Lament At Dusk

The spire stood tall out of the water, like a hand reaching desperately for the surface. On its top was a golden figure facing towards the sunset.

"That old Mormon temple used to sit dry just beyond the shoreline, " an old man began to take refuge in the empty seat next to me. "The more religious folks found the flooding to be some sign from God, " he took his hands off his knees and sighed, "the rest assumed that God drowned with the valley."

Breaking off my gaze at the spire I asked, "And what do you think?"

"Bonneville is where I live. Arguin' about if its basin was filled by Gods or Men has nothin' to do with me," The old man slouched back in the bench, "I do still wonder if we chose to drop somethin' valuable into the lake"

I breathed out in acknowledgement. This was a perspective I had yet to observe. I pointed at the gold statue in front of us. "The spire's figure fascinates me, the gold leaf should have fallen off by now, yet it looks tended to."

"Certain locals like to swim out and clean it, they feel it is good for the soul."

"Soul," there was that word, I had never heard a human say that word, at least not in this context. Curious, I asked, "How do you feel about the concept of the soul?"

The old man looked down, "It's a story we used to tell ourselves to take the edge off the suffering." He looked back up, making eye contact. His eyes were wet, but not quite crying; the old man blinked, and they were dry once more, "I know that's offensive to you offworld folk, your religion and all."

"Oh, no, I'm not of any religious sect."

The old man gave an understanding chuckle in response.

A distant vessel passed behind the figure on the spire. A plume of white steam ascending from its form broke up the sheet of cyan and vermillion just above the horizon.

The old man grinned wide upon catching the image of the steamboat, "Lots of ancient technology here, its why I settled on the shoreline-- I know how to fix this old junk."

What a strange occupation. "How- why do you make a living off such old transit methods?"

"Well, " the old man breathed deeply, the kind of breath a human let out before speaking some unveritable philosophy, "when you've lost somethin' you look for it in the past. These people love lookin in the past."

I could tell he had something else on his mind besides old boats and drowned temples, "What do you even think your people lost in the deluge?"

"You probably already know, but this place used to be harsh, real harsh. The American settlers called where we're sittin' "Bountiful" because it was the one place they could reap a half-decent harvest." The old man leaned towards me and cast his hand out as if holding down the water on the horizon, "all over the valley, people settled anyways. Least desirable land in the region." The old man stopped for a moment, staring at the point where the sky touched the earth, "They told themselves stories, stories about gods, kings, angels, and prophets. Convinced they were makin' a heaven here, on Earth. I'd mock the foolishness if I didn't admire the gumption."
The old man put his hands together and began rubbing his forefinger with his thumb, looking down intently at the shape of his hands, "They say your people are starry eyed artisans, but we weren't so different ourselves at one point. We just up and stopped tellin' those stories I guess."

I tried to think my way through the word gumption, a rare word, "Do your contemporaries not have this gumption? Look at the great things humanity has invented."

The old man's face grew sullen, "I guess, but ain't it just buildin' our own god?"

"I don't quite get what you mean."

"When we still were tellin' ourselves about gods and souls- I mean sure, we weren't chartin' the outer systems or anything..." the old man's voice trailed off and his gaze shifted back toward the horizon, "Say, you ever heard the Myth of Babel?"

"The name sounds familiar, its an Abrahamic myth, correct?"

"Yup, all the people had come up with the clever idea that they were gonna up and build a tower to reach God himself," The old man let out a short but hearty laugh, "and in response, God not only blew the whole damn thing up, but also made everyone speak differently so they couldn't try again."

"Hubris is something you humans talk a lot about."
v "Yeah, until our towers stopped falling down." The distant horn of the steamboat followed the lament.

I swung my arm out towards the lake, interrogating the old man, "Is this deluge not then a sign?"

"Hm?" The old man grinned, "I thought you weren't the religious type, offworlder."

I paused for a moment, trying my best to remember a phrase I'd heard from other humans, "I'm not. I'm just, how do you say, playing devil's advocate."

The old man flew into a joyful laugh. I thought for a moment I had said something wrong. But before I could ask he cut in, "Color me impressed, offworlder, how do you know so much about earthfolk?"

I blinked a few times, surprised by the question, "Well, it's my life's study."I paused, "How do you know so much about the history of the basin?"

The old man's booming laugh continued and then for a moment stopped, "I would hope I do, I was an associate professor of history, 'fore I retired that is."

Again, I blinked several times, "What is a retired professor doing tending to steamboats?"

His laugh slowed to a quiet stop. The Old Man looked again at the steamboat as it was disappearing into the horizon. Just above a whisper he answered, "Honestly, I don't know."

Seeing a moment to amuse the old man again I suggested, "Good for the soul?"

The old man laughed once more, "Guess so." He got up from the bench and began to leave the pier. Before moving further away he firmly planted one hand on my shoulder, "You're good people, offworlder. Don't cast what youre holdin' into the depths" a valediction locals to the Bonneville Shore usually only reserved for other locals. His hand left my shoulder as his voice left the air, leaving nothing but the chilly autumnal breeze.
I looked back out at the horizon. A dark, starry sky began to overtake the warm hues. The ancient ship was out of sight, but the spire still stood, like a hand reaching out of the water.

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