The Flood

The whispers seemed to begin even before the horizon betrayed the arrival of the Stranger. Before certain cataclysmic events, such as earthquakes, they say all kinds of animals will start to act strangely. Birds may fly in unusual formations, rats and snakes will abandon their homes, cows will cease to produce milk. Humans also have the capability to sense impending catastrophe, but it manifests in us through disrupted thought patterns. We may tend to be highly irritable in situations which usually cause us no distress; we may find ourselves less hospitable to cooperation with our contemporaries; we may even divide ourselves into cliques, pitting ourselves against one another in some vain effort to regain control of a world over which we have very little. The people of Brigham City were already easing into these uneasy waters when one of the children, while climbing a tree, saw signs of someone - or something - approaching the town in the distance.

The small desert town of Brigham City, Arizona - one might say a haughtily ambitious name for what was barely a village - had been founded by Mormon settlers from the Salt Lake Valley only four years previously, in 1876. Boasting a modest population of around two hundred people, there were a couple dozen houses all contained within the walls of a frontier fort. Outside the walls were vast fields for growing crops; mostly beans, greens, potatoes, and corn. Although they never got more than a foot of rain per year, the soil was rich in minerals and nutrients, and their location next to the Little Colorado River proved to be helpful in the completion of a rudimentary irrigation system which kept the fields adequately hydrated. The fields provided more than enough sustenance for the townsfolk, and they kept all they could that would not spoil but could not be immediately consumed. Due to their remote location, the vast majority of the residents were highly involved in farming, while the rest occupied themselves with fellowship and friendliness. Such was not the case for the latter on this particular early-evening in the year of our Lord, 1880.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elizabeth declared. “Everyone likes me.” 

“Well I think your head is getting too big!” Dinah shouted at her sister.

“Oh yeah?!” Elizabeth shot back. “At least my ears match the size of my head, you beagle-eared baby!” With that, Dinah lunged for her big sister, reaching for a clump of hair with which to pull her to the ground. From the kitchen window, their mother could hear the girls arguing, but she didn’t step out to intervene until a piercing scream cut through the relative silence of the Arizona countryside. “Aaaaaaaaah! My hair! She’s got my hair!” With that, Josephine darted outside to end this confrontation between the two little girls.

“Dinah, you let her go right now!” she shouted as she quickly approached her daughters. The moment Dinah released the death grip she held on her sister’s hair, Elizabeth swung her open hand towards Dinah’s face and made contact with a loud ‘thwack.’ Now, it was Dinah’s turn to shriek. Elizabeth, as the adrenaline subsided, burst into tears and squeezed her mother like a boa constrictor squeezes its prey. Dinah extravagantly caressed her face trying to drum up some sympathy, but Josephine was doing all she could to prevent suffocating under her eldest daughter’s panicked embrace, and did not notice the surprisingly skillful exhibition. She pried Elizabeth’s arms from around her waist and spoke again. “Elizabeth! Dinah! What has gotten into you?”

Both girls began animatedly talking over each other, pointing fingers and making grand hand gestures. This only lasted for a few seconds before Josephine shouted, “That - is - enough!” The girls fell deadly quiet, and their mother allowed this moment to become saturated with the silence until the uncomfortable moment became almost unbearable, even to herself. She drew in a soft breath, and set into lecturing the girls in a subdued tone. She knew this method carried more weight than yelling outright, and it was easier on her own voice to boot. The reason for their disagreement was a moot point anyway - what was important was that whatever had precipitated the engagement must not happen again. Ever since they had arrived at the fort, Elizabeth and Dinah had been like two peas in a pod. From sun-up to sun-down the two of them frolicked in the yard, played in their room, or walked by the river together, always without a hint of conflict. In the past week, they’d gotten under each others’ skin more than ever before. Josephine was concerned, but she knew children had a tendency to push boundaries as they approached their teenage years, and this was probably the case, she assured herself. As Josephine was just coming to the end of her parental soliloquy, she heard the neighbor boy cry out from about thirty feet up.

“Mrs. Jensen! Mrs. Jensen! Smoke!” Josephine’s heart jumped as her eyes darted in the direction of Wyatt’s voice, which came from near the top of one of his family’s mesquite trees. He was staring off towards the east - beyond the river. A momentary sigh of relief. She had been concerned that something in the town had caught fire in the dry, desert heat. Then she grasped the implication of what the young boy had just said; he was looking off into the desert wilderness. Miles and miles of uninhabited country lay beyond the river, but as she peered towards the horizon, she too could see the telltale remnants of a campfire, about five to ten miles away. It was already more than a decade past the war out east, but every now and again, stories popped up of mercenaries who shifted their talents towards ransacking and robbery. There was also the ever-present threat of certain segments of the native population rising up against frontier homesteaders to contend with. She shook herself from her thoughts and her eyes returned to the tree, where Wyatt was quickly descending earthward. He was sure to be headed to the fields to inform the men of the new situation, as was part of the community’s plan.

“Girls! Go with Wyatt to the fields, and find your father!” Assuming this soon-to-be visitor or group of visitors was traveling by evening, they would arrive in Brigham by nightfall, and without knowing their intentions, it was best to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Josephine ran into the house, rushed to her bedroom, and opened the chest at the foot of the bed. From the chest she retrieved two rifles and laid them on the bedspread. Next came a box of ammunition from which she scooped up about a dozen bullets which she carefully deposited into a pouch to be worn around her neck. She did the same thing with her husband Robert’s pouch, then donned both satchels, grabbed the guns, and went outside to alert her other neighbors to the possible impending encounter. Over the next half hour, the entire town had been mobilized, and they went to the riverside to form a meeting party.

It was about an hour before sundown when the townspeople first got visual confirmation of their visitor. Somewhat confusingly, it appeared to be neither a group of disgruntled soldiers, nor a clan of rogue Navajo, but a solitary man who walked alongside a donkey. The villagers remained optimistic but cautious as the man drew closer and closer, and another strange silence drenched the dry air. When he finally reached the river, he stared across the water at the aggressively postured crowd and waited. Outwardly, there was nothing too worrisome about him, other than his unkempt and wearied façade. He appeared to be a native man, except for three obvious differences. First, his skin had a distinctly olive tone, as compared to the almond or cinnamon tones most of the locals were known for. Second, he wore very strange attire; a dingy, cream colored robe the hem of which hung just below his knees, and shoes that consisted only of soles and some type of strap that wrapped around each foot. Finally, he had a bushy mustache and thick beard, both of which were highly uncommon for Navajo, Hopi, or any other native peoples the settlers had come into contact with. Eventually, Josephine’s husband worked up the resolve to greet the Stranger. “Hello sir, my name is Robert Jensen.”

The Stranger appeared to smile at the greeting, and returned the welcome in a very strange dialect of English that the townsfolk could not place. “Peace to you, I am Rosh Pinah.” His donkey grunted, and looked away.

“Well...Rosh,” Robert lingered on the -sh sound, “where have you come from?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak very well English.”

Robert thought for a moment. “Are you Navajo? Are you Hopi?”

“I am hungry,” Rosh answered after pausing to process the question. “I am thirsty. I seek food and water.” The look on his face corroborated these statements, and Robert’s stance relaxed considerably.

“Well, we aren’t looking for any new residents, but you are more than welcome to eat with us, and then you can spend the night in the guest quarters inside the fort - it’s just about time for supper, anyway.” Rosh’s expression seemed to demand something more, but Robert didn’t know what more to say. “If you need time to rest and recuperate, we can talk about that in the morning.” At this, Rosh seemed a bit more satisfied, and now was Robert’s turn to smile. 

“Now wait a minute,” a voice came from behind. “We don’t know who this gentleman is, let alone what he’s been doing out there in the wilderness. I’d say he ought to keep moving on.” A few voices rose in support of the conflicting idea.

“Friends.” Robert replied before the murmur could transcend its reticence and become a cacophony of fear and hatred. “This man carries no weapon. He appears before us to be malnourished and dehydrated. Is it not written in our holy texts that we should love our neighbors? Is it not written that we should do for others what we would hope others would do for us?” The dissenting citizens remained quiet. Robert nodded with a combination of disappointment and satisfaction, and gestured towards the north as he directly addressed Rosh. “There’s a sandy, tranquil section of river about five minutes this way. You can cross without risk of being swept away, or stepping on anything hard or sharp. Come, we’ll meet you there.” With that, Robert and James (Wyatt’s father) led the Stranger up the banks of the river to the crossing point, while the rest of the village returned to their homes to finish preparing their own dinners. Once he had come across to the other side, Rosh and the other two men engaged in a brief conversation on the way to the fort.

“How long have you been out in that desert?” James asked the tired-looking traveler. “It’s been hot lately, and you don’t even seem to be carrying a canteen - I imagine it’s water you’ll be wanting first and foremost.”

“It feels like...forty days...in the desert,” Rosh replied, “and yes, water very much I would like.” Robert’s and James’ eyes met in a concerned but intrigued way as they heard the ‘forty days’ remark. “But I have not been alone. I have had my donkey.” The three of them carried on until they reached their respective destinations. James split off and headed towards his home, and Robert led Rosh into his own where Josephine was finishing up the evening meal. After the meal was over and everyone had enough to eat, Robert showed Rosh to the guest quarters, helped him get settled in, and returned to his family.

That evening, most of the townspeople, including the Jensens and the Spencers, met in the center of the fort to discuss this strange turn of events. From house to house, details of the conversation between Rosh and his river chaperones spread like wildfire across the plains. Even with the Stranger fast asleep as his body attempted to overcome exhaustion, they spoke in hushed voice so as to avoid being overheard. Their cautious optimism had been short-lived as trepidation began to set in. The conversation, as a result, started out as a series of unanswered questions more than genuine dialogue.

“What do you think he’s doing here?”

“Why does he speak with such a strange accent?”

“Have you ever seen anyone who looks like that?”

“Where did he say he was from, anyway?”

The seemingly rhetorical questions quickly gave way to accusations and assumptions.

“He’s obviously a foreigner, and there’s no way we can trust him.”

“There’s no way he was in the desert for forty days without water, he’s putting on a ruse of some sort.”

“He’s probably not even sleeping, just waiting for us all to go to bed so he can rob us!”

“Or something worse!”

As they continued to prattle on, their voices grew in volume, and their apprehension turned to anger. Someone suggested that Robert had made a mistake allowing this Stranger to stay within the walls of the fort, arguing that they just as easily could have given him a tent to sleep in beyond the bounds of the village. The Jensens and the Spencers, along with a couple other close families, were forced into a defensive stance against the rest of the townspeople. A disturbing intensity had taken over, and the speaking had turned into shouting. The opposing groups stood against one another like armies preparing for a battle. At that moment, Rosh stepped forward into the midst of the melee.

Everyone ceased their squabbling and stood in a tense tranquility. Bingham City waited for the Stranger to say something, but he simply stood among them surveying the scene that had unfolded as he was trying to get some rest. When he finally broke the silence, his voice had changed - it was much more commanding, and his accent had all but disappeared entirely, startling the onlookers. He turned towards those with whom he had shared a meal and said, “I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me in.” He smiled, but underneath the smile was a pain that escaped explanation. Then the smile faded, and he turned to the other group. “I was hungry, and you gave me nothing to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me nothing to drink. I was a stranger, and you did not invite me in.”

“Well what’s it to you?!” one of the protesters shouted. “We don’t know you! It’s awfully bold of you to assume we’d share what limited supplies we have here. I say we take a vote, right here, right now. All in favor of sheltering this foreigner?” Something about the aggression of his tone kept even the Jensens and Spencers silent. “All opposed?” Nobody spoke, but one by one, the hands of the villagers rose into the air until all were aloft except for Robert, James, and their families. “Well I guess we’ve got our answer. Pack your things, Stranger - you’re not welcome here.”

Rosh walked towards his donkey and began to untie him. As he did, he spoke in a voice so quiet, yet so powerful, that everyone who heard was shaken to the core. “The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone - a stone that causes people to stumble, and a rock that makes them fall. Goodbye.” With no further fanfare, he hopped up on to the donkey, and rode out the gates that had already been opened by the staunchest opponents of his inclusion there.

* * *

Shortly after the departure of the Stranger, a series of torrential rain storms barraged the land. The fields, which had been painstakingly irrigated to ensure a proper amount of crop moisture became flooded for weeks on end, destroying what had promised to be a bountiful harvest. To add insult to injury, several of the storms brought perilous winds which dismantled many of the more-hastily constructed dwellings within the fort, as well as a large section of the fort wall itself. Families had to move in with one another, and crowded living conditions did nothing to help their morale. Over the winter, Brigham City depleted all of its food reserves, and by the spring the people were within months from total starvation when a council of leaders declared the outpost a failure and began preparations to move back to the Salt Lake Valley.

Among the settlers, questions lingered about the Stranger who came to visit their little piece of land in the middle of Arizona Territory. Most believed he was somehow involved in the collapse of the Bingham City project. Some thought he was a shaman, a magician, or even the devil. Robert Jensen was of a completely different mind regarding the situation. Any time the subject would come up, and somebody suggested that Rosh Pinah ruined their way of life and killed their dream of creating a garden in the desert, Robert Jensen would somberly reply, “The Stranger didn’t ruin our fields. The Flood did. The Stranger didn’t ruin our craftsmanship. The Flood did. The Stranger didn’t kill our dream. The Flood did.” 

If only they understood, like he did, that the Flood had been avoidable. Next time would be different, he thought to himself every single day for the rest of his life.