Page 45 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—O— ARTHUR

By the River Tigris, 1876

N ow that he is unable to work, King Arthur of the Sewers and Slums sends a telegram to the Trustees of the British Museum, informing them that he wishes to cut his expedition short and return. He cites the plague and cholera that are ravaging the region as the reason for his decision. The reply is curt.

Dear Smyth,

We are sorry to learn from your most recent correspondence that the plague and cholera are increasing to so great an extent. Doubtless the situation requires the utmost precaution on your part as you proceed with the important mission with which you have been charged.

Very truly yours,

S. McAllister Jones

Secretary to the British Museum

Arthur crumples the letter, trembling. He is now in a terrible bind. In this state of mind, he cannot do his job, but his proprietors will not allow him to leave Nineveh unless he makes a worthwhile discovery. As he struggles to find a solution, he turns his attention to the debris left by previous archaeological teams. A massive heap has been piled up: chipped tiles, fractured bricks and potsherds that have been discarded without proper inspection. Patiently, he starts sifting through the jumble. The task suits him. He is used to seeing value in things others have been quick to discard.

And this is how one afternoon, rivulets of sweat running down his neck, he chances upon something unexpected. At first it is the colour that catches his eye – a flash of cobalt. A glaze so intense he blinks to make sure he is not hallucinating. Gingerly, he pulls it out from under the shards. Underneath the dirt and dust is a tablet. It is a deep, boundless blue. Arthur has examined thousands of Mesopotamian artefacts over the years, from small cylinder seals to large bas-reliefs, but he has never seen anything like this before.

That night in his tent, he sits wrapped in a blanket under an oil lamp, the breeze drawing symbols on the nape of his neck. He pores over the blue tablet. It is a segment of the Epic of Gilgamesh , but one he has not come across before. The hero, having lost everything – his friend/lover, his youth, his hubris – is returning home, a broken man. But it is not only the defeat of the central character that takes Arthur aback; there is a note at the bottom, only partially legible.

This is … a junior scribe,

One of the many … storytellers …

… weave poems … stories …

… remember …

Arthur is surprised to see that the tablet is dedicated not to Nabu, as usual, but to some unknown goddess called Nisaba.

When King Gilgamesh died, they interred his body under the river. Not inside, but under. To do this they had to divert the Euphrates, forcing it to flow in an unnatural direction; once the funeral was over, they returned the river to its original course. The workers who dug the hero’s grave were all killed afterwards. That way, there would be no one left alive to reveal the burial place.

Mesopotamia is made of stories of water. Across its alluvial plains, the oldest tales are dedicated to streams, storms and floods. The Sumerian word for water, a – just like the Kurdish word aw – also means conception, semen, beginning.

Rivers are fluid bridges – channels of communication between separate worlds. They link one bank to the other, the past to the future, the spring to the delta, earthlings to celestial beings, the visible to the invisible, and, ultimately, the living to the dead. They carry the spirits of the departed into the netherworld, and occasionally bring them back. In the sweeping currents and tidal pools shelter the secrets of foregone ages. The ripples on the surface of water are the scars of a river. There are wounds in its shadowy depths that even time cannot heal.

The songs of this land, though seemingly about love or heartbreak, are actually about place – both the beauty and the sadness it embodies. The Ancient Mesopotamians are famed for inventing writing, mathematics, astronomy, irrigation and the wheel, but their biggest discovery has gone unrecognized. They are the first to experience the pain of losing a motherland.

The inhabitants of this region have always known that they rely on water for survival. Grateful for every drop of fresh water that graced their days, they thanked the rivers – and also feared them. When the levees break and the banks burst, they leave trauma behind – a story to be told from one generation to the next. Mesopotamian lore understands that water is the defining force of life. Trees are ‘rooted water’, streams are ‘flowing water’, birds are ‘flying water’, mountains are ‘rising water’, and, as for humans, they are, and will always be, ‘warring water’, never at peace.

Water has memory.

Rivers are especially good at remembering.

‘Mr Arthur … sir?’

He lifts his head. These past weeks have prematurely aged him. His face is wan and tired, heavy from lack of sleep. There are crinkles around his eyes from squinting into the sun, and new lines have appeared on his forehead.

‘I must tell you something,’ says Mahmoud. ‘This morning I met a tinker who travels up and down the Tigris, mending pots and pans. The man described some strange things he witnessed on the way here –’

Arthur is only half listening, but what Mahmoud says next has his full attention. ‘He said, a while back, he saw a young Yazidi woman riding alone. He was worried for her and he wanted to understand why she had no one.’

‘Did … did he say her name?’

‘No. He tried to speak to her, but she would not talk to a stranger.’

‘Did he describe what she looked like?’

‘He said she had covered her face, but he could tell from her clothes that she was a Yazidi. Oddly, this woman had a qanun with her.’

Arthur staggers to his feet. ‘It must be her! It’s Leila!’

‘I don’t want to raise your hopes. But I thought I should tell you.’

His mind working fast, Arthur rakes his hands through his hair. ‘How could I not think of this before? She had predicted the massacre years ago. She had warned everyone that night.

“The day they come to kill us

run to the mountain.

Do not go near the water,

river, well nor fountain.”

‘Do you understand, my friend? She did not go to the water. Of course not! She did not run to the river like the others – that’s how she survived.’

Laughing a madman’s laugh, Arthur grasps Mahmoud’s hand and shakes it joyfully. ‘Imagine, this morning I thought Leila was dead, but now I have learnt she may be alive.’

‘We don’t know for certain if it is her. I don’t want you to be disappointed.’

Arthur is not listening. ‘Life is full of the unexpected, my friend. As if we are walking in a river of mud, and we dare to dip our hands every now and then, searching for a button of hope, a coin of friendship, a ring of love. We are mudlarkers, all of us.’

Mahmoud has no idea what Arthur is ranting about, but he is glad he is smiling again – until he sees him hastily packing his belongings inside a canvas bag.

‘Wait! Where are you going?’

‘Castrum Kefa – that’s where her sister of the next world lives. Leila’s family are dead, so she must have gone to join her axiretê . I need to find her.’

‘Pray calm down. That route is dangerous these days. The cholera …’ Mahmoud pauses, realizing that, whatever he says, he will not be able to pierce the wall of Arthur’s determination. ‘Then I am coming with you.’

‘Oh, no. I cannot ask you to do that.’

‘I must accompany you,’ Mahmoud says. ‘I mean no offence, but I am not sure you would survive even a day on your own.’

Thus, in mid-August 1876, King Arthur of the Sewers and Slums sets out for the upper reaches of the River Tigris. Within his satchel he carries a flask of water, a bag of dates, a leather journal, and a tablet of lapis lazuli dedicated to a forgotten goddess. He bids farewell, for the second and last time, to his beloved Nineveh, forsaking a part of himself on a mound that hides artefacts from the palace of King Ashurbanipal and human remains from a forgotten genocide.