Keeper of Dreams Page 11

  But he wouldn’t hear of it. “I would go if I could bring my people with me. But what kind of man am I, to leave behind my mother and my brothers and sisters, my clan and all my kin?”

  “You would have left me behind,” she said once. He didn’t answer her. He also didn’t go.

  In the third year after his return, when he had three sons to take riding on his dragonboat, he began the strangest project anyone had ever seen. No one was surprised, though, that crazy Naog would do something like this. He began to take several captives with him upriver to a place where tall, heavy trees grew. There they would wear out stone axes cutting down trees, then shape them into logs and ride them down the river. Some people complained that the captives belonged to everybody and it was wrong for Naog to have their exclusive use for so many days, but Naog was such a large and strange man that no one wanted to push the matter.

  One or two at a time, they came to see what Naog was doing with the logs. They found that he had taught his captives to notch them and lash them together into a huge square platform, a dozen strides on a side. Then they made a second platform crossways to the first and on top of it, lashing every log to every other log, or so it seemed. Between the two layers he smeared pitch, and then on the top of the raft he built a dozen reed structures like the tops of seedboats. Before floodwater he urged his neighbors to bring him their grain, and he would keep it all dry. A few of them did, and when the rivers rose during floodwater, everyone saw that his huge seedboat floated, and no water seeped up from below into the seedhouses. More to the point, Naog’s wives and children also lived on the raft, dry all the time, sleeping easily through the night instead of having to remain constantly wakeful, watching to make sure the children didn’t fall into the water.

  The next year, the Engu clan built several more platforms following Naog’s pattern. They didn’t always lash them as well as he had, and during the next flood several of their rafts came apart—but gradually, so they had time to move the seeds. The Engu clan had far more seed make it through to planting season than any of the other tribes, and soon the men had to range farther and farther upriver, because all the nearer trees of suitable size had been harvested.

  Naog himself, though, wasn’t satisfied. It was Zawada who pointed out that when the great flood came, the water wouldn’t rise gradually as it did in the river floods. “It’ll be like the waves against the shore, crashing with such force . . . and these reed shelters will never hold against such a wave.”

  For several years Naog experimented with logs until at last he had the largest movable structure ever built by human hands. The raft was as long as ever, but somewhat narrower. Rising from notches between logs in the upper platform were sturdy vertical posts, and these were bridged and roofed with wood. But instead of using logs for the planking and the roofing, Naog and the captives who served him split the logs carefully into planks, and these were smeared inside and out with pitch, and then another wall and ceiling were built inside, sandwiching the tar between them. People were amused to see Naog’s captives hoisting dripping baskets of water to the roof of this giant seedboat and pouring them out onto it. “What, does he think that if he waters these trees, they’ll grow like grass?” Naog heard them, but he cared not at all, for when they spoke he was inside his boat, seeing that not a drop of water made it inside.

  The doorway was the hardest part, because it, too, had to be able to be sealed against the flood. Many nights Naog lay awake worrying about it before building this last and largest and tightest seedboat. The answer came to him in a dream. It was a memory of the little crabs that lived in the sand on the shore of the Heaving Sea. They dug holes in the sand and then when the water washed over them, their holes filled in above their heads, keeping out the water. Naog awoke knowing that he must put the door in the roof of his seedboat, and arrange a way to lash it from the inside.

  “How will you see to lash it?” said Zawada. “There’s no light inside.”

  So Naog and his three captives learned to lash the door in place in utter darkness.

  When they tested it, water leaked through the edges of the door. The solution was to smear more pitch, fresh pitch, around the edges of the opening and lay the door into it so that when they lashed it the seal was tight. It was very hard to open the door again after that, but they got it open from the inside—and when they could see again they found that not a drop of water had got inside. “No more trials,” said Naog.

  Their work then was to gather seeds—and more than seeds this time. Water, too. The seeds went into baskets with lids that were lashed down, and the water went into many, many flasks. Naog and his captives and their wives worked hard during every moment of daylight to make the waterbags and seedbaskets and fill them. The Engu didn’t mind at all storing more and more of their grain in Naog’s boat—after all, it was ludicrously watertight, so that it was sure to make it through the flood season in fine form. They didn’t have to believe in his nonsense about a god in the Heaving Sea that was angry with the Derku people in order to recognize a good seedboat when they saw it.

  His boat was nearly full when word spread that a group of new captives from the southeast were telling tales of a new river of saltwater that had flowed into the Salty Sea from the direction of the Heaving Sea. When Naog heard the news, he immediately climbed a tree so he could look toward the southeast. “Don’t be silly,” they said to him. “You can’t see the Salty Shore from here, even if you climb the tallest tree.”

  “I was looking for the flood,” said Naog. “Don’t you see that the Heaving Sea must have broken through again, when a storm whipped the water into madness. Then the storm subsided, and the sea stopped flowing over the top. But the channel must be wider and longer and deeper now. Next time it won’t end when the storm ends. Next time it will be the great flood.”

  “How do you know these things, Naog? You’re a man like the rest of us. Just because you’re taller doesn’t mean you can see the future.”

  “The god is angry,” said Naog. “The true god, not this silly crocodile god that you feed on human flesh.” And now, in the urgency of knowing the imminence of the flood, he said what he had said to no one but Zawada. “Why do you think the true god is so angry with us? Because of the crocodile! Because we feed human flesh to the Dragon! The true god doesn’t want offerings of human flesh. It’s an abomination. It’s as forbidden as the forbidden fruit. The crocodile god is not a god at all, it’s just a wild animal, one that crawls on its belly, and yet we bow down to it. We bow down to the enemy of the true god!”

  Hearing him say this made the people angry. Some were so furious they wanted to feed him to the Great Derku at once, but Naog only laughed at them. “If the Great Derku is such a wonderful god, let him come and get me, instead of you taking me! But no, you don’t believe for a moment that he can do it. Yet the true god had the power to send me a castrated bull to ride, and a log to save me from a flood, and trees to catch the lightning so it wouldn’t strike me. When has the Dragon ever had the power to do that?”

  His ridicule of the Great Derku infuriated them, and violence might have resulted, had Naog not had such physical presence, and had his father not been a noble sacrifice to the Dragon. Over the next weeks, though, it became clear that Naog was now regarded by all as something between an enemy and a stranger. No one came to speak to him, or to Zawada, either. Only Kormo continued to have contact with the rest of the Derku people.

  “They want me to leave you,” she told him. “They want me to come back to my family, because you are the enemy of the god.”

  “And will you go?” he said.

  She fixed her sternest gaze on him. “You are my family now,” she said. “Even when you prefer this ugly woman to me, you are still my husband.”

  Naog’s mother came to him once, to warn him. “They have decided to kill you. They’re simply biding their time, waiting for the right moment.”

  “Waiting for the courage to fight me, you mean,” said Naog. />
  “Tell them that a madness came upon you, but it’s over,” she said. “Tell them that it was the influence of this ugly foreign wife of yours, and then they’ll kill her and not you.”

  Naog didn’t bother to answer her.

  His mother burst into tears. “Was this what I bore you for? I named you very well, Glogmeriss, my son of trouble and anguish!”

  “Listen to me, Mother. The flood is coming. We may have very little warning when it actually comes, very little time to get into my seedboat. Stay near, and when you hear us calling—”

  “I’m glad your father is dead rather than to see his firstborn son so gone in madness.”

  “Tell all the others, too, Mother. I’ll take as many into my seedboat as will fit. But once the door in the roof is closed, I can’t open it again. Anyone who isn’t inside when we close it will never get inside, and they will die.”

  She burst into tears and left.

  Not far from the seedboat was a high hill. As the rainy season neared, Naog took to sending one of his servants to the top of the hill several times a day, to watch toward the southeast. “What should we look for?” they asked. “I don’t know,” he answered. “A new river. A wall of water. A dark streak in the distance. It will be something that you’ve never seen before.”

  The sky filled with clouds, dark and threatening. The heart of the storm was to the south and east. Naog made sure that his wives and children and the wives and children of his servants didn’t stray far from the seedboat. They freshened the water in the waterbags, to stay busy. A few raindrops fell, and then the rain stopped, and then a few more raindrops. But far to the south and east it was raining heavily. And the wind—the wind kept rising higher and higher, and it was out of the east. Naog could imagine it whipping the waves higher and farther into the deep channel that the last storm had opened. He imagined the water spilling over into the salty riverbed. He imagined it tearing deeper and deeper into the sand, more and more of it tearing away under the force of the torrent. Until finally it was no longer the force of the storm driving the water through the channel, but the weight of the whole sea, because at last it had been cut down below the level of low tide. And then the sea tearing deeper and deeper.

  “Naog.” It was the head of the Engu clan, and a dozen men with him. “The god is ready for you.”

  Naog looked at them as if they were foolish children. “This is the storm,” he said. “Go home and bring your families to my seedboat, so they can come through the flood alive.”

  “This is no storm,” said the head of the clan. “Hardly any rain has fallen.”

  The servant who was on watch came running, out of breath, his arms bleeding where he had skidded on the ground as he fell more than once in his haste. “Naog, master!” he cried. “It’s plain to see—the Salty Shore is nearer. The Salty Sea is rising, and fast.”

  What a torrent of water it would take, to make the Salty Sea rise in its bed. Naog covered his face with his hands. “You’re right,” said Naog. “The god is ready for me. The true god. It was for this hour that I was born. As for your god—the true god will drown him as surely as he will drown anyone who doesn’t come to my seedboat.”

  “Come with us now,” said the head of the clan. But his voice was not so certain now.

  To his servants and his wives, Naog said, “Inside the seedboat. When all are in, smear on the pitch, leaving only one side where I can slide down.”

  “You come too, husband,” said Zawada.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I have to give warning one last time.”

  “Too late!” cried the servant with the bleeding arms. “Come now.”

  “You go now,” said Naog. “I’ll be back soon. But if I’m not back, seal the door and open it for no man, not even me.”

  “When will I know to do that?” he asked in anguish.

  “Zawada will tell you,” said Naog. “She’ll know.” Then he turned to the head of the clan. “Come with me,” he said. “Let’s give the warning.” Then Naog strode off toward the bank of the canal where his mother and brothers and sisters kept their dragonboats. The men who had come to capture him followed him, unsure who had captured whom.

  It was raining again, a steady rainfall whipped by an ever-stronger wind. Naog stood on the bank of the canal and shouted against the wind, crying out for his family to join him. “There’s not much time!” he cried. “Hurry, come to my seedboat!”

  “Don’t listen to the enemy of the god!” cried the head of the clan.

  Naog looked down into the water of the canal. “Look, you fools! Can’t you see that the canal is rising?”

  “The canal always rises in a storm.”

  Naog knelt down and dipped his hand into the canal and tasted the water. “Salt,” he said. “Salt!” he shouted. “This isn’t rising because of rain in the mountains! The water is rising because the Salty Sea is filling with the water of the Heaving Sea. It’s rising to cover us! Come with me now, or not at all! When the door of my seedboat closes, we’ll open it for no one.” Then he turned and loped off toward the seedboat.

  By the time he got there, the water was spilling over the banks of the canals, and he had to splash through several shallow streams where there had been no streams before. Zawada was standing on top of the roof, and screamed at him to hurry as he clambered onto the top of it. He looked in the direction she had been watching, and saw what she had seen. In the distance, but not so very far away, a dark wall rushing toward them. A plug of earth must have broken loose, and a fist of the sea hundreds of feet high was slamming through the gap. It spread at once, of course, and as it spread the wave dropped until it was only fifteen or twenty feet high. But that was high enough. It would do.

  “You fool!” cried Zawada. “Do you want to watch it or be saved from it?”

  Naog followed Zawada down into the boat. Two of the servants smeared on a thick swatch of tar on the fourth side of the doorway. Then Naog, who was the only one tall enough to reach outside the hole, drew the door into place, snugging it down tight. At once it became perfectly dark inside the seedboat, and silent, too, except for the breathing. “This time for real,” said Naog softly. He could hear the other men working at the lashings. They could feel the floor moving under them—the canals had spilled over so far now that the raft was rising and floating.

  Suddenly they heard a noise. Someone was pounding on the wall of the seedboat. And there was shouting. They couldn’t hear the words, the walls were too thick. But they knew what was being said all the same. Save us. Let us in. Save us.

  Kormo’s voice was filled with anguish. “Naog, can’t we—”

  “If we open it now we’ll never close it again in time. We’d all die. They had every chance and every warning. My lashing is done.”

  “Mine, too,” answered one of the servants.

  The silence of the others said they were still working hard.

  “Everyone hold on to the side posts,” said Naog. “There’s so much room here. We could have taken on so many more.”

  The pounding outside was in earnest now. They were using axes to hack at the wood. Or at the lashings. And someone was on top of the seedboat now, many someones, trying to pry at the door.

  “Now, O God, if you mean to save us at all, send the water now.”

  “Done,” said another of the servants. So three of the four corners were fully lashed.

  Suddenly the boat lurched and rocked upward, then spun crazily in every direction at once. Everyone screamed, and few were able to keep their handhold, such was the force of the flood. They plunged to one side of the seedboat, a jumble of humans and spilling baskets and water bottles. Then they struck something—a tree? the side of a mountain?—and lurched in another direction entirely, and in the darkness it was impossible to tell anymore whether they were on the floor or the roof or one of the walls.

  Did it go on for days, or merely hours? Finally the awful turbulence gave way to a spinning all in one plane. The flood was still ri
sing; they were still caught in the twisting currents; but they were no longer caught in that wall of water, in the great wave that the god had sent. They were on top of the flood.

  Gradually they sorted themselves out. Mothers found their children, husbands found their wives. Many were crying, but as the fear subsided they were able to find the ones who were genuinely in pain. But what could they do in the darkness to deal with bleeding injuries, or possible broken bones? They could only plead with the god to be merciful and let them know when it was safe to open the door.

  After a while, though, it became plain that it wasn’t safe not to open it. The air was musty and hot and they were beginning to pant. “I can’t breathe,” said Zawada. “Open the door,” said Kormo.

  Naog spoke aloud to the god. “We have no air in here,” he said. “I have to open the door. Make it safe. Let no other wave wash over us with the door open.”

  But when he went to open the door, he couldn’t find it in the darkness. For a sickening moment he thought: What if we turned completely upside down, and the door is now under us? I never thought of that. We’ll die in here.

  Then he found it, and began fussing with the lashings. But it was hard in the darkness. They had tied so hurriedly, and he wasn’t thinking all that well. But soon he heard the servants also at work, muttering softly, and one by one they got their lashings loose and Naog shoved upward on the door.

  It took forever before the door budged, or so it seemed, but when at last it rocked upward, a bit of faint light and a rush of air came into the boat and everyone cried out at once in relief and gratitude. Naog pushed the door upward and then maneuvered it to lie across the opening at an angle, so that the heavy rain outside wouldn’t inundate them. He stood there holding the door in place, even though the wind wanted to pick it up and blow it away—a slab of wood as heavy as that one was!—while in twos and threes they came to the opening and breathed, or lifted children to catch a breath of air. There was enough light to bind up some bleeding injuries, and to realize that no bones were broken after all.