landlost | ONC 2024

eleven.

THE HOT MONTHS passed quickly, the days spent sweating all blurring together. The pain of Naamah's death was like a blister that kept rubbing raw within my heart - one moment I was fine and laughing, and the next, I was crippled by it.

It was Ada who offered to teach me how to pray, and every evening I'd go to her tent, following her cues (clasp hands together, close eyes, say what you're grateful for, tell Him what you need) until I could do it on my own. I wasn't sure if it was helping --unless Elohim could raise the dead -- but the pattern was comforting. And praying about something was better than doing nothing at all.

I hardly saw Ham, or any of the men, during that time. Noah made sure they all utilised the much longer days, and they returned to camp past twilight after bathing. Even their weekly rest days just became prolonged discussions about dimensions and numbers I couldn't decipher.

But every time I'd walked past them, engrossed in their calculations, Ham's eyes had slightly brightened and followed after me. I wasn't sure what to make of this. Maybe I had ought to feel happy he was taking more notice of me, but, on the other hand, maybe he was merely remembering my hysterics when I'd cried about Naamah's death. Maybe it was just pity.

"This should be enough for tonight." Sedeqet wiped her brow and adjusted the basket on her hip. We'd both been collecting barley and wheat, though I was also chewing on a succulent fig I'd picked from a nearby tree.

"What's happening tonight?" I asked, as juice dribbled down my chin. I quickly scraped it away as Sedeqet tittered. She wasn't going to tell me.

"It's a surprise. But you'll enjoy it. Let's get back now; Emzara's waiting for us."

I shot a glance behind my shoulder as we left the fields. The hole in the ground where the lightning had struck was now barely visible betwixt grains and dirt. The pain of it on Sedeqet's mind had similarly faded over time. I allowed myself to dare hope that eventually, I too would be free from the agony of grief.

It was strange, I realised, as we re-entered camp. Just like Sedeqet had said, Emzara was waiting, two skin bowls and makeshift mortars she'd crafted from wood resting on the log by the firepit that was gently smoking.

I wanted to be happy. I knew I could be, remembering the days leading up to Naamah's death. I'd been content. But now my pain was like a stone in my sandal, constantly chafing, and difficult to escape.

"Come now, girls," Emzara said, her tone commanding. "This evening's bread isn't going to make itself." I was all too happy to break apart the barley and wheat grains, crushing them together with my wooden mortar.

"Where's Ada?" I asked, rhythmically moving my hands. It felt good to help Emzara. Not only had she been teaching me things my own mother had neglected, but ever since the death of my sister -- when she'd made me the kēthanoth I now wore religiously -- she'd been softer on me. We hadn't fought since. And she'd even carefully set aside my figurine, once, when she had cleaned the tent.

"She's adding date syrup to the beer," the older woman answered. Her one eyebrow raised. "Sweetens the taste."

"Otherwise it's nigh unbearable," Sedeqet hissed in my ear, her face cringing with disgust, and I held back a laugh.

Once we'd added water and kneaded our dough, Emzara carefully poked around in the smouldering coals and ashes that remained in the firepit, ensuring it wasn't hot enough to burn the bread. Then we placed the misshapen, gloopy loaves on pieces of bark and slotted them over the remains of the fire.

I raised my hands and waggled my fingers in Ada's face as she joined us, threatening to touch her with sticky skin. She slapped my forearms away, laughing her beautiful laugh. It was no wonder Japheth was such a jokester; Ada's mirth was infectious and pleasing to the ear.