Heavens Before

THE HEAVENS
Before

                  
KACY
                  
BARNETT-
                  
GRAMCKOW

M
OODY
P
UBLISHERS
CHICAGO

© 2004 by
KACY BARNETT-GRAMCKOW

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover photo: © 2003 Daryl Benson/Masterfile.

               Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Barnett-Gramckow, Kacy, 1960-
  The heavens before/Kacy Barnett-Gramckow.
     p.cm.
  ISBN 0-8024-1363-3
  1. Bible. O.T.—History of Biblical events—Fiction. 2. Noah (Biblical figure)—Fiction. 3. Daughters in law—Fiction. 4. Noah’s ark—Fiction. 5. Deluge—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.A8343H43 2004
  813’.6—dc22

2003016997

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Printed in the United States of America

To my dear, wonderful parents, Robert and Sharon
,
who surrounded me with brothers, books, and love—
and who taught me to love and fear the Lord
.

Acknowledgments

I WOULD LIKE TO particularly thank Mary Busha, my amazing agent, and Editor Michele Straubel, who enthusiastically presented this work to the Moody Team. Also appreciation to Amy Peterson, Dave DeWit, Pam Pugh, and the whole Moody Team (if I haven’t named you, it’s because I haven’t discovered your names yet)! Sincere admiration to wordmaster/editor, LB Norton, to Barbara LeVan Fisher for her beautiful artwork on the cover, and to Janet Chaiet for her professional encouragement.

Special thanks to John Woodmorappe for his kindness, and for writing his fascinating
Noah’s Ark: A Feasibility Study
, which enabled me to envision the day-to-day details of life inside the Ark. In addition to countless secular sources, I would like to recognize: Answers In Genesis, The Creation Research Society, Christian Answers.net, Revolution Against Evolution, Creation Science, Creation Evidences, Christian Science Research Center, and Christian Apologetics and Research Ministries, among others, for their many works, theories, opinions and, their debates. I have enjoyed studying their web sites and materials.

Also: Heartfelt gratitude to Kathi Macias, my editor/sister-in-law for motivating me. A hug to Auntie Jo Coila for volunteering to read, and to the family of Josie Dover, whom I miss. A medal to my brother Joe, who cheerfully endured my paranoia as I drove my car into a ditch during a blinding 1980 spring mudstorm—courtesy of a Mt. St. Helen’s eruption that inspired some of the descriptions in this book. Loving thanks to my sons, Larson and Robert, for putting up with my addiction to words, and to my dear husband, Jerry, “Mr. Editor” who patiently answers my grammar quizzes and does housework. Thanks, Hon, for understanding, even when I confuse you (and me) completely.

Above all, to the Lord who granted me life and graciously provides every resource—which I can do nothing to deserve—my endless thanks and joy.

Prologue

THE ANCIENT tree of Havah stood in solitary splendor in a vast field, its pale green-leafed branches drooping softly, curtainlike, inviting passersby to come rest in the shade. It was said that Havah, Mother of All, had planted the tree after the untimely death of her favorite son, Hebel. The tree was not meant as a memorial to Hebel, but as a tranquil place where Havah might sit with her surviving children and nurture them through the remaining ages of her life.

If Havah had planted the tree herself or if she had not, it no longer mattered. For Havah and her children had passed into legend. Most people now doubted that Havah had ever lived. But the doubters were the ones who did not sit beneath the tree or climb its massive branches and listen to its leaves sighing in the quiet breeze beneath the rose-colored sky.

The doubters were also the ones who failed to recognize the countless signs about them, the marks of a young planet still resounding with the echoes of its creation. But the echoes themselves were becoming more discordant with each passing day. For the doubters were consuming the world with their own restlessness and destroying it with the violence of their desires.

One

ANNAH SIGHED and settled herself into a crook of the feathery branches of the ancient Tree of Havah. A morning mist shrouded the fields about her, and the cool rose-pink air made her shiver, but these minor discomforts were worth the temporary sensations of freedom and peace. Her family and the other inhabitants of the settlement still slept, exhausted after their usual night of feasting, visiting, dancing, and quarreling. Annah did not join in these festivities; she had nothing to celebrate.

I do not belong with the others
, she thought.

To soothe herself, she pulled a carved wooden shuttle from her woven-grass bag, slung on a branch nearby, and began to work on the torn edges of her veil. Patiently she handled the light threads, knotting pale strands she had beaten from the stalks of soaked, crushed wildflowers. Over countless mornings, the knotted threads had become
an intricate gossamer scarf, then a shawl, a head covering, and finally, an all-encompassing veil.

Aware of the shifting daylight and of her cramped, aching limbs, Annah gazed upward through the branches. The sun would be directly overhead soon. The sky was no longer the deep crimson of dawn, but a clear and bright pink, with a warm and welcoming sun.

Yerakh, her oldest brother, would wake soon. Annah shuddered, picturing his darkly bearded face, thinking,
Let Yerakh be happy today
.

She tied off one last knot, then tucked the small wooden shuttle into her bag. Shouldering her bag and veil, and smoothing her straight black hair, Annah clambered down from the tree. On the ground, she adjusted her soft leather tunic and stared upward into the tree once more.

Had Havah, the Mother of All, truly planted this tree with her own hands? Yerakh scoffed at this story, as he scoffed at all stories of old.

“If you believe that, you’ll believe in the Most High next!” he would snap whenever his younger brothers or sisters dared to recite legends in his presence. Yerakh’s dark arrogance and contempt usually silenced them all. But if contempt didn’t work, he used his fists.

Let Yerakh be happy today
, Annah repeated in her mind.

She scurried through the fields toward the grass-thatched settlement, aware of tiny creatures all about her, sensing their presence as they sensed hers. There was no fear between Annah and these creatures, only identification. Tiny mice, voles, and ground hens scrabbled near her feet, unintimidated by her presence. Insects hummed and darted before her while she admired their iridescent wings. Birds of many colors flew above the flowering
grasses, twittering and singing songs as varied as their feathers. Annah envied them their wings. What did the birds think of her? She imagined them singing,
A human! … a woman! … a nothing!

I’ll show you
, Annah told them silently. Pulling her veil away from her shoulders, she swung it expertly above her head as if to entrap some of the bright little songsters. They fluttered away excitedly, then returned quickly when the veil settled harmlessly over Annah’s sleek, dark hair.

I am the creature who is trapped
, Annah thought, eyeing her tiny companions through the soft mesh of her veil. She could almost hear their songs of sympathy.
Poor human! … poor woman! … poor nothing!

Kneeling on the earthen floor of Yerakh’s lattice-enclosed workroom, Annah used a small wooden club to beat down the gold he had layered between sheets of membrane and leather. Her slender brown arm rose and fell in a pleasing rhythm of muffled thuds.

“Annah! Enough!”

Startled by Yerakh’s booming voice, Annah flinched. For her own safety, she never looked directly at Yerakh. She dared not let him see the hatred and condemnation in her eyes, or he would kill her.

“Stupid,” Yerakh hissed, snatching Annah’s narrow club and threatening her by the action. “Move. Let me see what you’ve done. Move!”

With surprising delicacy, Yerakh checked the layers of leather, membrane, and gold leaf. He slapped the club hard into Annah’s hand again. “Beat it until I tell you to stop. Understand? Work!”

I
know how long to beat the gold. You don’t need to tell me
. The palm of her hand throbbed. As Yerakh strode from the workroom to his refiner’s pit outside, Annah bit back her tears and raised the club.

Rhythmically, she beat her fury into the pile of leather, gold, and membranes, thinking with the tempo,
I-am-beat-ing-Yer-akh! I-am-beat-ing-Yer-akh!

Eventually her rage thinned out with the gold. And like the gold, she felt fragile; the slightest breath could destroy her. The club felt heavy now, and her hands ached, but Yerakh would be angry if she stopped without his permission. Where was he? She beat the leather-clad gold more slowly. All at once she heard Yerakh’s voice. He was returning to the workroom, and someone was with him.

“Stop, Annah!” Yerakh snapped. “You’ll beat it to nothing.”

As I’ve longed to beat you
, Annah responded silently.

She glanced at her brother’s big, bare feet, then at the feet of his companion, Naham the Iron-breaker. Naham’s feet were the largest and filthiest in the settlement. Filth and soot were Naham’s means of advertising his trade, but his size was enough to convince anyone that he deserved his name. Naham’s footprint was more than twice the size of Yerakh’s. And though Yerakh was as tall as any average man, he barely reached Naham’s biceps. Scared, Annah bowed her head further, but didn’t acknowledge their presence.

“In all the years I’ve known you, Yerakh, I’ve never heard her say anything,” Naham rumbled, his voice mocking and deep. “Does she ever speak?”

“She can’t speak. She has no mind.” Yerakh answered, openly contemptuous.

Yerakh nudged Annah roughly with his foot, obviously displaying his power over her to impress his companion. She scooted away, hoping to evade further attention, but Yerakh snatched the club from her hand and struck her across the shoulders. She gave a sharp cry, then bit her lip to silence herself. The effort sent a chill of sweat from her scalp to her toes.

“There,” Yerakh told Naham, satisfied. “A sound. But she’s less than an animal.”

Before Yerakh could strike her again, Annah scrambled to her feet and ran behind the leather curtain of the door leading to the main room of their lodge. Yerakh’s scornful laughter echoed after her.
Let him die!
Annah thought, furious.
Any living thing in the fields has more kindness
.

“Stop!” A woman’s sharp voice rose angrily. “Mindless creature. You’ll spill everything.”

Iltani, Yerakh’s wife, was seated before Annah on an intricately woven grass mat. Curvaceous, with a long, gold-talismaned rope of black hair, Iltani flung out one tawny arm. Annah halted abruptly. She had almost stepped into a wooden dish of dried red beans and unpounded spices.

Annah averted her gaze as Iltani complained, her voice becoming louder with every word. “No manners at all … the way the creature behaves, she should be penned with the sheep. Where’s her mother to take charge of her?” Hearing no response from any of the adjoining rooms, Iltani raised her voice. “Before she tramples our food!”

Staring at Iltani’s plump brown hands, now extended clawlike over the bright red beans, Annah thought,
Don’t worry, Iltani, I’m leaving. But if you possessed any kindness, you’d wonder why I’m running. You know Yerakh beats me
.

Annah snatched her grass bag and veil, then turned to leave the lodge. She was almost to the open doorway when a firm voice beckoned. “Annah.”

Lowering her eyes, Annah turned toward her mother, Parah.

As lovely and severe as her gold-clasped, raven hair-braid, Parah spoke tonelessly. “Annah, I don’t need the wife of my son screaming at me like this. I am busy.”

Annah watched her mother’s small, brown, bare feet, thinking in silent defense,
Iltani screams at everyone
.

Used to Annah’s silence by now, Parah continued. “If you are finished with the gold, you can go to the orchards and gather some fruit. Take the baskets with you.”