Dragons in the Waters

by Madeleine L'engle

“With reason?” she asked.

  Without answering, Vermeer turned the car and drove rapidly down a long street of brightly colored row houses; suddenly the houses began to be separated and set in flower-filled gardens, and then they drove past prosperous and beautiful villas cheek by jowl with shacks made out of rusty corrugated metal and a few planks. The well-kept and imposing houses became fewer and farther apart, and without warning they were driving through a camp of rickety shacks. A sour and acrid stench assailed their nostrils.

  “It looks like a refugee village.” Miss Leonis held her handkerchief to her nose.

  “It’s not. It’s the barrio—ciudad de pobres—the poor of Port of Dragons.”

  “Is this—exceptional?”

  “Oh, no, you will find this everywhere.”

  “I understand why you did not answer my question about revolution,” she said. “At home we see a few shacks, but never a whole city of them like this. They certainly can’t be waterproof.”

  “They’re not.”

  “What happens in a heavy rain?”

  Vermeer’s perpetual grin seemed to widen. “A lot of them wash into the sea.”

  The grin did not deceive her. “How do you stand it?”

  He shrugged. “I do what I can. It is not enough.”

  She looked at the shacks. They seemed to steam in the heat. The laundry hung limp and dirty-looking on the lines.

  “There’s no easy answer,” Vermeer said. “At La Guaira the government built several beautiful high-rise buildings on the waterfront. The people moved out of their shacks and into the apartments, and shortly thereafter most of them moved back to the shacks, where they can have their goat and their garden patch and where the home, bad as it is, is theirs.”

  A group of naked children with bloated bellies waved at the car. Miss Leonis and Vermeer waved back.

  Then the barrio was behind them, and Vermeer drove along a super-highway through a scrubland not unlike some of South Carolina. Vermeer said it was called monte. On either side of the highway were booths where Indians were selling touristy gifts—though Miss Leonis wondered how many tourists would come here; it was hardly a resort area. There were also a number of booths with roofs of palm and banana leaves where native men were stopping to drink.

  Miss Leonis disciplined herself to observe what was going on around her and not to think about Simon, or what was going to happen when they reached the Quiztano village. She asked, “What are they drinking?”

  “Coconut milk.” Vermeer slowed down as they passed the next stand, so she could see that the milk was not sold out of the coconut but was poured in and out of two pitchers. “They add sugar water and ice, so that the coconut milk gets dirty and diluted.”

  She watched as the server hacked several coconuts open with a machete, unplugged them, poured the milk into one of the pitchers, and threw out the coconut with all its meat.

  “It looks highly unsanitary,” Miss Leonis said as Vermeer accelerated. “But the countryside reminds me of home. No wonder Quentin Phair was happy to stay in North America. We don’t have these tall cactus trees, but we do have the palms, and the oleander and bougainvillaea.”

  The highway narrowed and they drove through a village which Vermeer told her was typical of the area. It was gaudy and crowded, houses, shacks, villas, all crammed in together with no plan or pattern. In the center of the town was a square with a big, beautiful church. In front of the carved wooden doors was a little huddle of old men and women in black.

  Miss Leonis regarded it carefully. “In North Florida where some of Quentin Phair’s property was, there is Spanish architecture, too.”

  Vermeer pointed. “Pigs.”

  She looked, and several large pigs were wandering around the central fountain of the square. Shops crowded out onto the street, with Christmas-tree lights still strung up—possibly, she thought,—they never take them down.

  “The houses are interesting,” Vermeer said. “Look at that one, so shabby and poor—and yet you can see through the open door that the furniture is new and chrome. And it has always seemed strange to me that the largest and most prosperous villas front directly onto the street, just like the shacks, instead of facing the river, which flows behind them.”

  “What kind of people live here?” Miss Leonis asked. “And what do they do for a living?”

  They left the village and drove across a long suspension bridge. “Most of them are involved in the oil industry in one way or another,” Vermeer said, and ahead of them they could see what appeared to be hundreds of round oil tanks.

  Suddenly the lake was on their right and Miss Leonis drew in her breath in surprise. Far into the lake sprouted the tall metal towers of oil wells. Vermeer drew up to the shore and stopped his Hispano-Suiza with a flourish, sprang out, and opened the door for Miss Leonis.

  She stood beside him under the completely inadequate shade of her parasol. She felt that she was in some kind of hell. Not only was the heat fierce, but excess gas from one of the wells burst in flame from a pipe just a few feet away. Around the spouting flame, heat quivered visibly in the air. Nearby were several official-looking buildings outside which armed soldiers lounged.

  Miss Leonis said, “I can see why there have to be men with rifles. All these oil wells must represent millions and millions of dollars. If there should be a revolution it would be quite a coup, and the United States would be just as upset as Venezuela. We depend on all that oil. No wonder even the traffic cops seem ready to shoot on the slightest provocation.”

  Vermeer nodded. “There is great wealth here. Next to Maracaibo it is the greatest wealth in Venezuela. Nor should one forget that the oil wells provide a reasonable standard of living for a great many people who would starve otherwise.”

  Miss Leonis looked down at her feet where black sludge oozed heavily out of the lake. “It looks to me as though the oil industry is raping the lake.”

  “That is for people like Dr. O’Keefe to decide. One thing I have learned in three years at Port of Dragons is that there are no easy solutions.”

  “It’s like something out of Dante’s Inferno,” she said. “Some of those towers look as though they might be able to stride across the water like robots.”

  “I have had nightmares of them legging across the land and through the town,” the Dutchman said. “But it makes me think of the English H. G. Wells rather than Dante. Shall we continue our journey now? I thought it a pity not to show you the oil wells since our route goes right by them.”

  They got back in the car. Miss Leonis settled herself. “I am glad to have seen the oil wells, although I do not find them reassuring. And I feel in need of reassurance.”

  The road narrowed, so that two cars would have had difficulty in passing. The monte pressed in on it. Through trees on their left, Miss Leonis could see glimpses of the lake. They were beyond the oil wells now, and the water shimmered in the sunlight.

  She pulled her leghorn hat forward to shade her eyes from the glare. Her heart ached. There should have been word of Simon by now. Perhaps she and Charles were both wrong to hold back information; they could have no idea what might mean something to Hurtado; and Vermeer had a keen intelligence behind his idiotic grin.

  Vermeer turned toward her. “Only a few miles now, and then we will make the rest of the journey in a canoe.”

  “Splendid.”

  “You do not object to the canoe?”

  “My dear young man, I was canoeing in the cypress-black waters around Pharaoh long before you were born. I can tell an alligator from a log. In an emergency I am still a good swimmer.”

  “Perhaps, during the next few minutes, you will tell me why this trip to Dragonlake is so important to you?”

  “I will tell you,” she said.

  For the first time Vermeer looked at her without a smile.

  On the Orion Hurtado moved from passenger to passenger, officer to officer, sailor to sailor. His jaw appeared to grow darker with each interview, but his eyes reta
ined their sharpness, and his expression remained impassive. He spent more time with Jan than with anybody else.

  In the jungle Simon and Canon Tallis struggled to keep their fire going.

  “Will we have to spend another night here?” Simon asked.

  “It’s possible. Not to worry about it now. We managed last night.”

  “Some of those animals came pretty close to us.”

  “We’ll have to keep the fire going.”

  “Do you think anyone’s seen our smoke?”

  “The jungle is extraordinarily thick and our smoke is fairly thin.”

  “What kind of animals do you think they were last night?”

  “Could be many different kinds, from wood mice to wild boar.”

  “Snakes?”

  “We have to watch for snakes as we collect wood, Simon. I don’t think they’ll bother us at night. How about looking for some more berries? Our frugal breakfast seems a long time ago.”

  “All right, sir.”

  Canon Tallis handed him one of the two spears he had fashioned during the night. “You’re not apt to need this as long as you’re careful, but you might as well take it with you. And do not go out of sight of the fire. Better to be hungry than separated.”

  “Is it going to be all right, sir?”

  Canon Tallis adjusted his palm sun hat. “In terms of eternity, of course it is going to be all right.”

  “But in terms of right now?”

  “No use borrowing trouble, Simon.”

  “You think Hurtado will find us?”

  “Yes. I do think that he will find us. But I can’t promise that he will.”

  Simon turned away. “Aunt Leonis doesn’t make promises unless she’s positive, either. But if you think he’s going to find us that’s good enough for me. I’ll try to find us more berries. If I climb up and get a coconut do you think we can get into it?”

  “I think so,” the canon said. “I’ve found two good flat rocks we could use for crushing purposes.”

  “We’re really managing very well, aren’t we?”

  “We’re an extraordinary pair.”

  “Aunt Leonis is going to be very worried about us, and so are Poly and Charles and Mr. Theo. I’m very glad your señor comandante Hurtado knows about us.”

  Miss Leonis sat in the center of a large dugout canoe. Vermeer was in front, and occasionally turned around to nod reassuringly. A young man from the Quiztano village sat in the stern and paddled deftly and swiftly. He was long-limbed and fine-boned, and the golden-bronze of his skin seemed to be lit from within. He wore a short orange tunic, belted in leather, with a knife case. The acanthic folds of his eyes slanted up toward the temples on either side, reminding her of the eyes of young warriors in early Greek sculpture.

  He told them that his name was Ouldi, and that he had been sent by Umar Xanai to guide them, and that he spoke English and Spanish. But that was all the information he gave them. His face was as impassive as Hurtado’s, and he paddled swiftly and in silence, his oar knifing the water without a splash.

  The trip on the lake was cooled by a light wind which ruffled the water. If Miss Leonis had not been beset by anxiety and misgivings she would have enjoyed it. Now that they were nearly there she felt herself trembling in anticipation. She could not escape the thought that Simon might be the next young Phair to be cut down. She tried to eradicate this horror by thinking of Charles: What did he expect her to see at Dragonlake? Could it possibly be Simon?

  “Look.” Vermeer pointed.

  Ahead of them in the lake, small round buildings on high stilts stretched out in the water, somewhat like the oil wells. But where the oil wells had seemed alien and sinister, the Quiztano village appeared to her to be natural and delightful.—It is probably very much the same way it looked when Quentin first came here, she thought.

  It was certainly exactly as he had described it. Her old eyes rested on the pleasant scene almost with a sense of déjà vue. Half of each circular building was enclosed by a panel of loosely woven straw screening. As they approached the house farthest out in the water Miss Leonis saw a young woman slide the matting around so that the interior of her dwelling would be protected from the sun. All around the circumference of the small and airy building, flowers were blooming. The whole village, she realized, was bright with flowers. The roofs of the small dwellings, like those of the coconut sellers, were covered with palm or banana leaves. Small boats were tied to the slender pilings of many of the dwellings.

  Ouldi paddled swiftly toward the shore, past the stork-like dwellings, under several of them. On shore many canoes were pulled up onto the beach out of the water, and she could see a sizable group of people assembled to watch their arrival. No sign of Simon.

  Four young men detached themselves from the group and ran splashing through the water to pull the canoe high up onto the sand. Vermeer jumped out, holding out his hands in greeting.

  Ouldi, still expressionless, picked Miss Leonis up and set her down gently on the beach. She stood there and looked about her. Had she really expected to see Simon; not really; it was a forlorn hope. If it had been Simon, Charles would have been more definite. Then what did he expect her to see?

  There were not as many houses on land as in the water; a few of the round, stilted dwellings, and, most impressive of all the buildings, two long rectangles with flower-filled verandas. Between the two large buildings, in the center of the greensward, was a large statue. From a distance she could not tell whether it was carved from wood or stone; it was the figure of a woman, inordinately tall, flowing in graceful lines from earth to sky, so that it seemed to belong to both. Quentin had mentioned the statue of a goddess, and that her religion was important to his Umara, and it seemed to him no worse than any other form of worship. Religion, to Quentin, was woman’s work.

  Behind the greensward the jungle reached upward to become a mountain, looming high into the sky. There was a fresh, flower-scented breeze blowing through the village, and a sense of calm and cleanliness. Though the stilted dwellings had a light and windswept look, they were far more substantial than the hovels in the barrio. The mountain itself protected the village, rather than overwhelming it.

  The villagers reflected the exuberant colors of their flowers; the young men wore short, colored tunics; on the older men the tunics were longer. The women wore flowing, brightly patterned gowns; everywhere was poinciana scarlet, jacaranda azure, laburnum flame.

  —No wonder Quentin could plan to make his life here.

  Vermeer was shaking hands with the assembled group, and seemed to know some of them intimately. He bowed low to an old man in a long white robe who came from one of the round dwellings on the greensward. The old man embraced Vermeer, kissing him first on one cheek, then on the other, and thirdly, ceremoniously, on the forehead.

  The Dutchman returned the three kisses with joyful formality. “I greet you, Umar Xanai. And I bring to you one who has news of the long-gone One. Her name is Miss Leonis Phair, for she herself is of the line of the Phair.”

  The old man bowed courteously. “You bring us news, Señora Phair?”

  She shook her head. “Sir, I come hoping for news. Do you know where my nephew is?”

  Umar Xanai replied, “We know nothing of a nephew. We await the Phair.”

  Miss Leonis’s disappointment was acute, but she said only, “Yes, I know. That is why I am here. I have come to find the past. And now I look for Simon, Simon Bolivar Quentin Phair Renier, a descendant of your Phair.”

  The old chieftain gestured and two young men ran lightly up the steps to the larger of the round houses and returned with a chair made of young trees laced together with vines. When Miss Leonis was seated one of the young men took her parasol and shaded her with it, while a boy barely past childhood, no older than Simon, fanned her with a palm leaf. Again Umar Xanai bowed over her hand with Western courtesy.

  She stiffened as she saw a litter being carried out of the dwelling from which her chair had c
ome. On the litter was a small figure in a silvery-blue robe.

  Ouldi said in his rather flat voice, “It is the Umara. She is so old now that she can no longer walk. She eats and drinks little. She spends her time in fasting and prayer.”

  The Umara was attended by two women in long gowns of silvery-blue, like moonlight. The litter was carried close to Miss Leonis’s chair and she could see that the woman sitting on it was indeed very old, much older than she herself. The skin did not have the interior glow of the other Quiztanos, but was the grey-brown of a coconut. She wore a turban and Miss Leonis suspected that she had little or no hair. Her skull showed clearly through the almost transparent skin. Her eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, but they seemed to pierce.

  Umar Xanai beckoned to Ouldi. The young man hurried to him, and the old chief dropped one arm lightly on the shoulders of Ouldi’s orange tunic. “Your escort, Señora Phair, is one of my great-grandsons.”

  “Several greats, I should say,” Vermeer remarked. “Ouldi is barely out of boyhood.”

  “You should not worry so much about the bindings of time,” the old man said, then turned to Miss Leonis. “Ouldi has just returned to us. He has been away at the big university. Our friend Vermeer arranged for it. So, Ouldi, now you will serve as interpreter. I am too old for long conversing in strange tongues. And the Umara tires even more easily.”

  The ancient Umara spoke a few words, and began to laugh.

  Ouldi said, “She says that she was told that an Old One was coming, and she laughs because the Miss Phair is so young.” He stopped, cocking his head to listen as the Umara spoke again, this time with no laughter. “She wants to know if you have the memory that goes beyond death.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ouldi listened again, his head on the slender stalk of neck cocked like a bird’s. “She wants to know where the Phair is.”

  Miss Leonis was surprised to have Vermeer speak to her without even a trace of a smile. “Please be careful how you answer,” he said.

  She turned to Ouldi, thought for a moment, then said, “I do not know where he is, and this causes me much anxiety.”