The Shinar
Violent floods have ever shaped the lives of those poor farmers and goatherds who make their homes along the banks of the Tiger and Ibex Rivers. Each year, just as the summer heat finally breaks over the desert, a season of torrential rain begins in the Karun Mountains to the north and east of the Shinar. The hotter the summer, the heavier the rains. That is the way it has always been.
In the beginning, the mountains soak up the rain-drops. After months of hot, dry days, wherein nothing can grow, the downpours are a blessing. Plants and animals drink deep. During a particularly wet year, a man might see the dandywillows grow and blossom in a single afternoon. But as with all of nature, what starts as a blessing quickly turns destructive.
The waters rise. Tiny streams swell to become raging rivers. Lakes fill until they can hold no more. Rivers overflow their banks, uproot trees and carry them like the clubs of savages, crushing the life from everything in their path. Even the soil, the earth mother herself, is washed away. Nothing can stand against the torrent.
When the mountains can no longer contain the fury, the water gushes through the Withered Hills and onto the valley.
Fields are swallowed. Herds are drowned. Homes are set adrift or else battered to nothingness by the unstoppable weight of the water and the continual pummeling of the debris carried in one colossal rush to the sea.
As often as not, the floods come without warning, leaving the people woefully unprepared. Children are swept away, only to be discovered weeks later, caught in the remains of a fence or washed against a rock. Their tiny, sun-browned bodies turned white and bloated. Mothers and fathers are drowned, leaving orphans to live or die as they are able. Entire families disappear, so that there is no trace of their ever having been. Sometimes whole villages are run under by the deluge — the land wiped clean by the god of storms.
Days and weeks pass. The waters recede. Eventually, the Tiger and Ibex form two distinct rivers once more, snug in their beds, and those left alive begin the long season of rebuilding.
It is not so difficult. The gods demand sacrifices but leave gifts. With each flood, the farmers are delivered a thick layer of new soil. Soil so rich and dense that they need only cast their seeds upon the ground and plants will spring up. The once ravaged flood plain is soon brimming with new life.
After a season of growth, barley and dates will be ready to harvest. Goats, grown fat from the lush grass, are mated or slaughtered. In due time, brewers, tanners, and weavers will ply their trades. The more violent the flood, the more abundant the surplus. That is the law of the land.
Finally, summer rolls around once more and the farmers, goatherds, and tradesman alike will go to the temples to make sacrifice. Some will offer food. Others give precious baubles or bits of metal. But whether they come bearing riches or hands clasped on empty air, all will pray: “Gods bless us.”
Does this mean that they desire another crashing torrent? None can say.
The gods give and they take away. That is the way things are in the Shinar. That is the way it has always been.
From Slaves of the Shinar
The Overlook Press 2007
© Justin Allen
