Free Forty Days: Neima's Ark, Book One by Stephanie Parent

Munzir’s forehead, the clouds
have held their breath. It feels like the world itself has teased
us, tricked us, promising relief and then withholding it. My throat
is so dry it aches, but I know every sip of water I take is one
less for the animals
    I save the elephants for
last, and though Shai and I spend as long as we can petting and
soothing them, Enise and Bilal still bellow after us when we must
go. We can’t allow Munzir to destroy the ark and—
    Apparently my father and uncles have
the same concern, though perhaps not for the same reason, for I
find them gathered before the ark’s open doors, arguing again. Noah
is here too, proclaiming that God will take care of Munzir, that we
need only to wait. Ham nods in agreement—sincere or not, who can
tell?—while Father murmurs that Munzir’s threats are likely just
hot air, and Japheth says that the rain sure to come at any moment
will distract the entire village. My stomach churns; my throat
burns even hotter. They aren’t going to do anything. They aren’t
going to protect the animals we’ve stolen, wrenched from their wild
homes for no reason at all. The whole thing makes me sick to my
stomach.
    I hurry ahead to the cottage, wanting
nothing more than to be alone. The villagers’ threats and taunts,
Keenan’s lies, Jorin’s and Derya’s betrayals—it’s all too much. I
have never felt so small and so powerless.

    ***

    I sleep poorly and wake early to a
hissing sound, like a serpent against my ear. I curl into myself,
shivering a bit, when I realize it:
    The temperature has dropped. The
hissing sound is wind, and water. The rain has come.
    I jump up, my shivers
gone—it’s not cold, just wonderfully cool , with a whirling breeze
carrying the scent of rain through the window—and hurry outside. As
I expected, the whole village seems to be standing outdoors, faces
tilted upwards, the children laughing and squealing and catching
raindrops on their tongues. The rain is light, a mere tickle on my
skin, and it lifts the tension from my muscles as surely as it’s
lifting the drought and heat from the earth. How could anyone think
of fire, of flames and destruction and death, at a time like this?
Even Munzir’s spirits will lift today, and he’ll hold off. I’m sure
of it.
    By the time I’ve tended to our own
sheep and goats—they’ve certainly been neglected these past seven
days, poor things—and headed back inside, my tunic is soaked
through. I change into a dry one and, on impulse, wrap a wide cloth
belt of cornflower blue around my waist. I want to feel as fresh
and new as the world around me, if only for a moment, before I’m
wet and muddy and disheveled again.
    Mother tells me not to go to the
ark—only the men are going today, in case Munzir does try
something—and I’m surprised to find my mood deflating. I realize I
was actually looking forward to the ark, despite the wretched smell
and endless work, for the chance to see Bilal and Enise, the
flower-birds and even, from a distance, the tiger.
    Mother has her spindle out, and I
begin to thread the loom, which will occupy so much of my time in
the rainy months to come. I choose a light gray yarn, dyed with
iris root, that reminds me of the shade of Bilal’s skin. By the
time I’ve woven this cloth, Bilal and his sister will be long gone,
roaming near some ample lake where they can waste as much water as
they want splashing each other…
    It seems that only a moment has passed
when the whisper of rain against the walls dissolves all at once,
swept away in a sudden torrent of sound, a rush of water tumbling
earthward with the roar of some great beast. Rain spits sideways
through the windows, threatening to turn our floor to mud, and
Mother jumps up to close the wooden shutters.
    “ It’s really coming now,”
she says, quite unnecessarily, but I understand—this strangely
transformed world just begs to be acknowledged aloud, as if only
doing so will make it real.
    A crash comes out of