Ark(47)

She was a pretty girl, not lovely and not beautiful, but certainly pretty. She rarely spoke, often for days at a time; she moved with a demure grace, and she was always busy. Scraping hides, mending robes, weaving rope from flax or hemp, cooking . . . she was never still. Her hands fluttered like birds all the day long, working, working, working.

I could not stop myself from watching her. It unnerved her, I thought. I wished I could help these women with the work they did, but I have never done any of those things and even if I could I was not sure they would want my help.

Japheth worked outdoors every day, leaving at dawn and returning for the evening meal. He came back with his tunic off, wearing only a linen kilt around his hips. His chest was oiled with sweat, his muscles gleaming and hard. I could not help but admire him.

Neses, too, watched him. She loved him, I knew she did. She hid it, and she was resigned to his indifference toward her. But still, she could not help herself from watching him in the fields as he harvested—as I did—watching him bending and swiping his sickle, gathering, stacking, and straightening, wiping sweat from his brow and hair from his eyes.

He never looked at her, never spoke to her, never even turned his body toward her. He sat on the opposite side of the fire from her at night, when we all gathered around the flickering flames to eat and drink and talk. But he was aware of her—I could see that, and so could she. And it hurt her deeply.

One day, when the men were in the field and the other women were fetching water from the well, Neses approached me, not quite daring to look at me.

She stammered a handful of words, then heaved a breath and spoke again, clearly this time. “Why do you stare at me? Have I offended you in some way?”

“No . . . you have done nothing.” I shook my head, unable to formulate a better answer. “It is not anything like that.”

“Then what? Do you not already have that which is supposed to be mine?” The words dropped from her lips, and she slapped a hand across her mouth, as if to take them back.

“I suppose I do, but I do not think I took him from you.” I allowed my own painful truth to escape from my lips. “And really, do I have him? He pays as little attention to me as he does to you, lately.”

She nodded, eyes downcast. “I have noticed.”

“I am sorry if I remind you of . . . of what should have been. I do not mean to cause you pain.”

“It isn’t you, it’s him. He . . . he never wanted me.” The agony in her voice pained me.

“I do not think it was that,” I said, “so much as his rebellion against his father.”

She nodded. “I know. Zara has told me this many times, but that does not change the way I feel.”

“You love him.” It was not a question, and it was not a kind thing to say to her.

She only nodded again, a bare sliver of movement. “Always.” She looked up at me, her eyes intense now. “If you can make him happy, then do as you will, and spare no worry for me. He deserves happiness.”

“Do you not also deserve happiness?” I ask.

“My happiness is not found on this earth. I have found peace in Elohim.” There is no pretense in this statement, no falsity or piety, only a deeply felt truth.

But there was peace in Neses’ eyes—pain as well, old and resigned—but it was all leavened by a peace, which I envied her.



I had a feeling of impending doom, a heaviness in my heart. I did not understand it, could not divine its source, but it haunted me day and night. In the weeks since Japheth brought me to his childhood home, I had healed as much physically as I ever would, even though I knew some pain would always be with me. I still felt a dizziness I could not shake, and my vision was often cloudy. Emotionally, I knew I was still fragile. When the men moved too suddenly, I flinched. I cowered if they shouted, which Japheth and Noah often did, as men who were much alike were wont to do. They forgot their anger just as quickly as it rose, and I thought Japheth and his father were finding a peace they both needed.

Shem and Ham did not quite ignore me, but neither did they seek me out or treat me with the same familiarity as they did each other’s wives. Noah was uncomfortable around me, if not openly antagonistic; he tolerated me, I thought, and no more. Zara was . . . Zara. Kind always, and thoughtful, ever making attempts to draw me in and make me comfortable.

And Japheth?

He saw me, I knew. The spark of attraction that drew us together was still there. I felt the renewed need for comfort. Perhaps not intimacy, not in the sexual sense—I remained unsure if I was capable of that, or if I ever would be. But I needed his presence. I needed time alone with him, away from his family, away from the silent judgement of Noah, and the way the brother’s wives, Sedele and Ne’eletama, pretended I did not exist.

I did not know what I needed. I did not know what I wanted. I did not know where I belonged. I just knew . . . I was discontent.

I could wait no longer; I needed to feel comfort. The nightmares came every night, Sin-Iddim’s face, angry and brutal. His hands on me—unrelenting. I needed to feel loved, and only Japheth could provide that.

I wrapped some wineskins, given me by Shem, in a blanket, and packed some food in a basket. I waited in the warm afternoon sunlight for Japheth to return from the fields.

As evening neared Japheth returned, clad in nothing but his linen kilt, his upper torso bare and muscular and sweaty, his black curls damp and tangled and falling across his eyes. He stopped at the barrel of water outside the door of the family home, splashing his face, scrubbing himself, over and over. Straightening, droplets of water trickling down his chest, my breath caught, just looking at him.