Margaret's Ark

251 Pages·2011·1.06 MB·English

by  Keohane Daniel G

MARGARET'S ARK

Daniel G. Keohane
Published by Other Road Press
Copyright 2011 Daniel G. Keohane
Cover Design by Elderlemon Design

This book is also available as a print edition from most major retailers.
For additional titles and author information, please visit
http://www.otherroadpress.com and Dan's website at
http://www.dankeohane.com
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may
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The story contained herein, including names, characters and places, are
works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title
Acknowledgements & A Few Points to Ponder
60
59
58
57
56
55
54
53
52
51
49
47
46
45
43
41
40
39
38
32
27
26
23
18
15
14
11
10
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
0
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements & A Few Points to Ponder
For my family – past, present and future, with love and gratitude.
Every story begins with its author asking, “What if?” He or she may not ask
the question outright, but boil the genesis of any tale down to its basic
component and you get this question. Margaret’s Ark started this way. Years
ago, friend and fellow writer Fran Bellerive and I picked a random word from
the dictionary to write about: “Lavish.” My result was a short story with that title
which was eventually published in a science fiction magazine. The novel you
hold in your hands came about when I decided to learn more about the characters
in the story, to find out what it would take for someone to give up everything
and do what Noah did a few thousand years ago. In a purely strategic /
theological sense, could I write a modern Great Flood tale without having a
million of my fellow Judeo-Christians write to me and say, “Hey, God said he
wouldn’t do that again?”
I think I pulled it off. If you read the tale that follows and disagree, then
send a letter. But be nice about it. In the end, remember this novel is a work of
fiction, an answer to a specific What If question.
As I did a final edit on this novel (which has always been one of my
favorites), I was reminded how strong a feeling of family is carried throughout.
Not just for the characters, but myself. A lot of personal little bits thrown in to
make it an homage in many ways to my extended family. A significant date
throughout the story is June 8th because, aside from some logistical reasons in
the plot, it’s also my birthday. Recently, however, the date has taken on a sadder
tone with the passing of my cousin. Barbara Stanton Jones was one of those rare
smiling, wonderful women of God whose love touched so many people, and
whom I wish I’d gotten to know a little better over the years. To her, this novel
is also dedicated.
As always, I thank God for allowing me this chance to write, a gift I’ve so
often taken for granted. Mom and Dad, for being proud even if I couldn’t hit a
baseball or get a basket. Andrew, Amanda and Audrey for your excitement over
my bizarre little pastime.
Linda, for your love, and encouragement to get this book off the shelf and
into readers’ hands.
Fran and Janet who took their turns over the years with the editing pen after
this book was written. John Craig, a man I’ve never met but without whom this
book simply wouldn’t work – for explaining over a number of emails and
detailed diagrams how an everyday person can build a sea-worthy ark with
nothing but Home Depot supplies.
Father Jim Calderella, Steve Dorato, Dr. Joseph DiFranza, Komal Patel, Al
Ganksy, Sara Camilli, Brian Hopkins, Bruce Boston, Melissa Singer, and Dave
Brosha (another person I did not know until I had a specific question, who
became my eyes and ears in the Arctic Circle) for sharing expertise and advice
over the course of writing this story. And George Andersen, who inadvertently
pointed me to the scientific concept that allowed me to at least pretend I knew
what I was talking about with one particular plot point.
And as always, to all of my family, friends, coworkers and every reader
who has taken the time to read my stuff.
Enjoy the story.
Danny Keohane

MARGARET’S ARK
60

Margaret Carboneau was dreaming.
The edges of the trees glowed where there should have been darkness, as if
some massive light just winked off and cast an aura around everything it had
touched. The world was silent. No car sounds from Route 101 two blocks to the
east.
Feeling the grass under her bare feet, knowing this was a dream, it had to
be a dream, Margaret walked across her yard towards the back porch. Where her
neighbor’s house once stood was now only woods. The stranger moving beside
her was tall, clean-shaven, wearing dark jeans and a loose-fitting black shirt.
No one spoke, but Margaret was not uncomfortable with the silence. Maybe
this man had been in her dreams before. Though his expression and demeanor
was that of an old friend, she did not recognize him.
They reached the back steps. The stranger stopped and turned towards her.
“You're dreaming,” he said. His voice was strong, breaking through the
uncertainty in the air around her.
Margaret put her hands into the pockets of her nightgown and looked at the
ground. “I know,” she said, “but I didn’t think people in my dreams were
supposed to know that.”
The stranger smiled, laid a hand briefly on her shoulder, then put his hands
into his own pants pockets. “My name is David,” he said, expression flattening
to a neutral stare. Margaret found herself looking at him intensely, as if the loss
of emotion on his face meant she should be attentive.
Unspoken rules of dreams and nightmares.
He said, “I am one of many sent by God Almighty, with a message. Pay
close heed to what I have to tell you. What I and my brethren are saying at this
moment will be remembered when you and the others awaken. This will not be
the last time we speak.”
The others , Margaret thought. These two words sent a wave of dread
through her that she could not understand.
David’s clothes shimmered deep blue, darkened again to black. “God loves
you, Margaret Carboneau. He loves your daughters. He loves everyone - even
those who deny or despise him.”
Something tickled her ankles, like a thousand insects scurrying across her
Something tickled her ankles, like a thousand insects scurrying across her
feet. She wanted to look down, kick or brush the feeling away. She could not.
Margaret could do nothing but stare into the angel's face.
“What you are being told,” he continued, “is spoken out of that love. You
may not think so, not at first, but you must trust God’s perfect judgment.”
“Judgment?” Her voice sounded weak, a nervous child afraid of words
implying punishment. The tickling crept up her calves. Cold. Wet.
Water.
The bottom of her nightgown was heavy with the weight of it. Her feet
were cold. She was cold. Again, David laid a hand on her shoulder.
The chill faded, but the tickling continued.
His voice grew in volume. “Let the Lord’s proclamation be spoken unto all
mankind, in both words and actions. Let it be heard and acknowledged.”
The water rose past her waist.
“In sixty days,” the angel continued, “water will rise again over the world.”
To her neck. Margaret wanted to raise herself on her toes, reach above the
rising flood, wanted to scream. She could not.
“Over those who have denied His love as well as those who have lived
within it all their days.”
Over her face, into her open mouth. Lungs filled. The world spun and spun
and spun. The angel's voice remained clear.
“God loves you, Margaret. He loves your people. And he wants to spare
those willing to believe...”
The paralysis ended. Margaret flailed, grabbing for the angel, for anything.
With the darkness and the spinning, she couldn't tell which way was up. She
opened her mouth to scream, but there was only water.
“...who hear his warning and do what is required. Build your tribute to the
Lord. I will show you how. Tell others about what we have said. Bring them into
your fold, and He will spare them. Please, He begs you. Build it. Save your
people.”
Build what? Help me!
“The ark.”
Margaret awoke with a gasp. Sweat-soaked bed sheets clung like frightened
children around her body. She kicked them away, tried to couch the dream from
her lungs, but the water was gone. The dream was over.
The bedroom was dark, silent save for the rhythmic hum of the overhead
fan. She looked at the clock on the side table. Ten thirty-five. A renewed wave
of fear washed over her. If she'd fallen asleep, into such a vivid dream, it could
only have been for a few minutes. The numbers of the clock switched to ten
thirty-six.
thirty-six.

59

She slowly worked the spatula under both eggs, slid it back out, then
realized she'd forgotten to flip them over. When she did, the eggs sputtered anew
in the butter. Margaret was tired.
The dream. Usually when she woke from a nightmare she could roll over
and let it fade into insignificance. Not this one. It was as if David the Angel had
been talking to her in person, in the real world, not letting her discard their
meeting as a dream.
It was only a dream.
“Mom, is my egg ready?” Katie sat at the kitchen table, gently tapping her
fork against the table.
Four-year-old Robin sat in the seat beside her, Mickey Mouse fork in her
own hand and tapping it like her big sister. “Mom?” she said, as if Katie hadn't
spoken, “Is my egg ready, yet?”
Margaret flipped one each onto their respective plates beside the toast and
said, “Yes and yes.” She put the plates onto the table. “Now eat up. We have to
leave for church in a half hour and you still have to get dressed.”
She dropped two more eggs into the pan for herself. Though Sunday
offered some respite from the usual weekday crunch, the three of them had to
scramble to make it to Mass on time, especially since Vince died. On school
days, it was a race to get herself and the girl's dressed, drop Katie off next door
at the Duddy's to wait for the bus and bring Robin to the early drop-off at the
daycare which, thankfully, was housed in the elementary school. Being a full-
time science teacher at the high school next door had its advantages. Margaret
usually made it into class well before her first students arrived, a few spare
minutes to organize lesson plans or last-minute grading. Today was Sunday. The
only thing on the docket after church was Katie’s softball game at four o’clock.
Time had lessened, at least for the girls, the pain these Sunday mornings brought
to the family, Vince’s glaring absence between them in the pew. Katie still
missed her dad, but her grief was concentrated in moments that gratefully
showed themselves less and less, as life slowly filled in the gaps. Robin played
along, but Margaret wondered how much of it was simple imitation of her sister.
along, but Margaret wondered how much of it was simple imitation of her sister.
She’d been only two when it had happened. A year and a half was a long span
for a girl that age.
She flipped the eggs onto her own plate and sat at the table across from the
girls. When she a child, the Catholic rule of not eating an hour before
Communion was still in effect, at least in her house. Whether that regulation had
ever been lifted, or modified to apply only to swimming she didn’t know.
Margaret never took it seriously in her adult life. Robin squirmed enough in the
pews without being hungry on top of it.
“Eat up,” she said, noticing Katie's attention pulled further into the Sunday
comics and away from her cooling breakfast.

*

Jack used to have a last name, Rory, or Lowry - something like that. Like
everything else that came before, he could never be certain. That life had been
taken away, ripped from his arms, replaced with this new existence of mental
fog and occasional blades of pain. Not physical pain, though his stomach did
have moments when it felt as if a hole opened inside him when he didn’t eat
enough. The blades were memory, flashes of remembrance. They hurt to look at,
like staring too long into the sun.
Jack lay sideways on the cot. The pillow was so thin he had to curl his arm
beneath it for support. The wall in front of him was blemished – stains and spit
and other unnamable excretions Rick and his people – including Jack when his
shift came around – worked unceasingly to erase but which had an existence
beyond anything manageable, like memory, coming back again and again in
spite of the scrubbing.
He’d had a thought a moment ago, but it had flittered away like a kite
loosed in the wind. Jack lay still, reaching mentally for the string and trying hard
to hold it. Something about God. The face of God. The face of an angel.
The angel in his dream. Faceless, glowing with light. Telling him
something important. A message from God Himself, maybe. He stared at the
wall, not seeing it, letting images race past like on a movie screen. Water.
Ocean. No, not quite. A lot of water, though. Floods. The Flood? Like Noah.
He was close, but the kite kept spinning out of reach. Jack laid his hand on
a clean spot on the wall, hoping to grab it. The motion only served to bring him
further into the waking world. It was lost.
After a time, he rolled over and swung his legs off the bed. His blanket was
bunched on the floor again. It never stayed on him very long when he slept. He
reached down, saw significance in its curves and folds. Angel, he remembered
again. Telling him something important. He wished he could remember. God is
in the details, someone told him long ago, in that other life. A life which Jack
understood with a rare bit of clarity he could never get back. He was too lost.
Everyone was. That was the point of the dream. Everyone lost, doomed to....
something or other.
The second floor was partitioned into two small rooms, one for men, one
for women. His area was abuzz with the waking sounds of the night’s residents.
Few people spoke, at least to each other. Grumblings, coughing out last night’s
nicotine. One man in the far corner heaved and vomited behind his cot. Didn’t
have a good night, that guy, he thought. These sounds served as morning’s
wake-up call along with the smell and plate-clanking of breakfast downstairs. He
followed a group of a half dozen men already merging with a larger group of
women and young children in the outside hall. It was dark here, thick with body
smells, lit by morning light through a window over the stairwell and a single,
dust-caked bulb.
Jack kept his gaze down, not wanting to be drawn into conversation. He had
trouble keeping the threads of his life together, and things got worse when
someone made him focus on whatever struck them as interesting. There was a
second set of feet descending the steps beside him. Jeans, clean sneakers, a
scarred black hand.
“Sleep well?” the man asked. Jack looked up, ready to look away again if
the other tried to make eye contact. It was a young face, midnight black and
mapped with scars of some long-ago battle. Probably some accident, or a bad
fight. He looked familiar, and seemed to know Jack enough to keep his gaze
directed away, to the back of a bald man’s head in front of them. They stepped
onto the ground floor landing where their procession joined the already-long line
queued up for breakfast.
“OK, I guess,” Jack finally said.
The young man nodded.
The bald guy turned around. His fleshy face folded in on itself, half-
confused, half-irritated. He said, “You talking to me, Mister?”
Jack shook his head, tilted his head to the right. “To my friend, here.”
The fleshy head turned to... Michael, Jack remembered. The kid’s name is
Michael... and snorted. Jack couldn’t tell what the sound meant, but was glad
that the head turned back around and the man stepped up to close the gap in the
line.
Jack blinked. Was he supposed to have gotten up early today for table duty?
Maybe it was tomorrow. Rick would have come up to get him if it was today.
The center’s director was serving and chatting with the guests, his gray beard