Transcripts

Episode 7: Here Comes the Flood

The waters kept rising, and we kept working.

Every day, more people arrived. Most were workers like ourselves. Some were friends of John's. We lived in a vast city of tents that sprawled in the shadow of the Ark; they lived in comfortable bungalows away from the noise.

I said nothing, and kept working.

The work was hard, but at least we could tell ourselves that it meant something. We were building the future. I might not believe that John was a prophet, but maybe this was God's work.

So I said nothing, and kept working.

Sometimes I thought I was in hell. A pandemonium of drills and saws, smoke and sparks, like Blake's Satanic mills amplified a thousandfold. We were covered in sweat even when it was cold. Our bones ached, and at night we slept like the dead.

But on some days, I saw the beauty of what we were doing, and was proud of our craftsmanship and our hard work. As the Ark began to take shape, I felt an increasing amount of awe at what could be accomplished by human hands. What we were building was more than the sum of its profane parts; somehow, we had been granted a blessing, to take ordinary steel and turn it into a sacred vessel. Sometimes I felt as if we had left the mundane world behind, and were on the brink of myth or legend.

So I said nothing, and kept working.

John inspected the site regularly. Most treated him with deference, even if they were prisoners; after all, he had provided them with purpose, with hope. Who else could say the same? If there was a price to pay, surely it was worth it.

But not all treated John as a prophet; some insolently demanded better food and warmer blankets, and the loudest of these vanished, and were not seen again. At least that's what they said; I was too busy and too tired to pay attention. 

So I said nothing, and kept working.

My life became a waking dream in which my flesh was the protagonist and I was absent. Hands and knees, muscles and bones, calloused skin and hair drenched by rain - that's all that was left of me, and even when I went to sleep I dreamt of cutting and drilling and welding. There was a kind of peace in this, but it was a peace without contentment, closer to oblivion.

Whatever little there was left of me began to recognize that the Ark we were building was not for us - except for those of us who would be chosen as servants. I helped build luxury cabins and bars and even a small casino, and I knew it was absurd, but I began to think... what if they deserved it? I saw them with John when he inspected our progress, and they were so much cleaner, so much smarter than any of us. Maybe they knew what they were doing. Maybe if I worked hard enough, I could be chosen.

So I said nothing, and kept working, and the continents kept sinking and the waters kept rising.

One day Matthew told me he'd seen Bartholomew, working somewhere at the Ark's bow. Something inside me briefly woke up, and I went looking for him. I found him in his tent, trying to draw on a half-drenched piece of cardboard. I told him I'd been to his church, and he turned away in shame. I asked him whether he knew how to save us, as he'd claimed in his painting, and he nodded. But he hated himself too much to tell me more.

I fell back into my stupor. From the top of the Ark, you could see the ocean now. Our time was running out, and the guards were getting impatient. We started working even longer hours. There were accidents, and every day someone was injured or killed. I saw a man with his leg crushed to a pulp, and his screams haunted my sleep. But if we didn't finish the Ark on time, everything would be lost. The Ark mattered more than anything now.

So I said nothing, and kept working.

We began hearing rumours of a man starting trouble, and I immediately knew who it was: the priest without faith who worked for God. Jacob's sandbags had been washed away, and now he was here to fight another futile battle. 

But people were listening, and Jacob's voice grew louder. This Ark is yours, he said. It was by your sweat and your blood that it came into being, and it should be the instrument of your salvation.

When there were only a few troublemakers, it was easy to stop them; but now there were dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. John's friends got nervous, and John spoke to the masses, raising his voice in prophecy. But the noise of the waves drowned him out.

And still, still I said nothing.

I had lost my faith, and despite all I'd seen and experienced, I had recovered nothing but shards. And no matter how I tried to rearrange them, the picture was still broken and my hands were still covered in blood.

Maybe it was impossible to make sense of it all. Maybe the picture was broken because the universe was broken. Maybe there was a God, but He'd moved on. Maybe this was just his first attempt, the divine equivalent of a child's drawing, and we were the silly stick figures that thought they lived in a masterwork.

I was tired. The world made no sense, and the only response I could think of was to look away, to sleep. But I kept waking up, struggling for breath. The earthquakes were getting worse. The sea was getting closer. This was the end, and I couldn't pretend that it wasn't.

And what I had I learned? Not nothing, but not enough. I was still afraid. I was still alone.

So I said nothing, and kept working.

The waves were almost upon us now. The Ark was finished, and it was beautiful: a monument built by slaves, to the glory of Caesar. But Jacob refused to be silenced, and his words were powerful; Matthew told me he believed that Jacob had been sent by God, and when I told him Jacob did not believe in God, he laughed. That was exactly the sort of thing he'd come to expect from this universe. But he went to fight on his side anyway.

When Jacob's words became too powerful, John's men responded with bullets. Jacob was unafraid. I don't know whether he knew that he was about to die; I think he did, but he refused to give up. I saw him riddled with bullets, his body almost torn apart; Matthew fell next to him, and as I saw them I knew that I was witnessing the terror and the glory of the martyrs.

And then... I spoke.

For that one moment, that one precious moment... I had faith. I felt something greater than myself reach out and touch me, and I found strength in myself I could never have imagined. The strength to move mountains; to cast down false prophets; to claim the Ark.

For that one moment, we became the sea; we were the roar of the surf; we were waves crashing; we were infinite, and when we moved, everything before us was swept away. It was beautiful, and terrible. Our enemies were destroyed, and I pitied them; but they should have known that you cannot go to war against the sea.

And then it was over, and we'd won, and I was just myself again.

I still don't know what I said; I'm not even sure it was me speaking. But there was no time to think, to try to make sense of what I'd experienced; the water was coming, and we had to get everything and everyone on board as quickly as possible.

At the very end, when the land was almost gone, a solitary figure stood before the Ark; the last of my brothers - Bartholomew. I went down to speak to him, but he had nothing to say. I could see it all in his eyes.

Should we take him on board? Should he stay behind? Did he deserve salvation or damnation? Would he lead us to the promised land, or to our destruction? He longed for life, but he hated himself. He wanted to help, but he judged himself worthless. He wanted to punish himself, to destroy himself, but he also knew that he had something valuable within him, something divine.

He was full of love and hate and madness and sanity; he was a prophet, an outcast, a criminal, a monster... a human being.

What could I say to all that? After my strange journey, my many failures, my one moment of faith - what could I possibly say?

Get on the fucking boat, man.

—

Narrated by Peter Wingfield
Written & Directed by Jonas Kyratzes
Music & Sound by Chris Christodoulou

Violin - Kalliopi Mitropoulou
Violoncello - Zoé Saubat

Cover art - Daniele Giardini