by Lavie Tidhar
Lotus
Joyce Chng
Respect the waterway — anon, circa 2100.
It was the smell of burning that woke Cecily up. She got up, wrapped her sleeping robes around her body and padded out. It was still cold, even in this time of morning with the sun shining bright in the sky. She squinted—blue, with white fluffy clouds. It looked like a good day ahead. She adjusted her footing; the boat rocked gently beneath her.
“Good morning,” her companion greeted her. He held a plate of burnt fish. She sighed. After all this time, he was still burning fish. And fish and fuel were not easy to obtain. Those little ikan selar—she was hit by a pang for home—came from their dwindling supplies. They needed to travel down the Waterways for the barter.
However, the fish was still salvageable, just as things were still salvageable in this day and age. She nibbled at them, grimacing at the bitter taste of carbon in her mouth. The flesh was surprisingly sweet. She used to eat them as a child, deep-fried and accompanying a special coconut rice dish her mother cooked. On Sundays, she remembered, when every family member was home. But where was home now?
She washed the fish down with water, savoring the taste of it. Sweet. Slightly brackish. Drinkable water was hard to come by too and every boating folk had their private stash, their hoard. So ironic that they were surrounded by water, water, water.
While she was eating, her companion—he called himself Lent, first name Si—went back to repairing Flotsam, their boat. Flotsam was more than just a boat; he was their house, their shelter and their identity. Without Flotsam, a boater was without a name, without a solid tangible background. Yet, Flotsam had suffered from minor ills—his rotors refused to work after a particularly long journey, or his fuel tanks—ethanol, but hard to distill—were empty. He had served them faithfully, loyally.
Si whistled as he fixed the rotors. He was a trained mechanic and he loved working with machines, getting his hands dirty with engine oil and tools. Cecily watched him with a rush of tenderness in her breast. They were all travelers on the Waterways. He came from an old city called New York, she a tiny island by the name of Singapore. These places were now submerged in water—only the skyscrapers served as reminders of their joined pasts. Home, solid terra firma, was gone.
They were all using new names, even though they keenly remembered who they were. It was better for the Waterways where names did not matter. New names, new places, old Earth. They were still infants when the tsunami and subsequent melting icecaps came and conquered the land. Those who survived the Washing as they called it came out different. Changed. Transformed. And some said “cleansed” and “purified”. Those who lived found, salvaged and built boats. There were even large ships, the size of container ships (or were actual container vessels) serving thousands of families crammed together. They traveled the Waterways too—and trade was always good with the large ships.
Once in a while, boaters would congregate, bunched together for protection, for community. Cecily had seen one or two of these villages. Boats, big and small, bobbing with the waves. Cooking fires sending up curls of smoke. They communicated by kayaks and by signal flares. Boater children grew nimble-footed walking on the planks joining the boats. On certain nights, the boaters would gather at one of the larger boats and tell stories about old Earth, when land was still land. Sometimes, they would sing. Sometimes, they would dance. The boating villages were always temporary. After a month or two, the boats would disperse, traveling the Waterways again.
Si cheered. He had fixed the problem. Flotsam was live! She smiled, placed a straw hat on her head and prepared for another journey.
Of course, there were still patches of land here and there. They were occupied, fought over and occupied again. Many still preferred to live on the boats. Much safer, less cut-throat. The landers were vicious and territorial. Much of old Earth’s history was filled with lander violence. The landers were so jealous of their land that they even forbade contact with any boater. Ironically, some of the small lander communities still depended on the boaters for essential items like food and clean water.
Flotsam moved forward, Si at the wheel now. Cecily made an offering to Maju, the Goddess of the sea, and then stood beside her companion. It would be a long day.
* * *
“Land ho!” What a misnomer! — A common boaters’ saying.
It was not long before they sighted the familiar jagged outline of former skyscrapers. Si was suddenly quiet. They seemed to have traveled back to his old home. As Flotsam approached the place where an impressive Statue once stood, he turned sharply to Cecily and said, “Let’s make it a short visit. There are many better places to go to.”
Cecily wondered about his abrupt change in mood. And “places”. What an odd word to use. But she kept her peace and took over the wheel, watching the former buildings, now frameworks of steel and concrete, come closer. It was a sober yet beautiful sight. There were still people occupying the more stable buildings. They welcomed the arrival of the boaters, because they brought much needed barter and gossip.
A hush fell upon both of them as Flotsam slid along former roads, his rotors chopping noisily. The sounds echoed around them, like a steel canyon. Flights of birds, disturbed by Flotsam’s noisy presence, took flight, their squawks echoing. Cecily could see nets, very fine nets, erected across certain areas, no doubt to net unsuspecting birds. She’d had fried sparrow before. Goddess knows what kinds of birds were being cooked here.
As it was getting late, they dropped anchor next to a building with a “School” sign swinging crookedly from it. In the slight breeze, the sign made soft rattling sounds. They cooked a small dinner—again with fish and some flatbread made a couple of days earlier—and went back to bed, making love before falling asleep.
* * *
Cecily dreamed. She knew she dreamed because she was back at her grandmother’s. There were pictures, photographs and memorabilia hung on the walls. The ancestral altar had lit candles on it. It was the 15th lunar day of the month, for there were fresh lotus blooms—fist-sized pink buds—in the simple porcelain vase.
Her grandmother and her mother were folding paper money into ingots and they were chatting about daily matters. Someone in the family had given birth to a daughter. A relative from so-and-so was getting married. Simple things. Normal things.
Then her grandmother, dressed in a plain light blue kebaya, lifted up her head and beckoned to Cecily who felt as if she was standing in a corner, like some ghost. It was odd, because her grandmother and her mother were now ghosts, people from her past.
“Ci Ci, never forget who you are. Remember your roots, just as the lotus roots dig deep into the soil,” her grandmother said, with a gentle smile in her lips and eyes.
Suddenly, inexplicably, as dreams are, Cecily was showered in petals. Pink lotus petals.
* * *
The next morning saw them sailing down boulevards of water. They did some trade with some of the folk living in the buildings. From the tenants (as they called themselves now) came the supplies of water and some vegetables, grown indoors. From Cecily went soft wool shawls, comfortable for chilly mornings. The temperature never seemed to have warmed up ever since. After the trade and some light-hearted gossip, they bade farewell to the tenants and moved on.
Cecily took the wheel again. She felt at ease with the steering of Flotsam. It felt intuitive. As she steered, her mind eased into a semi-meditative state. She went back to the dream and wondered deeply. She was indeed surprised to see her grandmother and her mother in a dream. They had not appeared to her for a while. She pondered on the images.
Afternoon whispered in a brief downpour, forcing them to drop anchor again. This time, it was an abandoned hotel. Si decided to give Flotsam another once-over while Cecily moved lower deck to do some knitting. She was recently given a basketful of homespun yarn by a woman who lived alone on a small sailing boat. She wanted to make good use of the yarn.
Yet something nudged at her. A s
oft inner voice or some stray thought. She put down her darning needles and wore her poncho (again, from the woman who gave her the yarn).
“I am going to explore the hotel,” she announced to an astonished Si who stared at her with worry in his grey eyes.
“There might be unsavory tenants hanging around,” he protested as she donned her gumboots. “You know how dangerous this part of the Waterways can be. You know, ghettos and the like.”
“You are still stuck in old-Earth thinking,” Cecily chided him gently. Si could be so sensitive sometimes. She brought along her wooden waster, shaped like a medieval longsword. She had salvaged this a few months ago, straight out from an old store selling military ware.
Si looked at her. “I am just concerned, that’s all. You a petite woman and all…”
She laughed. “I have this!” She waved the wooden longsword. “And I know how to use it.” Petite woman? She chuckled and caught sight of her reflection in one of the cupboards. Dark hair, dark eyes, swarthy skin bathed by constant sun. Old-Earth thinking, indeed!
Cecily stepped off the boat and through an open window.
* * *
People are so anal-retentive about the concept of wealth. What is wealth? Money? Riches? Resources? — an excerpt from a neo-Marxist chapbook, circa 2040.
She stepped into a dark world.
A dark and dank world, filled with broken beams, broken window shards and broken furniture. Musty curtains still hung from window frames, torn and frayed. Some had been removed, obviously by inventive tenants. She looked around cautiously for any sign of tenant activity. So far, only silence or a silence laced with the sounds of animals roosting somewhere and of water dripping somewhere.
Water. Her ears perked up and she walked on, using her waster to push away debris. She seemed to be in the mezzanine area of the hotel. It was once grand, this hotel. It was now a hollow husk with a skeletal metal frame and fallen beams. She found a baby grand, still intact, the keys yellowed and the cover mildewed. She played a simple tune—it was rusty and the song vibrated around her. It was a familiar tune and she hummed softly to herself. Then she left the baby grand and headed towards the direction of the dripping water.
The hotel had sagged in the middle, much like a failed soufflé. She found her footing gradually precariously and walked, sometimes crawled on all fours, on the ripe carpeting. It was vivid red velvet once.
Just then the world around her plunged. Concaved sharply. She grabbed onto some protruding beams, swung herself onto a ledge—
—and gazed right into a large pool of emerald water.
Sunlight had lanced in from the top half of the building, illuminating the pool of water and a field of… lotus flowers and leaves.
This time she gawked, just gawked, because the lotus flowers were as big as dinner plates and the leaves were huge, circular. The petals glowed, taking her breath away. There was movement in the water, concentric ripples ever widening and criss-crossing; she spied shapes swimming lazily beneath the surface. Fish. By the look of it, large carp or koi.
She sat down, overwhelmed. She remembered her dream. She also remembered that all parts of the lotus could be used. And the fish. Fresh food. Nelumbo nucifera. Cyprinus carpio. And the pool was huge, by the looks of it, ballroom-size and probably larger.
There was wealth in front of her. She reached out, dipped her right hand into the water and scooped out a handful of the cool-warm liquid. Tasted it and gasped with instant pleasure—it was drinkable water!
Wealth.
She flung a worried look upwards. There were no tenants around. The hotel was empty. This pool of water with its wealth was hers.
With some ingenuity, she knew, she could harvest the lotus leaves and roots. The roots could be used for stews, soups and pickles. Even eaten slightly raw, with crisp sweetness. The leaves could be used to wrap rice. The flowers could yield seeds, also delicious roasted or ground into flour. The fish could be caught, salted or fried. So many possibilities, so many…
And the water. Drinkable. And when treated, definitely usable for so many things. She felt giddy with joy. No more barter, no more hoarding. No more worrying.
* * *
She emerged hurriedly out into the open and clambered back into the boat. Si stood up from the small oven; he was preparing a late lunch. She smelled frying fish and bread. She told herself that they were going to eat much better food now.
“Si!” She called out and he came up to her, his face filled with relief. “You will never believe what I have found…”
“Unsavory tenants?” He teased her, smiling to take the sting out of his words.
“No. Much better.”
She brought him through the hotel window, led him down the dark path leading to the pool of lotus flowers and leaves. He stood stock still, eyes open wide, taking in the sight. Drinking it in.
“This is wealth in front of us, Si!” Cecily said excitedly. “And drink the water. It is definitely drinkable water.”
He did so and his face lit up with elation, like a child eating candy for the first time. “Unbelievable. Perhaps, this place is being fed by some unknown natural source.” He sipped the water again. “Sweet. So sweet.”
They both watched the lotus flowers glowing quietly in the sunlight and marveled at the fish flitting through the lotus stems submerged in the water. They held hands, feeling as though they were Adam and Eve, in an abundant Garden of Eden.
Later, they brought in nets and caught two large carp, obviously well-fed by the nutrients in the pool and heavy with much flesh and milt. Cecily collected a handful of lotus roots, covered in rich dark mud. They had a hearty meal that night, of lotus soup and baked fish. They kept the leftovers in the supply box and went to bed with full stomachs.
* * *
They stayed next to the hotel for a few more days, guarding their treasure. Cecily was secretly well pleased that there had been no other claimants to the wealth. They found it. It was theirs. Si, ever the mechanic and the scientist, attempted to look for the source of the water but to no avail. It was a mystery and Cecily was glad that it should stay a mystery. Imagine what would happen if people started finding the source; wars would break out, she thought darkly.
Cecily harvested some of the large plate-like leaves and wrapped rice with them. The rice came out lightly perfumed and fragrant. Eaten with the fat fish flesh, it was heavenly.
Si created a makeshift mobile of sorts, hung with metal cans, forks and spoons to act as an alarm. If anyone—tenant or otherwise—triggered it, they would know that the pool of lotus flowers had been compromised. Invaded.
It was theirs, and Cecily was determined to keep it that way. It was hard to come by natural sources of food—and such a wealth of it. They both knew sustainable farming, having spent years cultivating their own gardens; they would make sure that the water, the lotuses and the fish remained a permanent fixture.
Cecily had never felt so contented before. Granted that traveling down the Waterways, with its diverse pathways, gave her some satisfaction but this… this wealth was so heartening to the spirit.
She started to nurse thoughts of remaining in the old city, right beside her hotel and its wealth. Not as a tenant per se, but living in their boat and using the wealth. Protecting it from harm’s way. She started having fantasies of having children and having them grow up with the lotuses and fish.
It was immensely heartening.
* * *
Live free — an old saying, circa old-Earth period.
She found herself dreaming about her grandmother. Dressed in elegant kebaya with richly embroidered goldfish and a forest-green sarong, she was cooking something in the kitchen. Even in the dream, it smelled gorgeous and the dream-Cecily experienced a strange thing: her mouth watered, at the smell of the cooking. It must be a festival day in the dream because there were plates of festive food on the kitchen counter. And sweetmeats and multi-colored kueh on platters, in mind-boggling variety.
There wa
s laughter coming from the living room and Cecily walked towards the sound. What she saw confused her.
People whom she had met as a traveler of the Waterways were congregating in the living room. Some sat on the sofa. Some lounged on the floor. Everyone was at ease and laughing. There was the woman whom she had traded the yarn with. There were the tenants whom she and Si had met earlier and exchanged gossip, water and vegetables. Some of the people were less familiar but certainly encountered. A family of six—South Indians—chatted animatedly with the yarn woman; she remembered they gave her spices and gave her recipes in exchange for clean water. A single dusky-skinned man with a day’s growth of beard massaged another man’s back—she had met them at one of the great trading posts. They were big-ship dwellers and were lovers. They taught her how to weave a certain kind of scarf and she gave them two large balls of orange-colored yarn. Even Si was there, chuckling away. He looked much younger, less care-worn. Even handsome.
“Dinner’s ready!” Her grandmother’s voice startled her and there was soft chatter as all the visitors moved towards the large dining table. There were bowls and containers of food and desserts.
There were also curried fish that looked suspiciously like fat carp and bundles of rice (wrapped in lotus leaf). The scents were intoxicating.
“Come, eat, share.” Her grandmother was saying. Cecily watched as the visitors, including Si, approached the table and placed their own contributions on the table. Pakkora. Irish stew. Vegetarian minestrone. Fry bread. Even Si’s burnt fish. And everyone ate from the various dishes, their faces happy.
