by Jon Saboe
In his cabin, sicker than any Azu would ever admit, Peleg was forced to smile wryly at this turn of events. Immediately prior to the launch, Captain Phaxâd had held a meeting where two possible courses of action were discussed. The first, obvious option was to head south, continue around the southern continent, and head for home. If they made good speed, and didn’t run into any difficulties, they might just meet their twelve-year goal, and receive the hero’s welcome which was so unquestionably due them.
The other option (which Phaxâd had felt duty bound to mention) was to head north and find the opening into the Great Western Sea, which he and Thaxad claimed to have visited many years before. They could then head to some Minoan port, take their discoveries and reports, and hike back to the plains. It would only take a couple months, and would guarantee them a safe and timely arrival.
Consensus instantly and unanimously chose glory. Later that week the Urbat had headed out to sea, charting a southern course to home. There had been no sign of ill weather until this storm struck. The elements had vetoed their decision.
The Urbat continued to pitch, roll, and sometimes even corkscrew as the froth and torrents pummeled her. They were fortunate that she had just been repaired, refitted, and (in some places) rebuilt. The vessel which had limped into their last port would have been completely dismantled by now—and there was no indication that the pounding squalls would subside anytime soon. The men strapped themselves in their bunks or against bulkheads. The crewmen who normally slept in hammocks tried to rest tethered to an oarpost or other wooden protuberance.
Peleg released his restraints and tried one more time to get up and read the compass he had suspended from his cabin ceiling—which was currently swinging in a strange, oval spiral. Hopefully, he might be able to hold it level long enough to attempt a reading. But as he reached for it, the ship fishtailed, and he skidded across the floor, landing in a heap near the doorframe. He crawled back to his bunk on all fours and clambered onto the bed. He grit his teeth in anger as he reached for the restraining lines.
His mind screamed out in a vain and foolish attempt to somehow control the gale. It just wasn’t right that the Cosmos was uncontrollable. And that he was so helpless.
On the thirteenth (approximate) day of the storm, the waves and rocking began to subside, and within a few hours, the heavy clouds could be seen moving past them to the northeast. Eventually the rain abated, and soon the skies began to clear, revealing a late afternoon sun in the west. Slowly the men emerged from the holds and their cabins to look with fondness at the clearing skies.
They noticed land to the east which appeared to turn into a large channel, and as the Urbat continued to bob towards the north, they soon saw land appearing on the far side of the channel.
Peleg approached Thaxad who stood at the railing, watching the new land emerge. He heard Peleg behind him and turned.
“Start taking some measurements,” he instructed without comment or greeting. “We need to determine where we are as soon as possible.”
“I really can’t do much until I see where the sun goes down,” said Peleg, pointing over his shoulder.
“Of course you can,” snapped Thaxad. “There is a quarter moon just rising over there. Measure the distance between them, and its direction, and using your almanacs you should be able to determine our latitude and date.”
Peleg nodded in submission. He could just make out the moon’s wedge through the haze of distant rain. This would be a great deal of extra work. If he could just wait a few hours, he could avoid all of the extra calculations.
“Look!” someone shouted.
The Urbat was now centered between the two strips of land, and turned directly into the channel in the distance. They could now see the ridges on either side of them curving concavely off in the distance. It was a perfectly balanced picture; and they could see what appeared to be a great expanse of water that spread out beyond the channel and disappeared into the horizon. But this isn’t what had caught their attention. Arching above the channel in perfect symmetry was a large, beautiful rainbow which seemed to straddle the channel, creating the illusion of a large, multi-colored, radiant tunnel which appeared to be inviting them in. Rising up in the center of the arc was the sliver moon which seemed to have its own bands of coloring as it sparkled—filtered by the mist’s vibrant spectrum.
Captain Phaxâd joined the men as they enjoyed the display, but Peleg turned to look at Thaxad, who seemed, instead, to be in shock. He was swallowing hard, and shaking his head slightly.
Peleg moved closer to him, and heard him mutter, “It’s the promise!” But when the Mentor noticed Peleg, he looked away, pretending to have said nothing.
Thaxad motioned for Captain Phaxâd.
“It looks as if somehow we have arrived outside the Western Gateway,” he said. “We’ve never seen it from this side, but as soon as Peleg verifies our latitude…” he turned and scowled at Peleg, “I’d say that I’m quite confident we are here.”
“I agree,” said Phaxâd. “I even think I can see the tall rock outcropping to the north.”
The rainbow slowly faded, but Thaxad continued to stare in its direction long after it was gone.
Once the men realized where they were, there was a silent acceptance of the fact that there was now no chance of returning home via their first option. The joy of surviving the storm was greatly dampened by their realization that there would be no great fleets of welcome vessels or fireworks in their honor as they returned triumphantly from their Great Discovery Expedition. Instead, they would eventually have to announce their arrival by messenger across land. If they were fortunate, they might receive a small parade.
The channel did, indeed, open up into the Great Sea, and Captain Phaxâd ordered the Urbat to proceed due East. Somehow Thaxad produced a simple chart of the northern coastline, which Captain Phaxâd chose to use as a reference. A stiff breeze propelled the newly unfurled sails quickly eastward, and the oarsman enjoyed the first respite they had known in months. There was also an increased optimism since, for the first time in over eleven years, they had a mental image of where they were—and of how close home was. The knowledge that one will soon be reunited with loved ones always has a calming and encouraging effect on any man.
Three weeks later, the Urbat entered into a small tributary along the northern shore (indicated on Thaxad’s map) to renew their fresh water supply. A sweet breeze blew across the bow, while the oarsman once again resumed their task of propelling the ship.
Peleg was once again aloft in Zini, but instead of taking celestial measurements or charting calculations, he was simply marveling at the expanse of thick deciduous treetops which spread out before him like a lumpy carpet of clashing greens. He could almost imagine them to be sea waves, and he sensed—as if he were back on the empty sea—the curvature of the horizon as it tipped away from him.
Nobody saw where the first fireball came from, or when it struck. Those on deck heard a low whistle, followed by a watery thud as a large burning sphere struck the forecastle which was immediately covered in flames.
Peleg saw none of this, but turned sharply to look down when he heard men yelling and calling for water. The blaze was traveling down into the ship, and small eruptions tossed sparks, creating black scorch marks which traveled up the nearby ropes and sails, blossoming quickly into new flames.
Small buckets were hastily dipped into rainwater barrels and poured on the blaze, but instead of quenching the fires or producing steam, the flames sputtered and actually increased—as if fanned from below.
Peleg quickly scanned the horizon for some answers, and saw another fireball loft from a clearing in the East and pass him to strike the Urbat directly on the poop deck. Immediately the aft was engulfed in flames, and Peleg felt a jerk as the hemp cable which tethered Zini was burnt through.
He was now adrift, but he focused his eyes back on the clearing. A third volley lifted and then dropped towards the ship. At first it appeared that
it would fall short, but at the last moment it struck the side of the ship, and the oily flames poured into the portholes and rowing docks.
The sails were now almost completely consumed, and the flames spread fiercely like a grease fire. Yells had now turned into screams, as men below deck were unable to escape. There was now no attempt at saving the ship, as deckhands frantically tried to maneuver past the flames and dive overboard.
An acrid smell wafted past Peleg, and he looked down to see that his hemp tether was burning like a fuse and swiftly approaching the base of his gondola. Soon black spots appeared along the edges of the floor, and before long, small flames were sprouting from the sides.
He scooped up his charts and papers and shoved them into his chest-pack—cinching up his waist-cord to keep it secure. He pulled himself up by the envelope lines, and stood on the lip of the gondola. The twisted reeds puffed into a smoldering blaze, and he found himself engulfed in a cloud of noxious hemp and frond smoke.
With sweat streaming down his face, he pulled out his knife and began trying to saw through the ropes that held the gondola. He had to prevent the fire from spreading higher, and the only way was to cut off its path. He was now more than eighty meters above the water, and was actually floating over the northern shoreline. Hot smoke filled the envelope, causing sharp upward tugs at unexpected intervals.
The woven reed ledge he was standing on gave way, collapsing in a cloud of carbonous sparks, and he tumbled down until his elbow caught part of the mesh that held the balloon. Holding with one arm, he managed to cut away the rest of the carriage, and soon it fell beneath him trailing smoke and flames. He was now dangling beneath the balloon, and he twisted to look back towards the Urbat.
The ship on which he had spent the last twelve years of his life was now nearly divided in two from the incessant red and purple flames which continued to gut it. The sails were little more than charred posts, and he was horrified to see very few men swimming nearby. A thick orange cloud covered the surrounding waters, and it appeared unlikely that anyone could survive the fumes.
He continued to drift eastward, away from the ship, but just before he reached a point where he could no longer discern details, he thought he saw two heads emerge a good distance away from the ship, as if they had swum underwater to avoid the chemical cloud. One head, covered with bright red hair, and the other, adorned with a brightly colored headpiece, identified them as the Captain and Utebbibassu. A third, white head emerged, and Peleg thought for a moment that it was Thaxad, and that he had advised them to swim the extra distance to avoid the poisonous smoke. But at this distance he could make out no movement, and he decided they were probably just as dead as the others. Their bodies had simply surfaced further out. Burning sweat dripped into his eyes, and by the time he had wiped them with his free hand, he could see nothing but the column of black-orange smoke ascending into the sky.
He hooked his other elbow into the mesh, and the balloon, which was now out of control, was tipping wildly from side to side. It was now descending quickly, and soon he would be brushing the treetops with his feet. In the past twelve years he had not lost his fear of heights; however, there was no clear place to land, and his fear of crashing was even greater. His only chance was to plow through the smaller branches until he identified a limb that could support him, and somehow grab on as he blew past. He was sure to be scraped and bruised, but with a bit of luck, he could hopefully climb down in one piece.
He kept his eyes clear as he watched for the right moment, and soon small branches were whipping his legs and feet. Looking ahead through the foliage, he saw the perfect branch, took aim, and swung out to meet it.
His branch struck him squarely in the chest, knocking the wind out of him, but he managed to catch it under both arms. He also caught it under his chin, and his teeth clacked together painfully. He hung there for a moment trying to refill his lungs, and then slowly hauled himself over to the trunk.
When he reached the ground, he collapsed, curled up on his side. His mind was a raging mixture of despair and incredulity. The enormity of what had just happened began to overwhelm him, and unanswerable questions pounded him from all regions of his mind.
Where had such fire come from? There was no natural explanation he could conceive of. Besides, it seemed that the Urbat had been carefully and accurately targeted. That could only mean a deliberate attack. But who? And why?
Cool evening air began to spread through the trees, but he had no thoughts about survival—or provisions. He decided he would simply stay curled up on the ground and do nothing. Being lost, cold, and hungry no longer had any meaning or concern for him. It really didn’t matter whether he died now, (as his shipmates had), or at some other time in the uncaring future. Slowly his body and mind shut down.
He didn’t even react when he heard approaching voices, nor did he respond when they found him and addressed him in yet another unknown language.
And when they bound him in some type of leather braids, he didn’t resist. He was immune to the unknown and apathetic to the future.
Ultimately, his fatigued mind reasoned, the final outcome was already determined.
Part III
The Source
Reality is that which, when you stop
believing in it, doesn't go away.
Phillip K. Dick
Chapter 31
Recovery
“Despair is anger with no place to go.”
Loud shouting filled the air, while the nearby wind-sirens did their best to compete. Dust clouds choked the sky, and the boy jumped as he heard another stone wall fall to the ground less than a block away, shuddering the earth and spraying the air with jagged, limestone particles.
The first earthquakes had struck early that morning, waking the children who watched in terror as large cracks began to form along the walls and floors. Then their caretakers and nursemaids had deserted them—fleeing the madness of the city—and slowly the abandoned orphans had followed, spilling out, confused, into the chaotic, dusty streets.
Horses and chariots rumbled by—some without drivers, and small groups of people were huddled on the street corners with panicked looks in their eyes, shouting incomprehensibly with hysteric gestures.
It was too much for his little four-year-old mind to absorb. He glanced around, realizing that somehow he had become separated from his fellow orphans, and was now totally alone. He slowly wandered the rubble-filled streets, dodging falling bricks, questioning, trying to make sense of it all. Grown adults spewing nonsense? He passed street corner after street corner, listening to their gibberish until, amazingly, he saw a man with a torn cape running in the street who stopped suddenly and shouted back to one of the groups. They called to him, and he waved frantically and rushed to join them.
The earth heaved again, and another structure collapsed in front of him. The boy decided to head for the edge of the city where the buildings were not so tall. A cloud of black smoke billowed from a fire on his left, and he choked while running, trying to wipe his tears with his filthy hands.
A gang of juvenile looters knocked him down as they hurried to ransack a nearby jewelry kiosk. They needed only grunts and cheers for communication, and soon they were charging down the street, their arms and necks wrapped in bracelets and necklaces, and their fists full of trinkets.
The boy picked himself up, determined to escape the city. He walked, huddled, through the dust and noise, trying desperately to comprehend the panicked voices which accosted him from all directions.
Suddenly he heard something he did understand, and his tiny heart froze.
“The Gutians have escaped!”
He looked up and saw a panicked woman leaning out of an arched window five stories above him. She was looking in the direction of the detention center where Gutians and their sympathizers were held for interrogation, then sent to hard labor.
Gutians!
Every child was taught of the great danger they presented. They stole children in
the middle of the night, mutilated animals and drank their blood, and were always trying to destroy the culture and society which everyone (under the noble leadership of Nimrod) had worked so hard to build.
He had never seen such turmoil, but if anyone were responsible it would surely be them. Gutians were routinely rounded up; but perhaps there had been an uprising…
“Can anyone understand us?” A man across the street was yelling. He was surrounded by several dozen men and women who were all shouting similar phrases.
The young orphan boy dashed over to the man, yelling, “I can, I can!”
The man looked down and grasped the boy’s hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I live at orphan compound seven, and I am ward number twenty-three,” the boy stated dutifully.
Before the man could ask another question, the boy asked, “What is happening? Is this a Gutian revolt?”
“No, nothing like that,” said the man impatiently. “I don’t know what has happened.”
The boy was dismayed to discover that this grown man was genuinely scared. He tugged at the man’s hand.
“Can I stay with you?”
“See that lady over there?” he pointed to a tall woman with a light orange robe, now marred with dust.
The boy nodded.
“Go to her and tell her that Ur-Nammu says you can remain with us—for now.”
The man then looked away and resumed his calls for recognition.
The boy headed over to the lady, who had seen the conversation. She reached down to him and comforted him with a hug.
“Everything will be just fine,” she said calmly.
