The house of drought, p.1
The House of Drought, page 1
THE
HOUSE OF
DROUGHT
Dennis Mombauer
Stelliform Press
Hamilton, Ontario
For Vositha and Dylan, who have unlocked new worlds for me.
Bernhard Zimmerkrug wiped sweat from his forehead and flung it into the paddy fields. “The heat’s worse here, isn’t it?” he said to no one in particular. Heat drained the irrigation canals and turned the rice stalks into yellow husks. He had taken many trips to Sri Lanka, and each one felt hotter than the last.
“What’s that, over there?” he asked, squinting through the haze.
“It used to be a mansion.” The old farmer nodded in the direction of the building, seemingly immune to the heat. Her curly hair sat like a nest on her scalp, and Bernhard imagined birds laying eggs in it. “A lawyer used to live there, but he moved away. That was many years ago. The house sits abandoned ever since.”
“Mmmh.” Bernhard shielded his eyes with one hand while he watched the paddies. His cinematographer knelt beneath a tree and panned her camera across the horizon. “Let’s get footage from this house later, Julia. It’s at the edge of the fields, at the edge of the forest. Maybe we can get landscape shots from the upper floor.”
He turned back to the farmer. “Can we go there? Is it allowed?”
“Yea. No one lives in the house. No one has been inside in a decade, that’s why. Just be careful about the floors and ceilings. They might collapse, no?”
“Ja. Julia, are you getting the fields? Take a few low shots from the canals.”
Bernhard watched his colleague climb down into one of the empty irrigation canals while the farmer crumbled a rice stalk between her fingers. He was breathing hard, body covered in sweat, shirt sticking to his back. Was this really worth it? He could be writing this story from a hotel room in Colombo. There was no need to go into the fields again.
“No harvest since last year. Not enough rain to plant anything, especially in this area. But it’s the same in other villages. You’ve been there, yea? We tried to plant different crops, but they all died. Too little water for peanuts, too little even for our gardens.”
“I know.” Bernhard nodded eagerly. “That’s why we’re doing the documentary, to give you more attention. This is an issue for the whole country, not just your village.” Climate change was big, lives on the ground were small. Bernhard had to connect them. He needed an angle. He’d already spoken to the farmers in the surrounding villages and their stories were all the same. He’d been hoping for something different from this one—a woman—but his hopes were evaporating in the blistering Anathakandu sun.
“All our men have gone to the cities. My husband goes to Colombo and comes home three times a year. He grew up working the paddies, but over there, he drives a three-wheeler. He doesn’t even know the streets, no? Last year he got into a bad accident, almost lost his leg. The whole vehicle was smashed.”
“Mmmh.” There was no cover from the sun, and Bernhard’s pale skin was already burnt. He had heard a lot more stories than this, and worse: of kidney disease from muddy water and small children with endless surgeries to address it, of farmers committing suicide, of elephants attacking villages in search of water. But he’d also heard of the farmers’ efforts to adapt, of their new practices, the advisory from the government, the drought-tolerant seeds and plant varieties.
Footage of the dry fields was plentiful, but he couldn’t fill a feature-length documentary with them. He needed a human story, a vehicle to load the images and facts into like a salesman loaded his lanterns into a trishaw the week before Vesak.
“That mansion, how old is it? British colonial? Or older? Would anyone in Anathakandu know its history?”
“Nah. Not more than I told you, I don’t think. The colonizers built it, then they left and it stood empty. A lawyer moved in and out again. After that, it was abandoned.” The farmer adjusted the scarf on her shoulders. “There is a story about some kids who vanished there during the war.”
Bernhard couldn’t help but smile. The house had it all: colonial history, civil war, a family story. Just shooting the rooms might be worth it, and doing some interviews with the older folks in town. “Julia, how’s it going? You have all the paddies we need?”
Julia’s hand appeared from the barren irrigation canal, almost obscured by long grasses, and gave him the thumbs up. “Almost done. By the way, it’s a wonderful hole full of dust, thanks for asking."
“Sorry.” Bernhard almost envied her, more so with every project they worked together. Wherever they went, she made herself at home while Bernhard stayed a stranger; she made friends with the locals while he remained a visitor. For Julia, this was a straightforward assignment. She didn’t have to worry about the bigger picture—in the end, an image was an image, it showed what was there.
Not that she didn't work hard or didn't care for the ethics, far from it. When people cried in an interview, she turned off the camera and spoke to them. But making a story out of this, bringing it all together, that was an entirely different undertaking. Nobody understood what Bernhard was trying to do. “Listen, Julia, what do you think about a trip to that mansion? I want to scout the location, see what can be done with it.”
“Right now?”
“If you’re up for it? Plenty of daylight left.”
“All right.” Julia surfaced from the canal imitating the bobbing local headshake. “Let’s go.”
Beyond the fields, Bernhard could almost see the house wavering in the haze: an old, weary shape that towered over the grass. He shook his head and dispersed the image on the horizon, floating without any water.
Act I
“Uncle Ushu!” Jasmit ran down the stairs to the southern entrance hall. Her feet almost slipped on the hardwood steps, and she clutched the railing. “Uncle Ushu!”
The mansion at the edge of the jungle trembled. Bone china clinked in the cupboards, cockroaches scurried across the bathroom tiles. A lorry rolled over the dirt road from Anathakandu, and its trail of dust rose along the treeline.
“They found me.” Uncle Ushu closed the door and secured the bolt. “Someone told them.”
Jasmit raised herself on tiptoes to look out the window. It was evening, and the tropical night fell quickly into darkness. Twilight flooded through the trees and around the house, but no shadow foraged in its lighted halls.
Narun and the twins huddled around Jasmit, their eyes wide and bright with concern.
“Jasmit, akka, who are they? Who is coming?”
Uncle Ushu rushed to the other side of the room to rummage through the drawers of a cabinet, his balding head glistening with sweat. Above them, a fan turned slowly, and its hum merged with the engine noises roaring outside.
“They’re thugs,” Narun said, seemingly proud that he knew the word. “That’s what uncle Ushu said. Thugs. They’re here for his money.”
The twins shook their heads as one, nervously shifting from one foot to another. They were almost the same age as Jasmit and Narun’s twelve years, but the twins—both the girl and the boy—were smaller, more delicate, with spindly arms and legs. “Uncle Ushu doesn’t have money,” one of the twins said. “And why should he give to them?”
“He owes them. He told me he had a farm in his village, he took a lot of loans. That means he owes them money, doesn’t it?”
“But why? I don’t get it. If he had a farm, why did he need money?”
“He lost the harvest. He—” Narun fell silent as uncle Ushu walked past them with heavy steps, his frame almost as tall as the doorway.
“What do we do? What if they just want to ask questions?” The twins stared at Jasmit and Narun, but Jasmit had no answer. She was only one year older than them but they looked to her like an elder sister or even an adult. She frowned at them until they cast their eyes to the floor.
“The forest,” Narun said, taking Jasmit’s hand and dragging her toward the hallway. The mansion was big enough to have entrances on its southern and eastern side, and the hallways connected them across both floors. “The Sap Mother will protect us.”
“I told you—” Jasmit broke away, and they all stood panting at the edge of the hall. In twenty minutes, the forest would be pitch black and it was already hard to see through the thick foliage. “The Sap Mother doesn’t exist. If you go into the forest, they will find you. Or a leopard will kill you, or a snake, I don’t know. But you won’t survive.”
“She exists.” Narun curled his lips. “I’ve seen her many times. If you won’t come with me, I'll go alone.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Jasmit said, turning away from him. She liked Narun, she really did, but he was the most stubborn boy she had ever met.
The steady shine of the mansion’s lamps brimmed the long corridors. Outside the windows, darkness washed over the grounds and through the high grass, fleeing the lorry’s headlights. Car doors slammed shut, and bootsteps clattered over the verandah.
“Children, listen to me.” The glinting chandelier animated uncle Ushu’s cheeks as he paced toward them. “You have to hide upstairs, you understand? Go to the master bathroom and don’t make a noise. Whatever happens, stay until I get you. I will be there soon. Go!”
Jasmit exchanged looks with Narun and the twins. “What about you, uncle?”
“What about me? Are you deaf? Hurry up, get out of here!”
Someone knocked on the door, the sound of knuckles dulled by a covering of leather. Jasmit felt the house shiver, its walls leaning against ea ch other in search of protection. But there was something else too, a feeling of familiarity. The house had known heavy boots and hard knuckles.
“Open up!”
The kids froze in the entrance hall, and uncle Ushu chased them off before he faced the door. “One minute! I’m coming.”
Jasmit gripped the banister and jumped onto the first step, turning to reassure herself that the others were behind her. The twins hurried past, but Narun stood at the landing and didn’t move. Jasmit held her hand out for him and waited. “Will you please come? I don’t want to see a leopard eat your sorry face.”
“There are no leopards. The Sap Mother is everywhere under the forest. It belongs to her. She will protect me, she promised. I can’t come with you.”
The door shook under the force of repeated knocking. “Open now!”
“Fine.” Jasmit withdrew her hand and took several steps. Narun suddenly seemed small with his thin arms and big ears. His dimples showed when he smiled. His hair stood up in all directions. “Please. Come with me, don’t go into the forest.”
“I’m sorry,” Narun said as he turned and ran, soon sprinting along the hallway toward the eastern entrance.
Jasmit wanted to grab him, but he was gone and she would not follow him. She cast one last glance at uncle Ushu, then followed the twins to the upper floor.
Loud voices rose behind her as soon as she stepped onto the landing. One of them belonged to uncle Ushu, but the others surrounded him like a pride of lions. What were they saying? Something about money, about repayment, about a debt that uncle Ushu owed to them.
“Jasmit. Hurry.” The twins peeked out from the master bedroom and gestured frantically. “Hurry, please.”
They closed the door and locked out the voices. Goosebumps bloomed on Jasmit’s skin, and she pressed herself against a wall. It was warm and soft and seemed to react to her touch as if it were alive.
Outside, the night had risen to the canopies of the kata-kela trees. At the window, Jasmit squinted into the forest, trying to find Narun amidst the broad-leafed ferns of the undergrowth. Questions churned in her belly: what would happen to Narun, now unprotected in the dark wood? What would happen to uncle Ushu? Swallowing hard, Jasmit rubbed her arms as she turned back to the twins.
“Uncle said to go to the washroom, Jasmit. Will you come?”
The master bathroom was huge, its tiles decorated with mosaics of tea leaves and water lilies. Small moss-colored lizards retreated before the children, vanishing below the sink and under a dresser. The two mirrors surrounded Jasmit with her own reflection, and she saw herself standing next to the shivering twins wherever she turned.
“Akka, where can we hide? When the men come upstairs, they will spot us, no? Why did uncle send us here? Has he lost his mind?”
Jasmit searched for a hiding place. The bathtub loomed like a porcelain grave, the under-sink cabinet was filled with pipes. There was no space behind the toilet or the shelves, no exit besides the small window.
The sound of heavy boots on the floor outside the master suite made Jasmit’s heart skip a beat. The staircase moaned under the weight of several men, and the tremor from the impact of their footfalls traveled through the mansion’s upper level. Whatever uncle Ushu had said to stall them, it had failed.
“Close the door.” The twins pulled the bathroom door shut and listened for sound in the adjacent room. Jasmit knew why uncle Ushu had sent them here. She remembered that time she had woken up in the night, soon after they’d arrived at the house. She knew it hadn’t been a dream.
She opened all the taps in the room as far as they went, watching water gush into the sink and the bathtub. The Dry House was real, and it would hide them from these men. But what would it want in return?
Jasmit climbed out of the van behind Narun and the twins. “This is the place? Uncle Ushu, are you kidding?” Uncle Ushu had stopped the dirt-sprayed van in the middle of the paddies and now crossed his arms with a smile, towering over them.
A building rose from the lush paddy fields and the irrigation canals, the biggest building Jasmit had ever seen. It weighed on the landscape and pressed its shadow onto the ground with the sharp edge of its overhanging roof. It was no ordinary house: it wasn’t a temple or Kovil—it was a palace.
“You’re playing a trick on us,” Jasmit called as she looked over the paddies. She couldn’t take her eyes off the palace, but she knew there had to be a catch. Uncle Ushu would laugh at them, chase them back into the van and drive to some hovel at the edge of the fields instead. He’d brought them here from the bus station, but surely this couldn’t be his home? “What is this place really?”
The house stretched over two stories and had more windows than Jasmit could count, surrounded by a garden that grew to the boundary of the woods. Faint chanting drifted over the treetops, the voices of monks or priests performing an afternoon ritual at the monastery somewhere in the forest.
“This is your house, uncle?” Narun sounded as awestruck as Jasmit felt. There had to be a hundred rooms, a hundred staircases and corridors to hide in! Jasmit allowed herself a smile: no one would ever find them here.
“It’s not my house, no,” uncle Ushu said, the smile fading from his face. “It belonged to a foreigner, a British merchant who came here with his family. He owned tea plantations, and he built himself a mansion. That was a long time ago, when our country was still a colony.” Uncle Ushu pulled himself upright, his chalk-colored eyes brimming with pride. “Now I am the caretaker of this house.”
“Caretaker.” The twins, in the back seat behind Jasmit, repeated the word in unison, as if they had never heard it before.
“Yea. The people who inherited this mansion have entrusted its care to me, just like your parents did with you. I am to keep its corridors clean and its lamps shining, to look after its every wish and whim.”
“A house doesn’t have whims,” Jasmit said, frowning. She didn’t know what to think of uncle Ushu. Why would the owners of this place entrust it to such a strange man?
“If our parents cared for us, they wouldn’t have sent us away,” Narun said as he pushed his way to the window beside Jasmit. “Why did they send us to you?” Narun crossed his arms and tried to look older than he was.
Jasmit focused on him, then turned back toward the house-palace. “When can we go home?”
“When your parents tell me.” Uncle Ushu shrugged.
“And when is that, uncle?” Narun pushed the creaking van door open and jumped from the vehicle. He sprinted away from the group, straight toward the house. “When is that?”
“Hey!” Ushu tried to grab Narun as he ran past. “Stop!”
“I’ll get him, uncle.” Jasmit bounded after Narun. Out of the van, out in the air! It was too hot to be refreshing, but it had been a long drive from the bus station to the house, and Jasmit had had enough of the cramped, vibrating van. She raced along the road with its two deep runnels, catapulting herself forward with every step. Jungle roiled over a ditch on one side, paddies stretched languidly on the other. Though she wouldn’t stop running, Jasmit wanted to rub her eyes. How green everything was!
“Narun! Wait for me!”
“Catch me,” Narun called as he bolted for the main entrance of the house, a door with two wings. Ornamental carvings decorated the wooden frame, images of bo leaves that climbed toward the lintel. Some of the carvings depicted blossoms that reminded Jasmit of starfish, but she had no time to examine them.
As the van pulled up, Jasmit rushed inside and nearly crashed into Narun, who had stopped just inside the main hall, staring up in awe.
“This isn’t a real place,” he breathed.
It was the biggest hall Jasmit had ever seen, the biggest hall she could imagine. Its ceiling arched like the heavens, its staircase was wider than Jasmit’s whole room at home. A crystal chandelier the size of a man dangled above them, and white columns rose two stories high, bracing the towering walls.
“It isn’t real,” Narun said again, his brow suddenly furrowed. “Jasmit, I don’t want to stay here.” Narun’s words were brittle, crumbling in the light-flooded hall. “I don’t want to live here.”
“What do you mean?” Jasmit’s eyes slipped off the walls, followed soft edges and almost organic angles. “This is a palace! I dreamt of something like this when I was little. It’s wonderful.”
