Dragons in the Waters

by Madeleine L'engle

  It was too dark to read, and with the setting of the sun the shadows moved in coldly; in her warm coat the old woman shivered, and went indoors to light the fire, followed by Boz, who nudged at her hand. She moved heavily, unable to throw off the thought that Quentin Phair’s drama was being continued through Simon Bolivar Quentin Phair Renier, and that Simon was in danger.

  Simon, who had accustomed himself to Cousin Forsyth’s snoring, slept. He dreamed that he and Dr. Eisenstein were carrying the Bolivar portrait along the edge of a deep lake; they were running, stumbling over hummocks and tussocks, because a dragon was after the portrait. Dr. Eisenstein turned into Mr. Theo, who put the portrait down, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled loudly. The dragon came hurrying to him, puffing and panting in eagerness, and then Simon and Mr. Theo climbed onto the dragon, who soared into the sky.

  It was a nice dream. It had started out to be a nightmare, and then it turned into fun.

  In his sleep Simon sighed peacefully.

  He woke up shortly after dawn, the memory of his dragon ride fading at the edges of his mind. Cousin Forsyth was still snoring. It would be another hour before Jan ten Zwick or Geraldo would ring the breakfast bell.

  He was wide awake. For a while he tried to get back into the dream, but he could not. The dragon who had carried him aloft had vanished with daylight. The dragon had had a name. Mr. Theo had whistled, and when the dragon had come, he had called him by name. What was it? Then he remembered: Umar.

  That was the word they had heard from cabin 5, and Umar meant nothing to him, although it seemed to have considerable import to whoever was talking with Cousin Forsyth. Why was something written on the back of the Bolivar portrait? Did Aunt Leonis know about it? and if she did, why hadn’t she said anything?

  —Probably because it doesn’t mean anything. Probably because it’s unimportant, just as Cousin Forsyth said.

  But Poly and Charles had not thought it was unimportant.

  He dressed quietly, without waking Cousin Forsyth, slipped out of the cabin, and went to the aft deck.

  The air was fresh but no longer cold; the sky was soft with spring. Mr. Theo was out on deck ahead of him, leaning on the rail and looking out to sea.

  Shyly, Simon went and stood beside him. Next to the O’Keefes, who were a revelation and a joy to him, he was most drawn to Mr. Theo, who sat next to him at table; and the dream had made Mr. Theo even more of a friend.

  “Look, Simon,” the old man said, and pointed down at the water. “Flying fish. There. Like little flashes of silver.”

  “Oh—oh—beautiful!” Simon exclaimed.

  They stood in companionable silence, watching the brilliant brief flashings until the school of fish was left behind them. Then Mr. Theo went and sat on one of the cane chairs under the canvas awning, motioning Simon to sit by him. “We are the two early birds today. I wonder if there will be a mouse to catch.”

  “It’s nice enough, just being here with you, Mr. Theo. And I had a dream about you last night.”

  “Was I an ogre?”

  “No. You whistled for your dragon, and we both went for a ride on it.”

  The old man seemed pleased. “I have always wanted to ride a dragon. I’m sorry I didn’t dream it, too.”

  Simon smiled at him. “You remind me of my Aunt Leonis, and I’ve been homesick for her.”

  “It’s hardly a compliment to her that I remind you of her. I’m nearing eighty.”

  “Aunt Leonis is ninety.”

  “Is she!” He sounded pleased. “And how do I remind you of her, then, since I am such a young chicken in comparison?”

  “She likes Shakespeare, too, especially King Lear and The Tempest. And she loves music. Dr. O’Keefe says that you’re an organist, a famous one.”

  “Not that famous. But I am only part of a person when I am separated from an organ. Does your Aunt Leonis play an instrument?”

  “She used to play the harp, until we had to sell it. And sometimes in the very early morning or in the evening she still plays the flute, though she says she doesn’t have the lips or the lungs for it any more. Are you going to read all of Shakespeare while you’re on the Orion?”

  “If I get through half a dozen plays I’ll be doing well. I, too, love King Lear and The Tempest, but right now I’m reading Romeo and Juliet. He is like a great organ, that Will, and gives me much solace from being separated from mine. So your Aunt Leonis is ninety, eh?”

  “In chronology only. Ninety and not quite a month.”

  Mr. Theo fumbled in his pocket and pulled out dark glasses which clipped on over his regular spectacles. “I once heard someone say that the job of the very old is to teach the rest of us how to die, and I still feel young enough so that I’m looking for someone older than I to teach me.”

  “Aunt Leonis does that. I’m the only person she has who hasn’t died. She was with my mother when she died, and if someone has to die, it’s good to be with Aunt Leonis.”

  “Methinks she’s teaching you how to live,” Mr. Theo said, “but of course they’re part of each other.”

  They lapsed into silence, but it was a good silence. After that brief exchange he felt completely comfortable with Mr. Theo. He could, he thought, tell the old man things that he couldn’t tell anybody else, the way he could with Aunt Leonis. Aunt Leonis was, he supposed, teaching him about both life and death; she had taught him how to be at least a little less enraged at the thought of death in a world created by a loving God.

  After his mother’s death the local minister, Dr. Curds, had come to call, and had immediately alienated Simon by talking of this premature death as the will of God.

  Aunt Leonis looked down her long, aristocratic nose at the middle-aged man in his dark suit. “I wonder how it is, Dr. Curds, that you are so certain that you understand the will of God?”

  Dr. Curds looked at her with patient gentleness. “You must not fight the Lord, my dear Miss Phair. Trust in his will, and he will send you the Comforter.”

  “Thank you. I believe that he has already done so. I also believe that my niece’s illness and death were not God’s will. I doubt very much if he looks with approval on such suffering. It seems to me more likely that it has something to do with man’s arrogance and error. However, being mortal and finite, I do not presume to understand God’s will, so I am not certain.”

  Dr. Curds murmured something about it being part of God’s plan.

  Aunt Leonis replied, “It may be part of God’s plan that a young woman should suffer and die, or it may be the work of the enemy.”

  “The enemy?”

  “Don’t you believe in the devil, Dr. Curds? I do.”

  Dr. Curds murmured again, “The Church in these more enlightened times … the devil seems a little old-fashioned.”

  Aunt Leonis raised her left eyebrow. “I haven’t noticed many signs of enlightenment. And I am undoubtedly old-fashioned. But I do believe that God can come into the evil of this world, and redeem it, and make it an indispensable part of the pattern which includes every star and every speck of hydrogen dust in the universe—and even you, Dr. Curds.”

  Despite his grief, Simon nearly laughed.

  “Hello there, young Simon. Where were you?”

  “Oh—Mr. Theo—I’m sorry. I was remembering.”

  “You go deep into your memories.”

  “Too deep, Aunt Leonis says.”

  “Was that a good one?”

  “No. It was bad, except for Aunt Leonis. It was about when a minister came to call on us after my mother died, and he was horrible, and Aunt Leonis put him in his place. Do you believe in God, Mr. Theo?”

  “I do. It would be difficult to have lived as long as I have and to think that one can get along without God.”

  “Well, I’m glad you and Aunt Leonis believe in God.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I’m not as old as either of you, and he let my parents die.”

  Mr. Theo apparently changed the subject. “Do
you know why I’m on the Orion, Simon?”

  “For a vacation?”

  “Partly. My doctor ordered me to go by sea rather than air. But mostly I’m on the Orion because I’m going to Caracas to hear the first concerts of the pupil who is dearest to my heart. When she was ten years old she was blinded in a vicious accident. But she didn’t moan and groan about God’s allowing such a cruel thing to happen. She just went on with her music.”

  “Am I moaning and groaning?” Simon asked.

  “You’re not far from it, are you?”

  Simon closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Then he relaxed and smiled. “You really and truly are like Aunt Leonis. I’m going to get on with it, Mr. Theo. I really haven’t moaned and groaned for a long time. It just isn’t possible to do much moaning and groaning around Aunt Leonis. This is the first time I’ve been away from home, and I guess I’ve regressed. Mr. Theo, does the word Umar mean anything to you?”

  “Umar?” Mr. Theo repeated. “No, I don’t think it does. Should it?”

  “It was the name you called the dragon. Don’t say anything about it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very well, Umar shall be between the two of us. There goes the breakfast bell. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  Cousin Forsyth had made it clear that in the morning after breakfast he wished to have the cabin to himself while he shaved, so Simon wandered out to the promenade deck. The wind was brisk but the sun was warm. Dr. Eisenstein was settling herself in a deck chair with a plaid steamer rug to wrap round her legs, and a straw basket stuffed with academic-looking magazines and several spiral notebooks. Simon took the ring toss and moved to the far end of the deck, but after he had tossed several rings, missing the post with most of them, he realized that she was looking at him. She smiled at him welcomingly and he crossed the deck to her and bowed politely.

  “It must be very dull for you young ones traveling with us old folk.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, not in the least dull. We’re having a lovely time.”

  “Self-sufficient, eh? Don’t need to be amused? What about television?”

  “We don’t have one, Aunt Leonis and I.”

  “Most unusual for your generation. What are your interests?”

  “Well, ma’am, I’d like to hear about the Indians you’re going to visit.”

  Dr. Eisenstein’s eyes gleamed. “The Quiztanos?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They are of particular interest to the anthropologist because they are one of the very few tribes to remain virtually unchanged in numbers and culture—you see, usually when a country is taken over by a higher civilization, the native strains diminish radically in number, or change from their old ways. Most of the other Indian tribes in this section of South America have either dwindled in number while their culture has deteriorated, or, on the other hand, they have adapted to the ways of the invaders. Los Dragones peninsula was one of the first places on the South American continent to be visited by Spanish explorers in the sixteenth century, but neither the land, which is thick jungle, nor the comparatively small number of Indians invited conquest. And they were not welcoming. According to Dr. Wordsworth’s old Guajiro Indian nurse, the legend that the Quiztanos are waiting for a young white savior from across the sea evidently postdates the sixteenth century, possibly even the seventeenth. I’m not boring you?”

  “No, ma’am.”—But Aunt Leonis makes learning more fun.

  “I’m not used to talking to young children.”

  “I’m not that young, ma’am. I’m thirteen.”

  “Thirteen, eh? I’ll try not to be too dry. But I find it fascinating that long after the Spaniards came, long after the Quiztanos knew white men, and what white men did to the Aztecs, they should acquire a legend about a young white man who will come to them from far away.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s right interesting.”

  “The source of this legend is one of the things I hope to discover when I go to the Quiztano settlement, though I may need a Guajiro contact. Evidently the Quiztanos and the Guajiros have been involved in smuggling together for many generations, and the smuggling trade today is less innocent than it was when the colonists were oppressed by Spain.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Simon saw Poly and Charles emerge from the starboard passage and stand waiting for him. His mind was more on them than on the Quiztanos, but he maintained his expression of courteous interest.

  “Los Dragones peninsula with its almost unpopulated coastline has been easily accessible to small smugglers’ boats, especially since the Dutch occupied Aruba and Curaçao in the early years of the seventeenth century.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “After the wars of independence, when the border between Venezuela and Colombia cut across the southern side of both the Dragones and Guajiran peninsulas, smuggling became even more active.” Suddenly she realized that she did not have Simon’s full attention. She turned slightly and saw Poly and Charles in the background. “Your friends are waiting for you. And here comes Inés—Dr. Wordsworth—looking for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. That was very interesting. I’d like to hear more.”

  “Would you, honestly?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Really and truly.”

  “We’ll get together again, then, shall we?”

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am.” He left Dr. Eisenstein and he and Poly and Charles repaired immediately to the Dragon’s Lair.

  Dr. Wordsworth pulled a deck chair beside Dr. Eisenstein. “I see you’ve found your proper level.”

  “That’s a highly intelligent boy.”

  “Because he was listening to you ride your hobbyhorse?”

  Dr. Eisenstein raised her eyebrows. “You’re in a fine mood this morning.”

  “That blasted Phair. I dreamed about Fernando last night. I haven’t dreamed about Fernando for years.”

  “Try to forget him,” Dr. Eisenstein urged. “Anybody who’d let you take the rap for his smuggling activities isn’t worth dreaming about.”

  “Not only his smuggling.” Dr. Wordsworth’s voice shook with irritability. “Mine, too. You don’t seem to understand that smuggling is as natural a part of my background as juggling income tax is with some of our reputable colleagues. My father was a highly successful dealer in jewels, and so was his father before him, and a good part of their business involved smuggling.” She looked at a chip on one of her nails. “Poor Ruth. Have I shocked you?”

  Dr. Eisenstein spoke with sympathy. “It must have been horrid for you when you found out.”

  “I didn’t ‘find out,’ as you so kindly put it. I always knew. Our family, like many other early colonials, was forced by the Spanish throne into smuggling as a way of life long before I was born.”

  The tenseness in her voice made her friend look at her sharply, but all Dr. Eisenstein said was, “It seems somewhat like the problems my own ancestors in New England had to cope with—such as the Boston Tea Party.”

  “Something like. But for us in South America it was even more intolerable.”

  “But why so much smuggling?”

  “Dear Ruth. You know a great deal about primitive tribes and very little else. Colonists were not allowed to export any products except to Spain. The ships belonged to Spain. All prices were fixed in Madrid—Madrid, mind you—by people who knew nothing of the supply or demand in Venezuela.” Her voice was bitter.

  —But at least she’s not thinking about Fernando. “I do see how unfair it was,” Dr. Eisenstein said.

  “You know how excellent our wines are, and our olive oil?”

  “Superb.”

  “They were superb in the early days, too, but the colonists were stopped from planting vines and olive trees because they were forced to buy wine and oil from Spain, at high prices. And any interprovincial trade tried by my forebears was exorbitantly taxed. So do you see how smuggling of wine and oil and spices and all the things we ourselves could grow became inevitab
le?”

  “I suppose I do,” Dr. Eisenstein said.

  “It was not the kind of criminal activity I can see you think of all smuggling as being—unless it’s your precious Quiztanos.”

  “No, no—”

  “We never went in for blackmail or extortion. We were not like Fernando, who blackmailed as he breathed. And he was willing to sell anything to anyone—jewels, oil-well parts, wine, drugs, women. He almost sold me, but I preferred jail.”

  “Oh, Ines.” Dr. Eisenstein leaned forward in her deck chair and clasped her small hands about her knees. “Don’t keep at yourself this way.”

  “I want a drink,” Dr. Wordsworth said.

  “This early?”

  “Coffee.”

  “All right,” Dr. Eisenstein said. “I’ll ring for Geraldo. How about a game of gin rummy?”

  “You’re very kind, Ruth,” Dr. Wordsworth said. “Sometimes I wonder why you put up with my bad temper. Yes, by all means let’s play gin.”

  It was warm and comfortable in the Dragon’s Lair. The breeze had summer in it, and Simon took off his fisherman’s cap and let the wind ruffle his hair.

  “What were you and the professor talking about?” Poly asked curiously.

  “She was telling me about the Quiztano Indians. She’s a very nice person. She doesn’t know much about children, but once I’d persuaded her I was thirteen and not three she treated me like a human being.”