Ark(52)

He was a practical man, a warrior, and a farmer. If he planted a seed, cared for it, nurtured it, then it would grow into a plant; if he swung a sword, his enemy died. If the rains came, the crops would grow; if there was a drought, they died. These were constants; these were things he could count on as being true.

Faith was more difficult. He’d watched his father and mother; he’d seen their faith. He’d watched his father offer sacrifices to Elohim, watched him walking in the fields, talking to God as if speaking to a friend pacing at his side. He’d seen his father with that vacant, faraway expression that said he was listening to the Voice of God. But Japheth had never heard that voice, had never felt that presence. He’d seen the effects of His presence on Noah.

Having witnessed their unwavering faith for his entire lifetime, Japheth believed in the basic existence of Elohim. He even allowed himself to believe that some prayers had been answered—he was still alive after all, and so was Aresia.

But building a giant boat in farmland hundreds of miles from the nearest sea, because the whole earth was going to be flooded? That was harder to understand—that was harder to believe in. Yet Noah believed. Zara believed. Sedele and Ne’eletama believed. Shem believed. Ham believed. And Neses? She believed more fiercely—if more quietly—than anyone else but Noah.

After their last meeting in the fields of golden wheat, Aresia remained aloof and distant. She’d taken to sleeping under the sheltering bulk of the ark’s round belly, often keeping to herself for entire days on end. Zara brought her food, and even Noah would spend time talking to her, which Japheth found supremely unsettling. Neses, too, could often be seen near Aresia’s little nest of blankets, speaking in low tones. What did those two women talk about? Him? God? Japheth did not know, but he often wondered.

He spent hours awake in the dark cold, keeping watch during the night, sitting in the open doorway of the house, staring out at the tiny orange flicker of Aresia’s candle. What did she do out there, all alone? What did she think, what did she feel?

He thought of the love they shared. The fierce need to protect her, to shelter her, to see her healed, in the days following her escape from Sin-Iddim. He’d thought that was love.

But his experiences at the hand of Mesh-te still haunted him.

His work in the fields was all that could distract him, all that was able to erase the memory, even for a moment. And the only way he could fall asleep was at the bottom of a wineskin. His brothers watched him drink, and they disapproved. His parents watched him drink and disapproved even more, but they would only look at one another and turn their heads.

Staring after Aresia, night after night, he wondered what he could say to her to ease her pain. Japheth knew, deep down, that he owed her even the smallest comfort, but he was now so troubled, he had no idea how to comfort her.

The thought of touching her, after what he’d experienced, made him shudder, even thought she was now more beautiful than ever. Life away from the city, away from the horrors, was doing her wonders.

It wasn’t Aresia . . . it was him. She had tried to reach out to him many times, but he spurned her and for that he was sorry. What comfort could he offer her now?



He arrived at the house with the wagonload of wheat. After seeing to the onagers and sending them out to graze, he washed his hands and face. He heard the voices of the women inside, Zara giving the occasional order, Sedele and Ne’eletama answering, telling jokes to each other, and laughing. He glanced over at the ark and saw Aresia on a scaffolding next to Noah, painting pitch on newly finished sections of siding. It appeared neither she nor Noah was speaking, but they seemed comfortable in each other’s presence.

It was . . . unsettling. What had they found in common?

“She heard the voice of El,” Neses said, startling him.

Japheth pivoted to find Neses standing behind him, a basket of wet clothes propped on one slim hip. She was a small, unassuming woman who barely reached his shoulder, her body thin as a reed, her hands and wrists and ankles delicate. She was like the birds that ran upon the shores of the Tigris, prone to long bouts of stillness so one forgot they were near. At other times she would be so restlessly busy it was tiring to watch her. Fresh from the nearby Euphrates tributary, she had the hem of her dress tucked into her belt, leaving her legs bare. Her hair was brown, dark and thick; she normally left it unbound, but now she had it twisted up on the top of her head, baring her neck.

Japheth blinked, taking in her presence, and then turned away as she set her basket down and released the hem of her dress.

“Who heard the Voice of El?” he asked.

“Aresia.”

Japheth merely nodded his head.

Neses lifted a tunic out of the basket and wrung it out. “You watch her. At night, I mean. I see you staring after her.”

“You watch me?” Japheth questioned, shooting her a sharp glance.

“I have trouble sleeping, many nights,” she said, her voice quiet. “I am not watching you, I merely . . . see you.”

“And how do you know it’s her I watch?”

Neses let out a soft sigh; so quiet that Japheth nearly missed it. “Who else would you stare at half the night?”

She hung the garment over the side of the wagon, reached for another, and wrung it out.

“I see you talking to her, sometimes,” Japheth replied.

“She is lonely.” Neses looked directly at Japheth, making it seem almost an accusation.