Refugees

  Chapter 27

  Mud - Amanki

  I worked all day in the sweltering heat getting our boat back in order. The good news was that I was easily able to repair the sail by weaving together some reeds that I had cut along the river bank. The bad news was that some of the clay pots had broken and spilled their contents into the water in the bottom of our boat. It appeared Manhera had gathered some strings of strange looking teardrop shaped leaves out of the mud and hung them from some reeds to dry. I wondered if they were ruined. Whatever she had used on Baskrod had apparently worked well so far. As I carefully collected the ones she had saved, I held them up to my nose and breathed in an earthy sweet smell that somehow seemed to invigorate and relax me at the same time. I savored the aroma and then placed the leaves carefully in a bag onboard.

  Searching the muddy field beyond our boat, I found gooey black mud seeping from a hole and recognized it as bitumen, which Baskrod had taught me to use to caulk our reed boat.

  I was actually glad to be left behind to do manual labor on the boat. It gave me time to think. So much had happened in such little time that I did not feel like the same person I had been not so very long ago. Yet oddly, even without my family, my home, the barley fields, all my kinsfolk, and the familiar rhythms of the village life I had known, somehow I was starting to realize that I was still me. I remembered I had felt this way when my father had caught ill and died several years ago. How could he be gone, and yet I could still be me? Yet somehow I had found a way to go on then, as I must do now.

  Wanting to leave the horrors of the last few days behind, I began to wonder about the journey ahead of us, and about my own history. Could it be true that the woman I had believed was my mother all my life was not really my birth mother? To think such a thought so soon after her death almost made me feel like a traitor. Anger and sadness rose up in me. The picture of her horrible murder came rushing back before me, making me feel sick to my stomach, and I redoubled my efforts at cutting reeds as if I were slashing at the man who had killed her.

  My thoughts drifted to the strange woman in the story Manhera told. Were she and the woman who had given me the cylinder seal one and the same? What had she said to me? Something about mysteries and that she knew who I was. I wished I could remember her exact words. And what if she was my birth mother? Was she dead too now? Why had Baskrod kept all of this a secret from me?

  I was so deep in thought that I did not hear the others approaching. Baskrod had returned with Manhera and Vlabrez, but the little boy was not with them this time. Instead several older boys followed, pulling a cart loaded with supplies. Manhera was draped in a simple but clean white robe with red fringes on the edges of cloth. The dress covered only one shoulder and reached half way down her calf. Her auburn hair was neatly braided down her back. Carrying a small sack, Baskrod was wearing a clean, knee length, short sleeved white tunic, with fringe on the bottom, and a wide black and red striped sash about his waist. He still wore the red cap and sported his usual braided white beard. I was relieved to see that the cylinder seal still hung about his neck.

  “Looks like you have accomplished a lot,” Baskrod said to me. “Are we able to continue our journey?”

  “Yes, sir. I have repaired the sail,” I said, pointing to my handiwork, “and caulked the bottom of our boat with bitumen. The fishing net was not damaged,” I added, pointing to the circular cast net I had spread upon the ground, with the lead weights along its border holding it in place. Baskrod had taught me the skill of flinging the net into the air so that it would open fully when it landed on the water and trap the fish underneath. A strong swimmer, I would jump into the water to bring the net into the boat. After the fish were safely ashore, Baskrod and I would sort them. I had spent many hours as a boy sorting fish and untangling Baskrod’s fishing nets while he questioned me about the mysteries of life. Baskrod often taught this way, by asking questions instead of answering them. Sometimes it seemed as if the questions were more important than the answers.

  Vlabrez said to Baskrod, “Are you sure you will not stay the night? We would be honored to have you remain as our guest.”

  “I appreciate your hospitality. But I am anxious to get back to Tzoladia,” Baskrod said in a tone of authority.

  “We are happy to have served you. Of course, there is no need for payment,” Vlabrez said. His eyes lit up with a hungry look when he mentioned payment, and I could tell that he was a greedy snake of a man. I really did not like him. Still, his boys were helpful in getting the boat back into the river and the supplies loaded on board. They kept sneaking looks at my feet, but these older boys did not say anything. They had lost the frank openness of their younger brother. Although they spoke to each other, they avoided speaking to me at all. I supposed that was natural since they had been told I was Baskrod’s slave.

  I helped Manhera back into the boat by offering her my hand. Just as Baskrod was climbing into the boat, Vlabrez moved close and said, “It has been an honor to assist you. Do not worry about any hardship this may have caused my family.”

  “I will send servants with gifts for you once you have settled in the fertile lands upstream,” Baskrod stated rather formally as he climbed into the boat.

  “Very well, if you insist,” Vlabrez said, and handed him a slab of soft clay, expectantly. “I have admired the blue stone of your seal since we met.”

  Baskrod stared at him, surprisingly coldly.

  “So I will be able to recognize that it is you who has sent me the gifts,” Vlabrez urged, holding the clay in front of Baskrod’s face while leaning into the boat. Two of his boys were holding the sides of the boat to keep us from taking off in that tense moment.

  Baskrod suddenly grabbed the oar closest to him and swung it at Vlabrez, taking him completely by surprise as it struck him, knocking him back. Manhera grabbed a clay beer pot and hit the boy closest to her over the head, and I kicked the boy on the other side in the chest, knocking him back into the water. We started rowing as they tried to splash after us, shouting. As we reached deeper water, it became obvious that they did not know how to swim. I was glad that they were unwebbed.

  Once we were free of them, except their distant shouting, I asked Baskrod, “What was that about?”

  Baskrod answered, “He was filled with greed. He wanted me to roll the seal across the slab as an identifying mark, but I did not want to reveal what was on the seal.”

  That gave me the perfect moment to finally ask the question that had been on my mind: “And what is on the seal? Why is it so important?” I asked expectantly.