In the Shadow of the Ark (6 page)

“Where is your tent?” he asked.

“In the quarry, at the base of the cliff.” I pointed out the direction. The spot I meant was not visible from there. A carpentry shop, a ship under construction, and a whole settlement lay between. It was still quiet everywhere, people had found shady spots, which they shared with the animals.

“How will I know that your father has returned? How do I know you won’t suddenly disappear without trace?”

“You will know because the stars will move,” I said. “Because the moon will fall and the horizon will tremble.”

He did not laugh; he did not seem to be the sort of boy who laughs much. “You’re not taking me seriously.”

“Do you want me to make a promise?” I asked.

“What are your people’s promises worth? Your father has broken the first one he made.”

“You will not know,” I said, ignoring his taunt. “We’ll disappear like fire under the lid of a brazier.” I shook out the cloak and arranged it over my mother. She too was pleased at the way I had stood up to the young man, I could see it in her eye.

He got up, as if about to help me. Without a word, he let his cloak slide off his back, leaving no more than a sleeveless undershirt. His movements made the hornets buzz away. He shook off his shoes and walked to the water. At the edge of the pond, he took off his undershirt. I kept looking in surprise. His skin was paler than any I had ever seen in the marshes. He was as skinny as I had imagined, with long arms and legs covered only in thin, unblemished skin. He waded out to a spot deep enough to cover all of his body as he lay down. All I could see were his pale, smooth shoulders, with his matted hair falling over them.

He stayed in the water a long time. As I came to the pond to rinse the cloth I had used for washing, and then walked back, he watched me, first from the corner of his eye, then with his whole face turned toward me. I walked the way Alem had taught me, my back stretched, my chin pointing down. After a while I realized that it only seemed like he was watching me. He was looking at something else, at a thought, at a perception as transparent as a god. Although I did not know why, I felt that by looking at me, he understood something. I held an idea out to him, gave his thoughts form and wings. But something was in the way; I could see it from the way he was chewing the inside of his cheek, like a famished man, without causing as much as a ripple on the water.

I
was not surprised when Ham came to the quarry that evening after sunset. My mother was already asleep, and so nearly was I, but I could feel him approaching. The greyhound was with him, his nails tapping on the stones. I got up, took a cloth and my oil, and lifted the water jug onto my hip. I knew how to move without waking my mother; that too I had learned from Alem. I crept outside and started following the moonlight reflected off Ham’s cloak, not moving too quickly so the water would not slosh. He walked to the shipyard, and for a moment I thought he might lead me into the ship. But he stopped at the foot of the scaffold. He disappeared behind the stacks of timber waiting, ready for the next morning. There I found him, squatting by the fire that smoldered under the vats of pitch. The greyhound had disappeared as soon as the smell reached its nostrils.

I spread out the cloth by his feet. I found a bowl waiting there that had been carefully wiped clean, so I poured the contents of my jar into it. He undid his belt, pulled his cloak over his head, and lay down on his stomach. It was dark, and I could not see his skin very well, but at times it shone like silver in the glow of the fire. His body seemed out of proportion from rapid growth, but even so I could feel a controlled strength in those bundles of muscles and
ligaments, the staying power of a pack animal. His frame made me think of bushes, of flexible twigs, of reeds in the marshes.

I bathed him the way I bathed my mother. He shivered when he felt the water. It was so clear under the moonlight that my hands were reflected in it every time I wrapped the cloth around my fingers. His head was turned away from me, and I could not see if his eyes were open or shut. A strange odor came from the bone ornament around his neck. I carefully removed it, putting it aside so as not to wet it unnecessarily. Around us there were only the sounds of countless night animals and the crying of owls.

He was sensitive, I could feel that from the way his skin opened itself up to the water. I knew what I had to do. I would press seeds for him. I would rub the furrows in his neck with oil until I could peel off the dirt. I would comb his tangle of dark hair until it was smooth again and shiny. I would teach him how marsh people kept themselves clean and scented. I would clean his fingernails till they shone like a duck’s bill. I would give him aniseed for his breath. Oil and generous acts I would lavish on him, because if there was one thing I had learned, it was that sensitives must be well treated.

I applied the oil and rubbed it into his arms and legs, until his skin would accept no more and became smooth as chamois leather. I pressed my thumbs deep into the skin along his spine and rubbed his lower back firmly as if I were polishing it. With my thumb I pushed on his tailbone, I found the hollow on the inside of his heel. His body grew warm under my fingers.

I said, “I will show you my spring if you will carry the water for me.”

His muscles tightened. He raised his upper body on his arms and looked at me for a few moments. Now I could clearly see those short but thick eyelashes, the beard, still downy, and the slight movement of his nostrils. His eyes were full of dismay.

“Give me a donkey then. The pens are full of them,” I insisted.

He shook his head. The tips of his hair dragged over his shoulders. “If I give you a donkey, you will all go away. You still have no idea what we are doing here.”

“The Builder builds a ship in a place where there is hardly any water?” The fire was warm, I turned my other side toward it. And sitting that way, I could have a better look at him. “Everybody here is working hard, so something wonderful must have been promised.”

He bent toward me and, in a single movement, took the cloth from under him to cover his body. With his free hand, he grasped my shoulder, pointed at the red tent farther down, and whispered, “My father is in conversation. He is speaking with his god the way I am speaking with you.” His sudden movement was bad, it threw up the dust and made him dirty again.

“Which god?” I asked.

“He who is well-disposed toward us, the Nameless One, the Unnameable; forget all others. This god looks after us, the others do not do that. The Unnameable is so angry, so disappointed. My father tries to calm Him, but it is in vain. His mercy is nearing exhaustion. He says He is losing faith in mankind. He wants to destroy all evildoers. Only the noble-minded and the just will escape, with them He will continue.”

I knew of the fear Rrattika lived with: the fear that their name would be extinguished, the way it happened to the godless and to criminals. Their lives consisted of a constant series of efforts to escape the curse of oblivion.

Although I had dried him off, his forehead was already covered in droplets again. “I see how you care for your mother, and it touches my heart,” he said. “You do it out of love, as I build the ship out of love. You do not offend the Unnameable. He is astonished at so much goodness, as I am. I know what you people think, you consider us scum, you have named us after vermin. But give us a chance. Bring your father to me and help us placate the Unnameable.” He put on his cloak without letting go of the cloth he was covering himself with.

I helped him a little, not too much, because I was looking at him more than helping him, looking at his movements and the play of the shadows they caused. When he was dressed, I moved away from him a little, so I suddenly found myself too close to the fire, and it felt as if my head were burning. Anxiously I asked, “You are building the ship to make your name immortal?”

“The ship must ensure that we will not be wiped out,” he said.

“An appeal for mercy?” I asked. Again, I could hear the wheeze in his voice.

He touched my arm with his fingertips. “For mercy, it is too late. The Unnameable has made His decision. We must help each other. It is now a matter of belonging to the elect.”

The dog started barking, and Ham jumped up. He grabbed me and dragged me away from the glow of the fire. He pushed me between the stacks of timber, where I made myself as small
as I could and kept still. Someone came and stood by him, a man with a quick step and a short shadow, an apparition from nowhere, without a lamp in his hand, without a stick, as if the laws of the night did not apply to him.

“What are you doing?” I heard the man ask.

Ham remained silent. He began walking away from the pitch vats.

“This is not the girl you are waiting for,” the stranger said, his face turned toward the shipyard.

“But look at the water she brings,” I heard Ham plead.

“There are other women with good water. She is not the one. I will give you a sign when she arrives.”

“She is good, she is beautiful,” Ham continued.

They disappeared amongst the stacks of timber. I could just see that the man who walked beside the son of the Builder was of very small stature. He was not wearing clothes like the Rrattika, but was naked. His arms and legs were thin, his hips narrow like a boy’s. He had to take large steps to keep up with Ham. It may have been the poor light, but his skin seemed even darker than mine.

“We have to get away from here,” I said to my mother, whom I only washed near our tent now, after that one time by the pond. “These people are expecting a great calamity. Their god is preparing an overwhelming punishment. He is going to destroy all who are not chosen.” We quickly agreed: This cleansing we did not want to experience. We did not want to witness the suffering that would come with it. The gods of the Rrattika were not familiar to us, and this one did not seem the most benign. The
Rrattika had chosen a god of whom they lived in fear. That was remarkable: We were in the habit of choosing gods who would leave us in peace instead of provoking us.

And so I stored up water in order to be ready when my father returned. Going to the spring, I followed a different path every time to confuse anyone who wanted to follow me. It would seem there were different levels of water quality. I saw women who had access to reasonably good water: They sold it at high prices, and if they were unmarried, well-to-do young men hung around them. I did not make a show of how good my water was. I could have acquired clothes, jugs, and blankets for it, but what use would that sort of baggage be if we had to flee the disaster? I led a donkey from one of the enclosures and hid it in the bushes. Stealing a pack animal seemed harmless: There were so many of them inside the little stone walls, at least a pair of every form and kind, and as many as seven of certain kinds. Having to be out for hours cutting grass counted for nothing compared to the security of knowing the animal was there ready. At that time, we no longer believed my father would bring Alem and the donkey back with him.

Three nights in a row, the young son of the Builder came to get me. Each time he took me to the warmth of the pitch vats. I was restrained when I washed him. As Alem had taught me, I did not touch his face or his stomach. Yet afterward I walked back to our tent with my hands tingling as if they had been exposed to the sun for too long, and into my deepest sleep I could hear him repeat to the small, naked man in the dark, “She is beautiful. She is good. Look at the water she brings.”

O
n the eighth day after his departure, my father returned carrying little Put on his back. He also carried the carefully woven bit of our donkey and Alem-the-ragged’s gray cloak. Put had an empty look in his eyes. It was ages before they were in a fit state to tell their story.

Alem was a hero, said my father. He had found him from directions given by reed carriers on the way. Alem had not gotten very far, because the donkey had been ill. My father had asked him to come back to the quarry to get my mother and me, and Alem had happily agreed. Of course he wanted to be of service again, he understood without explanation that the boat builder would not prosper in this shipyard. But because of the donkey, the return journey was slow. The animal became bloated. They had spent quite some effort trying to save it, but it was hopeless. First the carrion eaters had come, small dogs who were after the intestines, but the scent of blood had attracted larger animals. Alem had warned of the danger, he had said they should go on that very evening, but my father had laughed off his fear and said he was glad to have found him, that there was no rush now and they should save their strength.

The monster had appeared from nowhere, none of them had
sensed its approach. They had only heard the silence and wondered why the lizards disappeared into chinks and cracks. Then the shadow fell on them. It was a striped animal, its eyes glistening, slaver dripping from its jaws. It wrapped its paws around Alem like an embrace. They heard the cracking of bone. They saw how Alem was knocked to the ground and immediately thrown up in the air again. The incisors closed around the back of his head right through his hood. Probably the animal had observed Alem from behind the bushes and seen how he moved; it knew exactly where, under all the clothes he had on, his vertebrae were.

The tiger dragged Alem into the bushes. Alem grabbed at the grass. Again the incisors closed over his skull. Something tore. For a moment, the animal let go. Alem tried to scramble up, but the tiger clawed at his legs the way it does with fleeing prey.

Alem had pushed himself off with all his strength. He had thrown himself on top of the tiger, as if after due consideration, he responded to the embrace. Very deliberately, he put his hand into the beast’s mouth, first the fingers, then the wrist. “Get away, get away!” he shouted. “I’ll hold it here.” He pushed his fist into the wide throat. The tiger slammed its jaws shut. The hand cracked.

My father grabbed hold of Put and fled. He did not hear screams. All through the night they waited. Only the next morning did they dare go back. When they got there, all they found was the cloak and some splintered bones.