Tigris Free Prologue
Aruru glanced back at the pit, the pathetic trap she had once been terrified to approach, and scoffed. It really was, now that she thought about it, a poor attempt to keep away those who felt called to explore. How foolish the elders were to forbid this place, they who had never seen it! Still, they were ignorant, and they knew no better. The stories had not changed in two generations � what Aruru had heard about Dilmun, the island of paradise, was in no way different from the tales that the aged could recite in their sleep. The fear that the little children had for some of the fireside legends was the same fear that drove the ancient villagers to shiver at night. It was only one of the stories, and one that was taught as soon as children could grasp it. It was one of many, and all were false.
Nothing was real, she mused. The villagers were nothing. They saw nothing, heard nothing, searched for nothing but the rise and fall of that infernal river. It was nothing too, she realised. "I understand," Aruru declared, as if expecting an answer from the silence. "There is life past the village. If only they could realise how much more is out there!" Angry, she hurled a stone in the direction of the town. It fell in the pit.
As if in response, the village bell sounded. It reminded Aruru that there was only a short time until the festival would begin, and she would play her favourite sport, high sticks, for the honour of her family. She would have to leave soon. Everyone had been so occupied with preparing the celebrations that no one had noticed her walk past the gate and into the surrounding forest.
It was a rare chance for Aruru, and she was determined not to put it to waste, for it could be a long time before she could come back. She knew this might be her final chance to burn this place into her memory. The path leading here was already safely locked away in her mind, for she had been coming here whenever possible since she could walk. The reality of the place, though, always seemed to leave her when she went back to the village. It was the only place where Aruru could concentrate, where she was really herself. If I could only become one with this place, she imagined, things would be easier and life would be better.
As it stood, her only peace came by doing things and going to places frowned upon by the Elder and all of his companions. It hurt Aruru more than the villagers would ever know. She knew, respected, and loved them, and it pained her to know that the people that she had once put on a pedestal were in a state of innocent blindness. She spent more time yearning for their eyes to be opened than on her own hobbies, and she was known for a deep commitment to those interests.
The ancient rules forbade girls to do the same things boys did, like reading and writing and playing sports, but Aruru was an exception. She was fortunate that the villagers saw little harm in letting a small girl play with leftover stone tablets. She was fortunate, but only the boys were allowed to have what they deserved. Aruru knew that she only had freedom because the world around her had already decided that nothing would come of it. Today, she vowed, things would be different. It was the one time in the year that she could play high sticks in a real game. The time had come to prove herself to her brother, to his friends, and to the rest of the village. Otherwise, she might be lost in the vicious circle of tradition forever.
"Oh, Enlil," Aruru cried to the god. "Why am I tormented so? You alone give me peace. I am wandering in a sea of the lost, and I barely see you enough to follow you through this maze. Melt your sanctuary into my soul, that I may be given a calmness of spirit. Breathe your wind into me, for you alone are mighty and good." It was a prayer that she had created, nothing like what she heard at the temple. Though Aruru had repeated it on the dozens of occasions that she fled here, it was never a habit, and it always consumed her. It brought her to a personal level with the greatest of all gods.
She took a last look before she left for the village. It had not taken her long to ascend the tall mound of earth that resembled a pillar, but it was a hard climb, well worth the effort. Resting more than a dozen cubits above the ground, Aruru found herself on a small but level piece of ground, with a waterfall running to her right, almost drenching her. Just a small arm of the Tigris, the life-giving river of so many tiny villages, here was the most holy water in southern Akkad. It gave life, and the abundance of green testified to it. The tree cover was so dense that it was only here, on top of this slender hill, that Aruru could see and feel the light of Utu on her sturdy shoulders. She became aware of so much in that moment - a slither in the grass, the shaking of bush, quick movements through the trees - and was overcome in the realisation that Enlil himself was here. It had never been so real to her before! Reluctantly, Aruru took leave of the place, satisfied that what she had experienced would not diminish upon her return home.
Instead of climbing down the steep wall, Aruru dove headfirst into the water. Any free time not occupied by study, high sticks and reflection was spent in the release that only swimming could provide. She was an expert, and better than any boy her age. It was the perfect ending to basking in Enlil's sanctuary, for it allowed her time to concentrate on what really mattered.
The current carried her within view of her town fairly quickly. The distance was not very far in reality, but the forest was so tall and winding that the village could only be seen up close. Aruru picked up her sandals, which she had left where she would leave the water, put them around her tiny feet, and, still soaking, walked towards the vast space that would soon hold hundreds of jubilant residents.
She progressed through the paths quickly and without error, taking secret paths that she alone knew. Within a few moments, she had passed beneath the huge sculpture of Dumuzi, marking the entrance to her town. Though travellers were amazed by the size of the carving, Aruru had practiced throwing sticks at the image of the god, aiming for various parts of his body. It was just a pile of wood to her, and did nothing but remind her of everything she held in disdain. Dumuzi was the god of animals, grain, and plants, a perfect match for a town that revolved around nothing but food to survive. Now, she did not care if she had committed blasphemy, for her thoughts were against the one to whom her city's temple was dedicated. He was a fool among the gods, with no compassion and love for nothing but power. He had murdered his own wife, and as punishment, he took her place in Sheol. Secretly, in her heart, Aruru knew that she lived in a dead town with a dead god.
With a sigh of frustration, Aruru wiped off the dirt from her kilt, straightened her body, and walked forward. She smiled.
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