Nora

The water is cold. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to bathe or take a swim. As I row myself gently down the river, I can’t keep some biting drips from cutting into my skin. My fingers are starting to go numb, turning white from how tightly I’m gripping the rod.

I sing in a low voice to myself as my pole presses against the riverbed, propelling my raft gently forward.

And through the mist

There came a shower of 

Clouds that drifted down

The water so clear

As fish and grass were calling for

Sleep. “Fall asleep.”

If you fall into the water

If you tumble down in weeds

Brush the dust off of your father

Pull him from his sleep.

My mother used to sing me that song as a lullaby. It sounds eerie, falling over the still water like a blanket used to hush a crying child. Sleep. Everything whispers silence to me. But I can’t afford to stop now. Not when I’ve come this far. 

This morning started out normal, an average day with average weather for an autumn afternoon. Nobody expected the flood. There were no warnings, no signs, not even the animals could sense it. Whenever tragedy strikes, the forests go silent. Birds cut their songs short, and every other creeping creature scatters to safety. This time, however, the woods were still erupting with sound.

The rain should have been our warning. We should have listened closer to the pounding water and the bleeding banks. When the crops were being drowned we should have built boats, walked to higher ground. I should have known better. 

I’m a fisherman. I can survive on the water, but the locksmith? The baker? They didn’t stand a chance. It’s my fault they were consumed by the merciless waves. It’s my fault home is gone.

It’s impossible to dwell on this. I have to use my energy for more important things, like keeping myself from freezing or falling into the water. I’m too weak to swim, despite years of experience, I’m too brittle and rattled to be able to keep myself afloat. And I’ve been rowing for hours alone.

Well, almost alone. 

There’s a bundle in the middle of the raft. It squirms from time to time or cheeps, and for the first hour on the river it was wailing so much I started to cry too. I gave it my coat and now, the unbearable screeching is a pleasant occasional coo of delight or wonder. At least she’s warm. One of us is comfortable.

I didn’t think twice when I grabbed her. I think she’s the daughter of some traveling merchant in town. They were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. If the harvest season had been a little early or a little late, they never would have been caught in the cruel water. The family was enjoying lunch by the river when the river violently surged upwards. It wasn’t destructive, so to speak, but I know for a fact that there are few in the village who can swim. No one takes me seriously, so no one ever bothered to accept my offer to teach them. It’s a miracle that the baby didn’t drown in her mother’s arms.

So now, I have my very own bundle of joy. I can’t keep calling her “It” or “Baby,” but I don’t know what her given name is. 

I’ve been calling her Nora. I’ve always wanted to name my own daughter Nora, if I ever had one that is. If I can make it to the next village, then maybe I will someday. But it’s dark, my sense of direction tells me I still have quite a ways to go, and it’s getting colder by the minute.

I start singing again, this time louder for Nora to hear. The words probably flow over her as she lies there unaware of the legend behind them.

Even in my own mind, the tale is murky. I barely remember it, but I do know that it was inspired by the disappearance of a man about thirty miles south of my village. No one knew what happened to him, but it’s said that his daughter was convinced a local gang had drowned him. She went to look for him alone one night and was swallowed by the river’s depths. 

This allegedly happened about a hundred years ago, but the minor tune still carries over the water, sung by every fisherman in the region.

It reminds us to fear the river, respect it and its majesty. I have no problems worshipping the river. Some believe that there are spirits tied to the water, promising safe passage to those who offer sacrifices and keep the banks clear of waste or interference.

I have done neither of those things. In fact, the riverbank is completely lost, redrawn unexpectedly, and foreign objects float along the path I push through. If there are spirits, I imagine that they are upset. Maybe that’s why the flood happened in the first place. 

Nora starts to fuss, cutting off my song. She’s probably hungry, but I have no food to give her. And I have no patience to offer her either. I can’t leave her, she has to stay with me. I need her company, even if means living with her wails.

I try to shush her, my arms still rowing and slowly succumbing to exhaustion. I don’t know what a baby’s cry means. They could be hungry, dirty, sick, hurt, and a whole lot of other things that only a mother could truly know how to fix. I’m not a mother, I’m a fisherman.

She gets louder, more desperate. She’s cold, she has to be. The crying won’t stop. Nora won’t stop. I speak to her softly, comforting her the best I can. Nothing works. She wants to be held and I can do that. I can stop and drift aimlessly, holding her tiny, kicking body close to the little warmth that’s left in my chest. 

I want to give in. I have an excuse. 

I stop rowing and let the rod fall from my hands, watching as it sinks into the dark water. My hands tremble with relief, finally liberated from the menial motion that had choked away all my strength. I lay down on the raft and draw the bundle close to me. Nora still expresses her unhappiness, but her crying subsides. I close my eyes and exhale, quietly singing once again as my body shivers and my mind goes numb.

If you fall into the water

If you tumble down in weeds

Brush the dust off of your father

Pull him from his sleep.