2190 BC

  1714 AAC (After A’dam was created)

  Na’amah

  I dream I am back on the ark, in the wildest of all the wild storms. The vessel flails and pitches with a loud cracking and groaning, and then it lifts so high as though it might flip right over, plunging us all into the ubiquitous black ocean. In cracks of forked lightening that flash through the windows that surround the first floor just under the roof, I see all their faces as they cling onto pillars and door frames, whatever they have found that is not sliding and smashing across the floor. Noach’s face is raised, yelling to the sky, but I can’t hear what he says. Elyaqiem’s girls, all three of them, look green with seasickness or waxen with pure terror.

  O Cham, my youngest, my handsome warrior, my yachiyd, is that hate or is that anger I see on your face?

  Then the boat slams into the next wave and we are in total darkness. One of the girls is screaming at such a high pitch I can hear her over the thunder and lightning; over the roar of rushing water, as if the earth itself is being broken up by the gigantic geysers exploding from the deep; over the wild cacophony of all the terrified animals in the holds below: jangling, bellows, shrieks, a piercing keening, whimpering, rumbles, groans and barks. The noise is indescribable, so all-encompassing it is painful, and my heart is beating itself like a wild animal caught in a trap.

  I can smell it too. I know I am dreaming, but the smells are intensely real, the smells that permeated everything, the briny smell of the ocean, the stench of urine and faeces, homely smells of old cooking fat and spices under a wash of lavender and frankincense. And lastly a smell that is almost palpable: the smell of fear, animal and human.

  Somehow above it all I hear Japheth’s woman, Adatane start to sing, in her pure young voice,

  Blessed are you Yahuah. Your mercy endures forever.

  I call upon Yah in our distress. Deal bountifully with us Adonai.

  Have we lost our all our loved ones, our families, and our homes just for you to drown us in your mighty wrath and send us to Sheol?

  My soul melts with heaviness and fear.

  O forsake us not utterly, extend your merciful kindness towards us.

  Halleu-Yah.

  Suddenly the violent squall abates as quickly as it started. Even the vessel itself seems to be totally becalmed, motionless. The animals quieten down to an occasional mournful lowing and bleating. Had we time we would’ve made it down to the mid-level, to the arena where the horses are kept, and the stability of the vessel is fixed despite any conditions outside. Noach always checks the horses first, knowing that seasickness can kill them.

  The rain falls gently now, a soft pattering against the pitch roof. Noach sighs and sighs, and sighs, as he is wont to do, and closes his eyes in prayer. Shem laughs and jumps up to embrace his young wife Sedeqetelele who is crying and laughing and hiccupping with relief.

  Then Cham’s woman, Na’elatama rises, coming towards me with a flask of water,

  Drink Mother, drink, you look parched. My own mouth is dry with fear.

  Her face melts and becomes that of Chuah, first woman, Mother of all living, her face simultaneously young and wreathed in wrinkles, as she was before she died, or is it my face that I see in hers? Because I am nearly the same age now, as she was then, when I lived with her. She is smiling, her eyes warm with love as she says,

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Come lie down with me yachiydah. I must go soon. Soon.

  We are in her tent, and we lie down on her pile of skins, and the fine linens that smell like her, of flowers, mimosa and myrrh. I nestle into the crook of her shoulder and neck as I reach up to stroke the leathery cheek of my dear Chuah. I can see my plump little girl hand against her dark skin. I recall the feeling of contentment and safety.

  Sivata, sivata tell me before you go. Do you have a bellybutton like mine?

  She laughs, that laugh that always contains an undertow of sorrow. She strokes my cheek tenderly and says,

  I have the thumbprint of Yahuah, the signature of my maker.

  Can I see Sivata? Can I see?

  Listen to me Na’amah, life is but a whisper my loveliness, everything fades, a song of moments in time, so fleeting, so much feeling; love, grief and joy, all go, all gone. Cling to Elohiym, my yachiyd, whom my soul loves, cling …

  Then suddenly Qayin is there kneeling at the side of the bed. He clasps her hand and presses it to his cheek, his face solemn, wet with silent tears.

  Forgive me mother. Tell my brother I am so deeply, deeply sorry. My heart is broken. I don’t know why Elohiym has kept me alive, to live all these long years with remorse and shame.

  Forgive me brother.

  Forgive me.

  He lays his head down on the furs at her hip and she strokes his white hair, white as her own. My eyes flicker and close to the sound and rhythmic movement of her hand. Then I am awake again, Qayin is gone, and Chuah feels ice cold under my cheek. I know she is gone and reach up to close her eyelids over staring, empty eyes. For a moment before I do, I see a dot of light in her pupils that explodes and fills the room. I see her when she was young and beautiful. I am transported to the most glorious of gardens, everything crackling with life and energy and light. I can feel it. I can smell a heavenly fragrance and hear her sweet voice,

  Come to the Garden. Come to the garden. Soon. Soon. Soon.

  Then her face becomes that of my husband. It is The Feast of the First Fruits because he is seated under a pergola of palm leaves and fresh flowers. His face lights up with pride as he places a wreath on my head, and then offers me a goblet filled with a rich ruby wine,

  It has been a good life, he says, a good life.

  Taste this years’ vintage, come describe it for me, as only you can, my good wife.

  He is teasing me, laughing, his eyes twinkling in amusement. It feels so good to see him laugh.

  The earthy aroma of the soil of Mount Lubal? A hint of pomegranate and fig perhaps? It is a fine wine, from our very first crop, aged so many jubilees in casks of oak. The first taste is for you my Na’amah.

  I drink from the goblet, feeling the warmth of the liquid soften my muscles and still my mind. I watch the festivities, happy. People are dancing and clapping to timbrels and flutes, their shining faces lit up by braziers and flaming torches. Then I see her, a little girl of six, maybe seven, or is it me at that age, when I went to live with Chuah?

  You know how strange dreams are.

  She is dancing by herself, swaying like a willow in the evening breeze, her head tilted, her face and arms reaching upward, each finger taut and electric with graceful energy, oblivious to the crowd of revellers. Everything about her glows with innocence and purity, her long hazelnut hair, her brown skin, and she opens her eyes to meet mine: brown with flecks of gold, fringed with dark lashes, and what a sweet, tender mouth, a gentle yet bold smile. I see the Ruach chen v’Tachanuniym * alight upon her and she is perfectly still, glowing with spirit, while the celebrations move around her like stars flickering, spirits dancing in the night sky.

  I know her, who is she?

  Suddenly I am aware of a man, infested with unclean spirits, like a predator watching for the kill, he is sneering at me, cold, yellow reptilian eyes; but she is his prey. I stand up in alarm spilling the wine, it is like a pool of blood spreading over the earth, it won’t stop, keeps growing, moving towards the girl. I’m frightened, desperately looking around the surging sea of faces, looking for Noach or some other good man. Where is her mother? Her father? The faces of my extended family blur and run together, contorted, leering.

  Then I see him, Nimrod, not as he is now, the arrogant mighty hunter of giant stature and worldly wealth, but as he was before the tower, before all the wives and concubines with their worthless, cruel gods. He strides towards me in all the glory of his youth. I was so proud of him, my heart aches. Before he reaches me, it is as if he is cut down with a scythe, though I can see no one behind him. He crumples at the knees and falls to the ground. And then he is not Nimrod but my boy Cham.

  Forgive me, Mother of all living. He speaks.

  Forgive me.

  Forgive me.

  *The spirit of grace and supplications