Nineveh's Child

by Gerhard Gehrke

  “Enjoy each sip,” Karl said.

  Uma shot him a look.

  “Are the fog collectors not working?” Dinah asked.

  Uma ignored the question. “Did you get the goats all back in their pens?” Dinah nodded. “Then fetch me the salt from the kitchen.”

  “Uma, we can let her know,” Karl said. “It’s best if she knows. That way we’ll all understand why we’re being extra careful with how much water we use.”

  “Fine. You tell her. Dinah, come here and keep stirring. I’ll get the salt.”

  There were three pots all going at the same time. One pot of milk simmered ever so slightly. This would be for their cheese. Another smaller pot of thicker fatty cream was kept hot but didn’t boil. The third was heated water. These two would become butter. She took a thermometer from the table and checked the cream and the water. They both were at the same temperature. A pair of long pans were already set aside to receive the butter once it was time. She stirred the milk and cream pots.

  “What’s wrong with the fog collectors?”

  “The water silo is low. So low, the draw pipe is above the waterline, so now no more water will come down the hill. That leaves us with what little there is from the water well.”

  “Is the air well broken?”

  “No. And all of the collectors are up and in good order.”

  “It’s been so hot. There’s no fog.”

  Karl nodded. “You are the smart one. It’s the warm water currents. If the hot air doesn’t hit cold ocean water, we get no fog.”

  “Maybe that will change.” She checked the thermometers again. When Karl didn’t say anything, she added, “Maybe it will rain.”

  “So I hope and pray.”

  Uma returned with the salt and added some to the empty pans. Dinah helped her pour off the liquid milk from the cream into a separate container. They then took the remaining butterfat and put it into a bucket. Uma directed Dinah to add some of the heated water. A lid with a stirring mechanism on the bottom went on top of the bucket. Uma attached a handle and churned. After a minute, she checked the contents and appeared satisfied. She had Dinah pour the bucket of thickened fat in even quantities into the pans with the salt. Uma began to press down on the lumps with a spoon and greasy water came out of each mass. She tilted the pans and poured the water off into yet another basin. This salty liquid would be given to the animals.

  After working as much water out as possible, she spread the white substance evenly. The butter would cool and congeal and then be cut into bricks. Uma and Karl would trade much of it.

  “There’s still water in the bottom of the collector tank,” Uma said. “We’ll draw it up and carry it to the house so we have enough to drink. The well water we’ll use for everything else.”

  Dinah would be drawing and carrying, of course.

  “And when it’s empty?” Dinah asked.

  Uma’s hand shot out like lightning and slapped her across the cheek. The suddenness of it surprised her. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was only one of a dozen times Uma had ever struck her in the six years she had lived at the farm. Dinah stood there trembling. Tears began to well up.

  Uma’s expression was one Dinah hadn’t seen on her before: she looked scared. And then, just as suddenly as her hand had moved, her normal commanding demeanor returned as if nothing had happened, and she went back to the first pot of milk.

  Karl came up beside Dinah and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  “You’ve worked hard today,” he said. “Why don’t you go and play, and I’ll help Uma finish up here.”

  ***

  The small hours of the morning were when she would think about the world she had left and try to remember what her brother even looked like. What she always came back to was that he was in constant pain. Nineveh had done that to him. Could he have survived this long? Anytime she tried to ask Karl about Nineveh or her brother, he put her off. Uma would get downright angry. But Dinah could count on her own pain as a reminder of where she had come from.

  This morning, it struck at sunrise.

  It started around her right eye, a slow throb like the butt of a spoon pressed into the socket. Each heartbeat sent a wave of pain through her skull. Soon the agony washed over her like a pounding tide, wave after wave, through her eye and into her brain. She put the edge of the pillow into her mouth and ground her teeth on the fabric. Breathing steadily became problematic, and it felt better not to breathe at all. The eye throbbed and throbbed and throbbed until she thought it would pop. A thumping began from within her head, as if some goblin with a hammer and steel boots was kicking and banging to an evil rhythm. She needed air. She inhaled but immediately regretted it, as the simple act of breathing made her want to vomit. But nothing would be worse than pushing back the sheet and opening her eyes.

  She heard the shutters being closed. Light still crept in through the cracks. Someone sat next to her on the bed. If it was an embodiment of death, she would kiss him before he relieved her of her life. Uma’s warm hand reached under the sheet and touched Dinah’s brow. Dinah whimpered.

  “Why doesn’t she get up?” Dinah heard Rosalyn ask.

  “Hush,” Uma said. “Go finish breakfast, and do your chores.”

  Uma got up from the bed, and Dinah heard the soft shuffle of her footsteps leaving the room.

  “You’re faking it,” Rosalyn said.

  She couldn’t answer her, couldn’t speak at all. It took all her will to keep the little that was in her stomach from bursting out like a geyser. She breathed in rapid gasps. Tears stung at her eyes. There was still too much light. It burned like fire. She swallowed hard. The light had to be stopped.

  “Close the curtains,” she gasped. “Please.”

  The daggers in her head pushed even deeper. She didn’t hear Rosalyn move to close the curtains, but she was sneaky like that. With both shutters and curtains blocking the light, the darkness should have been total, but it wasn’t. Light still got through. Some of it came not from the sun or anything beyond her sheet, but from within her head, as if an infant star was being born, igniting, burning, giving the goblin light to work by. The pattern of illumination pulsed with its own rhythm, forming lines of yellow and orange that seared her vision.

  “If I have to do the goats, you’ll pay,” Rosalyn said.

  After a few minutes, Uma returned. “Why are you still here?” Dinah heard a smack. Any answer would be the wrong one, so Rosalyn just left the room.

  Uma sat again on the bed. She tugged the sheet back and began to wipe Dinah’s head and neck down with a cool, damp cloth.

  “I put tea down on your nightstand,” Uma said. “It will help when you can bear to get up and sip it.”

  The thought of anything going down her throat was too much. She leaned over the side of the bed and retched. Uma had a basin ready, but nothing but a long gob of spit came out. Dinah coughed. The pain in her eye and head doubled, then trebled, as the light still inside the room assaulted her.

  Uma waited patiently until Dinah finished, keeping the damp towel on her neck, and straightened the sheet so it covered her. She closed the door as she left, leaving Dinah in gloom that still contained too much light.

  Her Pallas Athena wanted out, and the only way to escape was to blow Dinah’s head to pieces.

  ***

  Time distorts when you try to measure it by seconds. It could have been hours after her headache started; it could have been minutes. The light of the day had changed and the sun no longer hit the shutters of her room. The oppressive heat of the upstairs bedroom told her it was late morning or even noon.

  Uma was with her again. She tried to get Dinah to drink the now-cold tea. Dinah whimpered. Tears came as the frustration and agony wore away at her spirit. She kept the sheet tight around her head.

  Kill me, she wanted to say.

  Uma hummed a gentle tune. The sound was oddly pleasant, not quite a balm but at least a distraction, something to focus on that wasn’t the hammering t
hrob. Maybe the tune would appease the goblin, make him cease his labors. When Uma held her hand and rubbed it, Dinah seized hers back and didn’t let go.

  Uma came by again in the evening. She had sop bread and broth. This time she tugged at the sheet and pulled it back. She wiped Dinah down with another moist cloth. Dinah could smell her own sweat, and her mouth tasted like acid.

  “When your stomach is calm, you’ll need to eat something. Your tea is still here.”

  Dinah nodded. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. She had taken to counting numbers. When that failed to distract her, she tried multiplication, but her thoughts raced and zigged and zagged too much. She knew the products of her head-math were wrong. She returned to counting. Concentrated on breathing slowly. The throbbing continued, but the goblin was tired. For some reason, she sobbed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Hush.”

  With that, she left her alone again. The sun granted her a measure of mercy by finally setting. Chilly air began to push its way into the room. The fog was rolling in.

  8. Pink Skin

  After dawn, Dinah found a fresh print left by the bird. A moment of fear filled her as she wondered if the print wasn’t from the same monster. What if there were two, four, or a dozen of the giant birds? Yet it was only a single pair of prints that she discovered in the dirt near the trees where Roger the dog had been focused. She even found some poop that might have been the bird’s, a batch of large brown pellets unlike any other scat she had ever seen.

  If the bird was nearby listening, it knew Dinah was still there, as the morning with Mike and Michelle had been anything but quiet. Dinah had her sensor in her pocket. She would keep it with her in case it made its noise. She moved as silently as possible as she foraged, picking up a few more edible plants and bugs along the way. She only had one full trap, a squirrel; the others were empty even though two had been tripped. Under one tree she found five strawberries the size of her smallest fingernail. She ate two. They tasted so tart she couldn’t help but scrunch her face. The other three would be a nice treat for later.

  A healthy bed of moss grew near the strawberries. She gathered a handful before heading back.

  Mike was doing his toilet business far enough away from camp to be polite. He didn’t notice as she approached. She turned her back and waited until he finished before returning to the spring. Michelle sat up on one of the rocks, looking as wretched as ever. She appeared cold even though the morning was warm. The dog was busy sniffing about the tree where the bird had been.

  Mike was washing up when Dinah showed him the dead squirrel.

  “You’re quite the hunter.”

  “I manage.”

  She set the squirrel down and began to gut, skin, and clean it, and then put it on a stick. Flies buzzed about, more than the day before. Mike helped with getting the fire back up. She noticed his hands. Despite several cuts and dirty fingernails, they looked soft, with nary a callus in sight.

  “You’re no farmer,” she said.

  “How’d you know?”

  She pointed to his hands. He held them up as if they were evidence in consideration of a crime.

  “No, I’m not. But I only said I had a farm, not that I was a farmer. I’ve always worked as a land surveyor, assayer, or accountant. I’ve been good with numbers all my life. Whenever my neighbors had a dispute about who a field belongs to, they always came to me. We had a tenant that worked our land.”

  “So you’re like a lawyer or a judge?”

  “I prefer mediator. There’s less of an air of authority to the title.”

  Dinah got some water boiling in the pan. Some anise and licorice went in. It would prove a weak tea, but something warm with a little flavor worked wonders for morale.

  “You haven’t been out here long yourself, have you?” Mike asked.

  “Not that much longer than you, I figure.”

  “Where’s your family? Did they…”

  “I was living with my aunt. She’s dead.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry. It was them, wasn’t it?”

  The strangers. Hunters. The men with silver eyes. They were seen on occasion passing through the villages. No one knew what to call them because no one talked about them. Uma hadn’t. Karl hadn’t. Anytime Dinah had asked, the subject was changed. But everyone knew where they came from. Nineveh.

  Dinah also knew who they were after.

  “Over the years,” Mike said, “whenever they came to town they would always just pass through. We’ve seen them before, both on foot and with their trucks. They almost never spoke to anyone and never let anyone get close to them or their equipment. They just used their tech, taking samples of the ground and air. The last time was a year ago. They came through and dug up some dirt near one of the farms and took it. They gave the farmer a gold coin in exchange for a chicken. The chicken went into a plastic cage. They definitely weren’t interested in it for food.”

  He paused. His jaw clenched. “But this time, they went from farm to farm…”

  He trailed off and busied himself with rearranging the contents of his pack. To Dinah, it looked as if he had taken a random drawer of useless stuff and dumped it in. He produced a bundle of some twenty book pages that had been part of a complete volume at one time. She couldn’t get a good look at it to see the superscription on the top page. He rubbed some tears from his eyes. Maybe he needed a moment. She climbed up the rocks to the top of the pool and offered Michelle a strawberry.

  “They’re sour,” Dinah said when she took it.

  Michelle stared at the tiny piece of fruit for a while as if it was some alien thing. If she didn’t know how to eat for herself, Dinah wasn’t going to help.

  “You should have told us about the bugs in the mud,” Michelle said softly.

  “I hadn’t seen them before.”

  She continued to look at the berry. Finally, she ate it. Dinah didn’t get the satisfaction of a pucker. Michelle went back to gazing down at the water.

  Roger the dog vaulted up the rocks. He gave Dinah’s feet a sniff and seemed to decide that, as of this morning, she was part of his group. She cautiously gave him a pat on his head. His tail waggled. Then his ears went up, and he looked downstream toward the thick green growth where the water flowed out from the pool. He started to growl.

  “Shut up,” Michelle said, but the dog paid her no mind.

  “What is it, Roger?” Dinah asked.

  Mike was looking that way too, his pack forgotten. A young, slim man was approaching, scrambling up the side of the stony creek bed at the pool’s lower edge. He wore a broad-rim straw hat and a large pack and carried a walking stick. He continued up the boulders and offered a wave as he approached Mike.

  “Greetings, friend,” the man said.

  Mike was now standing, and he kept the fire between himself and the newcomer. Dinah could see that the man looked dirty, as if he had been rolling in the mud hours before and the caked layers were drying on him like a new skin. One hand was wrapped with a cloth.

  “I come in peace,” the man said. “I am following this blessed stream, and I see that it comes from such bounty. Oh, what a treasure of life’s sacred fluids! May I partake, brother?”

  Mike gestured to the pool. “Of course. Help yourself.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.” The man set down his pack and stick, pulled off most of his clothes, and climbed down to the water. He waded in without hesitation. A cloud of brown erupted from his filthy body. He splashed, drank, and giggled like a child.

  Mike shot a look up at Michelle. The stranger continued to paddle about and was now muttering to himself and paying his onlookers no mind.

  Mike pulled the roasted squirrel from the fire and set it aside. He watched the stranger finally come out of the water and climb back up the boulders.

  Now free of dirt, the man’s skin looked bright pink, like a newborn baby’s. No hair, no lines, no scars. Not the pale skin of a grown white man, nor the sunburned r
eds and browns of someone that worked in the sun, as so many did in the valley, but pink. The man rumpled his hair and plowed it back away from his face. He had eyes of brilliant blue. Maybe it was a trick of the light. He’s so weird. Dinah couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  “Come from the valley?” Mike asked.

  “From the coast, aye, and through the valley. And finally I stumbled upon yon trickle of mud where once water flowed, found the stream, and lo, here it bubbles forth like a bowl of God’s happiness upon the tortured ground.”

  “Are you alone?”

  He nodded.

  “What troubles on the coast drove you up this far?”

  “The same that drives you valley people away from your farms. The doom brought about by the strange men. The maker, the creator, and the Goddess have all seen fit to give us another day of life.”

  The fire popped. Mike kept his eyes on the man. He was slim but not starved or gaunt. Since he had come out of the pool he had not looked once at the roasting squirrel.

  “But forgive my manors,” the man said. “Call me Gregory.”

  “Mike.”

  “And who are the two ladies?”

  He still hadn’t glanced up at them. Dinah knew then that she needed to leave. The oasis had played its part, but this stranger made her feel unsafe.

  “They’re with me,” Mike said. “Once you have your fill of water, I respectfully ask that you move along.”

  The man chuckled. It was a long, drawn-out, closed-mouth affair that kept going and going. He nodded and then shook his head.

  “Oh, you,” Gregory said with a chiding tone. “I have no interest in sharing flesh with you or taking your mates or plowing your family under with my seed. You have nothing that I want.”

  Gregory reached for his clothes and began to dress despite still being wet. He put on his hat, then reached into his pack and produced something small that he fiddled with. It beeped. The beep sounded familiar. It was identical to the noise Dinah’s device made.