Dragons in the Waters

by Madeleine L'engle

  The time of his mother’s dying had been a time of limbo; it was not until they left the cemetery that he realized completely that both his parents were dead and that he was starting an entirely new life with Aunt Leonis. After the numbness of shock had worn off, a strange irritation had set in; it was worse than moaning and groaning. The smallest trifle sent him into a rage. Soap slipped out of his fingers onto the floor. His socks wouldn’t go on straight. Aunt Leonis overcooked the rice. He was furious with the soap, the sock, the rice, furious with Aunt Leonis.

  She remained patient and unperturbed.

  The humid South Carolina heat thickened and deepened, and although he was used to the heat and it had never bothered him before, now it added to his anger. ‘There’s no use going to bed. It’s too hot. My head’s as wet as though I’ve been swimming.’

  Aunt Leonis looked at him quietly over her half-moon spectacles, then put down her knitting—she was making him a sweater. ‘Let’s go for a walk. If there’s any breeze around, we’ll find it.’

  But no breath of air was moving. The night shadows seemed a deepening of the heat. The stars were blurred. The Spanish moss hung limp and motionless from the trees. The old woman and the boy moved under the thick shade until they had left the trees and stood under the wet stars.

  ‘Look at them.’ Aunt Leonis pointed skyward. ‘They’re all suns, sun after sun, in galaxy after galaxy, beyond our seeing, beyond our wildest conceiving. Many thousands of those suns must have planets, and it’s surely arrogant of us to think of our earth as being the only planet in creation with life on it. Look at the sky, Simon. It’s riddled with creation. How does God keep track of it all?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t,’ Simon had said.

  ‘You’re thinking, perhaps, that he didn’t keep very good track of your mother and father.’

  Simon made no answer.

  Aunt Leonis continued to look up at the stars. ‘I don’t know about you, Simon, but I get very angry with God for not ordering things as I would like them ordered. And I’m very angry with your parents for dying young. It is extremely unfair to you.’

  ‘They didn’t do it on purpose,’ Simon defended hotly. ‘They didn’t mean to die. They didn’t want to die.’

  He was so deep in the reliving of that evening that he did not sense the dark presence moving slowly toward him.

  He heard only the old woman’s voice. ‘I am aware of that. But it doesn’t keep me from being angry. Nor you. You’ve been angry all week, Simon, but you’re taking it out on the wrong things. It’s better to take it out on God. He can cope with all our angers. That’s one thing my long span of chronology has taught me. If I take all my anger, if I take all my bitterness over the unfairness of this mortal life, and throw it all to God, he can take it all and transform it into love before he gives it back to me.’

  Simon dug his hands into his pockets. ‘If he has all of these galaxies and all of these stars and all of these planets, I wouldn’t think he’d have much time left over for people.’

  The dark figure moved slowly, silently, closer to Simon.

  Unaware, Simon continued to look out to sea. He heard Aunt Leonis, her voice as clear in his memory’s ear as though she were present.

  ‘I somehow think he does. Because he isn’t bound by time or quantity the way we are. I think that he does know what happens to people, and that he does care.’

  ‘Why did he let my father and mother die, then?’

  ‘We all die to this life, Simon, and in eternity sooner or later doesn’t make much never mind.’

  ‘I don’t want you to die,’ Simon said.

  The dark figure was nearly on him. Hands were stretched out toward him. One quick push would be all that was needed. Simon was standing exactly where the captain had warned them not to stand.

  From the shadow of the deck came another figure who grabbed the arm of the first. The first figure jerked away and turned with incredible speed to streak down the steps and disappear into the shadows.

  His pursuer, equally swift, leaped after him.

  Simon had heard nothing. He reached across the ocean to the woman who had given him life as much as if she had borne him.

  ‘I’m a very old woman, Simon, and in the nature of things I don’t have a great deal longer to live. But I’ve already so far outlived normal life expectancy, and I’m so fascinated by the extraordinary behavior of the world around me and the more ordered behavior of the heavens above, that I don’t dwell overmuch on death. And I’m still part of a simpler world than yours, a world in which it was easier to believe in God.’

  ‘Why was it easier?’

  ‘Despite Darwin and the later prophets of science, I grew up in a world in which my elders taught me that the planet earth was the chief purpose of the Creator, and that all the stars in the heavens were put there entirely for our benefit, and that humankind is God’s only real interest in the universe. It didn’t take as much imagination and courage then as it does now to believe that God has time to be present at a deathbed, to believe that human suffering does concern him, to believe that he loves every atom of his creation, no matter how insignificant.’

  Simon leaned against the guardrail. He whispered, “O God, I wish I believed in you.” So even at a distance the old woman’s influence worked in him. He sighed deeply, at the same time that he felt strangely relaxed, as though Aunt Leonis had actually been with him there on the deck.

  The breeze lifted, lightened, cooling him. He was ready to go back to the cabin. And he felt no need whatsoever for any more moaning and groaning.

  Poly lay propped up on the pillows in her bunk. She liked the tidiness and snugness of her little cabin; it gave her a sense of protection and peace. She was finishing the last few pages of Wuthering Heights and it was good to be in a warm place while she was feeling the chill wildness of Emily Brontë’s Yorkshire.

  The O’Keefe rhythmic knock sounded on her doorframe.

  “Come in, Charles,” she called, and he pushed through the curtains. “Sit on the foot of the bed and wait a sec. I’ve just got two more pages.”

  Charles sat, lotus-like, at the foot of the bed, but his face held none of the tolerant merriness of a Buddha. When Poly closed the book with a long-drawn sigh, he said, “Pol, do you think Cousin Forsyth likes Simon?”

  “He certainly overprotects him.”

  “But does he like him?”

  Poly hesitated. Then she looked directly at her brother. “No. I don’t think he does. Does Simon feel it? Has he said anything?”

  “No. But Simon is not an idiot. If Cousin Forsyth doesn’t like him, he’s had lots more chance to sense it than we have.”

  “I don’t think Cousin Forsyth likes children. Period. As a matter of fact, I think he’s a xenophobe. But how could anybody not like Simon?”

  “You like him because he likes you. Liking someone isn’t a reasonable thing. It’s a sense, like seeing and hearing and feeling.”

  Poly nodded. “Yah. Okay. Pheromones. But I still think Cousin Forsyth doesn’t much like anybody. Now that you’ve brought it up, Charles, I’ve had the feeling since the first night that he wishes we weren’t on the ship, taking Simon away from his watchful eye.”

  “You’d think he’d be grateful to us for getting Simon out of his way.”

  “He isn’t.”

  “I know he isn’t. What I want to know is why.”

  A timid knock came on the doorframe. Poly called out, “Who is it?”

  “Simon.”

  “Oh, come in, come in.”

  Simon pushed through the curtains. “I saw your light was still on and I heard you talking so I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I came in.”

  “Of course we don’t mind, Simon. Have some bed.”

  Simon perched on the edge of the bunk. “This is the first hot night, and it’s not really hot. Not the way it gets in the summer at home.”

  “It was cold when we left Savannah,” Poly said. “That must be why we feel it.
Benne Seed Island gets hotter than this, too, and so did Gaea.”

  Charles asked, “Simon, is anything wrong?”

  Simon looked down at his bare feet—Cousin Forsyth would not approve—and said, “Nothing wrong. I was just going back into the past.”

  Poly put her hand lightly on Simon’s knee. “We’re going to miss you when we get off the ship day after tomorrow.”

  “I don’t even like to think about it,” Simon said.

  “Let’s not, then. Let’s just remember we have all day tomorrow to be together. Hey, Simon, do you like your Cousin Forsyth?”

  Simon did not answer.

  “I probably shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I didn’t answer because I don’t really know. He keeps telling me that I’m like a son to him, and how happy he is that we can be together. But I don’t think of him as a father, or even an uncle-ly sort of person, and I don’t think he really feels fatherly about me. So that’s why I didn’t answer. Aunt Leonis has never said that she feels like a mother to me, but I know she loves me. And I don’t love her like a mother. I love her because she’s Aunt Leonis. And I guess maybe I don’t much like Cousin Forsyth. I feel that I ought to, but there’s something—I don’t know, but I don’t think I like him. There.”

  Charles said, changing the subject in his own calm way, “Speaking of special dreams, I had one last night.”

  Simon turned and looked at him.

  “It was a good one,” Charles said reassuringly. “It was one of those brilliant pictures, with all the colors more alive than they ever are when we just see them with the awake eye. I think it must have been Dragonlake—I’m going to check it out with Dr. Eisenstein sometime. I was looking at a great, beautiful lake, with small grass-roofed cabins up on stilts out in the water, and a forest behind. And I saw a dugout canoe with two people in it. One was an Indian, a girl, with huge velvet eyes and delicate features and skin that lovely rosy-bronze color. The other was a young man, not an Indian. In fact, he looked very much like you, Simon, except that he had dark hair and he was grown up. When I woke up I thought,—That was Quentin Phair. It was a beautiful picture. Just one lovely flash and then I woke up.”

  “It couldn’t have been Quentin Phair,” Simon said.

  “Why not?” Poly asked. “After all, he was in Venezuela for a long time. He could perfectly well have gone to Dragonlake at least once.”

  But Simon shook his head stubbornly.

  “There is a theory,” Charles said dreamily, “that somewhere in the universe every possibility is being played out.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a comforting thought,” Poly said.

  At that moment there came a firm knock, and Dr. O’Keefe came through the curtains. “Here you are, Simon. Your Cousin Forsyth is worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. O’Keefe. I was hot, and I went up on deck for a few minutes, and when I came down I saw that Poly had her light on—”

  “That’s quite all right, Simon, but maybe you should have told him.”

  “He wasn’t in the cabin, sir, or I would have.”

  Dr. O’Keefe looked at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. Did you three know that?”

  “Heavens, no, Daddy! Go to bed, Charles. Good night, Simon.”

  Charles untwined his legs. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than this. Come on, Simon.”

  Dr. O’Keefe and the two boys left. Poly lay back on her pillows for a few minutes, relaxing, thinking. Then she turned out the light.

  Cousin Forsyth was holding out his pocket watch when Simon came into the cabin. The boy let the scolding slide off him, murmured courteous apologies, got into his bunk, and turned off the light. But somehow Cousin Forsyth had turned the evening sour.

  Miss Leonis sat in front of the dying embers of the fire. Her hand dangled loosely. It should have been fondling Boz’s ear, but she had buried Boz that afternoon, managing with extreme difficulty to dig a shallow hole. She could not lift the old dog to carry him to the grave; despite the gauntness of age he was still too heavy for her; so she dragged him, apologizing for the indignity, until she could push him into the waiting rectangle, barely big enough, and cover his ancient bones with the loose dirt.

  Now she was exhausted. She had been too tired to eat. She was too tired to make the effort of taking off her clothes and preparing for bed. A thought fleetingly passed across her mind:—If Simon should need me I am free to go to him without worrying about finding someone to take care of old Boz.

  She tried to shake the thought away, but it would not go.

  Her empty hand reached for a letter of Quentin’s which she had read earlier in the day:

  “I am anguished, dearest Mama, at the plight of the poor and ill in this beleaguered country. And our wounded soldiers die of infection or exposure because there is no way to care for them. Manuela—and I do have an eye for beautiful women, Mama—is giving me jewels with which to buy ointments and bandages, but we must depend on generosity from the Continent and England for a great deal. Could you turn your kind heart to our predicament? You will know what we most need—quinine, of course, but you will know what else. And I have a flair for tending wounded men. Had I not been your youngest son I might have been a physician.”

  This was the Quentin Miss Leonis knew and loved and understood—even the reference to the unknown Manuela was, in this context, understandable; this was the Quentin she had taught Simon to revere.

  And she had been wrong.

  The next letter held cold comfort:

  “Forgive me, dearest Mama, for the long delay in writing, and if my script is somewhat shaky. I have had an adventure which nearly proved fatal. Somewhat over a month ago I was out in the jungle hunting. I had strayed slightly from my companions, and suddenly I heard a horrid rattling and my horse bolted. He is a spirited but nervy creature and it was some time before I could calm him, and by then I was thoroughly lost. I tried to guide myself by shadows and sun, but evidently misjudged most woefully, and by nightfall I had to admit to myself that I was indeed in a plight. I will spare you details, but I survived in solitude and mounting distress for several days, eating roots and berries and drinking water from various streams. Whether from water, or from insect bites, I do not know, but I fell violently ill of an ague. The time came when I knew that I was dying, and I could do naught but welcome death, though I felt sore alone and near to weeping. Then in my delirium I felt that you were with me, your cool hand on my fevered brow. You held my head up and put water to my lips and I opened my eyes and looked into eyes of black flame instead of cool grey water like yours. Somehow or other I had been transported to a small round dwelling smelling sweetly of fresh grass and flowers. I learned when I was stronger that I had been found by a small party of hunters from the Quiztano village—found just in time.”

  The next letter contained detailed descriptions of the Quiztano village, and then Quentin wrote, “Oh, Mama, what a gift for caring the Quiztanos have in their hands. I was brought back from the very doors of death. Umara says that healing is the Gift of the tribe.”

  The letter which followed dealt impersonally with politics and battles and had only a parenthesis mentioning a few days spent resting with the Quiztanos because of a brief return of the fever. Then, “Oh, my mother, how I am torn. I never would have believed that my heart could thus be rent in twain. Manuela is ever dear to me, and her father, it seems, begins to look on me kindly; it would be an alliance most suitable and you and Papa would approve. And yet my little Quiztana is deep within my heart. We have a dream of making a place where the wounded can be brought and nursed by these gentle people who in no way deserve the name of savage.”

  And then, “Am I fickle by nature? I would never have believed so. I love Manuela not one whit less. I never believed it possible to love two people simultaneously, but I find that it is so. I adore my little Umara who brings healing in her small and beautiful hands.”

  Wearily Miss Leonis let the letters
fall from her hand, but her tired mind kept worrying (like old Boz with a bone) over what she had learned. The Quiztano gift for healing was widely known throughout the peninsula. Indians of other tribes, and even some Creoles, brought their injured or desperately ill people to Dragonlake for healing.

  The young Englishman was deeply impressed by this vocation, and promised, in his gratitude, to provide the Indians with money if any of them wished to be trained as physicians. This was a promise he was quite capable of fulfilling, for he received jewels not only from Manuela. As Bolivar’s victorious forces moved triumphantly through the liberated towns and villages, the General and his officers were greeted not only with flowers, speeches, and songs of welcome, but with jewels, with gold; and Quentin Phair happily received his full share, that being the way of the world. As the liberation of the continent continued he amassed considerable treasure.

  Manuela—whoever she was—became betrothed to a fellow officer, and Quentin’s conscience was relieved. By now his infatuation with the Indian princess outweighed all else. It became his intention to leave his treasure with his—he called Umara his wife, but as far as Miss Leonis could gather they were not married, at least not in any way that would be considered binding in an English court.

  Not long after this there was a bitter entry in his journal. “Why do I tend to idealize, and then get disenchanted? Idolize might be the better word for me to use against myself. It is not my Umara. She is still as lovely and as pure and as good as when I first was brought back to life by her tender hands. But I tried to believe that all the Quiztanos were like my Umara, that they were indeed the Noble Savage—and that is true of some of them, perhaps the majority, but of this I am no longer sure. Others—and Umara’s favorite brother is one—have little patience with the gift of healing, and are deeply involved in smuggling—not that I blame them; they have no reason whatsoever to be loyal to Spain, and they have every reason to ignore Spanish prohibitions against foreign trade. So it is natural for them to be an important link in the chain of smuggling luxury goods which would be prohibitive otherwise. All this I understand. But they do have cause for some loyalty to those of us who have been risking life and limb to set their country free, and they appear to care about us no whit more than they love Spain. I begin to doubt if they will really accept me when I come back from England, but I see no alternative. I wonder if I could take Umara and the child and live in Caracas, perhaps?”