As the city took shape, the fear of the flood became a ghost that haunted them. It lived in the way people started at the sound of heavy rain, in the nervous glances thrown toward the river after a night of dreams.
Iddin, the storyteller, knew this. He decided to craft a great song about the flood, a warning for the ages. He stood before the central fire one evening, his voice booming over the crackle of the flames.
"Beware the wrath of the gods!" he sang, his arms raised to the stars. "For they saw our pride and sent the waters to punish us! The river rose as a fist of judgment! We must be humble, we must be small, lest their anger rise again!"
The people listened, their faces drawn and fearful in the flickering light. The song was not soothing their fear; it was feeding the ghost, giving it a voice and a divine purpose.
Enki sat at the edge of the firelight, working a lump of wet clay in his hands, forming a simple pot. He said nothing until the last, fearful echo of Iddin's song had faded into the night.