Dragons in the Waters

by Madeleine L'engle

  The Umara nodded in satisfaction at her response. “Again we have sent hunters out to look for him. As they found him before, so they will find him now.”

  “The jungle is very large,” Miss Leonis said. “How will they know where to look?”

  “They will go to where they found the Phair the first time.”

  “And if he is not there?”

  “He will be there. Already we have had messages that smoke has been seen. He will be there.”

  Despite her misgivings, Miss Leonis caught hope from the strength of the Umara’s conviction.

  The ancient woman continued, “And now we two must speak alone together. You will come to my dwelling, with Ouldi to speak for us.” She waved her stick-thin arm imperiously and the litter was raised. The two moonlight-clad women came immediately to her side; now Miss Leonis noted that, though both seemed to her to be young, there must be over a generation separating them. She guessed that they were being trained in the duties of the Umara, from whose point of view anybody under a hundred must be young.

  Ouldi helped Miss Leonis rise from the low and supple chair which had been gentle to her tired bones. He spoke in the strange liquid syllables of Quiztano, which reminded Miss Leonis of flowing water and which was completely different from the flat intonation with which he spoke English. The two youths who held parasol and fan moved along with them over the greensward, which was soft and springy under their feet. She moved as though in a dream. Perhaps fatigue and the automatic anesthesia of over-anxiety accounted for her lack of emotion at this extraordinary situation.

  She asked, “What are the two long rectangular buildings on either side of the statue?”

  “They are the Caring Places, the Caring Places of the Phair.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Ouldi repeated, “They are the Caring Places. For those who are dying. For those who are ill and may, with care, recover.”

  She stopped. The two youths with parasol and fan quickly stepped back to shade her. “What did my ancestor—the Phair—have to do with all this?”

  “It was his thought that the Quiztanos should have special places in which to provide care. We have always had the Gift, but the idea of the Caring Places came from the Englishman, and it was with him that we made the first one.”

  Miss Leonis looked at the great statue. She could see now that it had originally been carved of wood, but it was so old that the wood had acquired the patina of stone. The face was serene; the lips were quirked in a slight smile which gave a feeling of delight. The carved eyes, however, were as dark and enigmatic as Ouldi’s. “What—who—is—?”

  Ouldi looked up at the statue and returned its smile. “Until I went away for my studies I understood better than I understand now. She is the one through whom we see the stars and hear the wind.”

  “Your goddess?”

  “Perhaps I would call her that now, though I think I would be wrong. For she is not what she is; and she is more than she is. We do not worship her or pray to her as some of the people in the cities pray to their plaster saints in the gaudy churches. The Umara prays through her, and so does Umar Xanai.”

  “And the rest of you?”

  “Prayer, too, is a gift. We do not all have it. But we benefit from those who do.”

  Still Miss Leonis did not move toward the dwelling of the Umara. She looked at the two long airy Caring Places. “These—we would call them hospitals today, would we not?”

  Ouldi laughed, but there was no pleasure in his laughter. “I think not. When I was at the big university I got a terrible pain in my side and I was taken to the hospital and my appendix was removed. I would not want anybody I love to be ill in a big city hospital. No. These are Caring Places.”

  “Two Caring Places for a small village—are the Quiztanos often ill, then?”

  “Seldom, seldom. We are strong and live long, not as long as the Umara, for we do not have her need and promise to keep, but long, long.”

  “But who are the Caring Places for, then?”

  “For any who may need them. When the Phair and his Umara started them it was for those injured in the wars —liberator or royalist, it did not matter. Many men who were left to die lived because they were brought to us for caring. And those who died did not die alone. We helped them make the journey from here to there.”

  “Us—we—you talk as though you had been there.”

  “It is part of the Memory,” Ouldi said. “I share in it.”

  Miss Leonis looked again at the statue. “There isn’t war here now. Who is in the Caring Places?” She looked toward the long buildings. The porches were bright with flowers, and the screens were adjusted to provide shade.

  Ouldi followed her gaze. “Those who are ill, hungry, filled with the diseases of poverty and starvation. There are some ill from the fish in the far section of the lake. You must have driven by the barrio?”

  “Yes,” Miss Leonis said. “What happens when the Caring Places are full?”

  Ouldi shook his head. “They often are, but they hold as many as we can care for at one time. The people from the barrio come to us; they bring their babies to us. They know that we will care for them and help them make the journey through the valley of death if that is the destination.”

  “Who does the caring?”

  “Those men and women of the Quiztanos who have the Gift, those who have been called to give their lives to the Caring Places. One must be very strong to go through the other side of night with the dying and then return.”

  “And Quentin Phair—he started all this?”

  “I don’t know about Quentin, but the Phair started many things,” Ouldi said, “both good and bad. He made promises and broke them and there are those who are still angry.”

  “Here, among the villagers?”

  “No. The Umara and Umar Xanai will not permit anger and hate to remain in our midst. Each generation there are those who leave here and make their way in the cities. Some of them have been filled with a sick desire for vengeance, and although they are no longer Quiztanos, they drink and talk about the Quiztano revenge and their lost heritage. Hatred is not the way to bring the Phair back.”

  She said, “You have left this village and gone to the city and you did not stay there—you returned.”

  “I am betrothed to an Umara.”

  “Would you have returned otherwise?”

  “I think that I would. At the university I learned much, including that I do not like much of what is supposed to be civilization. Now, Señora Phair, I have talked with you for too long. We must not keep the Umara waiting.” He took her arm and urged her forward. When they reached the Umara’s dwelling place he gestured to the youths with parasol and fan to wait outside, and helped Miss Leonis up the steep steps. The Umara’s two waiting women were adjusting the screens to provide the maximum shade and breeze, and as they slid the screens around, a shaft of sunlight pierced the interior and spotlighted a man’s face.

  Miss Leonis felt her heart thud crazily within her chest.

  The man was not alive. It was a portrait. The portrait of Simon Bolivar.

  Hurtado and Vermeer sat on the boat deck.

  “You saw the portrait yourself ?” Hurtado asked the Dutchman.

  “Yes. It is a fine portrait, and an excellent likeness of Bolivar in his prime.”

  “And on the back?”

  “For my son, born of Umara. Actually, one had to know that that was what was there. It looked to me as though someone had tried to sand and chip the words away. The wood on which the portrait is painted is thin in places and some of the letters were cut so deep that it would have been impossible to eradicate them without cutting into the portrait. Only the letters U-M-A-R are still clear.”

  “How did the old lady explain them?”

  “She said that until she had read the journals and letters there was no reason to be curious. Unless one has heard of the Quiztanos at Dragonlake, U-M-A-R is only a meaningless jumble of letters. She s
aid that she had thought it might be the mark of the artist.”

  Hurtado’s jaw seemed to darken. “I need to talk to her.”

  Vermeer nodded sympathetically. “She could not have made the trip back.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “I myself felt her pulse. It was weak, and far too rapid, and very uneven. Her zeal to learn the truth was greater than her strength. And she is half ill with anxiety over the boy.”

  “With cause. I have learned that Forsyth Phair died two years ago in Salt Lake City, Utah. The passport and all else that the impostor gave the old woman are excellent forgeries. So it is conceivable that the murderer murdered the wrong man.”

  Vermeer rubbed his nose. “The plot thickens.”

  “The murderer may not have known that Phair was an assumed name, and it may have been a Phair he was after.”

  “The ancient Quiztano vendetta against all Phairs?”

  “I am a Latin, Vermeer, and I take such things more seriously than you do. Hate does not die easily around here. Nor the passion to bring past crimes to judgment. Don’t forget that there are at this moment Israelis in Argentina tracking down Nazis.”

  “Yes. That too is a long time to hold hate.”

  “Hate dies less easily than love. How did the Quiztanos explain the portrait in their village?”

  Vermeer said, “I would like a beer. How about you?”

  Hurtado rose and went to the call bell.

  When he sat down again, Vermeer said, “Umar Xanai said that they do not know how the portrait came to them.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was brought to the village, it seems, by a fisherman who has Quiztano blood. He could not or would not tell them how he got it.”

  “Could not?”

  “According to Umar Xanai, he was in a state of terror. All he wanted was to unload the portrait.”

  Both men were silent as they heard steps. Jan climbed up from the promenade deck. “You rang, sir?”

  “Yes, Jan, two beers, please.” Vermeer’s smile sprang back to his face. He looked after Jan, running down the steps, and asked, “What are you going to do about him?”

  “Jan? Tonight, nothing.”

  Vermeer said, “It was Jan who took me for my first visit to the Quiztanos, otherwise I shouldn’t have been welcomed. I feel that I am betraying my friend.”

  “If he is innocent he has nothing to fear. If he is involved in smuggling—”

  Vermeer cut him off. “No. I can’t think of Jan as belonging to the world of smugglers, even the more innocent kind.”

  “Is there an innocent kind?”

  “The early smuggling—tea, sugar, spices—I cannot think of such goods in the same category as drugs and chemicals.”

  “What about the art racket?”

  “Art what?”

  “Racket. An American idiom.”

  “It’s bad. But it’s still not quite as contemptible as drugs, as antibiotics and steroids cut with poisons, as chemicals misused to destroy life for the sake of greed. Smuggling is far worse today than it used to be.”

  “It is a sin to steal a pin.”

  “What?”

  “An English idiom. Smuggling is smuggling. One step leads to another.”

  “Jan has not stolen a pin.”

  “How well do you know him?” Hurtado asked calmly.

  “I thought I knew him extremely well, but of course I see him only when the Orion puts in at Port of Dragons, and when he takes me out to Dragonlake—but I have always sensed in him a deep innocence.”

  “Perhaps that very innocence makes it possible for someone less innocent to use him for less than innocent purposes.”

  “Gutiérrez?” Vermeer suggested hopefully.

  “Have you got anything on him?”

  “Not yet. Remember, I’m only a consul, and I don’t have an army of policemen and detectives and secret-service people at my beck and call.”

  “You might be interested to know that he has flown the coop.”

  “Has what?”

  “An English idiom. I sent for him this morning and was told that he has gone to visit his mother, who is very ill. Marvelous convenient how mothers can get ill when the heat is on—another English idiom.”

  “Where is this alleged mother?”

  “In one of the small villages deep in the jungle. He preempted a helicopter. No telephone, of course. He cannot be reached.”

  Vermeer pulled up one of his knee socks and straightened the garter. “He has a reputation for knowing the jungle well, including places that can be reached only by canoe or copter. I prefer to think of oily little Gutiérrez involved in dark doings rather than one of my compatriots. Jan does have a Dutch passport. No, no, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt van Leyden.”

  “It will look bad for van Leyden if someone on his ship is dealing in narcotics on the side.”

  “Narcotics is only a small part of it. Chemicals, including mercury.”

  “Mercury. Yes,” Hurtado said. “You know, Vermeer, if Dr. O’Keefe had been murdered I could have understood it better than Phair.”

  “Because it is an ill-kept secret that he has been brought to Venezuela to investigate Dragonlake?”

  “There have been several cases of mercury poisoning among the people who live near one of the chemical plants. The oil wells are the obvious pollutant, but not necessarily the most dangerous one.”

  “Industrial effluents containing mercury absorbed by fish which are then eaten by the people of the barrio? Yes, I’ve heard. Ouldi said something.”

  “It’s one of the nastier forms of poisoning, with neurological damage and intense pain.” Hurtado looked grim. “I’d better have O’Keefe watched, then. Does he have any idea he may be in danger?”

  “He’s no fool.” Vermeer suddenly looked as grim as the policeman.

  Jan appeared with a tray, two bottles of beer, and two glasses. He set it down on the bench between the two men. Instead of leaving immediately he asked anxiously, “Is there any news of Simon?”

  “Not yet,” Hurtado said.

  Miss Leonis sat on the veranda of the Umara’s house. The Umara had been placed on a low couch, and Umar Xanai sat on the floor, as did Ouldi. A large round tray was set on a low table between them. It contained a graceful bowl of fruit, and a corresponding pitcher of a cool and delicious drink which seemed to have been made from a combination of fruits and herbs.

  Umar Xanai passed a glass of the pale-green beverage to Miss Leonis. “This is a restorative. It will give you strength and calm your heart.”

  She sipped it appreciatively. “Thank you. I had not realized quite how tired I am from my journeyings.”

  The Umara spoke in her strange, ancient voice, and Ouldi translated. “Your journey through time as well as space?”

  Miss Leonis sipped again. “Yes. I am learning that I share in your Memory. It is our loss in my world that we no longer value the memory of our people.”

  Umar Xanai replied, “Those who do not share in the Memory are only a part of themselves. It is good that you have come to fulfill what has been lost.”

  Miss Leonis sighed. Her heart pained within her. As she sipped the cool liquid the grey look receded from her face, but her eyes were dark with pain.

  Ouldi said, “The Phair is safe. The Umara promises.”

  Miss Leonis bowed. “I am grateful. And grateful, too, for your kindness and hospitality. I understand from Mynheer Vermeer that you do not encourage strangers.”

  Umar Xanai replied, “We have a work to do. It is easily misunderstood. If the wrong people come with modern investigations we might be forbidden to do our work—or they might want us to make it bigger, and that would destroy it. And then”—he pointed toward the great carving—“she would no longer smile.”

  Miss Leonis set down her empty glass. Her breathing was no longer agony, but it still rasped. “It is very kind of you to keep me here tonight. The trip back to Port of Dragons would have been too much for me.
And I am not sure when—or if—I will be able to leave.”

  Umar Xanai smiled. “It is our honor to have you with us, for as long as need be. We knew that you were coming to Venezuela even before the Dutchman made the arrangements for you today, so we have been expecting you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Jan, the steward on the Orion. I have in my Memory a picture of his Quiztano grandmother when she was young and beautiful and in love with the big blond youth from Holland. Jan has become dear to my heart with his love of the Quiztano part of his heritage. He knows our way of sending messages—a whistle here, the beat of a drum there, another whistle, and it is quicker than your modern machines.”

  “How did Mynheer Vermeer make the arrangements for today?”

  “Thus. Through Jan. Jan feared the trip would overtax you, so even before you arrived we had made preparations for you to stay.” A twinkle came into the old man’s eye, and he spoke swiftly to Ouldi, the liquid syllables bubbling like a brook in early spring.

  Ouldi said, “Grandfather says that you will be more comfortable here than at the new so-modern hotel. Always at night a breeze comes over the lake and the forest lends us the coolness of its shadows and the mountain gives us the strength of its peace. And”—he gestured toward the statue—“she gives us her blessing.”

  “Your Lady of the Lake,” Miss Leonis said.

  Ouldi translated, “Not of the lake only. She speaks to us not merely of the waters, but of the wind and the rain and the mountain and the stars and the power behind them all.”

  Miss Leonis looked out over the peaceful scene. “I, too, trust the same power.”

  The Umara, who seemed to have fallen asleep, spoke.

  Ouldi listened carefully. “She says that this Power is the Power which has all Memory. Even her Memory is as nothing compared to the Memory of the Power behind the stars.”

  Miss Leonis said, “To be part of the memory of this power is for life to have meaning, no matter what happens.” She had based her life on this faith. She could not begin to doubt it now.