The People of the River

            It’s that time of year, here along the river—time for going home. For most people, that means a village somewhere upstream.

            “What about you?” they say. “Will you go to your hometown?”

            “If she goes to her hometown, she will take a plane to America!” And they laugh so hard at the thought that someone’s home village could be the fairyland of their television sets.

            “No, I will stay here in the city,” I say, and they are sad for me, because I have no place to go for Hometown Week.

            It is truer than they know. For anyone who moved as much as I did growing up, “hometown” is an ill-defined concept. So many places have been my home, and the fact is, I have lived in this city longer than I have lived in any other. It may never be my hometown, but it is home.

            They say that once a man drinks the water of the river, it will seep into his soul, and always thereafter his heart will be drawn to it. Though he travel the world over, he will find no rest until he returns to its banks, his new home. Well, I have drunk the water of the river, for it is flows through the pipes of every home. And here I stay, an adopted child of the river, in a city not my own.

            They say that once this was a true river city, where everyone lived either in houseboats afloat on bamboo rafts or in stilt houses, tall upon the shore. It is only in recent history that the population has spread inland. The houseboats and stilt houses are still there, but they are much less common than they once were, ever since industry taught the people to prefer sturdier ground. The river itself brought them that industry, for the river is wide, wide enough for ships to pass through all the way to the city. So wide, in fact, that if you go out to the middle in the thick of smoke season, you can’t see either shore. You just sort of float there, suspended in the middle of noplace, lost in a white fog. I suppose it would be peaceful, if it didn’t burn the lungs.

            The river is everything to these people. It is their source of water, a major source of food, and the heart of their economy, not to mention their dumping ground. For most of history, it was their highway as well, and even now it is a major road for some. They define their communities by how far upstream or downstream they live, on which bank, and how far from the shore. Downstream is where the money is, and the city is where it gathers, for the river brings it to them. It is a port city. The river gives life, takes away filth, and carries the promise of wealth up from the sea. It is also treacherous.

            They say a woman haunts the river. They say she lurks in its depths, catching unsuspecting victims with her hair and dragging them to their deaths. At night she rises from the waters and walks the shore, leaving a slimy trail wherever she goes. Many claim to have seen her. Those for whom this is their hometown know beyond a doubt that she is real, and they are sure to tell their children enough stories to keep them from her clutches. But this is not my hometown, and I know that deep currents and passing logs can do quite enough harm without the help of long-haired ladies. So, too, can crocodiles. Even so, this lady of the river, I can’t help but wonder—Could she be a lesser daughter of the one they call the Queen of the South Sea?

            In all the paintings I have seen, the Queen of the South sits upon a dragon as it rises out of the sea. But in the stories, the woman and the dragon are one, and she rules a kingdom under the sea. They say she is fearfully beautiful and that she snatches the souls of her victims and drags them down to her realm to become her slaves. They also say that the kings of the land have made treaties with her and become her husbands, so that it is by her power they rule. Like the lady of the river, many claim to have seen her. Those for whom this is their hometown are the people of the river, not the sea, but they trust the stories of the people of the sea so they know that she is real. Indeed, why shouldn’t she be? It fits so well with everything else they know. There is no reason to doubt.

            But this is not my hometown, and I say, no wonder no one here knows how to swim! Meanwhile, I can’t help but think of a certain other woman who sits on a seven-headed scarlet beast by many waters. They say she intoxicates the nations, and is herself drunk on the blood of the saints. Kings and merchants are in love with her for by her they are made rich. Surely she is the mother of all such ladies of the water. And if she is in any sense real, what then can I say of these?

            It is the way of rivers to flow into the sea, and this one is no exception. I don’t know how far it is from our city down to the sea, but that by itself tells you something. In all my years here, I have never heard of anyone going to the coast. Not in this province anyway. We do have a coast; I suppose there’s just no need to go. After all, the river brings the sea to them.

            Merchants have come to this city since time immemorial. This once was the seat of an ancient kingdom, made great by the riches of commerce. The merchants brought exotic goods to trade for products of the jungle, which the villagers brought down the river to the sell in the city. It was the meeting place of worlds. Very little is left of those ancient days. There are none of the ruins one might expect. For it was a river kingdom, and eventually, fast or slow, the river washes all away and carries it to the sea. All that once belonged to that ancient kingdom no doubt now fills the halls of the Queen of the South.

            The river also brought conquerors, not least of which were the Europeans. Great tales have been told in verse of how the people of the river beat back the European horde, those monkey-faced heathens from across the sea. For a time, anyway. There was no stopping the inevitable. Eventually the city fell and was forever changed. The river is treacherous. For the woman on the scarlet beast is treacherous, and her servants rule the waters. Or so it seems, for now. But let us not forget that even the rivers of Babylon flowed from Eden.

            Just as it is the way of rivers to flow into the sea, so it is the way of people to follow the promise of riches. Thus have so many followed the river down to the city from their hometowns upstream. They have come to seek their fortunes, to see if they can get a share in the riches that come up from the sea. And once they are here, who knows whether they will ever return to their native villages again, except, of course, for Hometown Week. Thus have the banks of the river swelled with fortune seekers, and every year the buildings rise and the city expands.

            They say that the city didn’t use to flood so much, before the high rises went up, before all the trees were uprooted and the ground cemented over. They say the city is sinking now, and that it will only get worse. For who can resist the lure of the riches of the sea? The construction will continue, even as the city sinks under the weight of all its worldly treasure, until at last, fast or slow, the river washes all away. For no matter what comes up from the sea, still always the river cleanses.

            The river’s flow is strong and deep. Against its current the ships fight their way to the meeting place of realms. For the city sits on the brink of a battle between the river and the sea. The woman who sits by many waters boasts of her conquests, but in the end even she must bow before the Lord of the Waters, who sits not on a beast but a throne. For what is catching a man on the beach compared with calling him from the ends of the earth? And what is dragging a man to his death compared with raising him to new life? For they say a river flows from the throne of the great lord, and that it gives healing and life to all that it touches. They say that one day it will bring even the Dead Sea to life, and that all true rivers find their source in this one.

            I have never seen the headwaters of our river, but I hear they are in the mountains, about a 10-hour drive from the city. I hear it is a lush and exceedingly beautiful place, like all this land must have been once, back when it was still a rainforest, before all the wood was sold for gold. Someday I will go and see it myself, but not yet. For now, my place is in the city, asking questions, trying my best to understand, and telling stories like this one. But someday, when my task is done, I will go with my friends and together we will follow the river, farther up and farther in, until at last we come to the mountain and the place from which the river springs. What we shall find there, I cannot say. Some say it is a lush garden. Others say there is a great temple. Still others say that both are true, and the garden and the temple are one. As for me, this Hometown Week, I live in the hope of the sons of Korah. For they say, there we shall find the City of God, the True Hometown of all river peoples, both native born and adopted.