Sambethe watched the Black Rider die.

It wasn’t a bad death, as those things went. Sambethe was certain that her father’s chickens felt more pain when they were killed; the hens, freshly beheaded, would run around the coop as if they could still escape the ax, and when they finally realized they were quite dead, they would stop running and bleed out, fitfully and messily, until the ground was sticky with crimson. The Black Rider hadn’t run and hadn’t even bled; her kohl-covered body crumpled as soon as the large sword parted her head from her neck. A quick death, thought Sambethe, nodding, and that had to be a good thing.

The Red Rider stood over the body and laughed as she sheathed her massive sword. When she spoke, her voice cracked the skies.

How do your taunts serve you now, Black? Do they nourish you, now that you are dead and cold? Who is starved for attention now?

Unseen, Sambethe frowned as she watched the Red Rider gloat. It was a poor thing, she thought, to dance over the body of the dead.

Do not hold it against her, a man’s voice said. She is a creature of passion.

She looked over her shoulder to see the Pale Rider in his faded robe, a cowl shadowing his face, save for two pinpoints of blue fire. He nodded at her, once—a slight incline of his head, as if he and Sambethe were equals—then he turned to watch the Red Rider’s victory.

“I’ve seen you before,” Sambethe said.

Everyone has seen me before, said the Pale Rider. Few remember it, even in dreams.

“Is this a dream?”

Yes.

Sambethe tapped her teeth. She knew from listening to her grandmother that dreams were the wings that bore messages from the gods. But if there was a message here, she didn’t know what it was. Well, she was having this dream for a reason. Therefore, she decided, the people in the dream were important; they served a purpose.

A new Black Rider will come, said the Pale Rider. Perhaps this time, Red will learn.

“Learn what?”

Just because truth can be painful, that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be spoken.

Sambethe appreciated his wisdom. She understood the importance of speaking the truth. The problem, however, was that the people in her village always dismissed her truth as stories. It was very annoying.

The Red Rider kicked the Black Rider’s corpse.

Sambethe asked, “Why did the woman in red kill the woman in black?”

Because it is in the Red Rider’s nature to be violent, just as it is in the Black Rider’s nature to speak truths that eat at the Red Rider’s soul, one bite at a time.

“And what is in my nature?”

You, Sambethe? Though she couldn’t see the smile on the Pale Rider’s face, Sambethe could hear the amusement in his voice. You thirst for knowledge, so I would hazard that it is in your nature to be thirsty. But mind the water, lest you drown before your thirst is quenched.

She frowned. Water. Wasn’t she supposed to do something with water?

Just as the realization struck her, she felt a sting upon her bottom.

“Up, up, up!” cried a woman’s voice. “Lazy girl, up with you! There’s water that needs to be collected!”

Sambethe gasped and opened her eyes. She was lying on her belly, on her sleeping pallet, her blankets askew and her bottom suspiciously sore. She rolled onto her side and looked up at her mother, who was scowling. Her mother always scowled when Sambethe overslept. She was also holding a sandal, ready to swat gadflies and slow-moving children.

“Finally awake,” her mother huffed. “And look, there is even still morning light. Wonder of wonders!”

“I had the dream again, about the pale man,” Sambethe said, scrambling to her feet. “But this time, there were two women as well, dressed in red and black.”

“Dreaming doesn’t get your chores done.” Her mother shook her sandal menacingly, then shoved a bucket into Sambethe’s arms. “The water, Sabba, before your father comes looking for a reason why the animals are thirsty.”

Sambethe bowed her head deeply. “Yes, Mama. Sorry, Mama.”

Her mother sighed, then gently brushed Sambethe’s hair away from her face. “You’re a good girl, my Sabba, when you’re not distracted by strange dreams and wild stories. Now go; there’s work to be done.”

Sambethe quickly dressed. She would go to the river and fill the large bucket, then return and dump the water into the animals’ trough, then return to the river and refill the bucket, and so on, until the trough was all but overflowing with clean water. It would take seven trips, and each trip would take four thousand and six steps. She knew because she always counted. She would do it quickly and carefully, and she would absolutely not get distracted.

Resolute, Sambethe began the long walk to the river.

 

***

 

The water was rising.

Sambethe sat on a large rock, frowning as she watched the river. She shivered as the morning breeze chilled her damp skin—her linen gown, soaked and filthy, slowly plastered to her body while droplets of water dripped steadily from her hair—but it didn’t occur to her that she should go home and change her clothing. She was too concerned about the river to think of her own comfort.

At this end of the ridge, the river’s surface should have been no less than two cubits down from the rocks where she sat. Sambethe had gone to the very edge and leaned down to measure for herself, stretching first her left arm from the crook of her elbow to the tips of her fingers and then her right. Just before she’d slipped, she’d noted how her right hand had broken the surface of the water all the way up to her wrist. That was half a cubit’s difference.

Then she’d tumbled into the river.

Spluttering, she’d scrambled to her feet. When she stood, the water skimmed her chin. It should have come only to her shoulders.

The water was definitely rising.

Sambethe had climbed out of the river and pulled herself up to the rocky ledge that overlooked the water. Now she sat, and she shivered, and she wondered what to do. Her empty bucket sat next to her, all but forgotten.

She longed to tell her grandmother, but her mother’s mother had been dead for six months and six days, and though Sambethe spent many an hour speaking to her grandmother’s grave, the conversation tended to be one-sided. She would get no answers there.

She considered telling Ham and his brothers that the river was rising, but what was the point? They wouldn’t believe her. They never believed her, especially when she spoke the obvious—and then they inexplicably grew angry when they finally realized she was right. While she had come to appreciate that boys were strange, it always bothered her when Ham teased her. No, she shouldn’t say anything to them.

Telling her parents would result in a swatting for “dreaming when there is work to be done.” And her mother, as she knew all too well, was quick with her sandal.

Sambethe had no brothers or sisters to impress with her knowledge, and she had no one she considered a friend (other than Ham, maybe, and he didn’t count because he was a boy).

So she said the words aloud, to herself, because she knew that she was right and that it was important for her to tell someone. “The water is rising.”

And to her surprise, someone answered. “It is.”

She turned to see a tall man seated to her right. He didn’t wear a tufted skirt, as the men of her village did, nor was he bald and bearded, like her father. Instead, he sat covered in a brown robe, and atop his head was a magnificent crown of golden hair, long and windswept. His blue eyes shone like her father’s amulet of lapis lazuli. She couldn’t help but stare; never before had she seen a person with eyes other than brown. She decided she liked the color; it made her think of autumn skies, just before harvest.

“I know you,” she said slowly, then she shook her head. That was foolish; she had never seen the man before. She could not have known him—and yet she had never been more certain that she knew who he was, and that he, in turn, knew everything about her.

“You do,” the man replied. “Everyone knows me, Sambethe, just as I know everyone. And you’re correct: the water is rising. At this rate, it will overflow its borders within forty days. Sooner, should the rains come.”

Sambethe frowned at the water. Every spring, the river overflowed. Because it happened every year, and because the village itself was a fifteen-minute walk from the riverbank (seven minutes, if Ham were racing her) no one worried. But it wasn’t springtime now. It was the heart of summer, when the river overflowed only with trading barges and other ships.

“The river is rising before its time,” she said. “That’s bad.”

“Good or bad depends on your point of view,” said the man. “But it is rising before its time. That is true, no matter what the result.”

“Why is it rising?”

“I could tell you stories of ice flows melting and of seas meeting rivers, but that answer wouldn’t help you.” His eyes sparkled like mischief. “If you are going to ask me a question, Sambethe, make it a good one. I don’t always give answers.”

Sambethe tapped her teeth as she considered her words. “Is the village in danger from the river overflowing?”

“Yes.”

She let out a frustrated sigh and slammed her fist against her leg. “I want to tell them,” she said, meaning her parents or Ham or anyone in her village, “but it won’t matter. They won’t listen. They never listen.”

The man smiled. It was a good smile, filled with sympathy and knowledge and mirth. “One thing I’ve learned in my time here is that people can be surprising. You never quite know what they are going to do. And what will you do, Sambethe? Will you speak the truth?”

“Yes.” She climbed to her feet. “But I don’t think they’ll listen.”

As she turned to go, the man called her name. She faced him quizzically, then sheepishly as he handed her the empty bucket. Sambethe filled it with water, thanked the man, then carefully walked down the ridge.

“Forty days,” called the man. “Sooner, should the rains come!”

Overhead, the skies began to darken.

 

***

 

“The water doesn’t change, Sabba,” Ham said as he packed a crate with bottles of wine. “You’re seeing things.”

“I’m not,” Sambethe insisted. “All you have to do is look. The waterline is less than two cubits from the top!”

Ham’s brother Shem smiled that obnoxious smile of his, the one that made her want to punch his face. “Clever Sabba,” he said, sealing another crate. “Making herself busy with nothing, leaving us to do all the work.”

“It’s not nothing, you big stupid! The water is rising!”

Japheth, the oldest brother, grunted as he hefted a full crate. “Go away, Sabba.”

She shouted, “Why won’t anyone believe me?”

“Because it’s all in your head,” said Shem.

“Because all you do is tell stories,” said Japheth.

“Because the water rises only in the spring,” said Ham, “and now it is summer. It can’t be rising now.”

“And if the sun suddenly went black,” she said with a sniff, “would you say that couldn’t happen because it was daytime?”

“I would say it’s an omen of bad tidings,” Ham said patiently. “Everyone knows that.”

Japheth and Shem nodded.

“The last time the sun went black,” said Shem, “your mother made a stew that turned my insides into outsides. Definitely a sign of bad tidings. Or at least of bad cooking.”

“My point,” said Sambethe, “is that just because you think something can’t happen, that doesn’t mean it really can’t happen. The water is rising! At this rate, it will overflow in forty days. Sooner, if the rains come!”

Shem laughed. “And now clever Sabba is a soothsayer! Tell me my fortune, o mighty Sambethe! Will I marry the prettiest girl in the village?”

Japheth punched his arm. “Here’s your fortune: You’ll be covered in bruises if you don’t pack all of these bottles into their crates. The barge leaves in an hour, and it will be our hides if the wine isn’t part of the shipment. Back to work. You, too, Ham. Get out of here, Sabba.”

Sambethe stamped her foot. “But the water is rising. All you have to do is look and see!”

“All I have to see,” said Japheth, “is the empty trough. Do your job, Sabba, before I tell your father you’re making up stories instead of doing your work.”

“The river, overflowing in forty days.” Shem laughed as he sealed another crate. “Why is it always forty days in the stories? Why not six? If I wrote the stories, I’d have everything happen in six days.”

“And you’d be sure to rest on the seventh,” said Ham, smiling as he packed more bottles.

“You don’t believe me.” Sambethe looked down at her feet. “No one ever believes me,” she said, trying not to cry.

“I believe you saw something,” Ham said, not unkindly. “But it may not mean what you think it does.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Japheth growled.

“Ham can’t help it,” said Shem. “He’s smitten! Just as well, since they’re all but promised to each other anyway. Might as well get used to agreeing with your wife now, Ham!”

“Shut up, Shem,” said Ham. “Go, Sabba. There’s work to be done. The trough needs to be filled.”

Sniffling, she grabbed her empty bucket. “It will be filled, all right,” she muttered. “Give it forty days; you’ll see how it’s filled. The village will flood.”

“From overflow to flooding,” said Shem. “Sabba never sees a molehill when there could very well be a mountain!”

“Tomorrow,” Ham said, “I’ll go with you to the river, and you will show me how it has risen. I promise.”

Japheth snorted. “Don’t encourage her, Ham.”

“Especially since she won’t be old enough to kiss for two years,” laughed Shem.

“Shut up, Shem.” Ham smiled at Sambethe. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sabba.”

With a sigh, Sambethe left the brothers to their work.

 

***

 

The rain began that night—a steady rain, making music against the roof and walls. The sound would have been soothing, if not for the occasional clap of thunder.

With each peal, Sambethe heard doom.

 

***

 

The only good thing about the rain, Sambethe thought, was that she didn’t have to fill the trough. The bad thing, of course, was that the river was going to overflow and the village would flood and everyone would drown.

For five days, she had been telling everyone that they were in danger. No one believed her. Even Ham, sweet Ham, had only smiled as she’d shown him the other day that the river was rising. He’d held her ankles as she’d leaned over the ridge to measure the depth with her arm. The river’s surface had been a bare cubit from the top.

“See?” she’d said, triumphant. “The water is rising.”

“Of course it is,” he’d agreed, carefully leading her away from the ridge. “It’s raining. The water rises with the rain. Don’t worry so, Sabba. When the rain stops, the water will recede.”

He’d conveniently forgotten that the water had been rising before the rain. Sambethe had always suspected that boys weren’t as smart as girls, but she’d hoped that Ham would prove the exception. She was gravely disappointed.

Now she sat on her sleeping pallet as she awaited punishment from her father. Her mother had lost patience with her “prattling on and on about the end of the world” and had sent her to her room. Sambethe twisted and untwisted her blanket, her hands making busywork to keep from flailing like startled birds. She told herself it was foolish to be nervous; what did a punishment matter when the village would be flooded tomorrow?

So she listened to the rain and tried to count the drops as she waited for her father. As she got to the number two thousand eight hundred, she heard him call her name.

Sambethe turned to face her father, who stood in the entranceway to her room. The top of his bald head gleamed with moisture, and rivulets of water dripped from his thick beard.

“You’re wet,” she said.

“And you’re observant.” He smiled, which took the sting from his words. “A robe kept most of me dry, but the wind found great pleasure in blowing back my cowl. I found it very annoying, but what can you do? The cargo needed to be loaded onto the barge for market, and complaining does nothing but steal one’s time. So I got wet, but my work for the day is done. Let me sit, Sabba.”

She scooted over to make room.

Her father lowered himself onto the pallet, wincing a little as he bent his knees. “This weather isn’t kind to an old man.”

“You’re not old,” she insisted.

“Today I feel at least six hundred.” He laughed and ruffled her hair. “I hear that you’re talking your mother to madness.”

She spluttered, “All I’m doing is telling the truth!”

“Ah, Sabba, therein lies the problem. The unreasonable rain makes everyone far too grumpy to hear such reasonable things as the truth.”

She sighed loudly.

He asked, “Is this because of your worry about the river?”

Sambethe nodded.

“Ah, my girl.” He chuckled and spread his hands wide. “What would you have us do? Shall I build a sturdy ark, perhaps, and take in all manners of creatures, two by two?”

He was making fun of her. He was gentle about it, but it still made her blood simmer like her mother’s soup. “Don’t stop there,” she said angrily. “May as well have seven pairs of each!”

“Seven pairs each of the clean animals,” he agreed, “but only one of the unclean. We must follow the laws, Sabba, even when fleeing certain death. I’ll be sure to divide the clean and unclean by decks so that they shall not mix.” He chuckled again. “The gods are already upset enough to end the world. Why give them reason to sink our marvelous ark?”

She scowled. “Why are you mocking me?”

“Oh, child. I don’t mean to mock. I just wish to show you how wild your accusations can seem.”

“People get mad at me,” she said in a huff, “because they claim I tell stories. But they’re the ones who make up fantastical tales. All I do is say what I see.”

He looked at her somberly. “And what do you see, Sabba?”

“I see our village flooded.”

Her father sighed, and smiled, and met her serious gaze. “Well then. I give you my word, Sabba, that if the waters truly threaten to flood, I will load all of the animals and our goods and our family onto the barge, and we’ll sail the angry river until we reach safety.”

Hesitantly, she said, “Truly?”

“Truly. I would even have Ham’s family join us.”

She sniffed. “It would be fine if you left his brothers behind.”

“Happily for them, it is my job to load the barge and not yours.”

He was taking her seriously! Her father was truly heeding her words! Sambethe wanted to dance for joy. Breathless, she asked, “Then what would my job be? You have to let me help, Father!”

“Why, it would be up to you to make sure I have enough time to load the barge. People and livestock first, of course. But if there’s time, I would load all of our products for market. The wine especially would fetch a good price, since people would think the world was ending.”

She nodded eagerly. “If I give you enough time, you could even evacuate the entire village! The mountains aren’t so far off, are they?”

“They’re far enough, Sabba. I doubt there would be time to get to such high ground, even if everyone left right this very moment. But I give you my word as your father: If the river begins to flood, we will sail to safety on the barge.” He ruffled her hair once more. “I would even call it ‘Sabba’s Ark.’ Would you like that?”

She blushed. “It should have your name, Father, not mine.”

“Well then. ‘Noah’s Ark’ it is.” He kissed the top of her head. “Get some sleep, my girl. Rain or no rain, tomorrow promises to be a long day.”

 

***

 

The Red Rider was more frightening than anything Sambethe had ever seen. The woman’s face was hidden in flames, and her clothing was red as blood staining the sand. Everything about her screamed violence.

She is War, said the Pale Rider. She isn’t meant to be peaceful.

Sambethe spun to face him, but he was like the wind—invisible yet present. No, she thought, not like the wind. He was like death. And then the truth hit her like her mother’s sandal: he wasn’t like death at all.

He was Death.

Well, she decided as she looked back at the Red Rider, that was appropriate enough, considering that the Black Rider was dead.

Except the woman in black was gone. Nothing marked the spot where she had fallen, not even a hint of a shadow. It was as if the corpse had never been. And then Sambethe remembered what the Pale Rider had said before, in another dream, and she spoke the words aloud:

“A new Black Rider will come.”

The Red Rider, whom Death had called War, stared murderously at Sambethe. When she spoke, her voice shook like thunder.

Your words mean nothing. This is a dream. The face of flames shifted, winking into her mother’s face and then back into fire. Dreaming doesn’t get your chores done.

Sambethe decided that dreams were foolish things, and that if she had any sense at all, she would wake up that very instant. When that didn’t happen, she said to the Red Rider: “This may be a dream, but I speak the truth.”

It is a truth no one wants to hear.

“That doesn’t make it any less true.”

The woman in red laughed, and the sound was terrible. Your mouth moves, but it is the Pale Rider’s words I hear.

 Sambethe blushed and said nothing.

Here is the truth that you thirst for, said War. Black may starve and sate the world, with flimsy control over food and drink, but it is Red that channels the fury that boils people’s blood! The flames of her face pulled into a grin of unspeakable horrors. The rage I inspire fills people’s bellies better than food. It slakes their thirst more than water. In the end, it’s passion that causes people to act!

With those words, the Red Rider drew her sword and charged.

Sambethe screamed—

—and woke, sweating, tangled in her blankets. Thunder echoed around her, and as she heard the raging storm attack the roof, she knew what she had to do.

She had to act.

Sambethe dressed quickly and ran out of her room.

“Father!” she shouted to be heard over the sounds of the furious rain. “Father, it’s time! Wake up!”

She ran into her parents’ chamber, and she ignored their nakedness as they rubbed sleep from their eyes.

“Father,” she cried, “it’s time! The river is about to flood! You have to load everything onto the barge right now!”

“Sabba,” her father said, blinking hugely. “What … ?”

“I’ll buy you the time you need,” she said, “but you have to start now in case I fail!”

“Fail at what? Sabba … !”

But she was already out the door.

 

***

 

The river surged.

Sambethe braced herself as a wave crashed over the ridge. Frigid water drenched her, stinging her far worse than her mother’s sandal ever could. She grimaced against the deluge of rain and river water, and she spluttered as the wave receded. Spitting out water, she saw the swollen riverbanks rise ever higher. Around her, the ridge groaned. There was precious little time before the water burst free.

“I am here!” she cried out. “I, Sambethe, Noah’s daughter!”

If there was a reply, it was lost in the sound of the water’s fury.

“I know you’re not just a dream! I met you five days ago here on the ridge! I will be your Black Rider!” she called out loudly. Then, more uncertainly: “Please!”

When the reply came, the words were as soft as a whisper in her ear, yet she heard them clearly. It was as if a small, still voice spoke to her and her alone.

Why would you offer this thing, Sambethe, Noah’s daughter?

“The Red Rider told me in my dream that the Black Rider has control over water. Is that true?”

Yes.

“Then I must be the Black Rider so that I can stop the flood!”

What makes you think that you are able to wield such power?

“I collect water,” Sambethe said, lifting her chin. “It’s my job.”

There was the sound of laughter, cold and amused.

Well and good. Take the mantle of Famine, the Black Rider, and see if you can force the earth to drink.

With those words, power ravaged her, overwhelming her, bringing her to her knees. She suddenly felt the hunger of every living thing, from the people in her village to the birds in the faraway skies to the beasts of the earth and the things that lived far below in the dark. She felt their appetites crest and fall, and she felt the rocks below her, patient and still, their cravings long since sated; beneath the rocks, she felt the earth itself shift and rumble, always hungry. More than anything, she felt the raging waters react to her presence, felt them coil back like mighty serpents poised to strike.

She was the Black Rider.

Shivering with power—not with fear, no, not that—she looked up to see a massive wave building in the distance, approaching fast.

She pulled herself to her feet and told herself that she was unafraid. She was the Black Rider, and hers was the strength to hold back the storm. She would save her village. Determined, she raised her arm and drew forth the power of Famine, and she commanded the water to pull away.

Around her, the storm paused. The massive wave loomed—and hesitated.

Drink, she compelled the ground. Slake your thirst!

Beneath her feet, the world trembled. And then it began to drink.

She held her arm high as the monstrous wave fountained in place, spouting impotent rage. She watched as it clawed the sky desperately, and she watched as the massive wave slowly, slowly melted. And she smiled. A tremor teased her arm as the furious waters began to calm, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the sweat upon her brow. That was only water, after all, and she controlled the water. Still smiling, she clenched her teeth and dug deeply within herself and pushed her will against the storm.

But then the storm pushed back. The skies howled and the river roared as they joined together, forming a wall of water that stretched higher than a mountain.

She stared up at the wave that was bigger than the world. Sweat stung her eyes and her arm shook wildly, and then the power inside her sputtered and died.

Sambethe let out a sound of dismay, a quiet “Oh.”

And then the wave was upon her.

 

***

 

Sambethe is in the water. It fills her nose and mouth and eyes and ears, and it’s cold and dark and so she struggles against its embrace. But the water is forever and longer, and Sambethe is just a tiny girl. Soon the water isn’t so cold, and the dark isn’t so terrible, and her struggles begin to slow. Now Sambethe is the water, and the water is wide and free, and she stops struggling completely—

—and then a firm hand grabs her ankle and pulls.

 

***

 

“Breathe, Sabba! Please breathe for me!”

Sambethe coughed, and then she heaved a great, gasping breath. She was hunched over on the ridge, soaked and shivering, and a strong hand pounded her back. She glanced up at Ham, drenched and pale, who smiled and pounded her back once more.

“Yes! That’s it, Sabba! Breathe!”

She breathed, and then she vomited water, and then she breathed more easily. Ham’s arms were warm and tender as she sagged against him.

Gently, he scooped her up. Carrying her like a child, he took her away from the danger of the rain-slick rocks.

The storm made it impossible to see, or perhaps that was her exhaustion, so she closed her eyes and let Ham carry her away.

 

***

 

Her third night on the barge, Sambethe stared out at the drowned world.

She held on tightly to the railing as the river pushed the large ship forward in ragged lurches. She couldn’t feel her fingers, and she shook from the chill of the water spraying her, but it didn’t occur to her to go below and change into dry clothing. She didn’t believe she deserved any such comforts.

She had failed. She hadn’t been strong enough to wield the power of the Black Rider, and her weakness led to the destruction of her village.

One thing that never changes about you people, said a small, still voice. You are so quick to assume that your point of view is the only one that’s correct.

Sambethe sighed. There was no other point of view. She’d had a job to do, but she hadn’t finished it.

Of course you did. What was it that your father had told you to do?

She whispered, “I was to make sure he had enough time to load the barge.”

And you did, Sambethe. You woke your parents and told them the river was flooding. They heeded you.

“They thought I had lost my mind,” she said bitterly. “They sent Ham to chase after me.”

And he discovered you on the ridge and saw you fall into the river, which had indeed begun to flood. He carried you home, and then his family and yours gathered all they could onto the market barge and sailed against the storm. He saved your life, Sambethe, and your warning saved your families.

“But not my village.”

But not your village.

She sighed again, and the wetness she felt against her cheeks wasn’t from the river. “Was I the Black Rider, or was that all in my mind?”

Does it matter?

She thought about it, and she decided that it didn’t. “Has the entire world drowned?”

No. You will find land soon.

Sambethe sniffed. “You are the sort that lives for a very long time,” she said. “Your ‘soon’ could very well mean my great-granddaughter’s time.”

A sound like the wind in the dunes, and then an amused reply. Clever Sabba. Here, then, is the answer: You will know when dry land approaches by the sign in the sky.

“Sabba,” called her mother, her voice booming over the roar of the water. “Come below before you catch your death of cold!”

Sambethe thought this was funny, as Death wasn’t one for catching, but she kept this truth to herself; she had no desire to see whether her mother had brought her sandals onto the barge.

 

***

 

On the seventh day, the sun finally burst through the clouds. And then Sambethe let out a joyous cry as she saw her promised sign, painted brightly in the sky.

Where the drowned world ended, a rainbow awaited.