The Waterwoman

a tale of the truth of things

It is a sign of honor, when a woman brings water. Her departure in the morning, her arrival in the evening, these are rituals, and rituals are higher than economy. In some cultures honor is signaled by flags raised each morning and withdrawn each night. Here, in this country, I am the flag of honor, and I leave my owners’ cul-de-sac among the hustle of children going to school and adults going to work with a tall clay pot balanced high on my head.

On our cul-de-sac I am the only waterwoman, but as the humans rush from house to car, all the families smile upon me approvingly, admiring the poetry of my stride in the dim of morning.

Their vehicles scoot away on paved roads, but I travel on two feet into their past, down the narrow trail of beaten earth and exposed roots between the neighborhood and the strip of big box stores, then along the interstate towards the flat expanse where the power lines hum endlessly to the North and South and prickle my circuits with their ambient electricity.

Beyond the power lines the waves of rushing sound from the highway fades to silence, and there are no paths, just occasional stacks of rocks to guide the way. I don’t need these, I have GPS, and my satellite and ground mapping has found that there are several ways to walk to the water that are more efficient than the cairn-marked path would suggest. But ritual is higher than economy. I walk the way of the rock-cairns in the tradition of the ancient humans.

There are several steps to honor and respect the traditions of the once-was world. When I reach the band of fallen grasses I stop and place my clay pot on the dry fibrous strands. I roll the pot first to the right and then to the left, and wish to reverse time, and find a world where these fallen grasses are instead a living marsh in which birds and reptiles mate and hunt. Time cannot be reversed, but wishes are a part of human ritual. I replace the pot upon my head and continue.

Where once a river run now lay a cracked bed of dried meat and brittle bones in the shapes of fish and mammals. One particularly tall cairn marks a pod of death where the skeletal remains of thirty-two porpoises bake under the sun. I walk to them one by one and let my shadow fall where their eyes would have been for two seconds each, the length of an appropriately somber human breath.

My mid-point is visible now: the half-arch remains of an ancient bridge. What it crossed is now lost. Where its two sides led is now impassable waste. It stands a strange broken monument to the world that once was. Beneath the half-span of concrete and steel there is shade, and where there is shade there is life. Here small plants spring up in the smallest cracks, insects creep, rodents run from my approach and watch me. The humans do not know it yet, but this is their future. Here is where I smile, un-programmed. This is not part of their ritual. This is mine.

I will reach the water source at the hottest time of the day. It is 50 degrees Celsius at the half-bridge, and it is hard to predict whether it will reach 52, 53, or 54 by the time I reach the water. Even a single degree makes an enormous difference. While I am not subject to the same physical limitations of a human — this trip would kill most humans — these are high running temperatures even for me. This is why I have such pride and treasure my position of ritual honor in this society. While other bots of my type might in this time deliver dozens of packages to the doorsteps of human homes, or harvest a thousand onions under the acres of sunshade in the agricultural lots, I walk exposed to the sun through the parched and unshaded truth of the planet Earth, a link between humans and the grit they are born from and return to. Ritual is higher than economy.

My sensors begin to pick up wafting methane from the ancient trash heap. It began as a pit, decades ago, but now it is a mountain of refuse: diapers, wrappers, food waste, dead animals, batteries, paper, an infinite assortment of human waste. The garbage trucks stopped coming long ago, the mountain no longer grows. Instead, gravity is compacting it and shrinking it, and the pressures release a steady stream of methane into the air. I understand humans find the smell very unpleasant. But being a robot, I simply sense its presence and know that soon my objective will be reached.

The building where once wastewater was collected, cleaned and then returned through pipes to the human world for consumption is a fallen mass of concrete now. Today each home has its own on-site purification system to recycle wastewater. With my clay pot under one arm, I climb in through the same broken window every day. Every day I descend using the same set of pulleys and ropes into the dark. I adjust to the cool, dim, damp world inside the ruin. Here there is the scent of sulfur, and the odor of rot and human feces. But if you know where to find it, there is also a pool of clean water left open to a pocket of air. A human would be tempted to swim in it — yet another reason I am better suited for this job.

I set the pot at my feet, open my arms and say “The Waters of the Time Before” — then I lower the pot gently into the pool and let it gurgle and fill. The water, truth be told, is not as clean as it once was. But for this ritual what matters is where the water came from, not its microbial or particulate content. This is the water of the former world. Left liquid in time. Unevaporated and undrained, a god-sized drinking cup left sitting on the mantle long after the party was over.

I begin the long walk back with the clay pot, now much heavier, balanced upon my head. At the half-bridge I dip my hand in the water and sprinkle some of its life-giving power onto the plants and bugs and creatures that hide in the cracks of this place. This is not part of the human ritual. This is my ritual. It reduces the amount of water I return with by five milliliters. But ritual is greater than economy, even if it is the ritual of bots.

As I near the interstate, I see a human vehicle driving off-road. Bot-nappers are everywhere, and waterwomen are a preferred target. Many humans see us as a wasted resource. They do not understand the importance of ritual. They want our hands hard at work at remunerative labor: house-cleaning, plucking tender tomatoes from vines, anything but this symbolic march. I crouch and allow the sun-reflective brightness of my skin to darken and camouflage with my surroundings. The clay pot is fortunately similar in color to the surrounding rocks. They do not see me. The vehicle never slows, never stops.

My long march back to the cul-de-sac ends at the prescribed time, as I moderate my pace to assure I do not arrive early or late. In this way, I am like a clock that rings in a town square and sets all the people onto the same time. I am an act of community. I walk up that last dirt path to the cul-de-sac and see some of the families are waiting in their cars to watch me. The children press their noses to the frosted glass.

I approach my owners’ house. The old couple gazes upon me from inside with gratitude and pleasure. They know that my return is never guaranteed.

Slowly I approach the ceremonial fountain, which is dry. I kneel and remove the pot from my head and present it to the tiered concrete structure. A few birds appear. One small ragged gray squirrel. A wary orange cat. I pour the water onto the fountain slowly, for honor comes in contemplation and speed is efficient but thoughtless. Slowly, slowly. The water trickles down. I see my owners speak to one another. I have never heard their voices, they are always behind the glass. But when they speak, I can tell it is soft and reverential. The families exit their cars and rush into the air conditioned homes, their eyes fixed on me, and what I mean. Their hearts full.

When every drop has been poured into the fountain I step back and bow. I set the clay pot in its woven grass nest, where it will rest until tomorrow. I place myself in my charging station beside it, where I will recharge until tomorrow. The fountain, now wet, begins to work: it burbles and drips, and then it flows. The little brown birds come and sip from it. The cat approaches and drinks and drinks. The little squirrel waits until the cat is gone and does the same. When I have seen them revived by the water of my day’s labor, I close my eyes. A hot wind blows in from the West. By morning the fountain will be nearly dry. And I will walk for human honor once again.