Exiled gods of Eridu

Echoes of the Lost River

The first cold stars wept as the sun fell from the saddest day. Anata kept Watch while the others sang the boy across, but it wasn't easy. Her pale blue eyes tried to retain their vigilance, scanning the plain for signs of movement, but they kept filling up with echoes of the lost River. She knew she would not be the only one crying. Already she had noted that Nin's eyes had been stained with the red of too much sadness even before she'd called for the Song to begin. It was the music that drew the River out of them. Hearing it reminded them of everything they had lost, and the River heard their silent longing, and came to them, sharing their pain but unable to ever fully wash it away, the way it used to. Anata wiped her tears away gratefully, comforted by their faithfulness, but she had an important job to do, and she needed to be able to see, so she swallowed her grief and refused to dwell on it. She would not be responsible for another unasked-for crossing.

The light breeze stilled, settling the world down for bed. It was a dangerous time. Dusk was approaching, and the lengthening shadows could disguise a hunter far too easily. The Primitives were well-practiced hunters, and might be drawn by the echoes of Celebration Song that rang out across the valley. Each dim hollow or straggly bush needed to be watched carefully, and Anata had long since memorised each and every one. It was a game that she had once played, and excelled at, back in the days when getting caught out just meant that you were picked to be the one to have to think up the next game. Here, the stakes were higher, but the skills were the same. Memorise the shape and size of the shadows. Learn where the birds were nesting and get a feel for the way each animal moved, so you could recognise the difference between a foraging wolf and a crawling human, even in the dark. And listen, always, for sounds that do not fit with the natural rhythms. Like the almost silent footsteps behind her.

"I have bread for you," she told her brother without taking her eyes from a clump of trees over near the bitter pool. They were on the far edge of her visible range, but the breeze that shifted their branches should not be so strong, or limited to just one side. It was too far to see if the slight disturbance was caused by one of the hawks that nested near there, but it was the right time for them to return for the night, so she didn't worry too much. "Your song was beautiful, Adenki. You had many fun memories of him."

"Not nearly enough," he replied, climbing up to sit with her on the wall but ignoring the bread she'd placed there for him. She wondered if, like her, the thought of chewing on bread seemed revolting after the remembered taste of Home. The music brought back more memories than just shared experiences with Maleya.

"Well, I liked the one about the time you showed him how to build an easy-thrower so you could launch each other out into the lake."

Adenki sighed. "It was smaller than the ones Nin's father used to build, but Maleya loved it. He was fascinated with designing new toys," he recalled as he gripped her cold fingers. How did such happy memories make them feel so sad? This world turned everything on its head. "The ceremony will end soon; there are only two more singers," he continued after a moment.

"Already? Surely not! It has only been a couple of hours! Are they worried about another attack? I would not let..."

"It's not that, Ana. There are simply no more memories to share. His life was too short, and not everyone wants to sing."

That was enough to break her concentration, and she looked at him with wide eyes, a feeling of anger churning in her chest, and yet there was no direction for it. How could she be angry at the people who could not bring themselves to sing when she herself was one of them? Although she was the best at Watching at dusk, her skills were not the only reason she had volunteered today.

Her brother reached up and wiped away a stray tear from her cheek. She didn't need to say anything – he could read how she was feeling in every movement she made, and every stiff line of her body. "It is good that you still cry," he said. "There are some who refuse to, because they worry that one day there will be no River left in them if they let it all fall to the ground."