Twilight in Babylon

by Frank, Suzanne

  She adjusted her position in the tree, sitting on her legs so the spikes of date branches didn’t poke her, and looked at the water. It was hard to remember what the village had looked like, where anything had been.

  Where were the trees I’m sitting on, she thought. Which clump were they? Her mind was blank as a slab of clay. If her village was gone, were the neighboring villages gone also? She craned around, waved away birds who tried to steal her spot, and looked for anything familiar. She’d never been outside her village, only as far as the common grazing grounds. Only the Harrapan traders and the Crone of Ninhursag had come to her village, brought news of a world outside.

  Had there been a village on the other side of hers? She tried to visualize the size of her village and fields and grazing grounds, then another village, fields and grazing grounds beside it, and a third village beyond. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t even remember her own village clearly. Just impressions.

  Reed huts, and a warm dung fire. The squishiness of the ground that indicated it was time to put down new matting so the marsh didn’t seep up through the floor. The lowing of the water buffalo before they slept. The blackness of the sky, when the gods held meetings. The summer, when the gods had feasts and poured heavenly wine on the fields.

  Her head was aching, and she reached up to rub it. Then she remembered the sore and stopped. She didn’t even have mud to put on her sore, because there was no ground. That made her angry. She glared at the sky. “This was stupid of them,” she told the chamber keeper of the gods. “If we are supposed to serve them, then drowning us means they won’t get served. Then they’ll have no one to complain to except themselves.”

  The chamber keeper didn’t speak. Of course, she didn’t have a sheep to slaughter for its liver, or an exorcist to read the liver, so she would never know if the chamber keeper responded.

  “The waters have to go down,” she said, liking the sound of her voice against the blue sky and blue water. “A flood can’t last long.” Birds that usually landed in the marshes would be along in the afternoon. If she could catch one, she could eat. Pigeons, who sought the greening fields, were especially good, and they would be too tired to fly away.

  She tore green dates off one of the branches—she couldn’t eat them, she’d get sick—then bent the branch back and forth while the sun moved higher in the sky. Finally, it broke off. Careful to spit any of it out, she peeled the edges of the wood back with her teeth and fingernails, sawing the end against the fronds to make it sharp for stabbing and cutting. When she got thirsty, she lapped at the water around her.

  Flood water wasn’t salty, at least not much.

  As the sun lowered, she watched for birds. But the only place for them to stop was her treetop. Reluctantly, she slipped into the warm water with the branch between her teeth and waited for a fat pigeon. When one finally came and plopped down for a rest, she leaped on it. The bird tried to fly away, but she stabbed its neck with her branch. Piece by piece, she plucked its feathers, then stabbed at it to get the blood out. It was the only taboo that couldn’t be broken: Never eat anything with blood, and never spill blood unless to eat.

  She didn’t remember when she’d heard those words, but she knew they were true. It was the only restriction given by the god above gods after the Deluge. She wiped at the bird with palm fronds, sloshed water through it to get it as clean as she could, then tore into it with her teeth.

  It would be better cooked, but she didn’t have any dung or tinder. Besides, she was hungry. She threw the carcass onto the treetop beside her and watched the bigger birds, the desert birds, tear at it. She watched them through her fingers, to keep her eyes protected so they couldn’t blind her, then eat her, too.

  As the sky was painted by the gods, and the god Shamash went away, she saw the animal carcasses float by. Onagers and oxen, their legs raised to the heat, their bodies swollen from the day’s sun, passed by like rafts on the current of the water. Water tinted with lavender and pink, gold and orange.

  Twilight.

  This was the assurance of the gods: One day ended and another began. The girl knew if she saw twilight, then after a period of darkness, day would come back. The sun god Shamash, the gods of water and wind and soil, would rise to flog and command their slaves who worked the Plain of Shinar. The twilight was a promise, an assurance. There was comfort, even if she was the only one left. Since she saw twilight, the sun would rise tomorrow. Drawing her hair over her shoulders, she put her head down on her arms and slept.

  * * *

  Three days later, the waters had receded down the trunk of the palm tree. Debris had begun to show up on the face of the waters. Swollen bodies and faces she didn’t remember. Bits of huts. And, finally, the skin of a guf boat. Without the outer rim, it did her no good to find the bottom, but still she took the skin, wrung it out, and draped it over the newly emerged palms to dry.

  On the fifth day, she set off through the waters, looking for useful things. The outlines of islands and levees began to peer through the water. By twilight of the sixth day she had found cloth to tie around her at night, a bone knife to kill birds and fish with, and an oar.

  In two more days, the marsh had become a breeding ground for mosquitoes, the water had been poisoned by the rotting remains, and salt had dried on the tree trunks. The water was also shallow enough to walk through, to spy crocodiles before they saw her, and to see the ground on which she trod.

  Nothing was left of Shinar; it was wiped clean. She hadn’t seen another live animal or person. She’d seen hundreds of corpses. The crocodiles were dining well. If she were the only human left, then she would walk on until she came to the south sea. If she weren’t, then maybe there would be people on the south sea. The Harrapan traders said they stayed there, and on the island Dilmun.

  In Dilmun, they said, there were tall trees with soft and solid leaves, not like fronds of date palms. They also had orchards, where fruit other than dates grew on the trees. The ground was dry, like Shinar in summertime, but it didn’t crack. It had just enough wet and just enough dry to stay green all year. The air smelled good, and the trees were made of incense. The girl would go to Dilmun, see if it existed. Maybe the Harrapan would take her in. She was good with sheep, and she wouldn’t drink too much beer.

  So she tied the animal skin up into a knot and put it on her head, threw the cloth for a cloak on her back, and clasped her knife in her hand, then set off south. South was the direction that the rivers, when they stayed in their beds, flowed. Marsh birds were plentiful, and fish swam in the shallows. She didn’t have fire, but she ate well.

  The sun was hot on her body, and eventually she found mud and covered her skin so the mosquitoes wouldn’t bite. She watched for crocodiles as she walked, and stopped walking when the sun went to sleep. At night she made noise, to frighten the hungry hyenas away. When she could, she climbed up the rough bark of a palm tree and stayed in the fronds, safe enough to sleep in.

  The vision of the god with the golden eyes faded in her mind. She talked to herself, nonsense words, like a child’s. These words comforted her, but had no meaning. “Mimi. Home. Love. Chef. Tu. God.” Her tongue didn’t fit around them easily, and they had no meaning, but they made her feel good. The gods hadn’t found her yet; and she was still the only one left.

  Baaing woke her in the night; a sheep, as lost as she was. She called to it, then heard another. They ran out of the marshes toward the tree where she stayed. Behind them she saw eyes that glowed with hunger and teeth that were bared. She scampered down the trunk and swung out at the predators with her oar. She made contact, and they ran crying into the night. “It’s okay,” she told the trembling sheep. “You’re safe. You’re found.” They cuddled next to her, against the palm tree, and she slept warmly for the first time.

  When she woke in the day, it was there.

  “That must be Dilmun,” she said to the sheep. Far to the south, an island rose up. Part of it was red. She gathered her belongings, herded the
sheep, and walked faster. All day long the red island hovered on the edge of the world. By night it had grown.

  So had her flock. Now she walked with seven sheep, two lambs, and a gamboling goat. No sign of other humans yet, but the sheep were glad for her company. She sang to them and spoke her nonsense words, and they bleated happily as they grazed.

  Dilmun got larger.

  The river was almost completely in its bed now, and she saw irrigation channels and canals cut through the greening fields. Winter barley; in its second irrigation. For barley to grow as big as the gods allowed, it must have four irrigations. On the last, it would add another tenth of its size. The river hadn’t overflowed here; the humans, if there were any left, would not starve.

  Her flock continued to grow; she watched over them during the night from her perch in a tree. In the dawn, from her high roost, she saw Dilmun. It must be Dilmun, for nothing else could be so beautiful. Green fields surrounded it, and trees, tall like date palms, but with different leaves, grew in neat rows. As though it were a giant vegetable garden.

  The island, with a tall center in blocks of blue and green and red and yellow, rose up into the sky. Little white boxes and blocks clustered around it, like a peafowl with her chicks. The girl crawled down the palm tree, washed the mud off her face and hands, tied the cloth around her womanhood, then folded up the animal skin and balanced it on her head.

  With the knife slipped into her waist sash, she walked down to Dilmun, the oar her goad. Common grazing fields stretched out from the gate to the city. The walls were taller than palm trees, and painted blue and yellow. The rest was left the ocher color of clay. She’d never seen anything so impressive, never imagined it. It was no wonder Ziusudra lived here. The gods visited here. After the sheep had fed she looked for a toll taker, for she was sure there would be a charge. Water wasn’t free. But she didn’t see one. Squaring her shoulders and straightening the parcel on her head, she marched her flock to the open gate set within a deep, shadowy archway.

  “Welcome to Ur, welcome, welcome,” a man cried from the shade. “You must be a survivor of the flood. Come in, come in. It’s dry here, safe.”

  Chapter Two

  She had never seen a man such as he was, in the clothes he wore! His beard was long and white, and his head was covered in a gold basket. White cloth, finer than any felt or wool she’d ever seen, edged with gold, draped over his shoulder and around his chest. His eyes were big and black, his teeth white. When he breathed in her face, it was sweet-smelling—like the breath of the Harrapan. “Welcome to Ur,” he said to her. “Welcome, female. You are a wealthy one. How do the gods call you?”

  A few other people stepped closer around her, and she crouched, ready to run. The sheep bleated and jostled, the goat nipped at the bearded one’s sash, but he pushed him away. “It’s safe, female.”

  “Ningal, she has a sore on her head,” someone behind her said.

  She put her hand to where the mud and blood had dried on her head, the sore.

  “Does it hurt?” the bearded man asked.

  “Do you need to sell your sheep?”

  “Let’s have a look,” someone else said, and pulled at her animal skin.

  She spun on them with a hiss. The sheep scattered.

  “A wild thing.”

  She called the sheep to her, beckoned the goat away from the arched gate.

  “Be at peace. She’s obviously from the hills.”

  “The plain,” she said, walking back to them. Her words were the same as theirs.

  “You are from the plain? Shinar?”

  “Shinar! Yes, in truth. My village.”

  “Flooded out.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “Were there other survivors?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Where was your village?”

  They surrounded her, with long beards and basket hats. All men, whose words were the same as hers, but whose voices sounded harsh and demanding.

  “Dilmun,” she said.

  They fell silent. “What did you say?” one of them asked. His cloak was white like the others, but where theirs were gold, his was red. He was younger, too, probably not older than… than… she couldn’t remember. None of it made sense.

  “Dilmun. I go to Dilmun.”

  “You aren’t Harrapan, girl.”

  “How do you know Dilmun?”

  “She must have some knowledge, if she knows the name of Paradise.”

  She was dizzy; they were spinning around her like black birds. Cawing and flapping their wings. She couldn’t follow their words anymore.

  “Step back, gentlemen, she’s about to faint.” The white-bearded man offered her his hand, and she grabbed it, tried to be still.

  “Do you need some water?” he asked. “Does your flock?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was in a flood. I expect she’s had plenty of water,” someone said with a laugh.

  “The dead animals,” she said. “They made the water poisoned.”

  “Kalam, take her flock to the well over there. You, female, come with me.”

  She turned to look at the man, the one with the red-edged cloak, who stood in the middle of her sheep. Their wondering brown eyes followed her. “It’s well,” she said to them. “Go drink.”

  They chased after Kalam into the green grazing grounds, and the bearded man took her arm and led her beneath the arch and into the place he called Ur. “Have a seat,” he said, showing her a low stoop. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  A minute. Sixty seconds make a minute, sixty minutes make an hour, twenty-four hours make a day, but no, here twelve double hours made a day. The girl put her hand to her head, shaky again.

  She sat. Nothing here was made of reeds. It was all hard, the ruddy color of mud, but hard. And very tall, buildings reaching up at least as high as trees. People rushed to and fro, as if traders had come to sell their wares. Animals, goats and sheep, dogs and onagers, walked through the streets. Children rode on their backs, played in the alleyways, and dashed everywhere. People rested against the walls, eating their meals and working on their fleeces. Tents were pitched against every building.

  The noise. The smell. She fought the desire to run, but it rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. So many people.

  “Here you go,” the bearded man said, handing her a cup of water. It wasn’t a clay cup, nor was it the color of her bangles or the god’s eyes. It was a warmer color, like the clay. “It’s made of copper,” he said. “Drink up.”

  “Ningal,” one of the other men said to him.

  “Silence, she can afford it,” he said, and brought her another cup. The water was cool, and she drank many cups of it, until her stomach was tight.

  “Now how do you feel?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said, nodding.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  It had been a day or so since her last meal, and she was hungry. She nodded again.

  “I tell you what. Wait for me here, can you do that?”

  She nodded. “Then what?”

  He chuckled. “Then I will come and get you, and we will go eat. I have some people who will be very interested in all you have to say. We haven’t seen anyone from the plain since the flood. You may be the only survivor.”

  “The only one,” she said. “I’m alone.”

  “You’re not alone, you’re here in Ur. Thirty thousand humans call Ur their home. About ten thousand too many, but that can’t be helped. Know you aren’t alone. However,” he said, “before you can go anywhere, you’ll need a bath and some clothes.”

  People watched them from everywhere. Windows, doorways, market stalls. Not rudely, but in the course of their day. Most were washed, most had clean clothes and looked fed.

  She tugged the edge of her cloth skirt down a little.

  “But wait here, I’ll be back.”

  “What about my flock?”

  He hesitated, then called someone. A
man with a bald head, who had green-circled eyes and wore a plucked felt skirt, dodged through the crowd to get to them. “Anything to buy? To sell?” he asked them.

  “Do you want to sell your sheep?” the bearded man asked her.

  The sheep were her family. Along the way she had named them: Mimi, Moma, Dadi, Kami, Blackie, Franci—silly names, but they made her heart happy. “No. I want to keep them.”

  “Then perhaps you should consider leasing?” the bald man said.

  She looked from the bearded man to the bald man. “Explain please?”

  “You leave your sheep at the common grounds,” he said, “the commonwealth watches over them, feeds them, and in payment gets a percentage of either the wool or their flesh, depending on what you use them for. All the joys of ownership, none of the pain.”

  “Should you change your mind and want to sell,” the bearded man said, “the commonwealth can be your mediator in that transaction, too.”

  She looked down at the clay piece before him. “Good. I will lease them.”

  “Excellent! How many are we talking about?”

  She gave him the details, their names, what they liked to eat, how they would try to be sneaky.

  With the end of a reed, he made markings for her words. “There is a mark for sheep,” he said, pointing to one set of lines. “You have one goat”—he made a mark—”four lambs”—he marked again—”and eight full-grown sheep. Truth?” He drew his marks carefully from the top to the bottom of the slab, moving from right to left. He had to raise the heel of his hand so as not to smear the marks, which made his whole arm stick out like a wing.

  “You made only one mark for the lambs and the sheep, and one mark for the goat,” she said.

  “Good eyes. But these marks,” he said, moving the reed again, adding marks, “these tell me you have eight sheep and four lambs. Because I wrote goat only once, I know it’s only one goat.”

  “I’ll be back,” the bearded man said, patting her on the shoulder.

  “Do you have a seal?” the bald man asked.

  An image, a memory? of a wet creature, blue-black and barking, appeared in her head, then vanished. She blinked, confused. “No.”