Later, when the storm is over, everyone will talk about the destruction it left behind. But no one, not even the king himself, will remember that it all started with a single drop of rain.
It is an early summer afternoon in Nineveh, the sky is swollen with the threat of rain. A strange, gloomy silence has settled over the city: the birds have not sung since dawn; the butterflies and dragonflies have hidden; the frogs have left their nesting places; the The geese have gone quiet, sensing danger. Even the sheep are silent and urinating frequently, overcome by fear. The air smells different – a sharp, salty smell. All day, dark shadows have been gathering on the horizon, like an enemy army camped and gathering its strength. From a distance, they look remarkably still and calm, but this is an optical illusion, an illusion of the eyes: the clouds roll steadily closer, driven by a powerful wind, determined to drench and reshape the world. In this region, where summers are long and scorching, rivers fickle and relentless, and the memory of the last flood has not yet been washed away, water is both the harbinger of life and the messenger of death.
Nineveh is a place like no other: the largest and richest city in the world. Built on a vast plain on the east bank of the Tigris, and so close to the river that babies are lulled to sleep at night not by a lullaby but by the sound of waves lapping the shore. It is the capital of a mighty empire, a citadel protected by massive towers, stately battlements, defensive moats, fortified bastions, and colossal walls, each at least 27 meters high. With a population of 175,000, it is an urban gem at the intersection of the prosperous highlands to the north and the fertile lowlands of Chaldea and Babylonia to the south. The year is sometime in the 640s BCE. and this ancient region, lush with fragrant gardens, bubbling fountains and irrigation canals, but which will be forgotten and dismissed by future generations as a barren desert and miserable wasteland, is Mesopotamia.
One of the clouds approaching the city this afternoon is larger and darker than the others – and more impatient. It races across the vast sky towards its destination. Once there, it slowly comes to a stop and hovers thousands of meters above a majestic building adorned with cedar columns, porticoes and monumental statues. This is the North Palace, where the king resides in all his power and splendor. The mass of condensed steam settles over the imperial residence and casts a shadow. Because unlike humans, water takes no notice of social status or royal titles.
At the edge of the storm cloud dangles a single raindrop – no bigger than a bean and lighter than a chickpea. For a while it trembles dangerously – small, spherical and frightened. How frightening it is to watch the earth open beneath it like a lonely lotus flower. This would not be the first time: it has made the journey before – ascended to the sky, descended to solid ground and ascended to the sky again – and yet it still finds the fall terrifying.
Remember that fall, however insignificant it may be compared to the size of the universe. In its tiny sphere it holds the secret of infinity, a story all its own. When it finally works up the courage, it jumps into the ether. Now it’s falling – fast, faster and faster. Gravity always helps. From a height of 3,080 feet, it hurtles downward. Only three minutes until it reaches the ground.
(Excerpted with permission from “There Are Rivers in the Sky” by Elif Shafak, published by Viking; 2024)
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