An Ark

        

A column of depressed nimbus cut short my interface with a stem of sunlight. I had no doubt about their intention. The rest of the team buzzed around me, hovering between moderate and low stress levels with the full measure of charm most young mammals display. I’d wandered off the yellow brick road again, my rainbow drained, a lifeless lanyard around my neck. 

     Would fresh air help? 

     I logged off and walked to the park. I still had a little time before my appointment.

     A pair of jacketed poodles frolicked in the dog run. Toddlers—twins—tumbled down the playground’s slide. A couple walked by, hand-in-hand, oblivious. When the rain began, I took shelter under the arc of a great oak branch and did another sketch in my notebook. 

 

******

     

     The sullen woman with the regular appointment before mine shuffled out and Janet summoned a weary smile. Come in. How was your day? What could I say? Meetings and messages. Insecurities. Petty rivalries. The shruggers…

     “Shruggers?” she interrupted, blinking behind her glasses.

     “They shrug. Then, head down, carry on.”

     “Why can’t you be one of them?”

      I shrugged. 

     “Progress! Did you download the wellness app?”

     “No.” 

     I’d had enough. It was revelation time. I took out my notebook and flipped through its pages, detailing my progress so far: sources for timber, documentation of the nails versus no nails debate, a flowchart of excrement management, a list of provisions for carnivores and herbivores (primarily dried meat and straw) and a diagram of my freshwater tank-and-pipe system.

     Janet took off her glasses and chewed on one arm as I spoke.   

     I put the notebook on the table between us to show her the sketch I’d done in the park. 

     “Imagine it,” I explained, “like one of those scribbles by Frank Gehry that develops into an art gallery.” 

     Janet put on her glasses to examine my sketch. 

     “Sure, it’s rough but see the curve of the ribs and curl of the prow? See the edges of the three decks, and above them, the long cabin with a sloping roof?” 

     She sat back, removed her glasses and knuckled an eye. Glancing at the clock, she occupied our last five minutes with a sermon on shruggers.

 

******

 

     At the local hardware store, a guy in a leather apron asked what I’m building. 

     “A doghouse,” I replied. A partial truth. 

     “I have an elderly terrier with dementia,” he said, “named Alan.” 

     He looked at me expectantly. I don’t have a dog but I told him I have a cocker spaniel. 

     Named Daniel. Best I could come up with.

     He started with the basics: shelter and warmth, roofing and insulation, then moved on to how to create a homely interior. Given his expertise and passion, I ventured a question about ancient measurements. I’d had trouble finding a definitive conversion factor for cubits. 

     “Royal or common cubits?” he asked.

     “There are common cubits?” 

     “To each his own,” he said as he rolled up his sleeve to reveal four thin lines at even intervals tattooed across his right forearm. He showed me with his left hand how these lines divided his cubit—from the tip of his right middle finger to his elbow crease—into six palms.

     “Some prefer seven,” he added as he held out my forearm and measured it with a tape.

     Next, timber specifications. I avoided the well-worn debate over cedar versus cypress as I knew exotic wood equals exotic price-tag. Thankfully, the main sticking point in the scholarship is the Hebrew term “gopher wood” and, given no one today knows what that is, some scholars suggest the original Ark was made from fir, teak, pine or sandalwood. I mentioned each of these. 

     “Pine is fine,” said the hardware guy, “especially if you’re on a budget.”

     As he guided me to the pine aisle, he detailed his dog’s cognitive decline. 

     “Alan spends a lot of time drooling by the door, unsure if he wants to exit or not.” 

     I wondered about mandatory mental health checks before admitting animals on board. 

     Only the fittest? Is that ableist? What would Darwin do?

     Using my cubit, the hardware guy measured up enough planks for Daniel’s house. He’d been so helpful I asked if he knew anything about animals other than dogs. 

     “No,” he said. “But I know a guy.”

 

******

 

     Janet ushered me in as she waved the sullen woman out. I put my umbrella in the corner where it could drip unnoticed. How was your day? What could I say? Meetings and messages? How about this rain? No. I began strong with my trip to the hardware store.

     “Crafting is a great way to engage the senses,” said Janet.

     I reminded her of the Ark. 

     She turned her notepad back a few pages and frowned. 

     “Isn’t that a bit ambitious? Didn’t Noah take fifty years to build his?”

     “Eighty-one,” I replied, “but supply chain logistics have improved significantly in the last two millennia. And he had limited outsourcing opportunities.”

     “Still, boats are complex to design. There’s buoyance, stresses, weight distribution. Couldn’t you start with something simpler? What about a bird platform or a treehouse?”

     “I’m building a doghouse.”

     “Dogs are wonderful companions.” 

     “I don’t have a dog. I’m practicing.” 

     “Perhaps—since you’re building a house anyway—you could adopt a stray?”

     “I’ll need to gather a pair of canines eventually.”

     She nodded and smiled for the first time.

     I told her how the cubit problem was solved and the hardware guy’s advice on timber, then showed her my latest sketch: charcoal on acid-free, archival paper, an Ark rolling in a sea swell. 

     “Inspired by Turner’s watercolors,” I added.

     Janet scribbled on her pad. 

     “Have you thought about enrolling in an art class?”

     She’s too detached. She needs to immerse herself in the vision.

     “An ark is an upside-down walnut shell,” I said, “a skull with the brain extracted. A vessel imprinted with the remains of human intelligence.” 

     Janet winced into her notes, glanced at the clock, exhaled and showed me out.

******

 

     Sent by the hardware guy, a biologist appeared at my door. He was dressed in combat fatigues, a floppy green hat with a drawstring under his chin and he carried a long-handled net. While vague about the purpose of my collection, I gave him an idea of its scale. He advised me to start small—weevils, aphids, tree lice, mealybugs—for which I’d need a decent magnifying glass, a pair of tweezers and a lot of jam jars.

     I was not, I told him, entirely inexperienced in this field. As the eight-year-old CEO of Uncle Milton’s Ant Farm, I managed a slim Perspex box filled with ants. I tried in vain to name the ants but found them indistinguishable. All was fine with the Farm until one day, when I was out, my little brother turned the box upside-down, and they escaped. My mother went crazy when she found them in the pantry, exterminated every ant and threw out my farm. I should tell Janet that story.

     The biologist suggested we begin in the backyard where he showed me how to capture and catalogue the myriad creatures hiding under leaf litter and tree bark. On hands and knees, he revealed whole communities in a scoop of dirt and collected tiny flies from a spiders’ stretch of web across the kitchen window. He made me a Berlese funnel from a plastic bottle and a torch, and explained how its heat and light drive insects into a waiting jar. 

     He knew a great deal about insect copulation and courtship rituals. Distinguishing between male and female was impossible among the smaller ones, so the biologist advised me that the best strategy was to over-compensate and collect at least a dozen to maximize the chance of securing a breeding pair. I took copious notes as I inserted insects into carefully labelled jars.

     But it was his research on an ancient worm, Ikaria Wariootia, that proved most interesting. 

     “The size of a rice grain,” he said, “it had an opening at each end, connected by a gut, much like us. It burrowed in the sand below the watery chaos in the era before the Cambrian Explosion. Evolutionary biologists agree that this worm is the oldest ancestor of animals.” 

     Inspired by this insight, I asked if, rather than representatives of every species alive today I might simply collect a pair of worms capable of diversification. 

     He thought about it. 

     “It’s possible,” he said. “But it would require a great deal of patience.”

     “How long are we talking?”

     “At least 500 million years.”

 

******

 

     I arrived early for my appointment, a glass jar concealed under my khaki jacket. I waited until the sullen woman had gone and asked Janet to turn off the lights and pull down the blinds. She agreed, reluctantly. 

     I pulled out the jar and tapped on it. Nothing. I shook it in case the fireflies were hiding in the leaves. The room was dark. My tiny Tinkerbells failed to ignite even a faint spark. 

     Janet switched on the light.

     “They look better at night,” I said. “Like pinpoints of light darting around the jar.”

     “Entomology is a worthy hobby,” said Janet.

     “My father used to crush them in his hands and his palms would glow for hours.”

     “That may be where this started,” Janet scribbled on her pad. 

     “The point is, I’ve started gathering,” I said.

     “And the doghouse?”

     “Yes,” I proudly showed her a photo on my phone. “If you turn it upside down it’s a prototype Ark.”

     Janet turned the phone upside down, handed it back and removed her glasses.

     “Have you considered the operational logistics?” she asked.

     “Aardvarks first.”

     “Yes. But gazelles need to leap, squirrels need to climb, capybaras need pools to bathe in. Worms and clams require an appropriate substrate of earth in which to burrow.”

     Janet consulted her notes. 

     “And what of teredos, tiny, worm-like molluscs that eat their way through wood? What will you do if they get into the hull?”

     She’s coming around. 

     “And where will you house the tapeworms, hookworms and intestinal worms?”

     She returned to her notes.

     “Pandas only eat bamboo, koalas only eat certain types of Eucalyptus leaves and vampire bats, well, who will you sacrifice for them?”

     Impressive. I may even offer Janet a berth. 

     “What of living things that look like plants but behave like animals? Corals, Venus fly traps, fungi, algae? Millions of species…” 

     “I’ve studied Linnaeus,” I interrupted, “Rousseau knew no greater mind.”

     “His Systema Naturae is saturated with theology,” she replied. “Today’s scientists are not so hung up on taxonomy. Many species share a common genetic source. If it wasn’t for Darwin’s finches, any old birds would do.” 

     Another revelation. 

     “Yes!” I said, “The Galapagos islands! The accidents and excesses of existence. I need to return to the source!”

     “A vacation might do you good,” finished Janet.

     That night, I watch the fireflies, two points of light, star-like, zigzag across the jar. 

     My mind was made up.

 

******

 Dear Janet

     I can’t believe it’s been six months since I arrived. It’s hot and dry and the vast sky is cloudless. I’ve made a temporary home for myself on Santa Cruz, the most inhabited island of the Galapagos archipelago. Here, I am learning a great deal from the native people. They accepted me into the village when their chief took a liking to my net which he wears on his head for ceremonies. 

     The natives live in treehouses, ingeniously made with stilts and decorated with bones. The chief told me they believe that ghosts sometimes travel from the bodies of white men at night and inhabit those of the tribe. “They eat the victim’s insides while he sleeps,” he said, “replacing them with fireplace ash so the victim doesn’t know he’s begin eaten.” If the tribe find out that one among them is inhabited by a ghost, they tie him up, take him to the river and shoot arrows in him. 

     After the Great Library of Santa Cruz burned down, the natives lost their ability to read. From ancient bark scrolls that told of the Deluge to documentation of Inca labor camps on the islands, their history was lost forever. The chief told me that they have no interest in rebuilding the Library nor relearning the art of reading. They have stories, of course, but these change with each telling, take numerous digressions, and finish abruptly. 

     Cruise ships occasionally appear on the horizon and send forth smaller boats. The tourists are wary and keep to the beach. The natives, though they distrust white people, exchange knucklebone necklaces for the tourists’ distressed jeans and worn baseball caps.

     Of an evening, native carpenters build treehouses and sing sea shanties. These songs their ancestors learned from Captain Cook’s crew. I have put my collecting on hold for now as they have commandeered my jars for storing bones and coral. Instead, I am learning carpentry and shanties. I’m building my own canoe with which to explore the other islands. 

 

******

Dear Janet

     It’s been a while but the good news is that I have a new home! 

     After a year on Santa Cruz, I finally explored the archipelago in my canoe. The first island I visited, Isla Satoshi, has a neat row of silver living pods along its palm-fringed beach. Young men are helicoptered in from yachts to work for a few days in order to ensure the island’s tax-free status. The next island I visited is a prison managed by the descendants of Cook’s mutineers. Emaciated flamingos guard its grassy shore like abandoned lawn ornaments. 

     Eventually, I found an island to call home. Fringed by reefs and accessible only by canoe, it’s a tiny volcanic atoll inhabited by giant tortoises. Its vegetation consists of a grove of coconut palms, numerous cacti and some low, leafless shrubs. I built myself a treehouse at the foot of the old volcano and decorated it with bleached coral. 

     I trap fish in the shallows and dry and powder the cacti into flour to make pancakes. Seasoned with salt and washed down with coconut milk, they make a tasty meal. The tortoises line up for them.  

     The tortoises are large, most are five to six feet long. They have bald, wrinkled heads, stumpy legs and the great domes on their back look like firmaments dappled with clouds. 

     I have my names for them. 

     There’s Doris and Mildred, two inseparable old maids. There’s stubborn Bulldozer who loves driving great lines across the beach and his partner, snappy Esmeralda. Blunt-beaked Kurma is the oldest and wisest. His glassy eyes rarely open. 

     There are no young among them.  

     Sometimes finches feed on the parasites that cling to their shells. I thought for a long time that the tortoises didn’t mind until I witnessed Floyd whip his beak around and catch a finch by the wing. He crunched on the wing then, as the finch flailed on the sand, he stomped on it and ate it. Until then I assumed the tortoises were vegetarians. 

     Some days we bathe in the bubbling mud pools that lie in the volcano’s crater. It takes the tortoises a long time to get to the top so I give them a head start. Even then I let them beat me. We bask in the warm mud until sunset when I roll them down the volcano’s slope and we wash ourselves in the ocean. 

     Kurma lets me ride the waves atop his dome. 

     Am I running a refuge for centennial reptiles? No, Janet. In fact, I now sleep among them, half-buried in the sand. On nights when the moon’s full, I turn each one of them over and we lie on our backs recharging and hope that this is enough to get us through another month.