contents of his spoon dribbled down his chin and breast.
20
Entering the Ark
I did not return to the Builder’s sons but walked to the ark. The base of the scaffold that led to the upper deck had been closed up for the night with reed matting and many ropes. In front of it, the greyhound lay in the dust. When I approached, it stood up and sniffed the air around me. I walked away, went to the back of the structure where the still-steaming pitch vats stood, and joined the children who were pestering the workers, exhausted after the day’s work, for pitch dolls.
There was a little boy with a big head who stood smack in front of one of the workers, watching intently how the ears of his doll were modeled. “Finished?” he nagged constantly, until the man with the sticky, pitch-blackened hands lost his patience, pulled the ears off the doll, and squashed its head down into its body. The boy muttered that it was all right, he would wait. When finally, clutching the doll in his little fists, he went off with a satisfied sigh, I followed him stealthily. Uttering gentle sounds, the child made his toy walk through the air. It was a while before his interest in his prize slackened and he stopped holding it with both hands. To my relief, his attention was drawn to a stick in the sand. As soon as he was only holding his doll loosely in one hand so he could reach for the stick with the other, I snatched it fromhim and ran off through the tents and screens. The child howled, but I did not look back. I went back to the entrance of the ship, kneading the pitch until it once again became warm, releasing its smell.
As if offering it a treat, I held out the black lump to the greyhound. The animal sniffed, but stiffened at the smell and reared back. I approached it once more, pushing the pitch against its nose. It pulled back even farther.
Squatting, I hooked my fingers behind the ropes, pulling them loose. I forced myself through the gap as fast as I could. The dog stormed at me, barking. I shoved the reed mat against the opening. The animal pushed its nose against the gap with a high-pitched squeal. I kept following its snout with the soft ball, distracting it until I had finally pushed all of the matting back in place. After securing it with a few quick knots, I started running up the sloping planks of the scaffold. My footsteps made a shocking amount of noise. The planks bounced in their mortises, but the more racket I caused, the faster I ran, and the more the boards rattled. I could not believe how high the upper deck was, and I was convinced that down in the yard everybody was already watching me. Any moment I expected the grim blare of bugles.
The upper deck was not yet finished. A wide edge running from the prow to the stern still needed to be covered. It would have made a quick way in if it had not looked so deep and dark that I did not dare to poke my legs through. The real gateway, the entrance for all those who would embark, and for everything that would be brought on board over the next few weeks, was closed off with a hatch set in a sloping wall rising from the decklike a lean-to. I managed to open it through a small hole just large enough for my hand. I entered the ship and pulled the hatch down behind me.
My eyes had to adjust. It was not only dark, but the air was full of dust and grit. Under my feet, I felt a layer of shavings and splinters; obviously nobody had bothered to sweep up the rubbish and wheel it outside. I imagined it would never be removed, and in time it would be trodden into a carpet on the bottom of the ship. It would muffle the sounds of feet and hooves, making all that would happen here soundless.
Through the gap in the unfinished roof and the ventilation holes, some light entered. Though I knew better, I had imagined an empty space, a huge hall of timber and pitch, with just a few booths deep down in the hold. But I found myself in a narrow gallery that led down in a spiral. Dozens of spaces opened
20
Entering the Ark
I did not return to the Builder’s sons but walked to the ark. The base of the scaffold that led to the upper deck had been closed up for the night with reed matting and many ropes. In front of it, the greyhound lay in the dust. When I approached, it stood up and sniffed the air around me. I walked away, went to the back of the structure where the still-steaming pitch vats stood, and joined the children who were pestering the workers, exhausted after the day’s work, for pitch dolls.
There was a little boy with a big head who stood smack in front of one of the workers, watching intently how the ears of his doll were modeled. “Finished?” he nagged constantly, until the man with the sticky, pitch-blackened hands lost his patience, pulled the ears off the doll, and squashed its head down into its body. The boy muttered that it was all right, he would wait. When finally, clutching the doll in his little fists, he went off with a satisfied sigh, I followed him stealthily. Uttering gentle sounds, the child made his toy walk through the air. It was a while before his interest in his prize slackened and he stopped holding it with both hands. To my relief, his attention was drawn to a stick in the sand. As soon as he was only holding his doll loosely in one hand so he could reach for the stick with the other, I snatched it fromhim and ran off through the tents and screens. The child howled, but I did not look back. I went back to the entrance of the ship, kneading the pitch until it once again became warm, releasing its smell.
As if offering it a treat, I held out the black lump to the greyhound. The animal sniffed, but stiffened at the smell and reared back. I approached it once more, pushing the pitch against its nose. It pulled back even farther.
Squatting, I hooked my fingers behind the ropes, pulling them loose. I forced myself through the gap as fast as I could. The dog stormed at me, barking. I shoved the reed mat against the opening. The animal pushed its nose against the gap with a high-pitched squeal. I kept following its snout with the soft ball, distracting it until I had finally pushed all of the matting back in place. After securing it with a few quick knots, I started running up the sloping planks of the scaffold. My footsteps made a shocking amount of noise. The planks bounced in their mortises, but the more racket I caused, the faster I ran, and the more the boards rattled. I could not believe how high the upper deck was, and I was convinced that down in the yard everybody was already watching me. Any moment I expected the grim blare of bugles.
The upper deck was not yet finished. A wide edge running from the prow to the stern still needed to be covered. It would have made a quick way in if it had not looked so deep and dark that I did not dare to poke my legs through. The real gateway, the entrance for all those who would embark, and for everything that would be brought on board over the next few weeks, was closed off with a hatch set in a sloping wall rising from the decklike a lean-to. I managed to open it through a small hole just large enough for my hand. I entered the ship and pulled the hatch down behind me.
My eyes had to adjust. It was not only dark, but the air was full of dust and grit. Under my feet, I felt a layer of shavings and splinters; obviously nobody had bothered to sweep up the rubbish and wheel it outside. I imagined it would never be removed, and in time it would be trodden into a carpet on the bottom of the ship. It would muffle the sounds of feet and hooves, making all that would happen here soundless.
Through the gap in the unfinished roof and the ventilation holes, some light entered. Though I knew better, I had imagined an empty space, a huge hall of timber and pitch, with just a few booths deep down in the hold. But I found myself in a narrow gallery that led down in a spiral. Dozens of spaces opened
Similar Books
