DAWN STREAKED THE sky pink as I stepped out of Noah and Emzara's tent. Adataneses's pale blue kēthoneth uncomfortably bunched at my shoulders, too large for me, but the material felt soft on my skin, so different from the ratty itch of my old long tunics.

Emzara stood with her sons -- Noah nowhere in sight -- and I kept my head low as I approached. I reckoned I could hear Japheth snicker. "They'll show you around," Emzara said to me. "Noah's already waiting," she directed this to the three men. "Go now."

Sedeqetlebab, hovering over her mother-in-law's shoulder, offered me a reassuring smile. Then Japheth fixed his arm around my shoulders and tugged me along, away from the clearing.

"Every morning we leave to work the timber," Japheth said, flexing his hand resting on my shoulder and motioning to the trees. "Gopherwood." I tried not to stiffen my arms at his touch, but his proximity -- and me never having been alone among men younger than my father -- made my skin prickle.

"Japheth," Ham said, his voice low. He was walking behind us, sloping around in my peripheral like a jackal.

His hold on me released. I tried to hide my relief by re-tying my right plait.

"Wait at least a fortnight before you begin teasing her, Japheth," even Shem chimed in from ahead of us. He hadn't even turned to look at his brothers, but the dirty looks between Ham and Japheth ceased at his tone.

The trees were now beginning to thin, and raw stumps and broken bracken around us showed evidence of the men's activities. "Over there's the river." Japheth pointed to shorter foliage on the left.

"I'll go sneak up on Adataneses," he said mischievously. Before his brothers could argue -- I could see Shem twisting to fix Japheth with his gaze -- he slipped off of the well-trodden path, his brown hair whipping across his shoulders with every step.

We all paused to watch him go. Then a delighted shriek bade us to move on.

Ham walked beside me, keeping his gaze ahead. I remembered how he had taken my pack the night before. It wasn't the clothes I cared much for, but Naamah's gift. I hadn't had time to even properly examine it, besides from getting the inkling that it was a clay figurine of some kind.

With Shem so close to us though, I dared not ask him what he had done with it.

Then Ham raised a hand to his eyes. "Look."

I followed his gaze, and stopped dead in my tracks. Beyond the last few standing trees, I could see the top of a massive wooden structure, long, and dwarfing the landscape.

Ham and Shem had continued walking, but Ham looked over his shoulder at me. For the first time, I could see a small smile playing on his lips. "Come on," he beckoned with a hand criss-crossed with small white scars, "Father's waiting."

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"What is it?" I asked Noah, as we stood in the shadow of the massive wooden structure. It had seemed like a mess of tree trunks and haphazard levels before, but upon closer inspection, the wood was arranged in a methodical vertical pattern, broken up by horizontal jutting slats that may have indicated decks. I counted three of them.

"It's a tabeh," Noah explained, his arms crossed over his chest. His sons, even Japheth, who'd arrived breathless and with mussed-up hair, were now supervising a pair of mules lugging a piece of waste lumber away, shouting instructions at one another every few seconds.

The word was unfamiliar to me; only something about safe passage.

"An Ark," Noah said, softly. When I turned my head to look at him, his face was pinched pensively, and his fingers were whitened, clutching onto his own bicep.

"What is it for?" The townspeople had spoken about these sorts of things, pondering the creations of the madman who dwelt across the forest. But not about anything of this scale -- the Ark was a marvel of calculation, not insanity, and there was precision in every cut of wood I could see.

Noah didn't answer me. He only started walking, not even stopping to beckon me to join him or ensure I was following. It was expected. And so I hurried after him.

More questions thronged on my tongue, but I staved them off. For the moment. Noah was moving with purpose, and maybe what he would tell me would appease my curiosity. All the while, the Ark loomed in the corner of my vision, a dark and squat behemoth.

We moved around the back of the structure, out of sight of the men. Sunlight warmed my skin and helped ward off the nipping of concern at the back of my neck.

The ground was barren and rocky save for a single shrub, thick with broad green leaves and spotted with round, red berries. Noah stopped and examined the bushel, and then looked upwards.

I did as well, but all I could see was the sky. I looked back down at the bush. It was all normal, wasn't it? What was so special about this -?

A drop of water landed on the top leaf of the bushel, and the twigs around it seemed to shake with a breeze I couldn't feel on my skin. Before my very eyes, new leaves unfurled from stems that hadn't existed seconds prior, and new berries burgeoned amongst the green.

Noah reached out his hand, and the water fell on his skin. A steady stream of droplets, like a leak from a water skin, only now, escaping from the sky.

"It's called Rain," Noah said. He flicked the water away. "It's cleansing. My God instructed me to make the Ark, and I obeyed."

His god. I could feel my forehead tighten as I tried to understand what I was seeing. The sky wasn't the place for water; the oceans were. I felt like everything I thought I knew was possible was being undone. "Elohim?"

Noah nodded. "He gave my family the important task of the Ark's construction." I met his gaze as he observed me, his brow, too, furrowed. "So you must forgive me for my hesitations about you marrying Ham. I worry you won't understand what's at stake."

What's at stake? My heart beat out a painful thud in my chest. I remembered the stories of the townspeople, about how Noah was preparing for the end of the world.

But how did the Ark tie into that? Maybe it was a temple, for this god he'd mentioned, Elohim. But this was unlike any temple I'd ever seen or been in, back when Mother had still bade me to attend offerings to the wooden and wax statues that never answered our prayers, and never improved my sister's illness. The cloying scent of incense and desperation was absent here.

"Is that Elohim?" I asked, pointing at the bush.

Noah nodded. "I want you to learn more about my family's ways before you marry my son." His gaze trailed back up to the sky. "There is still much to do before then."

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"What is Ham like?" I asked Sedeqetlebab much later, as I tried to scrub a stain out of one of the men's simlahs.

The burbling water of the river was warmed by the sunlight, and the freshness of it felt good on my skin, washing away the sweat and dirt. She and I stood knee-length in the water, almost shoulder to shoulder, her washing the women's underdresses, and me, the brightly coloured shawls.

"He's a lot like Noah, in a way," she replied thoughtfully, as she wrung out the clothing between her fists. "Both imaginative. Same sort of seriousness."

Same eyes, I thought to myself, although that wasn't strictly true. Noah's gaze was far kinder, perhaps mellowed by age, while Ham's was sharp and probing, dazzling from the dark crevasse of his face and black hair.

I didn't want to think about him. When I had managed to escape Ezmara's scrutiny for a brief moment back at camp, I had tried searching for my clothes and Naamah's gift among the tents. The only place I hadn't looked in was Ham's own tent -- his mother had returned by then to give me more chores to do.

"The Ark is amazing, isn't it?" Sedeqetlebab had been speaking the entire time I'd been lost in thought, and a twinge of guilt made me hasten to nod in response. The older woman had been nothing but kind to me, less overwhelmingly so than Adataneses, and she deserved better than a half-hearted attempt at conversation.

"It truly is. Nothing back in my old town can compare to it." The Ark itself is probably big enough to house my entire town.

"Tell me about your family," Sedeqetlebab folded yet another simlah and rested it on the bank of the river, "I am sure you must miss them."

She met my gaze, and quiet understanding lit her pale hazel eyes. I hesitated, sure she could see the rampant pain on my face as I thought about Naamah. But there was no judgement creasing her forehead, and I felt certain (for once) that I could speak freely in front of her.

"Mainly just my sister. Naamah. She is only seven." I motioned as though I was re-rolling the hem of my undertunic to keep it dry to hide the tears I felt heating in my eye sockets. Even just saying her name hurt my heart.

"You must love her dearly," Sedeqetlebab said, her voice warm with compassion. "Children can be the best things when we have them, and the worst pains when we have to let them go."

"Why don't you or Adataneses have any?" I asked. It was strange to live in a place where there was no child's high-pitched laughter or a baby's caterwauling, but the sudden tightening in Sedeqetlebab's lips made me wish I hadn't asked.

"You can call her Ada." She roughly slapped the last simlah on the bank, and then regathered herself to brush the grass from its sleeves. "And you can call me Sedeqet."

The silence even whilst we redressed made my blood thrum in my ears as we started carrying the clothes back to camp. I thought she would ignore my question until her shoulders sagged, making her appear even smaller.

"We can't have any," she murmured. The slash of guilt in my chest was more than I could bear. "It's Elohim's will."