View from Another Shore : European Science Fiction

by Rottensteiner, Franz(Author)

  amount for the ‘protection from highwaymen, monsters and mutants’

  was paid up to Port Sudan.

  Our Keiki emphasized the word of the king with blows of his fist on

  the table of the harbour master and Alkuttabu menaced with an even

  faster clicking of his teeth—all to no avail. We had to pay. All our

  animals had been sold—for next to nothing, of course. Water costs ten

  times the normal price here, because it has to be brought from wells

  fifteen and twenty miles away. For who would want to drink the

  water of the White or Blue Nile?

  When we calculated what we had left, both Master Jack and I had

  long faces. There was just enough to invite our four friends and

  escorts to a meal. It was an unforgettable evening. I swear I would

  have started clicking my tongue myself if I had been with Alkuttabu

  any longer.

  The next morning they rode away. We boarded the sailing vessel.

  There was a pitiful boat made of mimosa wood attached to the stern

  with which we were going to attempt to ride the cataracts. We had

  had a new thatched roof put on it and our packs and provisions of

  water and food had been put on board. It cost the equivalent of eight

  goats to have it float harmlessly behind the sailing vessel—an amount

  that an experienced caravan leader in Kotoko would hardly make in a

  month.

  The master of the harbour was called Abu Medf’a, Father of the

  Cannons, because he had had the two tanks that had once rusted in

  front of the president’s palace in Khartoum brought over the river

  and set them up in front of his official residence on the harbour,

  where they continued to rust. He appeared in a gala uniform when

  our vessel set sail. A band played the national anthem of Sudan and

  the green and white flag of the king was hoisted. It can’t be said that

  we didn’t get our money’s worth of show as we left the edge of the

  world and set out into the unknown, into the swollen waters of the

  White and Blue Nile, the first now grey-green and the second

  yellow.

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  Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack

  August 14th, 2036

  They are making a great fuss here about the contamination of the river. I have measured its radioactivity. Even now with the water-level at its highest and with the rainfalls washing most of the radioactive sand of Ethiopia, Kenya and Uganda into the rivers, the radioactivity is relatively harmless and can be tolerated without danger for weeks. On the contrary, the fuss is more of a lucrative business managed by the Father of the Cannons in cooperation with the Cavalrymen of the King and certainly with the King’s permission and

  financial participation in the affair.

  I told the master of the harbour that I had no intention of paying the

  enormous sum for the ‘protection from highwaymen, monsters and mutants’

  and that I was capable of defending myself. I told him that we would take our little Kheasaht bark and set off on our own. This was a punishable offence and he threatened to seize our boat and our provisions if I dared try. These cutthroats know how to protect their monopoly and always talk about the

  dangers on the other side of the edge of the world, which, of course, only they are capable of controlling. They do go on here about the danger of the water. If it were not so filthy with mud and slime, I would drink from it just to prove them wrong.

  *

  *

  *

  *

  *

  One of the Tuweirat, his name is Hassan, told me that there are people living further down the river. Of course, most of them are ill, but who is healthy on the edge of the inhabitable world? Most of them are said to be light-skinned.

  They must be approached with caution as they are extremely resourceful in their invention of deadly weapons.

  He also told us about strange lights appearing in the north, shooting up into the sky and falling back to earth like giant meteors. This certainly proves that there are space activities nearby which we have also noticed. Am I getting closer to my destination? Are there really extraterrestrial beings? For which country in the Near East would have the know-how and technical possibilities after the war which it had not had at its disposal before the war? But in the form of Horus? In the form of scarabs? The forms of Egyptian mythology? An unlikely coincidence.

  The Tuweirat said that he hadn’t actually seen any scarabs or bird-headed creatures himself, but that he was sure they existed. They had risen from Osiris Land, the Kingdom of the Dead, filled with indignation that the realm

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  of the Egyptians had been wiped out and that six thousand years of culture had been swept into the ocean.

  There are no historians left to ponder over the whys and wherefores of the deadly blast. When it happened, the war was in full progress. During the

  Iranian Civil War, sparked off by Khomeini’s death, the Soviet Union openly assisted the Mujahedin with weapons and supplies. Operating from a base in Yemen, the Soviet Union also caused the overthrow of the Saudi Arabian

  monarchy who were financing Bani-Sadr’s mercenaries and ordered troop

  movements right up to the Iranian border.

  The spark that set off the explosion did not go off in the Gulf, but in the Mediterranean. Just who it was who made a nuclear hell of the ‘Nimitz’ will probably never be clear. It could well, however, have been land-based atomic rockets fired by Qadhafi—for favourable oil delivery contracts, anything could be had in the 80s; after repeated humiliations in the Gulf of Sirta by the 6th US fleet, Qadhafi had threatened several times ‘to give a slap in the mouth to the Jews in Wall Street and their third-class extra from Hollywood!’ Whatever happened, there were units of the Soviet fleet nearby—and the direct

  confrontation then took place. While the flames of war overran the Mid-

  East and the Gulf Region within hours and Europe within days and finally, the whole world, Qadhafi put his mad idea into effect of ‘drowning the

  capitalist jesters of the Nile’, who kept threatening his border, and were only waiting for an excuse to take part in the invasion of the Libyan oil fields and make sure of a share for themselves. A few military planes actually succeeded in blasting the supposedly bomb-proof Aswan Dam—the rest, the dammed up

  waters took care of. 160 billion cubic metres—more than the Nile had carried in two years—thundered down the river valley. I have seen satellite pictures of this deadly wall of water, which fell as if in slow motion, wiped out Edfu, Luxor, Assiut, and finally Cairo before it poured over Alexandria and Port Said all the way to the ocean. The pressure of the waves, created by the masses of water, broke trees as if they were match sticks and whirled houses in its path as if they were leaves.

  And then the silt came. Billions of tons of mud from the Nile, which had built up for two decades behind the 3600 metre long dam, was borne along with

  the outflowing water and covered the 40 million inhabitants of the valley like a brown shroud. It filled the Valley of the Kings, buried Cairo under a ten metre layer of brown loess deposit and covered the foundations of the

  pyramids.

  Even the following year, the Eastern Mediterranean up to Crete and Rhodes was discoloured and the high water, at some points over the five metre mark,

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  had changed the outline of the coast extensively. This delta stretched far to the north like the tongue of an animal who had died an anguished death.

  The Tuweirats and pilgrims have left us. They are taking the old route

  to Port Sudan. According to Master Jack, a thing on wheels had once

&n
bsp; rolled along it and, as unbelievable as it sounds, was able to travel the stretch of land to the ocean in one day.

  The great sailing vessel had been made fast to a mooring. It is

  waiting for better wind. We, however, are moving ahead all the faster

  in the opposite direction because our wind is blowing from the south.

  Atbara is only a fort without inhabitants or garrison, because there is

  no water here except that of the Nile.

  In the evening, we moor our boat at an island and sleep on the

  boat. Tomorrow, we shall attempt the fifth rapids. Apparently, we

  mastered the sixth with the great sailing vessel. I wasn’t even aware of

  it. More than likely I slept through it.

  ‘You are now leaving the country of the living’, the captain had said

  ominously. ‘It is of your own free will that you are withdrawing from

  Allah’s hand and are now entering the ancient Land of Osiris, the

  Kingdom of the Dead, from where there is no return.’

  That night, I closed the shutters of my life and could hardly sleep. I

  looked over the water moving and groaning along the shore as

  though it were really hurrying to the edge of the world to overflow

  into nothingness.

  Suddenly, over the mountains to the north, I saw a flash of light

  rising into the moonlit sky, a small red gold tongue of fire which

  ripped a silver scar in the sky, a scar that soon disappeared, while the

  flash climbed higher, turning to the east and getting smaller and

  smaller on the eastern horizon.

  I woke Master Jack and he followed the flash with his binoculars

  without saying a word. ‘Definitely a rocket being shot into orbit.

  Beschir, we have almost reached our destination.’

  All I could think of were the words of the captain and the edge of

  the world that the water of the river hurried to reach. I was

  frightened.

  ‘Hey, Beschir!’, Master Jack said the next day while he hoisted the

  sail on the mast and steered the boat into the middle of the river.

  ‘Why are you looking so grim? Real adventure is just beginning! Let’s

  move forward into the unknown!’

  The unknown was rocky shores that became higher and higher and

  closer together and water that moved so fast tearing our Kheasaht

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  with it and making us dizzy. Then, suddenly the shores drew away,

  opening to let the river flow lackadaisically ahead.

  In the evening we moored at an island called Mograhd. From there

  we could see the ruins of Abu Hammed further downstream on the

  right. During the night we saw a fire on the left shore and heard

  human voices above the murmuring water.

  I wondered how human beings could live beyond the edge of the

  world. Or are they dead out of the Land of Osiris? Questions one

  shouldn’t ask at night. They weigh heavy on one like cold stones and

  sail away with the morning wind as if the sun had washed out their

  heaviness with its light.

  However, the inhabitants of the river were very much alive, as we

  could see the next day. In a bend in the river, when we got too close

  to the shore, we were shot at with arrows that splashed harmlessly in

  the water.

  Master Jack got out his crossbow and held his quiver at the ready.

  But from noon on, we couldn’t spare a glance at the shore; we had

  our hands full trying to cope with the fourth cataract as we were

  pulled deeper and deeper into its witches’ cauldron, the Battn el

  Hadjar, the belly of stone. The river was now completely surrounded

  by black rocks. The water foamed with such a thundering noise

  against them that we could only make ourselves understood by

  shouting loudly and at times the broad river divided itself into

  several branches so fast that Master Jack had no time to decide

  into which he should guide us. Our boat shot blindly forward chafing

  along the banks. It was pressed, cracking and moaning, against

  stones as large as houses, came to a stop and then was suddenly

  yanked further. I crouched, drenched through, in the middle of the

  boat and bailed out water like a madman while Master Jack stood at

  the helm keeping an eye on the fairway before the bow. I didn’t

  know whether I was trembling more from cold or fear. However,

  Master Jack seemed to be enjoying the hellish ride. I had never seen

  him so happy.

  And thus we sailed on into the evening. The sun had long set when

  we came to quieter waters and looked for a place to moor.

  We threw caution to the winds and lit a fire from the driftwood,

  dried our clothes and cooked ourselves a hearty meal of white beans

  and fried meat. The sun sank like a bloated rotten gourd. The sky

  remained bright hours after the sun had gone down, as if the western

  horizon were in flames making the river molten copper.

  ‘The weather is changing’, Master Jack said. He was right.

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  The next morning a cold wet wind from the southwest blew in our

  faces and we couldn’t set sail. We let ourselves drift along, past

  deserted villages and towns. Sometimes, we even saw people, a

  hand was raised, a spear, and once we saw a boat lying on the

  shore, but no boats were ever let into the river. No one disturbed us.

  Three days later, we took the next cataract. Far less hellish and dark

  than the fourth. The river is permeated with huge boulders. The

  torrent foams over these pounding up and down just as it would at

  the stern of a large ship. On some of the rocks there are the ruins of

  fortresses and castles. Everything seems so dead. I wonder if Hazaz is

  alive?

  Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack

  August 27th, 2036

  We have reached the basin that once was Lake Nasser, as one can see from the deposits on the shore. Palm trees and bushes line the shore. Sometimes human beings. I can detect many white men among them through my binoculars.

  Most are naked.

  I am afraid to guide the boat to shore and meet them as, up until now, they have almost always reacted in a hostile manner, which is understandable.

  The struggle for survival must have been terrible, possibly including

  cannibalism. We shall keep to the middle of the river.

  Sometimes, boats are to be seen, but we have not yet discovered any in the water. They are probably afraid of the contaminated river. However, the

  radioactivity is minimal. Perhaps biological or chemical substances. We

  haven’t seen any fish yet. No crocodiles either.

  *

  *

  *

  *

  *

  We are approaching Wadi Halfa

  The chute of the second cataract was the worst. The river tore along

  roaring and foaming between vertical walls left and right and we shot

  over it like an arrow. Hour after hour, I did nothing else but bail out

  water. Our boat, which groaned in all its ribs and joints, cracked and is leaking more and more. However, I am no longer afraid. Master Jack

  is a fantastic boatman. ‘I have sailed down the Lualaba and the

  Congo’, he said. ‘There isn’t a river that I can’t master!’

  We sailed for days between dried-out clay walls, the muddy deposits

&nbs
p; of the dam through which the river had dug a new bed. All the colours

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  were in horizontal strips, red, ochre, brown and black. Master Jack

  explained that the different coloured strata indicate the years. The

  view is beautiful. It would be even more beautiful if there was not this

  terrible heat. There wasn’t the faintest breath of air and we felt like

  chickens in an oven. I had to control myself not to jump overboard and

  take a refreshing bath. Master Jack warned me that it could have grave

  consequences. He was right. My hands and arms that had touched the

  river water while I was bailing out the boat had begun to itch.

  Towards midday, we saw the rusty remains of a broad box-like iron

  ship hanging out of the clay bank into which it had been baked, the

  bows sticking up, the crushed superstructure turned downwards.

  Again and again, we came upon the bones of animals and human

  beings in the sand and in the shallow water near the shore. Once we

  found a crocodile on a high sandbank. It was dead as a doornail and

  dehydrated like a dried fish.

  Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack

  September 1, 2036

  We are approaching Aswan. It is an unforgettable spectacle. The dam is one of the most impressive ruins of the world. It is as if one were gliding in the hold of a giant super-tanker towards the bombed out bow, ten kilometres long and three and a half wide, jutting up to the left and right about one hundred metres. The river, although it is swollen from the high waters and is held back by what is left of the dam, seems like a small channel between the mighty flanks. There, where the water has broken through and has cut itself a

  channel, rusty reinforcements jut out of the wound up to the crown of the dam, where trees, the remains of boats, and numerous dead bodies had been caught, mummified by the sun. We let ourselves drift cautiously through this gruesome canyon. The water flows in a low cataract over the remains of the dam wall and accumulated debris behind it into a shallow lake strewn with blocks of concrete and broken pieces of machinery, the edges and corners of which are worn smooth and round.

  Aswan no longer exists.

  We spent the night just below the dam on a small island. In the

  morning, I brought Master Jack to shore. He climbed over the ruins of

  the dam the whole day, while I sailed the boat back to the island and