Chapter 36
Later...
The day had turned cold, the mountains grey and cruel. Progress had been slow. Through the hours, Yusuf had watched the strange man he had been ordered to protect.... This "Da'reek Raheen", about whom his tribe had told stories for more than twenty years, was called a ruhani
... a mystic... a keeper of tales.... Some had even spoken of him as a warrior. At nineteen, Yusuf could not remember that man, but the one he saw here was no warrior. He rode well enough, for a Westerner, and seemed to know his way around a horse, but he was too soft.... and Yusuf could smell the sickness that had lain heavily upon him. What could he hope to accomplish here, where men were measured differently? But their leader, Yusuf's own mother's sister's husband, called him "friend"... and sought to repay a debt. The ruhani had saved the life of the Rumi-Khan's eldest son... and he, Yusuf, had been trusted with the task of keeping this man alive and in one piece until that debt could be repaid. Insha'allah... that was exactly what he intended to do.By late afternoon, the small band of men rode slowly in single file along a twisting, narrow path that snaked its way towards the high, mountain pass to the western valleys... towards Ma'azar, where they might find Fakir Safavi. Yusuf, now riding behind the precept, could see Derek's back shudder. "OK?" the Afghan called to him.
Derek nodded and twisted in the saddle to offer a weak smile. "OK" was the only word of English known to Yusuf and seemed to serve all purposes.... Derek mimed back that he was cold by vigorously rubbing his arm.
At the next spot where the trail widened a bit, Yusuf urged his horse alongside Derek's pony, studied the foreigner's drawn, pale face, then urged his mount past the line to reach ibn Sikander at the head of the column.
* * *
A half-hour later, the lashkar, as they called it, using the Pashtu term for "war party", reached a rocky, sloping plateau, sheltered on three sides by immense sheets of granite that had broken off far above and slid down the mountain's side. Ibn Sikander dismounted, and the other men followed suit. Derek watched with growing alarm. Had his "nanny" reported that he was having problems? Dammit... they had to press on.... Time was not in their favor.
The precept urged his mount forward. "Why are we stopping?" he demanded.
"It is late.... The sun leaves us.... The weather turns.... Soon it will be dark.... There will be snow.... This is treacherous ground. We will rest.... The horses must rest."
The precept did not dismount, but glanced around as the tribesmen began to tend their animals and to set up a camp. "Zarek... we must go on.... I'm fine... don't stop for me."
"For you?... No...." The Rumi-Khan shook his head. "It is time for prayer.... We must be particularly diligent in this holy month of Ramadan, when Allah revealed the Qu'ran to the Prophet, blessings be upon him.... Then we will eat... and at the dying of the light, we will pray again and watch for the new moon."
"I apologize," Derek murmured, shamefaced. "I should've remembered.... Please, forgive me."
"Rest, my friend," said ibn Sikander, noting the clinching and unclinching of Derek's fist. "After prayer we'll eat... pray again... then rest.... Allah will forgive us for failing to pray the night through.... We are travelers, who seek to save a life.... Thus we must rest. We'll leave here with the dawn." He read the bitter disappointment on the other man's face. "If Allah wills it, we'll reach Ma'azar tomorrow... or the next day.... By tomorrow you'll be stronger... ready for what might come... ready for the pass that lies above us."
"That's too late," Derek said quietly. "I know it... please...." In frustration, the precept pulled off his woolen cap and ran his hand through his greasy, salt-and-pepper hair.
"Your 'Sight'?... It will be as Allah wills... no matter what we might do." Derek's friend sighed heavily. "Allah may show you things, but that does not mean that he will allow you to alter his intent. Enough... I will pray.... After we have eaten... I will consider.... But remember, my friend... I must balance the debt I owe you against the responsibility I owe these men... and their families... and the obedience I owe to Allah."
"Allah Akbar!" God is great!.... The initial words of the azan, the call to prayer, echoed from the cliffs.
< < + > >
After prayers, ibn Sikander glanced around, unable to spot his friend. "Yusuf!" he called.
The young man scanned the camp as well; neither could he see the foreigner. He muttered a quiet curse, then hurried to his chief. If this Da'reek Raheen was lost, his kinsman would not be pleased.
Da'ud, one of the older men, drew up. "He was not at prayer."
"He is not Muslim," Yusuf replied, looking round for his charge. "Surely, he would not have gone alone."
"He stands by the grey horse... staring into the darkness." Ali, a gangly sixteen-year-old, proudly sporting his first chin fuzz pointed towards the trail head. He, too, knew something of Derek's reputation. "What does he 'see'?" he asked in awe.
The Rumi-Khan shrugged. "He 'sees' what Allah shows him." He placed his large hand on Yusuf's slim shoulder. "He wants to go on... to travel at night. What are your thoughts?... You have been this way more recently than I."
"He's not strong enough," the youth replied. "He does not realize what he asks... not of us... nor of the horses... but especially not of himself. The mountain sickness will come upon him."
The older man smiled. "He knows... but he chooses to ignore. Perhaps, we should let him see for himself. We can camp at Uti's Cave.... It is better than this place anyway. How is the trail between here and there?"
Ali spoke up with confidence. "I was this way two months ago, with my older brother. We camped at Uti's Cave. The path grows wider.... The ground is rough... a steep climb, but the footing is firm.... There are no chasms, no cliffs.... It was in good repair. If we go slowly, carefully... allow the horses to scent their way... I think we can do it safely."
"Perhaps," Yusuf suggested, "we can risk a torch or two.... Those we seek are far beyond the pass. If our torches are seen, anyone would assume we journey to be with family at the holy time... and are late."
Ibn Sikander nodded thoughtfully. "You have been of great help, Ali. Your father will be pleased. He then turned and strode off towards the precept, shouting loudly, "Abdul!... Food!... We eat... then move on."
< < + > >
White clouds scurried across the infant new moon. Ramadan had begun with only a brief pause on the trail for prayer. Flickering torchlight etched deep, black, moving shadows as each man led his horse in single file, along the track. Though a good path had been worn through the rocky field created a millennium ago by an avalanche, the going was still difficult... dangerous for the inattentive. Conversations were hushed. In the silence of the night the soft murmurs, the foot falls of horse and man, the rattles of equipment, the crackling of wind-whipped flame echoed along the line.
Desperate cold seeped into the bones of both men and beasts. Yusuf watched the foreign mystic carefully. The Rumi-Khan had placed this man's life, his protection in his hands.... He would not be found wanting.
As they trudged on, struggling up the slope between immense boulders, he saw that the precept had begun to limp. His movements had grown stiff and awkward. Yusuf shook his head in frustration. The foolish man must be in agony. Why did he push himself this way?... Was it deiwaneh, he wondered... madness... or was it as the Sufis used the word... divine madness. Was his pain some sort of offering to his God? Christians were said to do such things.
As he watched, the tall man lost his footing and stumbled forward. Yusuf cursed.... He was not quick enough to stop his sprawling fall onto the hard packed earth and stone. Dropping his reins, he knelt down beside the precept and called out for his kinsman.
Ibn Sikander handed his mount over to Ali, left the head of the column, and hurried back to join his friend. Yusuf had maneuvered Derek over to sit against a large boulder and was using his wiry strength to keep the older man down.
"Zarek... I'm OK.... Tell Yusuf.... I just stumbled." Derek weakly protested, despite the fact that his stomach roiled and his head throbbed and spun.
"We have a long way to go yet." Ibn Sikander kept his voice neutral. "We must travel many more miles to climb the last thousand feet to the crest.... Then the way down is much worse than this... very steep, very dangerous. You must rest... become used to these heights... this air... or you will get mountain sickness. Then where will we be?"
Derek nodded. The Rumi-Khan shrewdly realized his friend was unwilling to trust his voice, knowing it would give away his utter exhaustion.
"Even though the trail here is good... we cannot risk riding in this darkness.... Snow is on the wind.... I smell it," ibn Sikander announced, looking up at the new moon. He gave his arms a brisk rub beneath his sheepskin pushtin. "So now is the time to rest... to let your body accustom itself."
Again the precept nodded his understanding. He hung his head low, and ibn Sikander knew the time had finally come. "A little further on there is a sheltered place.... We will camp there." He then spoke rapidly to Yusuf in their native tongue.
The young man easily pulled the precept to his feet, slipped an arm around his waist, and steered him forward.
Derek leaned on the slight youngster, hating to admit, even to himself, that he lacked the strength to continue. He exhaled in relief when the first men in the column reached their destination. To the precept, it seemed in the torchlight to resemble an ancient, standing stone circle, whose rocks had been chiseled by the wind into eerie shapes. He could imagine them all as Druids about to take part in a magical rite.
Turning to survey the area, he realised that off to the side, huddled in a cave created by the tumble of gigantic boulders, was a hut, consisting of two walls of stacked stone abutting the monoliths. Above, a roof had been created by another fallen slab.
Derek pushed aside the ragged, flapping canvas that served as a door and ducked down to enter the room, which was cold, dark, and uncomfortably small. How, he wondered, could all of them possibly fit in this shoe box. He fought back waves of claustrophobia. The massive rocks... their weight... brought thoughts of the cold concrete cell... the iron mask.... the closeness... the inability to breathe... strangulation.... "This too shall pass," he told himself, swallowing... fighting to control his anxious breathing.
"Sit," ibn Sikander ordered him. "We have dried dung.... Abdul will build a fire... We will have tea, then we will pray.... Then we can sleep."
* * *
After attending to the comfort of the animals, the last of the tribesmen squeezed in and the door was tightly covered with sheepskins. Everyone settled down, wrapped themselves in their petous, and chattered cheerfully as they sipped the hot liquid.
By the flickering light of the small fire, now burning in the fire pit at the center of the room, the precept unlaced his boots, carefully pulled off his socks, and examined the large blisters that had formed. "Verdomme!" he swore and silently cursed himself for his stupidity. He rummaged in his pack for antiseptic cream and band-aids. He also found his spare pair of clean, dry socks, but decided he might need them worse later.
Ibn Sikander sat close by his friend. Saying nothing, he watched as Derek tended his hurts. Abdul, a burly man with but one tooth left to his broad smile, leaned across the fire to hand them two cups of sweet chai tea. As Derek reached for his cup the scars around his wrists were clearly visible.
Before the precept could tug at his sleeves, Yusuf saw the scars, as did Abdul and the Rumi-Khan... and Derek saw that they saw. The Afghans spoke rapidly in their own tongue, then the men, who sat nearby, joined in the conversation. Derek sensed that he was the subject of their discussions. How much had Kincaid told Rahim, he wondered, and what had Rahim told ibn Sikander. Did they know about West... about his sojourn in that monster's prison?... Did they know about his madness... and the belief that he had been raped... sodomized. Truth be told... he no longer knew the truth. Once upon a time, he had been able to fervently deny it... and believe his own denial... but no more. Perhaps, it had happened and his mind had found a way to protect itself. Was that why his mind had broken? Could he trust his own memories? Derek's spirits sank.... Were these men dismissing him... as useless... damaged beyond salvation?... Would he read nothing but contempt in their eyes?
The precept realised that he cared about the opinion of these men who were strangers. When the fight came, if it came, would he be a danger to his companions?... He'd not faced battle... real battle... since West... and that had not been a battle in the true sense of the word. It had been a clinging to life and sanity in the midst of a hell that had no word to describe its desolation and pain. Truth be told... he'd not faced real battle, as a warrior faces battle, for nigh on two years... and then he'd not been alone. He'd shared that "other" Derek's body... and had faced the Portal with him. They had each supplied what strengths the other had lacked.
Settling himself on Derek's other side, Yusuf laughed loudly at a comment from Ahmed. His pride hurt, the precept flushed. He was certain that he had been the ignorant butt of a cruel jibe.
"The others are calling for a song," Zarek explained. "Yusuf knows the songs of our people.... But it is late.... You need to sleep."
The precept sighed, relieved that he was not the object of ridicule. "I'd like to hear your songs... perhaps, when I'm home... I can play them and remind myself of my friends and their homeland."
Ibn Sikander gave a lopsided grin, obviously pleased with Derek's response. He spoke quickly; Yusuf began to sing. The young man had a pleasant, light, tenor voice. His song was plaintive, and to the precept it spoke of the fate of Afghanistan... of the majesty and beauty of the land... of the quiet dignity of its people, and of their despair. Yusuf then switched to a lively tune. All the men joined in the chorus.
Derek relaxed a little. Half-listening to the raucous melody, he pulled his socks back on, ignoring their sweaty smell. With all the men crammed into the hut, the pungent odor of dirty socks was nothing, for the communal smell of humanity was overpowering. He rubbed his calves and knees. "Gott, every part aches," he muttered silently to himself as he shivered and pulled his sheepskin cloak close about his shoulders.
"Enough," ibn Sikander called to his men as their song ended. "It is Ramadan.... We have a hard journey tomorrow... and we must pray.... Musa...."
"Allah Akbar!" a man responded with a deep baritone.
Derek watched as each man settled into whatever space he could find. There was no room to spread even their tiny prayer rugs. Bowing down, they touched their foreheads to the ground and began their devotions.
"Alstublieft, Gott," Derek prayed silently. "Let me find Nick... alive and in one piece.... Let me get him out... and don't let any of these men be hurt or die because of me. I failed you with West. I'd have sacrificed Alex to end my own torment.... I failed you again when I couldn't give your warning about New York.... Forgive me. I wasn't strong enough. Help me.... If I'm doomed to fail.... Let it be my life and soul sacrificed... not Nick's... not these men, who only try to help." Falling back on his memories, he prayed the rosary, then added the prayer that he and Ingrid had always said as children at bedtime.... "The Lord is my shepherd...."
* * *
Finally, prayer was over and the men settled themselves down where they had prayed. They lay head to toe, side by side, with no space between. As they sank into sleep, coughs sounded loudly, throats were cleared, men grumbled. Gradually these noises gave way to snoring... loud rasping snores, quiet, little sighs and grunts.
Try as he might, the precept could not sleep. He itched... his growing beard itched, his filthy hair itched, the vermin in his clothing itched. His stomach moaned, threatening rebellion. His digestive system had not yet accustomed itself to local fare. He shut his ears to the noises, buried his nose in Ki'kuba's bouquet, and struggled to ignore the stuffy stink of unwashed men and dung smoke, but his "Sight" screamed at the close proximity of so many people. The individual thoughts and dreams were indistinguishable, but the cumulative weight upon his mind was suffocating.
Time crawled by, still his mind would not let go.... The small fire crackled and fluttered. The wind outside whistled amongst the rocks. Exhaustion failed to drag him to sleep. He worried about Nick... about his own frailties... about the risk of failure... to not find his friend.... The thought was intolerable. His fingers sought the tiny bulges in the belt he wore that betrayed the presence of its cargo... diamonds... surrogate cash for whatever purpose he might need... the purchase price of a life. He tried to pray again. This time... God could not be in his distant heaven. God had to be here... now.
With the closeness of the others... the door now tightly sealed... Derek's claustrophobia grew... became unbearable. He smelled the stench of death... heard West's voice whisper, "You're mine forever, Mr. MIM," even as phantom fingers squeezed and probed and brought pain unlike any other. Bile rose, burning the back of his throat.... He had to get out... had to! He had to reach the freedom of the cold, sharp air. Was the voice right? Would Mr. MIM always be there... his living ghost... his tormenting demon?
"Stop it, Rayne!" his mind lectured. "You're behaving like a hysterical child. Remember who you are.... You are Derek Emrys Rayne.... You are still a Legacy precept.... Remember why you are here. Nick is your priority... to save him you must regain control.... You must rise above all this.... As Merlin once went mad and lost himself... but found himself again... so you must.... You must become yourself again... as you were... before... but stronger from knowing your own frailties... smarter from recognizing your mistakes... wiser from admitting your foolish arrogance.
"Sleep... now!" He deeply inhaled the fragrance of the posy and shut his mind
to every thought, but that thought. "Sleep!"
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