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

of
villagers. I can barely make out his face, and I certainly can’t
read his expression, but I know the shade of that hair, golden and
distinctive even when it’s so wet it’s plastered to his
head:
    It’s Jorin. He’s not holding a torch
like his father, like the others gathering close to the fire, but
he’s there, standing beside them. And that tells me all I need to
know.
    I scramble to catch up with Mother and
Arisi, my heart thudding against my ribcage, my mind whirling like
the gusts of air around us. Will they find some way to keep the
torches lit? Will they really try to burn down the ark—with us
inside it? From the corner of my eye I glimpse sparks of flame
moving closer, flying on the wind, and I’m not sure whether I’m
imagining them.
    “ Neima!” I’m startled to
hear a male voice calling and then relieved, a moment later, to see
Father dragging our goats behind him. His mouth moves, but most of
his words are lost to the storm. Still, he waves the goats’ tethers
toward me, and I know what he wants.
    As soon as I take the goats, Father
runs for Munzir and his followers. I look between him and the ark,
where Mother and Arisi are already stepping inside, while Noah
bursts out past them, his long blue and white robe waving in the
wind. I need to bring the goats in, but somehow I’m frozen again,
watching Noah approach the fire with a look of wrath to equal
Munzir’s on his face.
    “ Why did you not listen?”
Noah roars out over the tempest of sound. His voice is louder than
I’ve ever heard it, powerful and assured, no longer the voice of an
old man. In fact, it barely seems human. “I warned you,” he goes
on, “that God will smite down—”
    A sound so great it’s not a sound at
all, but a force that rends the sky in two and threatens to take
the earth with it, blots out the rest of Noah’s words. Blots out
everything—Munzir’s reply and the villagers’ protests, the pounding
of rain against my skin and the air whooshing past my ears, the
beating of my heart and the blood moving inside me. For an endless
moment, that first clap of thunder is the entire world.
    And then time rushes forward again,
and with it the rain seems to double its force, making me stumble
and knocking the goats to their knees. Some of the villagers are
falling, too, hands splaying in the mud as they struggle to right
themselves. The lightning comes, then, illuminating this gray world
just long enough for us to see Munzir’s tarp ripped from the nails
that hold it, flung into the sky where it whirls, lost, a white
bird too fragile to direct its own course.
    In moments, the fire is nothing but a
drenched pile of sticks.
    Mouths are moving, people must be
screaming, the trembling goats beside me must be squealing, but the
only sounds left in the world are the crash of water and wind and
the boom of thunder. I urge the goats forward, but as soon as they
find their footing they slip again, and I do as well. It takes all
my attention just to make some slow progress toward the ark,
dragging the goats behind me, and I have to narrow my eyes against
the increasingly sharp barbs of the raindrops. So I don’t even try
to see what’s going on with my father and Noah, Munzir and the
ruined fire. And I don’t see the shape approaching me as I stumble
onward, till I’m only a few steps from the ark’s open
doors—
    — and a cold, wet hand
grabs my arm.
    It’s Jorin, his eyes wide
and his lips moving furiously, though I can’t make out a single
word. I try to pull away from him and he just comes closer, his
mouth moving even faster; every minute facet of his expression
beseeches me to listen, to understand. I’m doing my best to hold on
to my anger against him, but it’s slipping away, a mere gust of hot
air that means nothing as the world breaks into pieces around us.
And then I no longer care what he’s saying; I only want to tell
him: Go back, now, while you can still
cross the river. I hope your home is strong.