Part 1
Genesis
The Lord said, “I will wipe mankind whom I have created from the face of the earth—man and animals and creatures that move along the ground, and birds in the air—for I am grieved that I made them.” —Genesis 6:7

Prologue
May 12, 2012
When the two black-suited men came to our door, I knew it was time to leave. They were Witnesses, one tall and black, the other short and white, prowling the neighbourhood with increased frequency. They looked confident as they stood on the doorstep with the rain pelting down behind them, shaking the water off their trench coats and umbrellas. I interrupted their usual opening spiel. “Same answer this week, I’m afraid—we have religion in this home,” I said. “Yes, brother,” the black man said. “But the kingdom of God is now at hand. In fact, it’s down on Kingston Road, not a half mile from here.” “That close, eh? I thought we would have more time.” “Are you ready to receive?” “We have received. My folks are packed to leave. I suggest you do the same.” “God be with you, brother,” the short one said. “Many have joined us today—the culmination of our work is at hand. It’s a day of great fulfillment!” “Good. You’d better be off then. And don’t leave it too late either,” I said, shutting the door on them. Their smugness bothered me. Through the window I saw their companions swarming across my neighbour’s waterlogged lawn. My van, packed with our belongings, stood in the driveway. Dad’s boat was on the trailer in the backyard, but it would have to stay where it was—we were not going to be slowed down. In hindsight, the boat may have taken us farther. “Time to go folks—the flooding has reached Kingston Road,” I said, rushing down to the basement. Dad was packing his fishing rods; he had four of them already on the roof of the van. The damp patches in the basement floor had widened since my last visit half an hour ago. “Dad, come on, there will be plenty of time for fishing later.” I threw his raincoat across his shoulders and gently led him upstairs. “I’m not so sure about that anymore,” he said shaking his head and muttering under his breath. “Hope there isn’t too much water damage to the house. You think my tool shed will be okay?” “Sure,” I lied. I was worried about the shed too. About everything. But there was no use in showing it. “Help me get the baby’s things in the van, Sam.” Adele slowly made her way from the bedrooms upstairs; she was six months pregnant and beginning to look a little weak in the mornings. Cole, carrying a small suitcase, shut the door behind them. They had abandoned their waterlogged apartment downtown to stay with us these past two weeks. Cole was good for Adele, caring, respectful and kind; he had been that way ever since they’d met in high school. “Not much more we can take, I’m afraid, the van’s packed—even the roof.” “But we have to take the baby’s things, no?” “Sure we have to,” I said, helping her down the stairs. It was nice embracing my kid sister. We didn’t do that much anymore. “Not taking your jazz collection?” “No, there’s no room. It’ll be safe ’til we return.” “Samson Arthurs! You never let it out of your sight.” “It’ll be okay. Where’s Mum?” “Watching TV again.” When I went into my parents’ bedroom, Mum was indeed watching TV and wiping her eyes. Tissues littered the floor. “Why do we have to leave, son?” she said, staring into one of those riveting news broadcasts that ran non-stop now. I went over and switched off the TV. “Come on, Ma. It’s time.” “But the house—thirty-five years of our lives are in this house.” “We’ll come back when the emergency is over, Ma. And we’ll fix the damage, if there is any.” “You promise?” I didn’t say anything but gently coaxed her out to the van. Dad, Cole and Adele were already inside, squished amidst the food containers, clothing and memorabilia threatening to burst the van at its seams. I checked the tarpaulin over the ski rack and it looked like it would hold, even though the wind was beginning to pick up. I was soaked by the time I slid into the driver’s seat. When we left our street and joined the stream of cars headed north for the highway, I didn’t realize that would be the last time I would see the old house on Saddler Street, where I had lived my entire life.

Chapter 1

When I look at the “old guard” encircling our family mausoleum, I remember my father’s words about his friends. “They never age,” he said. “They just fade away.” Nathan Goldman stands tall and erect, but his thinning gray hair and emaciated body betray his frailty. “Damn awful weather for a funeral!” he coughs, gritting his teeth against the wind. He takes a cigar out of his pocket, then changes his mind and puts it back. I recognize the threadbare coat from ten years ago. It’s hard to believe that he is the richest man in Tolemac and that he was my father’s staunchest ally. “I hope Samson is at peace, wherever he is,” says my mother-in-law Kamala, standing to his right, stifling a tear. She is a beautiful woman in her late fifties. She has the grace of a dancer and yoga practitioner melded with a keen brain and a gentle heart. It’s hard to imagine she is chief justice of our city-state. She loved my father from a distance; I have always known that, although she will never admit it to me. Belva White Dove, in her flowing orange and black kaftan, leads the funeral ceremony. Optimistic and in control, her matronly jowls are subdued today, yet her voice retains its high melodious pitch during the hymns. Head schoolmistress at the Tolemac Academy of Learning and newly-appointed spiritual leader of our church, she looks the same as when she taught me in high school. It is raining; a thin May drizzle that quickly turns the ground into mud and makes the grass ooze. In Samson’s youth, the ground absorbed more rainwater than it does today. In fact, it does not rain much anymore except during the winter. Today’s rain is a rarity. A connection to the Old World Samson emerged from. Belva preaches a medley of animal medicine chants and biblical verses. My father would have loved the psalm she has chosen: “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? Though an army may beseech me, my heart shall not fear. Do not turn me over to the desire of my foes . . .” She then leads us in an Old-World hymn, “Nearer My God to Thee,” an anachronism on this twenty-fifth day of May 2046. Umbrellas go up as the drizzle thickens to steady rain. I am impressed by the loyal following that has entered the gates of the mausoleum. Politicians from the Humanitarian and Capitalist realms, the church congregation, the river transport people, and the general populace of Tolemac, from as far away as the New Settlements—they are all here. Even John Williams is here. Poor, dumb, stupid John; dumb from the day I can remember; stupid from the day of his childhood accident when he swallowed construction glue that gave him a brain haemorrhage, tore out his insides and nearly killed him. John is unaccustomed to the rain. It drips off his well-tailored dark suit and cape and makes him look like a wet sparrow—an orphaned, lonely, wet sparrow. I allow the rain to fall on me too, without seeking the protection of a raincoat or umbrella. I want to get a sense of what it is like to be well and properly wet, as Samson had been during the Flood, when for days on end, all he could hope for was a bit of earth to hug that was not shaking or under water. “Are you holding up?” Sonya inches up to me. “I’m okay.” I take her hand in mine. Sharing an umbrella with her mother, she has so much of Kamala’s poise and dark eyes. She will age as beautifully as her mother. We have quarrelled a lot over this last year and only recently discovered the mystical bond that unites a husband and wife. Our children, Joey and Hannah, dressed in dark clothing and holding small umbrellas, stand respectfully beside their mother. Hannah, the serious one, takes after me with her blond curls, and looks like she is pondering a deep mystery. Joey has the dark hair and complexion of his mother. “David...” Belva is next to me now. “Would you like to say something before we end the service?” “No.” What was there to say? There is not even a body in the coffin. This is just a ceremony to remind ourselves that my father has been finally pronounced officially “dead” and will now lie in peace next to my mother’s remains in the family tomb and that we can get on with our lives, which have been on hold since he went missing. “Are you sure? It’s customary . . .” “Yes, I am sure. You are doing a wonderful job. Please wrap it up for us.” After a few final words, the tomb is closed and people are lined up to shake my hand and to offer condolences. The President of the Federation of Humanitarian States—the FHS—passes by, having come up all the way from Oceania. Congressman Gordon, sole representative from the Capitalist realm, and his entourage follow closely behind. Gordon shakes our hands sincerely, spending meaningful moments with each family member. “Don’t forget to call me, David,” he says, taking my hand. I stare into his kindly eyes. “We have to continue our work,” he reminds me firmly. The general population follows the politicians. I feel the sincerity in their hugs, even a tinge of remorse. They merely watched during Samson’s persecution. Umbrellas and boots jostle around, drenching me with water and mud. I have never understood why they built the cemetery by the waterfront and not up on Sunset Hill. Something about it being one of the first places built, as there were many dead to bury before the post-Flood rebuilding began, and the fact that the buried could reside close to their less fortunate family members submerged forever in the waters surrounding Tolemac. With the ceremony over, the people disperse towards their homes. Some go up Sunset Hill while others head down into the city core.