'Hey,' said Hani. 'I felt drops. Looks like the wet season is beginning.' Sure enough, rain fell on them, softly and straight down. Hani and Ori decided that for right now, they liked it. They left the little goat protected by the shelter and sat out in the soft precipitation, talking. After all, it didn't rain that often in spite of all the stories – most flooding was caused by melting snow in Nukhu's native mountains.

As they travelled along they waved to various people on the bank. Most of them waved back. They passed foot travellers, travellers with donkeys, the occasional camel, and once even a man and his son followed by a large herd of ducks. The little goat called to the ducks and they quacked back.

Occasionally, they passed a village. Most of them were set back, away from the river in case of flooding. The flood banks were good, rich soil, and farmers from the villages were out ploughing and planting. Hani and Ori noticed the greening of the landscape as they rode along: wildflowers began to spring up.

Hani sang:

A long time ago, when the earth was born,

Enlil the god, he planted corn,

Planted wheat and barley and a little rice,

And soon the whole river valley looked real nice.


I got green cucumbers, and long-necked gourds,

And cauliflower and onions, and squash, of course,

Chickpeas and lentils, but, sad to be tellin',

I just ain't got no watermelon.

'What in the netherworld is a watermelon?' Nukhu wondered aloud. Ori threw figs at Hani, which shut the angel up because you can't keep singing vegetatively anomalous songs with your mouth full.

'AtleasIdidnsaynuthinboutsneks,' mumbled Hani between juicy bites.

Ori sang:

Everyone 'neath their vine and fig tree,

When the heat of the day is spent,

Will blend their voices in harmony,

And sing to their hearts' content, and sing to their hearts' content.

Hani stopped eating and joined in.

And they'll beat their swords into plough blades,

And their spears pruning hooks will be,

And they'll study peace, and war will cease

From the mountains down to the sea.

'Nice thought,' commented Nukhu. 'From your mouths to the creator's ear.'

Beats Wholly Satisfactory, at any rate, commented Prajapati.

They floated downriver with the current, tying up to sleep at night. After a couple of days, the boat and the Tigris joined the Euphrates. A day after that, they dropped off the little goat, which appeared happy with its new home (and some fresh greens). They also picked up a passenger.

'Meet Shubshi,' Nukhu introduced. 'He's known in these parts as the Righteous Sufferer. There's even a poem about him.'

It was true: the old man looked like he'd been through, if not a war or two, the next-best thing. Thin and wiry, with grey hair and beard, Shubshi presented the world with a face like two leagues of bad road. Shubshi looked back through twinkling eyes of blue and didn't seem to care a bit.

Ori said sympathetically, 'I suppose with the title of Righteous Sufferer, you've seen some things, sir?'

Shubshi settled in amongst the bales of cargo, resting his back against a roll of carpet. He laughed gently. 'I guess you could say so. But the poem that's going around gets a lot of it wrong. Besides, it's basically pro-Marduk propaganda.'

That Marduk. If he was a real god, I'd go clean his sundial.

Hani was drinking beer when Prajapati said that. Hani snorted a noseful of beer. Ori pounded Hani's back and said apologetically, 'I'm sorry. My friend takes these, er, turns.'

Nukhu winked at them in a way that made Ori suspect the boatman might have very good inner hearing.

'Please tell us about it,' encouraged Ori as Hani wiped away tears of joy. The old man gazed off across the marshes, thinking. Then he began his tale.

'The poem is all about me thanking Marduk for delivery from my troubles, but that's not it. It's more about me finally coming to my senses after a lifetime of superstitious narcissism.


I used to be one of the most successful grain merchants in Warka. I had a seat on the Council. Everybody asked my opinion about everything: what to invest in, and when, what I thought about the intercities political situation, which wrestlers I backed, simply everything.


And I loved the attention. My family did, too: my wife could get the most influential guests at her soirees. The kids were automatically popular. Even my servants were snootier than all the other servants.


I owned the nicest house in town, up on the hill behind the ziggurat. Terrific view. My country estate was full of well-irrigated date palms. We dined well.


I didn't brag that I knew famous people: famous people bragged that they knew me. I was living the life of Sargon in Eden, if you get my meaning.'

'I think I do,' said Ori.

'Sounds like you were busy and happy,' commented Hani, now recovered.

'You'd think so, wouldn't you? As I said, I loved the life. Mainly because it made me feel important. People depended on me: employees, relatives, local government, artists, the community. . .it was nice to be needed.


But I worried all the time. What if my predictions about the grain market didn't pan out? Suppose a friend invested on my say-so and lost his shirt? That's a lot of responsibility. What were they doing over in Ur? Should I tell the Council to be worried? What was the weather going to be like this rainy season? There were a million things to think about. I'd toss and turn at night. My wife got her own bedroom – said she needed 'her beauty sleep'.'

Shubshi shrugged and grinned a rueful grin at the memory.

'I imagine you had other worries, too,' said Ori. 'Like bandits on the roads.'

'And burglars and muggers in town,' put in Hani.

'And plant diseases and locust plagues in the fields,' added Nukhu, who was listening while steering the boat.

Shubshi nodded. 'And that's when things began to get really bad.'

'You see, I was raised to be a pious temple-going person. I always paid my tribute to Marduk on time. I celebrated all of the major holidays, and even most of the minor ones. I gave alms in the names of the gods. I knew all the words to all the hymns.'

Hani sang:

All creatures who on Earth do dwell,

Where bright Euphrates river runs,

Sing to Marduk, and know right well,

Here is a god who gets stuff done!

It was Ori's turn to choke on a fig.

'I haven't heard that one before,' said Shubshi.

'Pay no attention to that one,' said Nukhu. 'He'd joke with the creator himself. But go on with your story, please.'

'As I said, I was really religious. And the point of religion in Warka was that everyone believed. . . '

'Don't tell me,' said Ori, 'let me guess. That if you were nice to the gods, they'd be nice to you?'

Shubshi nodded. 'That was about it. Obviously, if you were very pious, made offerings, attended all the ceremonies, and prayed, the gods would favour you. So nobody was surprised to see that I was the first to arrive at the ceremonies, and the last to leave the temple.'

'Because you were really blessed.' This from Hani.

'At first I thought all the devotion was really paying off: my company made record profits. My wife's irises won the flower show. My son got accepted into the temple school. But then, things started not to go so well.


A caravan got waylaid by robbers.


My bookkeeper embezzled 600 shekels.


A blight struck my orchards.


That was bad enough. My neighbours were already looking at me sideways. My wife was angry with me because of all the gossip. But then came the worst blow. . .


I came down with a horrible skin rash that spread to my arms and face.'

'Oh, no,' said all three listeners with instant sympathy. Ori added, 'That's really bad. I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Your sympathy is appreciated. Of course, you know that a visible skin rash is about the worst thing that can happen to a socially active businessman in Warka. In the first place, everybody shuns you. It's almost impossible to do any business at all. And once word gets around, nobody wants to associate with you in any way, shape, or form.


And then, of course, there's the discomfort. Which is minor compared to all the wailing, commiserating, and useless 'help' I got offered by wellwishers who were hedging their bets in case I got better.


If I had a drachm for every piece of useless advice I was offered, I'd still be a rich man. Also, these 'comforters' kept hanging around my wife, talking and eating me out of house and home.


Then they sent for the medical experts.'

Hani looked curious and Ori explained, 'Exorcists.' Ori had transcribed enough tablets to know all about it.

'Yes, the exorcists came. They applied poultices. They advised me that the cause was something sexual.


My wife stopped speaking to me.


I denied the sex part. Then they claimed I'd slighted this or that obscure god. We went nearly crazy and close to bankrupt with gifts to most, if not all, of the 3,600 deities. And yes, every one of them had a priest, priestess, seer, seeress, or acolyte who needed a bribe. . .a devotional offering. This was time-consuming and expensive.


Now, I could have dealt with a financial setback or two. I could roll with the punches if I lost standing in the community. I didn't even mind the boils – I knew they'd go away eventually. But letting everybody down like that made me nearly frantic. Besides, if I couldn't keep the family in their accustomed luxury, what good was I? I began to question my own existence.


I prayed and prayed and prayed. I prayed to every one of those 3,600 gods. And you know what. . . ?'

'Not one of them answered you,' said Hani simply, refilling the old man's beer cup.

Shubshi looked surprised. 'How did you guess?'

'I've seen them statues,' replied Hani. 'I can spot a corporate myth a league away, my friend. Them gods is phonies.'

Shubshi looked amazed. 'I don't know how you figured that out, friend, but you're right. After months of assiduous prayer, that's the conclusion I came to. But I nearly went mad first. In fact, my family thought I was mad. They had me committed to a local temple – very private, very exclusive, naturally – where the exorcists worked night and day to figure out which god's 'hand' was on me, and what omens they could divine from my hallucinations.'

'You were hallucinating by this time?' asked Nukhu.

Shubshi spread his hands. 'You would be, too, if you'd drunk as many potions as I had.'

'They kept asking me if I saw a dog. If you see a dog, you're expected to die.


I finally got so desperate to be left alone that I swore up and down I did see a dog. A great, big one. All black, with glowing eyes. I begged them to perform a ritual of passing for me – preferably on the other side of the temple. They scurried away to do this, with what seemed to me to be unholy glee.


At last, I was left alone. No priests, no 'comforters', no exorcists, and no dog.


I took a deep breath. It was now or never.

IS ANYBODY THERE? I said.


And I waited.'

Hani and Ori leaned forward, and Nukhu pricked up his ears where he stood by the tiller. 'What did you hear?' asked Hani hopefully.

Shubshi's grin lit up the sky.

'I heard my Friend,' he said. 'The voice that doesn't want any of that. Who's not there to help you succeed in business, or get famous, or get elected to anything. And I asked Him what He wanted. And He told me.'

'The next day, I signed over all my business interests to my sons. I left my wife the house. I packed a small bundle and set out on my travels.' He grinned. 'I've learned a lot since then. And I've met thousands of people. Some of them, I have helped: some have helped me.' His grin grew wider. 'And today, I've even met a couple of wet-behind-the-ears angels.'

Ori looked at Hani, startled. They both looked at Shubshi.

Then they fell over, laughing, and rolled around the deck, holding their sides.

Once Shubshi had got to his destination, and Nukhu had delivered his last load, the well-travelled boatman informed Ori and Hani that he was at the end of the line. He didn't need the boat any longer. He planned to head north again by joining a camel train.

'Would you like to sell the boat?' asked Hani.

The following evening found Ori and Hani lying in the reed boat, floating out to sea, looking up at the stars.

Rocked in the cradle of the deep,

I lay me down in peace to sleep. . .

. . . began Hani, but Ori interrupted. 'And the River Euphrates is deep and wide, but what, if anything, is on the other side of this journey?'

'I dunno,' shrugged Hani. 'We've sure enough covered a mess of territory. And I suspect we've done a bit of good here and there – particularly you, I think.'

Ori said, 'You, too, you shepherd-wrestler, you.' They both laughed.

'Mesopotamia has been a lot of fun,' Hani went on. 'But there's a heap of costumes up in the Paternoster. What do you reckon they're good for?'

'Well,' said Ori. 'I found a text in the library. It told people how to write fiction.'

'What's fiction?'

'Made-up stories.'

'Oh, like the one about the snake in the gard-. . . ow! That fig you threw weren't ripe!'

'Okay, yeah, like that,' Ori conceded. 'Anyway, the expert said a storyteller had to make the characters human.'

Hani chortled. 'That leaves us out, then.'

'And they can't be perfect.'

'Which, of course, we're not. Because I play practical jokes and you snore off-key.'

'I do not!'

'Let's go someplace when recording devices have been invented, and I'll prove it!'

Ori laughed. 'Okay. Finally, the storytelling expert said the character had to want something – because whatever the character wants is what makes the story go.'

So. . . a voice broke into the discussion, what do you two want?

Hani stared out at the sea, glowing in the last light of a Mesopotamian sun.

Ori stared upwards and outwards, at the stars.

'To see what's out there,' they both said.

Hani added, 'And who needs what.' Ori sighed agreement.

You shall have it, said Prajapati.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

04.09.23 Front Page

Back Issue Page