Chapter 38
the Mosque at Ma'azar...
Ashen faced, the precept turned to ibn Sikander. "Why?... Why would anyone do this?... The entire village!"
The Afghan hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly. "Life means little... when you see only death."
Derek closed his eyes, dropped his head, and stood for a moment in silence. He could feel the eyes of the living, and of the dead, focused upon him. Were they blaming him for this slaughter?... If he'd not indulged in his introspective wallowing... Nick wouldn't have been sent here... as his replacement. None of this would have happened. If he could have traveled faster, perhaps....
Finally, he took the torch from Yusuf's hand and turned back to do what only he could do. Using the wool of his petou
to cover his nose, the precept stepped forward into the room and approached the nearest corpse. With a gnawing dread, he rolled it over, held the torch close, and looked into the bearded face. Not Nick... thank God... not Nick.The R'om tribesmen watched as he slowly moved from corpse to corpse... from mound to mound. At least thirty lay piled upon the prayer rugs. It had been a butcher's work. Most had been shot, some stabbed, a few executed. Heavy, winter clothing, brown with dried blood, concealed the wounds. They had been dragged in and dropped in piles, like sacks of grain.... Even the animals had not escaped, Derek realized as he reached across to disentangle a furry cloak from the body of a little girl. It was a dog. He paused to brush the dark hair from the little girl's face. She looked so fragile in death.
The precept moved on to the next. The flesh of some, going putrid, was yellow and purple and black. A few had already begun to swell, their fat heads laughing with black mouths and liquid eyes. Rats had gnawed at noses, ears, and fingers... and had begun to carve deep canyons in search of the choicest organs.
"It's been a few days... at least," Derek said, more to himself than to anyone else. He forced his anthropologist's training to the fore. "It's been cold... yet only a few still have rigor.... It looks like there's lividity in most. The state of decomposition depends on their size... and where they were laying. Those beneath other bodies, those with more weight and clothing remained warmer longer...."
The Rumi-Khan gestured to Yusuf, Masruq, and the others. "Go," he said, "help him move them.... Help him turn them over. They might be worthless thieves, but we will work the night to bury them. The room was prepared for prayers, when this happened. The Prophet would not have abandoned them... nor shall we."
* * *
At last, his face a carefully composed mask, the precept rose and turned to face his companions. "He's not here," he announced.
Ibn Sikander nodded. "Sold... but the payment was not what Safavi expected.... Hasmit!" he called. A wiry man with a fur hat stepped forward. "You and Da'ud finish searching the village.... See if there are more dead... or if... by a miracle... someone survived.... See what stores might be left, as well.... Masruq!... Fetch Ali and Musa and the horses.... See to their needs." He then turned back to Derek. "There is hope, my friend," he comforted. "The Major's son is of value to those who did this.... He is not here.... Perhaps he is a commodity... or perhaps they see him as a source of information... or... perhaps... as a pawn to be put on display. The light of day will tell us more." The warlord then glanced round the room. "Now we must pray for the dead... may Allah be merciful."
< < + > >
the Mountains...
Nick tried to think, but his brain was beyond logical thought. All that remained was a rawness that tore at his body and mind. Once more, a burning cough ripped through his chest. He was so cold.... Too cold to feel cold, he thought. No... that made no sense.... Come on, Boyle.... Cowboy the fuck up.... You're losing it.... This too shall pass.
He looked for Ginge. Sleet blinded him, driven by a cruel wind that stung his face and hurt his eyes. One of his captors had pulled a blanket from a horse and had slit it at the center. He had tossed it over Nick's head to serve as a poncho, but it offered little protection and no warmth. With his hands still bound behind his back there was no way to keep it in place. It didn't matter anyway. It was sopping, and would soon freeze... just as his damp clothes would. God... how far had they come?... How many days had it been... up and down mountainsides, through rocks and barren brush, cold streams, icy mud, and snow?... When had they last eaten? Had it been two days since the village... or three... or four? He panicked.... He couldn't remember how many times darkness had fallen since men, women, children, dogs, even goats had died.
Suddenly, the noose around his neck was yanked and he was tugged forward. "Run, dog!" The lash of a rope burned his back and he was once more forced to put his head to the wind and pick up a hobbling jog.
< < + > >
Finally, the group came to a halt. Nick saw his fellow prisoner stumble towards him. One of the riders gave the Brit a kick in the back with his foot, and Ginge fell, sprawling. Nick hurriedly tried to hoist him to his feet amidst their captors' uproarious laughter. "Stooges!" one of them chortled.
The two soldiers were then dragged into a small cave and shoved to their knees in the rear, where they were slammed down onto their faces and their bonds were cut. As he pushed himself up from the sand, Nick looked into his comrade's blue eyes. He was troubled by the dullness that reflected back at him. He's close to giving up, the SEAL worried.
"Well... here we are... and that jerk is a Stooges' fan." Nick chuckled at the absurdity.
"Indy... I can't feel me feet or me 'ands," Ginge hissed. "I think its fuckin' frostbite. I can't do that, Indy... disabled.... I'd rather eat a bullet."
"I don't think being 'disabled' is something you need to worry about," the American quipped. Shivering, Nick first flexed his hands and elbows and rubbed at his bloodied wrists. Burning pins and needles paralyzed his fingers as circulation returned. He reached up to remove the rope from around his neck.
"Leave it, dog!" the one-eyed man ordered, then, in his own language, he directed one of his men to bind their captives' hands once more, but in front. "Understand me, dogs.... If you do anything that displeases me... they will be bound behind again... and," he smirked, "...when we move on... I'll have you stripped and we'll tie the rope to your dick." He then translated his threat to the others, who mimed their prisoners' potential predicament. He laughed loudly and squatted down to face Nick and Ginge. "When we were fighting the Russian infidels, we took one of them prisoner," he quietly confided. "He was a big man... much bigger than I... a real 'stallion'... who had killed many of our men and raped our women. We did this to him...." He demonstrated by tying two ropes together. "...and then we ran him behind a horse. He lasted six hours afoot... and then we dragged him until his dick came off. He was a strong man.... He didn't die, so we made a woman of him... gave him a burkha... and sent him crawling home."
Continuing to work his fingers, Nick nodded... knowing by his eye that this man told the truth and would make good on any threat he uttered. At last, true sensation and movement returned. Loosening the noose, he rubbed his aching neck. His fingers came away bloodied. He felt the heat in his still swollen ankle, then began to clumsily peel away the wet, filthy, blood-soaked cloths that bound his feet.
The forced march had been a living hell... no shoes... over rough, steep ground. If Nick or Ginge had fallen, he had been dragged along, strangled by the rope around his neck, until he had struggled to his feet. Ginge sported a deep cut over a black eye and purple bruise on his right cheekbone where he had slammed into rock. If Nick's cough had come upon him, he had choked and gasped for air as he ran. Suddenly, he remembered. It had been that first night after the massacre that they had been untied long enough to wrap their feet in rags. It had been too late. There had been little skin left to protect. The leader... the evil, one-eyed bastard... had laughed as he had tossed the rags at them, then spoke to Ginge in Arabic.
"What's he say?" Nick had asked.
"He said, 'Do you think our method of preventing escape will work?... Soon you'll be crawling along on all fours... fighting the other starving dogs for horseshit.'"
Nick scratched caked mud and blood from his matted beard. "Some menu," he joked. "You want a bullet.... The other day, he offered horseshit. Personally, I'm not hungry enough for either one." He hoped the attempt at humor would lift the other man's spirit. "Did you manage to get any water today?... From the snow... or that stream we crossed?"
The Brit shook his head. "Not a drop. I tried, but I couldn't manage without me 'ands... and they weren't about to give me a chance."
Nick pulled off the wet blanket. "Open your mouth," he ordered. "I'll wring out what I can. We'll do the same with yours. We're not even going to get piss from these bastards. They want us wore down enough to blab our heads off... do or say anything they want."
"Fuckin' 'ell... Indy.... Don't you ever give up?" Ginge glanced over at the tall man, the leader of the group, warming his hands over the freshly built fire. With deference, one of the others offered him a steaming cup of tea. "I'm gonna get right on that bastard's tits," said the young soldier, "with a bit o' luck, the bugger'll shoot me."
"No!" Nick hissed, squeezing the water droplets into his companion's mouth. "You can stand this.... We both can.... There's no way I'm ringin' the damned bell.... A friend of mine... used to say 'this too shall pass'.... Believe me... compared to what he went through... this is a Sunday walk in the park. When I think of him... I won't let this bastard win."
Ginge licked the moisture from his lips. "Is this that Derek guy... the one in the looney bin?" he asked.
"Yeah... it's him," said Nick, looking at the raw rings around his own wrists, remembering Derek's ugly scars. "Forget where he is now... Ginge. He's the strongest person I've ever known." The SEAL looked away, unable to meet the redhead's eyes... afraid of what his own might reveal. "It was bad.... He was really hurt... down to his soul.... He went through weeks of it... came through... alive.... I can't begin to imagine what it cost him... to survive... but he did." He squeezed a few drops of water onto his own tongue, then looked back at Ginge. "If there's a God anywhere... with an ounce of justice in him... Derek'll walk away from that fuckin' place. I know he will."
"Why'd he do it?" the Brit asked. "Fight so hard to stay alive?"
Nick shook his head sadly, then gritted his teeth as he began to pick bits of gravel and thorn from his badly lacerated feet. Ginge winced to see his companion squeeze purple blood and pus from a deep cut that stretched from his big toe to his arch. Nick pressed and pressed until the blood ran red. The Brit feared to unwrap his own feet, afraid of what he was certain he would find... frostbite.
Finally, Nick replied, "I guess he did it for us... his friends... his family... and to stop a sicko... which he did." At last he looked up. A brief smile flitted across his exhausted, grimy face, "and cause he's the most contrary son-of-a-bitch on the face of the earth."
"He's a good mate then?..."
Nick grinned. "Yeah.... I didn't always agree with him.... Sometimes he was a stuck-up pain in the ass... with ideas that were kinda way out there, but beyond that... there's something about him. I'm gonna fight to the end... whatever that is.... Otherwise... I'd be letting him down.... I think I'd rather face Satan himself... than a disappointed Derek Rayne."
"You got a plan?" Ginge whispered. As one of their captors looked over, he pretended to squeeze more water into his mouth.
"Lots... none of which will work.... But, if I'm goin' out... I'm taking their head honcho with me."
"What?... 'Nelson' over there?"
Nick raised an eyebrow in puzzlement.
"Nelson... old 'one-eye' over there," Ginge explained. "Lord Nelson... Trafalgar... ever hear of that?... Hey!... It was funnier than your 'menu' joke."
The SEAL smiled, relieved, at the revival of spirit. "Nah.... He's an evil bastard... but no way he's the brains.... My guess... he's a 'goffer' with ambitions to climb up terrorism's 'corporate ladder'. If we hang in there... and give 'em nothing... sooner or later they'll either give up and kill us... or take us to the main man... to prove to him that they haven't fallen down on the job."
Ginge nodded. "OK... Indy.... I think you're crazy.... We're gonna get a shit load of grief and pain... then a bullet... or maybe our heads chopped off... but I'm with you." He gave Nick a playful nudge in the ribs. "Here... mate... let me help you with your feet, then you can help me with mine. I think I'll have the easier end of the deal," he added with a bitter chuckle.
Ma'azar...
Yusuf watched Derek intently, saw his face as he hurried past, desperate to leave the scene of carnage. The mystic did not know any of these people... thieves and bandits, who had captured and sold his friend, still he seemed deeply moved by their deaths... or did "sense" more? Could he see their spirits? The youngster turned to follow.
"Yusuf!... Don't you work too hard," Masruq called out sarcastically. "Go watch your crazy foreigner, boy.... We'll dig the grave pit... bury these stinking dead."
"It is my job.... The Rumi-Khan trusts me with the life of his friend... the honored guest of our people. Would you have me betray that trust?"
"Maybe Zarek..." The older man pointedly used the warlord's given name. "...should have chosen a man of more consequence... a warrior... for such an honor." He grumbled to no one in particular, having first ensured that the Rumi-Khan would not hear.
"Or someone who talks a good fight," another man muttered darkly.
Yusuf grinned, turned, and proudly strode from the room. Before grasping the lantern that now hung, lit, beside the door, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Searching for the precept, he spotted him high on a ridge, on the far side of the temporary camp. He seemed to be staring at the sliver of a moon that rode high in the sky, encircled in its ring of white clouds.
"Insha'allah.... Why couldn't he stand by the fire... in the warm... where the food will be?" Yusuf muttered as he snatched Derek's sheepskin pushtin from the grey pony's back and clambered up the slope towards the other man.
"Tea?" he asked, determined to test the few words that his kinsman had taught him during the day's journey. He pulled on Derek's sleeve. It was not good for a man to think too deeply on death. He might encourage it to visit him.
Derek pulled his arm away and shook his head. "Go back," he said.
"Tala!... Come!... Tea." The young tribesman was not to be easily discouraged. He shuddered, glanced at the sky.... Tonight would be bitterly cold with more snow tomorrow.
"No!... La!" Derek snapped in Arabic. "Ar'jook... please.... I need solitude... to be alone.... Leave me," he hesitantly strung the sentence together in a mixture of rusty Arabic and Dari, Afghan Persian... hoping the boy would understand.
Yusuf sighed with resignation, slipped the pushtin around the precept's shoulders, and backed away, out of the mystic's sight, to sit on a cold rock. He sank down into his clothes for warmth, fingered the wooden, prayer beads he wore wrapped around his wrist, and patiently waited.
* * *
From his vantage point, Derek watched as ibn Sikander and his men buried the dead... prayed for them... then got on with the business of living. The horses were stabled in one of the huts. Musa and Ali prepared the food, and the group gathered to eat. He could not forget the dead... all the black, accusing eyes turned towards him. Why did death always walk at his shoulder?... Why did it seem to contaminate everything he touched? Was there some gene in the Rayne genetics... or was this tragedy all his own work?... If he had not been absorbed in self-pity, terrified of his own weak soul, contemplating his navel in Wells Ward, he'd not have been sucked into that... madness. Perhaps the visions would have come anyway.... Perhaps, with a clear mind, he'd have been able to warn the world. At the very least, he would have been called upon to contact ibn Sikander... not Nick... and he would have done it the way he did it... not parachuting out of airplanes. If Nick had not been a captive of these people, they'd still be alive to pursue their thieving.
"Stop this!" he ordered himself. "You're still wallowing in your damned self-pity. There's no time for this... this self-indulgence." He smiled at his use of one of Ingrid's favorite words, then stared up at the black ridges, ebony ghosts against the silver clouds. He stretched out his hand and his senses... reached for the living vibrancy that had once so easily come to him in the wild, empty places. "Please, God," he murmured, but felt nothing save cold, dead emptiness... out there... and within. He felt no sense of Nick's presence... no hint of the living souls in the camp below... nothing of the boy breathing behind him... no essence that should make every atom quiver with life and power.... There was only death... out there in the darkness... and below... in Ma'azar's last night of life.
He shuddered. How long had he been standing here?... The cold had wrapped itself around him... seeped into his bones. His feet and legs felt heavy... cold... as if encased in ice. Looking up at the crescent moon, he saw that it had risen to its apex. He slowly glanced around, knowing that he would still find Yusuf, on his rock.
< < + > >
Sitting in the cold, moonlit darkness, the boy had seen the precept stand in silence, then speak, then with long fingers reach out... to touch what, he wondered. To whom did he speak? The unseen frightened Yusuf, but his heart told him to trust this man, whom the Rumi-Khan trusted and owed a debt of honor.
At last the ruhani turned. "Go and eat," he told the boy. "Get warm by the fire."
Yusuf shook his head... not understanding the words, but, nonetheless, knowing their meaning. "You come!..." He gestured with his hand. "Ar'jook... bleeez."
Unable to stand the youngster's discomfort, Derek nodded in surrender. "OK... tea...."
| NEXT |
| CONTENTS |
| E-mail: Dubricus | E-mail: Susan Lay |
