Refugees

  Chapter 22

  Mud - Amanki

  Webbies in Arvuk believe that when the Berserker has been drinking he staggers around in front of the sun, blotting out its rays. An angry drunk, he whips the skies into motion and starts throwing things around. Sparks fly as his beer pots crash together, spilling his opulent reserves of drink into our river. Before we know it, the river god has become drunk too.

  Now, in sudden darkness, we rose and fell on waves, as torrents of wind-driven rain swirled all around us. I balanced on my legs precariously as I wrestled against the wind, trying to wrap my arms around the sail to roll it into a bundle, while the wind tore at the layered reeds. As the rain soaked through my tunic, pasting it to my skin, the drunken breath of the storm god ripped the sail from my grasp. Desperately, I grabbed for its sides and began rolling again, strapping rope around it as I went. A flash of light burst across the sky, condensing for an instant. Like a river of light it cut through the sky, then disappeared into dark. Above me, black clouds rushed about the sky, while below me the raging water churned. Like a bug that has fallen on its back into a stream, our boat was propelled out of control.

  Crack

  I turned, fearing that our boat had split. Water was spilling over the bundles of reeds that formed the sides. I called to Manhera to help bail, but the wind captured my voice. As I reached for a jar, I felt the little hairs on my body stand up on end. Again, fire from the sky lit the air, and Manhera caught my eye as she rose from where she sat, a bag in her hands.

  “Sit down!” I yelled.

  The wind grabbed my words and swept up Manhera, as the hungry river flung the boat, and forced Manhera overboard into its cavernous open mouth.

  Before she could disappear behind us, I grabbed the oars, fighting to turn the boat, and to somehow hold the boat back. I lashed one end of a rope to the boat, coiled the rope, and threw the other end toward where Manhera’s head bobbed in the water. But the wind tossed the rope aside, out of her reach.

  I turned the boat, pulled in the rope, and looked for Manhera. Her head had gone under. Through the dark swirling waters, I searched for her. But I could not find her. Then, when lightening lit up the sky, her head emerged for an instant. I flung the rope behind her, hoping she might reach for it and catch hold as it sped by. The sky went dark. The rope when taut.

  Crack

  Did she have the rope? I strained to see. It felt heavy. When lightning flashed again, I was relieved to see that she had flipped onto her back and was being dragged through the water just like a fish we had caught while trolling. But unlike a fish that had been hooked, she would not be able to hold on for long.

  I pulled on the oars, battling the wind and the river, trying to turn the boat from the swiftest part of the current. Next, I yanked the rope in, hand over hand, looping it, and praying that she could hold on just a little bit longer. As she neared the side of the boat, I leaned over, grasped her wrists, and pulled.

  She was naked. The force of the current had ripped her loose fitting tunic from her body. She began coughing and choking, and gasping for air, as she turned on her side in a fetal position. Water burst from her mouth, pouring out onto the bottom of the boat and she lay limp, breathing softly, the rain still battering her body. In those moments, I felt overwhelmed by a mixture of relief and concern, awe and desire. I covered her with a blanket and returned to the oars to try to steady our course.

  Through all this, Baskrod had lay quietly in the water-soaked boat.

  Now, he called out, “In your great love, oh Adon, answer us. Rescue us from the deep waters. Do not let the floodwaters drown us, or the depths swallow us whole. Lead us into still waters.”

  I hoped Adon was listening. Our boat was starting to fill with water. I began to bail with a large empty jar. If the boat sank, I might be able to swim to shore with my finlike feet and my ability to stay under water for longer periods of time than humans. But in their weakened states, Baskrod and Manhera would drown. I must somehow get the boat to safety.

  Looking toward the shore made me feel like we were going even faster, as if we were being pulled forward while the river bank was pulled in the opposite direction. The shore blurred. We rounded several bends before I remembered a trick Baskrod had taught me. I watched the path of the current and looked for areas of still waters around the bends. Finally, as the river snaked to the left, I turned the boat far to the left to force it out of the current. As we bore into quiet waters to the left, the current continued close to the right bank before making another turn.

  Just as planned, my boat had cruised into an area far to the left, out of the current. Calmer waters spilled up into the reeds, where I finally brought the boat to a stop just beyond the flooded shore. Manhera was sitting up, clutching her blanket closed around her with one hand. I realized that we had lost many of our supplies. Leaves from Manhera’s herbs floated in the water at the bottom of the boat. The rain was still cascading from the clouds above us. I looked around at our surroundings, but in the darkness, there did not seem to be any shelter, only mud.

  If there was a settlement nearby, I hoped that the people would be civilized, but I would not be able to find out what manner of people, if any, lived here until morning.

  Shakily, Manhera was able to stand. We both helped Baskrod out of the boat, and the two of them leaned on each other, as I dragged the boat onto drier land.

  “I’m going to spread this sail on the ground.” I explained. “Then we can sit on it with what is left of our supplies and turn the boat on its side to use as a shelter.”

  She grabbed a rope and tied the blanket around her, and then they both did their best to help. We were able to huddle under the boat, soaked and exhausted. Before long, Baskrod and Manhera were sleeping. I sat, clutching my knees to my chest, watching the water rise, and praying that it was Adon’s will for the rain to stop. Sitting there, I fought to keep hope afloat, but my emotions finally overwhelmed me, and tears of exhaustion joined the raindrops on my already drenched face, like when two creeks join to become one swollen river that overflows its banks. If the Berserker kept up his drunken rage, and the river flooded the land, we would be safer riding in the boat than sitting behind it.