Refugees

  Chapter 18

  Mud - Amanki

  The sun’s rays were now glistening upon the water stretching toward the village where the screams of mud beasts and villagers filled the morning air. Darkness had been rolled back, but the scene the light revealed was one of horror. Summoned by the ram’s horn, some of the Webby men had gathered quickly, armed with slings and whatever farm tools they had been able to grab. The mud beasts had surrounded the makeshift militia and were slaughtering them. Webbies were fleeing in every direction. Some were diving into the river.

  A handful of people had reached their boats and were frantically pushing off from shore, but most of the fleeing people were either lassoed, trampled or cut down by the mud beasts. As I lifted our reed sail, I wanted to shut out the frighteningly near sights and sounds of the raid and get far, far away. All I could think about was escaping and surviving. With the sail up, the wind took over. I grabbed the oars to steer.

  As we sailed along in the current, I began to wonder if the family that had helped me had gotten away in time. Our small craft could not have safely carried so many, but I felt guilty for not having tried harder to persuade them to leave before the hoards had arrived. I hung my head as I thought.

  “Baskrod’s warning had already been passed to the people of this village. Some chose not to believe, some were waiting for the right time, and a few had already left. You tried to alert them,” Manhera said in a comforting voice, as if she knew what I was thinking.

  “Not hard enough,” I said ruefully.

  I steered our craft as close to the far shore as possible while still staying in the flowing current. As I concentrated on adjusting the sail, I tried again to close off my senses from the horror and death behind us.

  “Soon we will be away from this,” I said aloud to reassure Manhera and myself.

  To my surprise, Baskrod stirred on the boat deck between us. “If Adon had not been on our side, they would have drunk our blood. The flood would have engulfed us, the torrent would have swept over us, and the raging waters would have carried us away,” he called out in an eerie voice, which was made more ghastly by the murderous background sounds from the village.

  “Baskrod,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  But he seemed to have gone back to sleep.

  Manhera silently lifted her forefinger to her full lips. Then she quietly said, “I will tend to him.” She selected a small clay jar from the bag she had brought, then carefully picked her way to Baskrod’s side, where she sat and placed his head on her lap. “I have some of your Mesmeringa Tea. Please drink.” She lifted his head and held the opened jar to his lips. A sweet strange aroma filled the air. After a moment, Baskrod sipped, willingly.

  ‘Manhera,” he said, and for a brief moment he smiled. “Thank you.” His eyes fluttered and closed, then his whole body relaxed back into a deep sleep.

  I wanted to ask him about a thousand questions. Who were these mud beasts? Why were they killing people and cutting off their feet? Why did the wife give me the cylinder seal? What did she mean that she knew who I was? What did the new star have to do with all of this? But I knew my questions would have to wait until he was stronger. For now I let him sleep, as our boat rushed us away from the murderous deluge. I considered asking Manhera, but my words stayed jarred up inside me. At first I tried to tell myself not to think about what I was leaving, but to try to think about where we might be going. But the idea of some distant, foreign land was not comforting, so I finally focused on simply heading downstream.

  Once Baskrod was sleeping soundly, and we were safely away from the village, I turned my attention to Manhera. Her drenched tunic clung to her shapely body as she twisted her hair and rang it out over the edge of the boat. In this sun, everything would dry quickly. She turned back toward me and saw me staring at her. I looked down, embarrassed. I tried to think of something intelligent to say.

  ‘I am Amanki, son of Alallu of Arvuk,” I said. With all that had happened, we hadn’t even introduced ourselves properly.

  “I am Manhera, daughter of Pajgan of Porvak,” she replied. “Thank you for letting me join you.” As I looked into her green eyes, I found myself drawn to her, as if she was a well of refreshing water that could restore me. Then, feeling self-conscious, I tried to direct her attention away from me.

  “How bad is he?” I asked.

  “The cut is deep,” she answered, “but you were wise to bring him to me." She paused, then continued, “How did you find me?”

  I explained to her about how I had guided the boat to a place near the willow tree that I remembered and had gone to the closest house to ask for help.

  “Our Lord, Adon, led you to the right house.”

  I nodded. She referred to “Our Lord, Adon” in the same manner that Baskrod did, rather than invoking the names of the gods worshipped in our Webby villages. I suppose I should not have been surprised, since Baskrod’s faith permeated every part of his existence, like the mud filled our fields, but I had not expected to find that Baskrod had taught Manhera his faith. I had felt like his special student, so I never thought about whom else he may have taught. As always, when it came to Baskrod, I was forever becoming more aware of just how much I did not know.

  “Who were the people that helped me?” I asked, hoping Manhera would tell me about the woman who had such a strange aura of authority for a humble farmer’s wife.

  “That was the home of Jartav, son of Ferluk of Porvak, He is a barley farmer, with five strong sons,” she said, not mentioning the wife. “He was protecting his family,” she said, seemingly defending him for whacking me with his threshing flail.

  “I know,” I answered. “I too am a barley farmer and sometimes a fisherman.”

  We were coming upon a group of mudbrick houses that formed yet another village along the river. I directed the boat toward the shore where there were some boys knee high in some reeds.

  “Danger is coming!” I yelled to them. I held up a blood smeared blanket to try to scare them into action. “Go tell your fathers to sound the ram’s horn!”

  The boys looked up at me, and when they saw the blood stained blanket, one of them splashed to shore and started to run toward the houses. The other boys called after him, taunting him, “Sissy, scared of a little blood!” Little did they realize: that boy probably saved their lives by running to tell.

  “I won’t risk going ashore this time,” I told Manhera. She nodded in agreement.

  And so it was that we settled into sailing downstream. I took care of the sail and sometimes rowed, or threw out the nets to fish when we stopped. Manhera inspected our supplies, graciously prepared meals, and tended to Baskrod, who continued to sleep for long periods of time. She spoke very little. Women in our villages did not normally spend time alone with men or older boys who were not family members, so it was awkward for both of us. Her beauty made me stir in ways that I had been taught were not appropriate, so I felt intimidated. I had never been so close to such a beautiful woman. She seemed so different from the girls in Arvuk, who seemed to always be in groups, laughing and talking animatedly like choppy waters. Manhera was quiet and calm like a pond on a windless day. At one point, I allowed her to put another poultice on my forehead. As she ran her gentle fingers along my temples, I felt drawn to her, but instead I found some excuse for moving away.

  After that, I spoke only of the tasks at hand, waiting and hoping that Baskrod would recover and be able to direct us. Even though Manhera seemed to be several years older than me, I knew she would not be married because she was a healer. I told myself that sailing with me would not compromise her reputation because Baskrod was present, like a grandfather. As it was, Baskrod drifted in and out of sleeping. Manhera and I took turns steering and only stopped on the far shore briefly in the evening, so I could cut reeds to build a fire, and Manhera could cook the fish I had caught for our evening meal.

  In spite of the pleasant company of Manhera, I felt empty. It was foolish for me to be
so enamored by this beautiful older woman, who was, of all things, a healer. Life seemed futile. I somehow felt responsible for the destruction of my village. After all, if anybody should have believed Baskrod, I should have. I had let down all those who loved me. How could I forgive myself? I could not wash from my mind the picture of my mother’s severed feet.

  Just before dusk, we headed for the shore, where I tossed our stone bag overboard and prepared to throw our small circular net into the water.

  “Oh! Look!” Manhera called out.

  I looked in the water where she was pointing and saw dozens of catfish floating at the surface. I had never seen anything like it before. Baskrod and I had often fished with torches at night. He would shine the light at the water, and when the curious fish came to the top, I would harpoon them with his trident. But I had never seen so many living fish on top of the water in the daylight. Quickly I grabbed the trident and began spearing the smaller ones. We would feast on catfish that night.

  Once on shore, I set about cutting reeds along the edge of the river for our fire. The sudden sound of short squawks informed me that I had disturbed a nest of marbled ducks. A dozen or so of these dotted ducks rose quickly into the sky, circling above me. Marbled ducks are revered by Webbies. My people believed that at the beginning of time, all mud was hidden under deep water by the water god, Ansul, but the beautiful and fertile goddess Kalibel dreamed of creating a man. She lulled the Berserker into a sleep so the waters were calm and then convinced the birds of the air to dive through the water to the ground. But the water was too deep and one after another the birds kept coming up for air. Some ducks dipped their heads into the water, lifting their tail feathers behind them, but they only dabbled and came up with fish instead of earth. Finally, the marbled duck dove deep under the water and returned to the surface with mud, which Kalibel used to form men. To honor this great feat of the marbled duck, Kalibel created the first men with webbed feet and gave them the power to dive deep under the waters.

  Just then, from all around, both along this shore and across the river, myriad birds took to the sky. Flocks and more flocks rose fluttering, quacking, and squawking, and then flew away to the north. It seemed like a sign.

  Remembering my roots, I determinedly returned with the bundles of reeds I had gathered and quickly built the campfire. Then, ignoring Manhera, who was preparing the fish while Baskrod slept nearby, I selected the largest catfish and a jar of beer. I carried the items down toward the river, where I laid out the fish as an offering for Ansul, the water god, and poured the beer on the ground to appease the Berserker. It had been a long time since I had honored the gods of my village. I feared that I had angered these gods when I had so willingly memorized the words of Adon that Baskrod had taught me, turning my back on the old gods. Perhaps this was how I had brought on the attack of the mud beasts and the deaths of my friends and family at the hands of those unwebbed marauders.

  When I returned to the fire, the fish was cooking. Manhera was preparing reeds for roasting, with quick, angry motions. She would not look at me. She must have known what I had been doing.

  “The way I look at it, we need all the help we can get,” I explained, but my words sounded hollow. I felt angry, confused, and ashamed all at once.

  Then I couldn’t keep my emotions plugged up any longer. It was as if I were a jar, and the reed seal had popped out of my top. “Everybody I ever knew has been brutally slaughtered. I saw my own mother mercilessly murdered, her feet cut off and dangled in the air like some trophy! Yet Adon hid his face and did nothing! If he is a just god, why didn’t he do something? Why didn’t he stop them?” I yelled at her. I didn’t care what she thought. I didn’t care about anything anymore.

  Manhera waited until my outburst ended and then spoke firmly but gently: “Amanki, you and I still live. Adon is our shield. We have found shelter under his wings. He is the cup from which we must drink our blessings.” Manhera got down on her knees and raised her hands and her radiant face to the starry sky. Then she began to sing, in a sweet clear voice, a song I knew from Baskrod:

  “You alone rescued us from our enemy.

  You alone rescued us from those who were strong.

  Adon, I will praise you. I will praise your name!”

  I felt more guilty than thankful to be alive, and all I wanted to think about was hunting down that wild man and cutting off his hooked nose. When I looked up at the sky, I saw the new star, and all I felt was resentment for the sorrow it had portended. I wished I could share in Manhera’s gratitude and faith. But I could not. Instead, I strode off into the night.

  It was a difficult night. I walked for a while. The vast star-filled sky seemed to be filled with enemies, not the least of which was that evil new star. I didn’t even want to look up. So, I looked down at my feet as they splashed along through the mud. Finally, I knew what I wanted to do. I dove into the river and began to swim. The water surrounded me on all sides, wrapping me in its cooling arms. As I swam, I spoke in silent anger to Adon. I wrestled with him in the water until I could swim no more and headed back to the shore. I could not manipulate Adon to meet my needs. Yet it seemed that he welcomed my appeals for justice. When, I finally emerged from the water, exhausted, and stood dripping in the reeds, I felt that I had somehow been blessed.

  The next morning, before boarding our vessel, Manhera and I joined in reciting out loud some of the Word that Baskrod had taught us. Nothing was mentioned about the night before. Yet, the shared words seemed to bind us together. Once we were sailing, Baskrod was able to sit up a little and eat some hard bread. Manhera exclaimed that his fever was gone. After eating a few bites, Baskrod finally turned to me.

  “Thank you, Amanki, for finding help for my wounds. I fear that the wounds you received from your loss may be much deeper. May you find comfort in Adon.”

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you.”

  “You were being a dutiful son, waiting until the barley harvest was done. Do not blame yourself,” he said. Then, he quickly changed the subject: “I see that Manhera and you have been getting to know each other.”

  “Yes, she has been very kind and helpful. I’m really glad to see you sitting up and eating.” I said.

  “It takes more than a few Sparaggi Horsemen to keep me down,” he said, with a hearty laugh, using several words that I did not know.

  “Sparaggi Horsemen?” I asked

  “Those blood drinking demons who ride on horses that gallop so fast it seems like they have wings on their hooves.”

  “I call them mud beasts.”

  “As good a name as any,” he said, in his good natured way.

  As I bent toward him to hand him a jar of beer, the cylinder seal around my neck swung forward.

  “Praise Adon. You have the seal,” Baskrod said.

  “Yes,” I replied, “the farmer’s wife in Manhera’s village gave it to me.”

  “Ah,” Baskrod said, studying my face. “So, at last, you met your mother.”

  Stunned and confused, I narrowed my eyes and just stared at him. Maybe he was delusional. I felt a pang of hurt: the mud beasts had cruelly murdered my mother. He had seen it.

  Manhera looked up at me, tenderly smiled, and then said to Baskrod, “I haven’t told him. I don’t think she told him either. Under the circumstances, this may be hard for him to hear.”