”

Noah stared at the spot where the shape had appeared, as if trying to conjure it back into being.

“Let’s find out,” he said.

Although a little light had squeezed its way into the cave, it didn’t extend very far. However, that barely mattered. The roof of the cave had broken open in spots, and sitting in a beam of daylight, next to the warmth of a geothermal vent on which a battered metal pot bubbled, was the oldest man that Shem had ever seen.

His face was so weathered and deeply lined that it seemed almost to be a part of the craggy rock wall behind it. The old man looked up at Shem, who gasped, and then blushed. Methuselah’s eyes—if that was who he was—were so alive and of such a vivid blue that they seemed like the eyes of a child.
Shem was transfixed by them. He doubted he would have been able to move, even if he had wanted to. The old man scrutinized Shem for what seemed like a long time.

Then, finally, Noah spoke.

“This is your great-grandfather,” he said, placing a hand on Shem’s shoulder. “Show him respect. Tell him your name.”

Shem cleared his throat. “I am Shem,” he said shyly.

“My eldest,” Noah added.

Methuselah smiled at Shem. His face was all wrinkles. Yet he was so old that in an odd way he seemed almost ageless. Sexless, too, as if he had passed beyond such petty concerns.

“Come closer,” Methuselah said, his voice as dark and rough as ancient oak, yet still melodious. “Let me see you.”

Shem suspected that Methuselah could see him perfectly well. He looked to his father for guidance. Noah nodded, urging him forward.

When Shem was sitting on the ground, facing the old man, the two of them so close that their knees were almost touching, Methuselah said, “You’re a lucky boy. I think you must have your mother’s looks, not your father’s.”

Shem laughed, and Methuselah tilted his head and winked at Noah.

“So, Shem,” Methuselah said. “Tell me something about yourself.”

Shem’s face went as blank as his mind. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Under his great-grandfather’s scrutiny, he blushed again.

Gently Methuselah said, “What do you like most in the world?”

Shem’s mouth opened and closed. Then abruptly he blurted, “Berries.”

Methuselah looked taken aback. “What?”

Shem would dearly have loved to say something more intelligent and insightful. However he was too tongue-tied, and too intimidated by the situation and by the reputation and great age of the legendary figure sitting before him.

And so, almost unhappily, he said again, “Berries.”

Methuselah leaned back, smiling broadly.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as if Shem’s reply had opened up a whole new vista of possibilities for him. “Berries! Yes! What can compete with fresh, ripe berries? Nothing. You know, it’s been so long I can barely remember the taste of them. Tell me, did you bring me any?”

Shem shook his head, crestfallen.

“No?” said Methuselah. “Hmm. I’m craving them now. Oh well. Perhaps one day…” He stretched luxuriously, and then leaned forward. His voice became softer, almost conspiratorial. “You must be very tired, Shem. It’s a long way up here. Why not rest?” He reached out with one gnarled hand and touched Shem’s brow. Instantly Shem’s eyes closed and his head drooped against Methuselah’s palm. Slowly and carefully, as if the boy were the most fragile and precious artifact in the world, Methuselah lowered Shem’s head into his lap.

He looked down at the sleeping boy, angelic in repose.

“How perfect,” Methuselah murmured. Then his blue eyes flickered up to regard Noah. “But what we need to discuss is not for boys.”

“You know why I’ve come?” Noah’s eyes narrowed.

Even though the handle of the battered metal pot must have been blisteringly hot, Methuselah reached across and lifted it off of the geothermal vent without a qualm. He poured the boiling water into a pair of clay cups on a rock by his side. The smell that rose from the cups—earthy, tangy—suggested that there were herbs of some sort in them.

Methuselah handed Noah one of the cups. Noah took it and sipped, then pulled a face. The tea was very strong, and tasted foul.

“Yes,” Methuselah said in answer to Noah’s question. “Before he walked on, my father Enoch told me one day that if Man continued in his ways, the Creator would annihilate this world.”

“Then what I saw was true?” Noah muttered. “All life blotted out because of what men have done.” He looked appalled. “Can it not be averted?”

Methuselah sighed. “Noah, you must trust that he speaks in a way that you can understand. So you tell me,
can
this destruction be averted?”

For a moment Noah looked as much at a loss as Shem had been. He sat back, his eyes glazing as he pondered the matter. Then finally, in a soft, sad voice he said, “No.”

Methuselah looked sad, too. Noah, however, was desperate to cling to a crumb of hope.

“But He sent me here,” he said. “Why send me, if there is nothing I can do to stop it?”

Shrugging, Methuselah said, “Perhaps He simply sends you to share a cup of tea with an old man.”

Noah slumped, defeated. Despite the tea’s foul taste, he took another sip.

“So is that all you saw?” Methuselah asked. “The fires of destruction and this place?”

“Not fire,” Noah replied. “Water.”

Methuselah raised his eyebrows. “Water? My father said it would be fire.”

“I saw water,” Noah confirmed. “Death by water.” He lapsed into silence, suddenly deep in thought again. Then, his conviction growing by the second, he said, “I saw death. And I saw new life. There is something more, Grandfather, something I am to do. I know it. I just didn’t see what it was.”

“New life,” Methuselah mused. “Well, perhaps there is more for you to see. Did He not send you here to drink tea with an old man?”

He gestured at Noah’s cup. Noah looked down at it and was surprised to see that it was empty.

“The medicine always tastes bad,” Methuselah said, his voice seeming to boom, to echo.

Noah looked up. Methuselah was gone.

Shem was gone, too.

Noah was alone.

He looked back down into the cup, and was just in time to see a seed float up out of it. It rose lazily, drifting past his face.

Why is it floating?
And then he realized.

It was because he and the seed were underwater.

All at once he couldn’t breathe. He was surrounded by water, immersed in it. He thrashed this way and that, his body dragged down by the weight, bubbles rising up around him.

And then, just as before, he was surrounded not merely by water, but also by the dead. It seemed as if all of humanity was drifting around him, white-faced and open-eyed, limbs rising and falling in a ghastly imitation of life.

Noah wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.

And then the floating bodies around him began to split open, silently and bloodlessly, and from each emerged an animal. Within seconds animals of every kind imaginable—all the animals of the world—were breaking through the bodies of humanity and kicking upward, swimming toward the surface, as though showing him the way.

Noah looked up. Above him, framed in a twinkling halo of sunlight, was the underside of some vast, seagoing vessel. It was a massive, black rectangle, filling his vision as it passed directly overhead.

At the sight of it, Noah felt struck by a dawning revelation, a growing epiphany.

It was within his grasp when the rectangle suddenly flared to blinding white, searing his vision and emptying his mind.

He blinked awake to find himself back in Methuselah’s cave, lying in a pool of sunlight that spilled down on him from above.

Hearing voices, he raised his head. As his blurred eyesight slowly regained focus he saw that Shem was awake and that he and Methuselah were chatting casually.

Shem, who seemed to have shaken off his earlier awed reticence, was saying, “Mother helped her while I held her hand.”

Methuselah’s rich, husky voice seemed to fill the cavern. “That must have made her feel safe.”

Noah sat up. His head throbbed. He realized that Shem and Methuselah were playing Cat’s Cradle as they chatted. They both turned to look at him.

“Well?” Methuselah said.

Noah rose to his feet. All at once, despite his headache, he was full of conviction.