Ark

Entry 6

I've gotten much more used to the routine of daily noises. In the day, I can hear the voices of people, what sound like crowds all around me. While our room was relatively isolated, and many of the voices came from well below us, I have discovered that there is hardly a moment from dawn to dusk that is not taken up with the sound of human chatter. At night, it is very different. The noises of the day only make the relative silence of night-time all the more noticeable. There are eerie calls in the distance, what I can only describe as long, low wails. At times, and especially during those initial nights when I was still too sick to get out of bed, but well enough to listen, I have found those calls from the darkness far more disconcerting than I would care to admit. Except perhaps in this written account that nobody is ever likely to read.

After reaching the settlement, I slept and woke in starts — I couldn't say for how long, except that it might have been night at some point, then daytime at another. For the first day at least, barely a waking moment passed when I was not feeling such a profound all-over chill that I was far from certain that I would ever be warm again. If that was not enough, the nausea was indescribable. I lost count of the number of times I found myself expelling bitter fluid from my mouth. Now that I think about it, it was a wonder that there was anything left. I only sort of remember mumbling vague apologies to a stranger at my side who held a container in front of me and cleaned the bile and saliva from my face.

I became aware of two others in the room with me, both still asleep for much of the time that I was unable to sit upright without the room spinning. The woman in particular looked pale and sick, with dark, hollow smudges beneath her eyes and the cold white gleam of sweat on her temples.

But then, I can only imagine what I looked like at that point. With greater awareness of my surroundings, I discovered that the room was small, but reasonably well lit by the glow of four strategically positioned lanterns, one in each corner. The walls were lightweight timber, packed with bundles of long reeds (of some kind — I never was much good at botany). And on the floor, three thick sleeping mats were propped on ankle-high structures made from wooden slats, which I have learnt are what serve as beds in this place.

Late one night, I remember that the man in the bed next to me had woken suddenly, and cried out in a language that I didn't understand. He was thrashing about with strangled terrified cries that rose in pitch and volume and quickly lost any resemblance to spoken words. One of the local carers hurried in, responding to the noise, and quickly summoned two others. Their voices were low and desperate as they held the struggling man down until he started to sob uncontrollably, cover his eyes with his arms, and clench both hands into two helpless fists. I caught the word "Allah!" in between more broken cries, which eventually reached a crescendo before the prayer— or whatever it was— dropped finally to a whimper and then to a soft, self-comforting refrain. In the end, he slept, and the tallest of three nurses spoke softly to the other two. I watched them withdraw, then saw the last of the locals pause to wipe the sweat from the brow of their patient and speak to him in a low, soothing voice, repeating a phrase that sounded like, "Suhā, suhāte." She stepped back silently, holding the cloth in both hands, and only then did she turn around and notice that I was watching.

I remember asking where I was — or mumbling it, although I'm not sure even now that it would have made any sense to anyone. My voice was hoarse, and it hurt to speak, as if it had been me screaming all day and night. A woman, whose face was obscure at the time (perhaps it was night) spoke to me in the same low, steady tone as she has used on my neighbour. I still didn't understand a word. But one thing I have managed to figure out at that point. My bearded companion and I did speak different languages, but his is no closer to that of our hosts. From the little I could tell, they included a constant, repeated plea to Allah. So, at least he was from the same planet as me. Listen to me now. Just a few days in and I'm already talking about my home as if it were an entirely different world. Wherever that might even be.

The other man woke again not long after. In fact, I was still struggling to get some information from this local woman when her attention was drawn away and she crossed immediately to his bed. She was strong, or he was still weak (most likely a little of both), and she managed to hold the man down until his struggles exhausted him and his cries turned to sobs. My heart went out to him — really, it did. But all I could do was to extend a hand in his direction and mutter, "It's okay," even though my throat was still dry and I could barely muster enough of a voice to speak with. I'm not even sure that I convinced myself. The woman glanced momentarily in my direction, but then back at the man in the other bed. With a hand on his arm, she meticulously parroted my words, albeit with a broad, unfamiliar accent. "Iss oh-keh. Iss oh-keh."

Her patient shied away and responded with a string of words that sounded very much like demands — for information? For his freedom? Either way, it didn't take him long at all to realise that he was unable to communicate with the woman. All attempts to make himself understood soon turned to a long, low cry, which stopped even the nurse's desperate reassurances. It was the most agonised sound that I have ever heard, and one that I would never wish to hear again.