The Water and the God

The Water and the God

         The water was the judgment. Within its calm hypnotic lapping, the water alone could tell whether a man truly believed. Of course, anything of such mysticism as the water required a translator, an interpreter of human flesh who could understand its cryptic language, the language of incessant reaching and changing tide. The water was very large, and very powerful, but it was not the God. The water needed no test of belief. It existed, and therefore it was real like any brother, sister, or child. The God was immaterial, and the water was a faithful servant to the God. The water performed all of his earthly duties, such as Judgment.

         No one past the age of thirteen in Bakeyo held any doubt as to where their loyalties lay. They lived for the God. The God was life. The God was death. The God only asked for one thing from his human acolytes, what lay in between. Nothing was started without prayer. Nothing was finished without thanks. Farmers grew crops that were given to the church, and the church gave out food when it believed the God was pleased. No food was given out on rainy days.

         The children were not all certain in their beliefs. They were yet to meet with the Judgment of the water, and nothing could be guaranteed until then. The youngest children cried when it rained, because they were hungry. The disappointment of the God trickled down through the adults and left an aura of misery. But one boy cried when it was not raining.

         His thoughts were hovering on the decision of whether or not to believe. After all, Mani had only one week before his thirteenth birthday. Then he would be Judged. No one ever wanted to be rejected by the water. Such would be an inconsolable shame for all his family. But it wasn’t that Mani refused to believe, it was that he found he could not. He was a slim boy, and much taller than all of his peers. Adults whispered to him that height was good. To be tall was to be closer to the God. But further from the water, Mani thought.

         And how Mani did fear the water. The water was vast and dark. Priests told of the serenity in its lapping at the feet of a man. Mani swore that it was reaching up to grab him, to wrap its slimy tentacles around him and drag him to the bottom. Sitting on the beach, Mani heard not the song of the ocean, but the moaning of a monster. The water was real. That was a belief which could never be doubted. But the God?

         Why is it, Mani often wondered, that when the God speaks it is always through the presence of the water? What could this God possibly do if we didn’t believe in him? He would send his water in to wash away our sins of course. And many lives along with those sins. God gave life. God gave death. And we gave him what lay in between. But when we failed to give him what lay in between, the God brought death swiftly, because we had no more reason to exist. That is why the sick die, they say, and the elderly, because they have nothing more to give the God. Death is a good thing, they say, except for one kind of death. The death of the water; inflicted on all those who do not believe.



         Mani spoke with a child named Jeremi. This boy often twisted his face when he spoke, and looked at the ground. He was one month younger than Mani. “Do you believe Jeremi? Are you ready for your judgment?” Mani inquired.

         “Of course I believe. The God gave us life Mani!  He feeds us, and gives us sleep at night. And when our service is over, we rest in honorable silence. All thanks to God!”

         “But, he does not always feed us.”

         “We serve him, Mani, not the other way around.”

         “I do not sleep at night.” Mani said quietly.

         Jeremi twisted his face and eyed him suspiciously. “You do not?”

         “I can not,” said Mani.

         And Jeremi’s contorted countenance left the realm of suspicion to that of an unfounded fear. “I best go now, Mani. I am late.”

         “Oh, okay.” With an abruptness that Mani found somewhat cruel, Jeremi dashed off in the direction of his home. Mani sat there for a moment longer. They had been dangling their feet over the ledge of an outcropping of volcanic rock. The rock was pockmarked with millions of holes as if it had been infested with fat worms. The rock troubled Mani. But what troubled him more was the lapping water beneath. The dark blue stretched on for miles until fading into a sleepy haze.



         The day before his judgment Mani lay weeping in his bed. Tears added a grotesque nature to his bloodshot eyes. He had not slept for many days. Agabi entered the room, an elder in the town of Bakeyo, and a good friend of Mani’s family. His tinsel beard seemed to sparkle almost as much as his slanted eyes.

         “What is wrong, child, on the eve of such a bright day in your life?” He gently sat on Mani’s mother’s bed. Mani rose from his crying and avoided the twinkling eyes of Elder Agabi. There was an unnatural quiet as Mani searched for his words. He was reluctant to reveal his secret, but he had been unable to solve his problem himself, and now he felt he must reach out before it is too late.

         “Elder Agabi. I do not believe.” Many other adults would recoil and eye Mani viciously as they lapsed into repetitive prayer, but upon hearing this Agabi made no movement at all. He only continued to watch Mani with a calm, peaceful stare. Mani met his eyes now, and upon finding nothing but acceptance, he looked away.

         “What is it you do believe Mani?”

         This was a question that had not yet entered Mani’s mind, not so directly as this, and it lead him to a fit of stuttering. “I… I, I suppose that I believe that, that… the God does not exist.”

         “But my child, if the God does not exist, then what does?”

         Mani pondered while tracing wood grains on the old wooden floor of his home. “The water exists.”

         “That it does,” said Elder Agabi.

         “The God never tells us when he is upset, the water does,” said Mani. “Why do we assume it is the invisible God speaking through the water when all logic says it is the water speaking itself? The water is necessary for our crops, he gives us food! And in the end, the water brings death when someone is thrown in, and the water brings death when it leaves a man’s body on land.” His voice slowly rose as it all fell in place before him. It made so much sense when it was spoken! So true, free from the doubting walls of his mind. “The water is God.”

         “Then you do believe Mani. It is those that believe in nothing that deserve to die. Not those that believe in something different.”

         Mani’s heart was lifted from its sunken state. Of course. He did believe didn’t he? He was going to pass. The water would test him, and the water was the true God. He believed in the water. He would devote himself to the water. Mani looked up to see Agabi parting. The wise man opened the creaky door, and through it Mani heard the patter of a heavy rainfall.



         Mani stood on the beach praying fervently to the massive God before him. The sky above the God was bleak, still gray and cloudy from the previous day’s storm. A small crowd of people stood in a crescent formation behind him. Mani’s father was among them and standing next to him was Elder Agabi. Most importantly, the interpreter stood with zealous intent. He gazed intently at the water from over Mani’s shoulder. His face, brown and shrunken, sat atop of pearl white robes. His left hand held up a pad while is right hand scribbled on it. His strokes were quick and random, and it was clear he wrote no words.

         Above his muttered prayers Mani watched the water. He felt a strange sinking sensation as the first lick of the tide touched the sand beneath his feet. Mani dare not move. Every splash, every rise, and every fall of the water Mani evaluated. What was the water saying? He wished so deeply to see what the interpreter saw in his God. That splotch of foam. Could that mean I am impure? What about that last wave that fell short of my feet? Is the water not accepting me? Mani forced himself to close his eyes. The guessing was too much. With no sight, the sounds became equally unbearable. The incessant splashing and moaning of the water. The prayers that he uttered, all written for a god that he didn’t believe in. And the scratching of the interpreter’s pen. He smelled salt and human emotion. Strong emotion. The moment lasted for eternity.

         And then the scratching stopped. Mani’s gut clenched and he felt dizzy. As to custom, Mani turned away from the water and took one step forward. Mani looked up. He stared into the interpreters eyes and let out a short choking sound. The air in his lungs froze.

         Those were not the eyes of an interpreter.

         They didn’t sparkle like the Elder Agabi’s eyes either.

         Set in a face frozen with age, those eyes gleamed. They were mischievous. Devious. They were lying eyes, flicking from side to side, they sneered at Mani. They were not the eyes of a believer. And with that Mani understood the real truth. The water was no more a god than the air or the forest. Just as the water had spoken for the old god, this man spoke for the water. The water could not really speak. Man spoke. Man was the true God.

         God spoke – “Unbeliever.”

         Whispers… gasps… Mani’s mother released a held breath, struggling to take in fresh air. Mani felt so small, so small… his parents stood rigid, clutching hands, still and silent, watching him, eyes full of so many questions, so much fear, and so much shame. Even Agabi was stricken. He stumbled forward out of the crescent circle, wrinkled hand raised and mouth open to speak, but even he, the one man who understood him, retreated bashfully back to his place. For who dared argue with God? The Elder’s words would serve no purpose but self-condemnation.

         The interpreter – God – spoke again, he commanded, “We return you to the water whence you came.” And at his words the people of the village stepped forward.

         Mani, now infinitesimally small beneath the white robed deceiver, beseeched his condemners with watery eyes, one-by-one, in a panicked plea for help.

         They stepped forward again.

         Mani took a step backward, the icy water pulling at his ankles. He had no God. He had no friends. Mani stood on the edge of darkness.

         The villagers pressed forward, locking him against the sea.

         “But I do believe,” Mani whispered.

         “Your word means nothing against God’s,” thundered the interpreter. “Swim, boy.”

         And Mani searched one last time for sympathy amongst the people he once loved. Agabi’s eyes were closed in prayer, but still he marched forward, offering no condolence.

         Real or not, I cannot fight God. Mani turned away from his betrayers. He faced the water, the life giver, the life taker, and walked towards it. Its tentacles twisted around him, sucking at his legs, his belly, his chest, his neck… and then he swam.

         As his arms began working and the cold settled in his bones, as the ocean roared in his ears, Mani heard one final cry from Elder Agabi, “May God spare you, and may you never return to this place!” Those words were the closest thing to a comfort he had. All else in his life was cold.

         Mani fought hard to out swim his accusers’ eyes, praying that he would yet have strength to swim back to shore. With a trial before him, Mani could not pray to God, he could not pray to the water. His fate was his own.

         He prayed to himself.

         And swam on.