Noah's Stowaway, and: The Missing Commandments

Noah's Stowaway

The boy wasn't sure if he countedas clean or unclean, and anyway, there was onlyone of him. It began as an act of goodwill,offering to escort the zebras who were strainingat the ropes that led them up the huge gangplank,eyes rolling, mouths wild with foam.He lifted crate after crate of birds: starlings,hawks, flycatchers, the beloved doves.He didn't think of himself, he was just a pairof hands. He and Shem wrestledalligators into cages, Ham loaded cases of wine.He let the monkeys wrap their soft armsaround his neck. The boy's father complainedto the constable about the abundance of noise.First all that hammering, now this. I'll never sleep!

Words that would haunt him. Water sloshedaround his ankles as he finally noticed the crack and linger of thunder. A jar of firefliesin his hands became a lantern that led himto the lower holds. He buried himselfin the horses' hay, listened to the rain,hard as a slap, as the boat lifted from its frame,a creaking worse than his grandmother's lost knees.

Probably more fable than faithfulretelling. No one knows how he survivedor escaped notice, but he did bear children—descendents who hid behind their mother's skirtsbut never cried, who would not add one more dropto the water-soaked earth. They still winceat the divine whip of rain, shake the hands of strangerstoo hard, eager to be remembered.

The Missing Commandments

It wasn't so much dictation asdivine editing: Thou shalt not adorethe abacus, nor the lightning bolt,nor the garland, but especially notthat stupid fatted calf, which Moseswisely condensed to false idols.

Others were hardly applicable—Thou shalt not rubberneck—when He knew the people of Israelwere stiff necked. Others stilljust gibberish—Thou shalt notimitate foghorns with an empty flask, nor endlessly quote silly movies, norstick your finger into live sockets—and thus were discarded.

Moses listened to the voices rise upfrom his stomach, growling,to the angels who buzzedhis head like bees. The list continuedlike a rain of arrows and only a fewfound their mark. He carved deepinto the 39th night, diligent, heavy tabletsbreaking his knees, a bloodied fingeras chisel.

His homecoming was not what he expected.He was offered no food or wine, the villagerstoo eager and anxious. What the Helltook so long? He was a changed man,worn, afraid to admit that the voicesnever ceased, that there was no endto what was required of them. Even now,there was the babbling brook, whispering leaves,the squeaky wheel—all demandingthat he listen, record, obey.