Chapter 69
the R'om Valley... the next day
"Mr. Kincaid... sir," said Carter. "The pilot wants to be out of here before this weather sets in."
"Yes... Sergeant.... We'll be along, shortly," Ian replied quietly. His gaze momentarily followed the mercenary as he departed. Bloody good man, he thought, as he turned back in silence to survey the simple, rough-cut stones over Hasmit and Masraq's graves. "Derek didn't even get a grave," he muttered, shaking his head. Following the custom of the culture, he stooped to add a small stone, rather than a flower, to each mound.
Lingering as well, Ginge stepped up behind his fellow Brit. "I think he got the whole fuckin' mountain," he commented with a small, lop-sided smile. "Why didn't you or Indy say anything 'bout 'im... at the 'service'?"
"I couldn't think what to say," Ian replied. He clutched his parka close about him as a cold wind gusted across the ancient graveyard. Overnight, the weather had gone bleak. The surface of the lake was now a ragged slate.... Spikes of white froth chopped the surface. It would be a rough takeoff. Winter had finally decided to make its presence felt, even in Shangri-la. "He's gone," the old man said. "I wish to hell it was otherwise.... Boyle's still trying to sort out his feelings. I don't think he could trust himself to speak.... As for me... I've stood at so many graves of so many good men.... There's nothing left to say that isn't cliche... and anything else is nobody's business."
"The old guy... Sloan... was up for it. He gave it a go."
"Old guy?" Kincaid chuckled. "You realize... I've got damned near twenty years on him."
With a grin, Ginge shrugged his shoulders. "Coulda fooled me.... You might have white hair and be kinda worn round the edges, but he's gettin' thin on 'air... period... and he's the type what was born old."
"Mmmm...," Ian agreed. "You're spot on there... in more ways than one.... Willie's always the responsible one... always the one that does exactly what's expected of him... never one to allow his emotions to get in the way... if they even exist." The old man sadly shook his head. "Strange thing is... Willie knew Derek longer than any of us.... He took over after Derek's father died... but still he never knew him.... Everything he said was 'expected'... and true... the bravery... the nobility... the cussedness... but that was only half the man."
"How d'ya mean?" Ginge asked, surprised. "For my four penny worth... I thought Derek was fuckin' bloody marvelous. I never saw anything so brave in all my life... the way he said good-bye... and just did what he thought he had to do."
"He was... fuckin' bloody marvelous," Kincaid seconded. "But he did more... was
more... than Willie ever realised.... I suspect more than any of us can realize.... That's what I meant. I'll wager that you can count on one hand those who knew the truth about Derek Rayne.... I sure wasn't one of them.... He was like a master magician... Merlin himself," he chuckled. "He kept us all guessing... until now, I guess.... The final trick.... The last bow.... But Derek never found what he was looking for... for himself.... Trouble is... like Willie's eulogy... it sounds trite... mundane.... He wanted love... a family... things most people take for granted... a son to carry on the family line... if not it's 'legacy'. All were things he never found... or never 'allowed' himself to find.""Dutch was a real mate... then?" Ginge stated, shrewdly assessing the other man, seeing himself in thirty... forty years time.
"He was...." Ian smiled. "Lord knows... I never had very many...."
Ginge nodded... in understanding. He relaxed.... Somehow... he knew this was a man he could trust... a man he'd felt naturally drawn to for more reasons than a shared heritage. "You coming all the way with me... for the debriefing fun and games?"
"Yes... I have 'friends' in the right places... and if they aren't friends... I know a secret or two they might not like to read over their morning kippers. I'll see to it that they don't ask any questions that we don't want to answer," Ian stated with assurance. ...And, he admitted silently to himself, he needed to get out of Sloan's way.
"You're doin' a runner," Ginge said with a smile, reading the old man's thoughts.
"Precisely so," Kincaid confessed. "Willie and I are not 'mates'."
Ginge sighed deeply and turned back to the path that led down through the windswept grass to the village. He paused, momentarily, then looked back at the old man. "I just wish Dutch could get his due," he said. "What he did... in saving Indy and me... and afterwards... was fuckin' bloody marvelous... and no one'll ever know."
"We'll know... and remember... and one day, perhaps...."
Later...
A fire blazed in the fire pit of Ibn Sikander's home. Its warmth fended off the night's chill as the village elders and their guests ate in silence. Sitting on thick carpets, plush with skins and pillows, Ibn Sikander gazed into the flames and pondered upon events. The heat stretched his weathered skin taut across his high cheek bones. He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. He felt all of his years weigh down upon him. Earlier, after the funeral, he had watched the small plane take the old Englishman, Kincaid, and the soldiers away from the valley. The warlord had been relieved. Their presence spoke of failure... of death.
Now, he had to deal with those remaining, each tainted in his own way by the loss of life. He wondered if his every decision since Derek's arrival had been wrong. Although he had valued the man, had known and had witnessed his bravery, his intelligence, and his abilities... he had undervalued his most unique talent... the very gift that had saved his own son's life so many years before.
He looked across the flames at Altair, his son, whose life he owed to Derek. He had trusted the man then, though he'd barely known him. Why had he second guessed him this time?... The chieftain shook his head sadly.... What was worse, he had overestimated his own wisdom. If he had split his lashkar in half... rather than giving Derek two boys, a bull-headed malcontent, and a tracker... and keeping three-fourths of the party for his own mission... perhaps all would have survived... all would be seated here, now, around this flame. His fault... his misjudgement.
Instead, he had lost Masruq and Hasmit, two brave men... with families who would now mourn... men he would need, if the war came to the valley.
And Yusuf... another mistake..... He'd thought the responsibility for watching over Derek would be good for his kinsman... that it would expose him to another culture... so that he might learn from the older man, who had so much to teach. Had he learned too much?... The youth who had returned was not the one who'd left but a few weeks ago. He had hoped that Yusuf could grow into Altair's good right hand, but now?...
Above, the soft chatter of women and the giggle of children echoed downward through the brass flue which carried the warmth of the fire to the second storey. Tiny, running footsteps pounded the wooden floor overhead. The Rumi-Khan glanced sideways at Sloan and the man... Nick... whom Derek had come to save. He saw Sloan's eyes rise at the sound.
Ibn Sikander smiled proudly. "Ki'kuba, my youngest," he explained, sensing that all needed a moment of gentle diversion.
Sloan nodded and offered a weak, wistful smile in return. "I have daughters too... nearly grown now," he said. He gazed around the room, at the stone walls covered with carpets and tapestries and weapons of all generations... everything from ancient Greek shields and spears to Persian scimitars and Mongol bows to Kalashnikovs. He then stared down at the carpets upon which he sat. It was a topic he knew well from an old Legacy case, but he could not place the motif to a Turkmen clan.
Ibn Sikander saw him trace the black and red design with his finger. "Our own," he explained. "Based on the Greek key and the shell patterns of our Macedonian ancestors.... Bashir...." He turned to one of his men. "Get two carpets ready... for our friends... for when they leave us."
"Thank you," Sloan muttered, wondering if that was a heavy hint from the warlord. "We must go soon.... The plane will return tomorrow... or the next day... depending on the weather."
In the flickering firelight, Nick studied Sloan's bland expression. Everyone knew that they could have squeezed into the plane. They could have been on their way home, but neither man had felt able to leave... not yet. To leave was to acknowledge this final good-bye... and that was hard.... "Hard?" the SEAL muttered. There was no word to describe it.
Where was Yusuf, he wondered. He searched the dozen or more faces in room and finally spotted the Afghan, sitting alone, far from the gentle heat of the fire. He had been surprised when the young man had not come down to the shore to say farewell to Ginge.
Ibn Sikander read the thought. "Yusuf is deeply troubled.... I blame myself for this.... I knew he was.... What is your word?... a 'spiritual' young man.... He blames himself for failing Derek... for his death."
Nick nodded, morosely. He knew exactly how their companion felt, for those emotions found an echo in his own soul.
"Yusuf!..." The Rumi-Khan called. "Come!... Sit here...," he said in English, patting the cushions at his side. "Eat.... Life goes on.... Do not be so hard on yourself.... You did well.... Did not Derek's letter to me say this?... Did it not tell me how much he valued your help... how you became his friend?"
The young man reluctantly left his isolated position and came over to squat beside his kinsman. Refusing the offered food, he replied in R'om-vari. "I fast.... It must be so.... Allah will see and take pity. He will listen to me... grant me my prayer."
Ibn Sikander explained, then Sloan tried to offer solace. "I think he'll listen whether you have a full stomach or not," he murmured. "A friend of mine, Derek's sister, a holy woman, once told me that God always listens... but doesn't always give us the answer we want."
"Insha'allah," ibn Sikander agreed. "So it runs in the family.... I always believed Derek's soul to be an ancient one...." He paused to sip his tea. "Did some hidden memory... some God-given insight... guide his final actions?... Too late... alas.... Our legends once spoke of 'blessed' ones... chosen... anointed by God... who could walk into the flames and, by Allah's will, be safely delivered to an altar in the island temple, but hundreds of years have passed since that island existed. Now, it lies shattered and buried beneath the waters of the lake," he sighed, "and God gives us boiled fish, instead.... We have been exiled from his 'Light', but not abandoned to the Darkness."
Yusuf's hand rested on the knife Derek had given him, the final gift from a man who had come to mean much more to him than he had anticipated.
Sloan again spoke gently, as a father would to his son. "From what Mr. Boyle's told us you did everything you could for Derek." He reached over to touch the young man's shoulder as the warlord translated, but Yusuf shrugged off his hand. "You got him where he had to go... to his destiny... not one any of us foresaw... but I, for one, am grateful he had a friend like you."
Ibn Sikander's translation seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Nick managed a brief smile for the youngster. "Remember what we told you that the Fravashi said?... No more pain.... No grief.... That Derek's in God's hands now."
Yusuf turned to face the SEAL. "I know this," he said firmly in R'om-vari. "Why else would I be at the mosque day and night. I pray and pray, because Allah is deciding.... Insha'allah... his will be done... but I ask him to hear me... to weigh my petitions in his decision."
The SEAL nodded as ibn Sikander translated.... He'd never been a 'praying' kind of man... still... if it helped the kid.... "OK... but remember you've got a life to live... which is something Derek reminded me of.... No way would Derek expect you to spend all your time praying for him.... He'd say that he'd take care of his own soul... and tell you to get on with it."
The warlord translated the SEAL's thoughts, then listened impatiently to an outburst from Yusuf. With an angry expression and tone, he snapped back at the youngster.
"What did he say?" Nick asked.
"It was foolishness... not worthy of him... nor of our people."
"What?" Nick demanded. "Tell me."
"He said that Derek would also want to live...." The Rumi-Khan hesitated, then continued, "...That you have abandoned him... not by leaving the caverns... not by destroying them... but by not seeking God's merciful intervention... not pleading for his survival... his return. Derek's fate is being decided... survival... here... now... heaven... hell... another place or time. The flame has the power to do any of these things, if Allah wills... and you are turning your back... walking away... leaving Derek alone... getting on with your life."
Nick grew pale. Jesus! Could Yusuf see into his heart... see the guilt that ate at him, like a cancer of the soul?... Could he see that he was happy Derek was gone.... that his friend had found true peace?.... The spectre of Wells Ward... of a slip into a terrorized madness... trapped like a rabid wolf... or wasting away... broken in body and mind... was unbearable. But what if Derek had survived... perhaps horribly burned?... What if he had to struggle to once more to rebuild his shattered life?... The SEAL couldn't watch him suffer like that again... couldn't see the man he loved torn apart... physically... emotionally.... He couldn't do it again.... He couldn't....
But... Nick swallowed convulsively at the bile, which burned his throat... 'fess up, Boyle.... There's more.... You're relieved that he's gone, so that you can get on with your life. "No," said Nick, confused. "Derek knew his fate.... He welcomed it.... He welcomed the end.... The Fravashi said...."
Yusuf interrupted.... This time without anger. "What if Da'reek is not in Paradise?... No man knows what sins are borne by another man's soul.... No man... no angel... can foresee God's judgement or will.... What if he is back in the Hell he feared... the one that left its scars on his body and his mind?... What if Allah wishes to use him another way... yet again... and our prayers might sway him to let Da'reek... his servant... go... and we did not pray.... What then, son of Da'reek?... What if God's benevolence would have been bestowed... had we prayed... had we asked... and we did not?"
Yusuf pushed himself to his feet and stalked from the house. In the silence he left behind, Sloan wondered what fanatical dreams Derek had managed to engender this time.
"I apologise." Ibn Sikander's face was set in stone. "I can only plead that Yusuf is tired... and deeply upset by Derek's death.... Even so... to say such things to you... the man Derek traveled halfway round the world to save...."
Nick shrugged. "Maybe he has a point," he whispered hoarsely.
"Nonsense," Sloan bristled... eager to put the uncomfortable discussion to an end. "I know you'd have walked through fire to save Derek, if you could have."
"Through fire?" Nick turned an anguished face towards the older man. "I didn't though, did I?... Talk's cheap.... I left it to him... and I left the objecting to Ginge."
"Mr. Boyle," Sloan said firmly.... Christ!... Did he have another guilt ridden Derek on his hands... or another Major, destined to hide in the bottle?... Where was the prickly, little SOB he'd first met? "I know Derek," he told Nick. "He didn't give you a chance, did he?... He insisted that this was his responsibility... his destiny... and that he would handle it... 'trust him'... and he ordered you to get out... am I right?"
The SEAL nodded, unable to trust his voice. He rose shakily, steadied himself, and left the room.
In the cold twilight, Nick saw Yusuf climbing the ragged, stone steps up the hillside, back to the mosque. He needed to talk. "That's a first, Boyle," he mocked himself. "You're the 'strong, silent type'." He hurried after the Afghan. "Yusuf!" he called. "Wait!" He stopped in his tracks, realising that they had no interpreter.
The young tribesman turned and waited for the American to catch up. He studied the troubled face, the tormented eyes, and understood. He took the other man's arm and pulled him towards the mosque, pausing at the door only to remove his shoes and to pull the SEAL's boots from his feet.
They stepped through the door into a small room, where Yusuf ladled water from an urn into a basin. He ritually washed his face and hands, then indicated that Nick should do the same. Afterwards, the two men entered the large, shadowy room of the mosque itself, which was lit only by a few lanterns. The boy turned to face Nick. "OK.... Pray for Da'reek... and for Indy-Neeck... from here and here," he said in English, as he reached forward to touch Nick's head, then his heart.
Yusuf turned, bowed down, and pulled Nick with him. "Pray!"
the Next Day...
Ibn Sikander and Sloan walked slowly by the lakeside, neither was anxious to break the silence that hung heavily in the air. Even nature itself was still and foreboding. Charcoal clouds now rode low on the mountainsides. No dogs barked... no sheep bleated. There was not even the caw of an irate crow, nor the quack of a duck... only the anxious lapping of waves against the rocky beach.
"Boyle still with Yusuf?" Sloan asked, already knowing the answer. "I don't know what to make of it.... He never was a 'pray-er'... always more a 'do-er'... like his dad."
"Yusuf's persuasion." The warlord searched the sky and the lake, wondering what had become of the multitudes of water fowl that wintered in the valley. "Since he was a boy, that one has been marked for God.... I thought he would become a holy man... now I am certain.... Derek influenced him in many ways.
"Your man... Nick.... He needs this, I think.... I see the torment in him... the guilt.... For years he's watched Derek... seen his suffering... and been unable to... to 'make things better'.... Now Derek's death releases them both.... He wonders if he tried hard enough to save his friend.... He fears that, deep in his secret soul, he wanted it... and he hates himself for that."
For several long minutes, the men stood locked in silence, staring across the gray waters. Finally, Sloan turned to resume his saunter. "All last night... I was thinking... about your tale of the powers of the flame.... Could it be?..." he cautiously asked, recalling his own missing years... remembering Derek's stories of the "other-world".
"That Derek somehow survived?..." Ibn Sikander finished Sloan's sentence. "That God miraculously... what is the English?... 'transported' him to some other realm... or to an island that is under hundreds of feet of water... or that may never have existed at all?
"You and I... and Kincaid... we are pragmatic men.... We are leaders, who lead without 'special' gifts... without that 'magic of the soul' which men like Derek have. They are prophets and warrior-kings like Alexander or Haroun al-Rashid... or generals like the Spanish 'Cid', while we 'mere mortals' plod along as best we can.
"Those tales have been told here for centuries. They give my people a purpose... and an anchor... but we know the uses of a Kalashnikov and do not entirely trust in the Favashi to protect us. Other than Derek's 'Sight'... and the existence of this valley, which I am sure your Western science can explain... I have seen no miracles.... Between us 'pragmatists'... the appearances and disappearances from the island may have been a wise man's illusion... human trickery... seeking to help God along a little... or just stories. The tales of 'other' worlds... of Fravashi... hallucinations produced by volcanic gases... or... poppy, which has always grown abundantly in this valley." The Rumi-Khan sighed, "We know the uses and misuses of poppy very well... and I freely confess... it is our cash crop. I would it were otherwise.
"Yusuf tries so hard to believe that the truth lies in those stories... but I cannot grant myself that luxury.... This is not Shangri-la... nor Xanadu.... It is the real world, such as it is."
"But Derek, Nick, and Corporal Jones were in the fire temple below.... We have Nick and Ginge's versions of events," Sloan objected, daring to hope.... Didn't Derek always survive? "So there's truth in the tales."
Ibn Sikander sighed again. Exhaustion and regret tinged his voice. "They were somewhere and they saw something... something that is now lost to us... forever."
At that moment, a young boy on a wooly pony galloped along the lake's embankment towards the village. Pointing towards the water, he rose in his stirrups to give a long, trilling call.
Ibn Sikander turned to survey the commotion. "Allah and the mountain bestow a gift of fish," he announced, "...and all is well with the world...." His chuckle was a bitter one.
< < + > >
the Mosque...
A wave of dizziness swept over Nick. He squinted at Derek's watch on his wrist. It was a little past noon. His head ached; his body ached. Hunger and thirst had come and gone, unrequited, and had come again. The lanterns had been extinguished with the dawn and the gray light of a gloomy mid-day filtered in through open windows. Christ! It's cold, he thought, as he blew hot, steamy breath into his hands. Oops, he realized... in a mosque. "Sorry 'bout that," he silently murmured.
Not for the first time, he gazed around the room in boredom... at the dozen or more intricately carved, wooden pillars that supported the carved roof beams... at the elaborately woven carpets, large and small, that covered the floor, but did little to save his bruised knees.
He looked over at Yusuf, who still muttered his prayers. Beads clicked incessantly through his delicate fingers. Every so often he would bow down to touch his head to the floor. He had done this without rest or pause since they had entered the mosque so many, many hours ago. He has the stamina of an ox, Nick thought. He, himself, was all prayed out. After the first few, what was left to say? "Please, God, help Derek. Take good care of him.... He deserves the best you can give...." But then, in the flicker of the lantern light, in the musty odors of this age-old place, his mind had wandered... without rhyme or reason.
To what????... His own life.... Derek's life.... What Derek had come to mean to him and how it had come to pass.... His relationship with his dad, and what he knew of Derek's relationship with Winston.... Derek's tales and his belief in those "other" places... "other" dimensions.... The agonies of the past five years had consumed hours of contemplation. Every now and again two words would creep into his thoughts.... "Please, God."
At one point, in the very wee hours, he had looked over at Yusuf... and had seen the boy's dark eyes watching him, while the constantly moving fingers still counted the beads. It was then that Nick realized that he, himself, was crying. As the dawn came on with its coldness, the recesses of his mind had turned to examine the events that had brought them here... the horrors of their own time... the myths that swathed this place in an ancient mystique... myths that would now grow to include Derek Rayne... and myths that had shaped Derek's own life... Merlin's bloodline... the sword that rested on the mantle back home... the "Chosen One"... the "Anointed One"... the portals.... Zoroastrianism had collided with Arthurian fables and Alexandrian legend... even the shades of Native American myth had been tossed into the pot... and thousands of years... of history and something more than history... had been interwoven because of one man's presence.
None of it mattered to Nick Boyle as his world shrank into the cold, dark, lonely place that he knew would become his soul's existence. It was for his friend that he grieved... his friend, Derek Rayne... his... his... "other" half... and for himself. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw "something". He turned his head, but it was shadow only. "Please, God," he again murmured. He felt a presence, standing in the darkness, just beyond his field of vision. Was it Derek, silently watching, as he'd so often done in life? "Please, God."
* * *
"Ullllll...rrrr...la...la...rrr!... Ulllllah!"
Nick jumped at the sound; a sudden wave of vertigo washed over him. Shaking it off, he looked over at Yusuf, who had abruptly ceased his prayers and was already on his feet. "Attack!" was the SEAL's automatic thought. His hand reflexively reached for his back waist, but found nothing. He had left his gun with his gear, back at ibn Sikander's house. "Shit!" he swore.
Shouts and excitement echoed from outside as a boyish voice continued to trill. The mosque door slammed open and a man with a scraggly, gray beard stuck his head in and shouted something to Yusuf.
The young Afghan calmly, seriously, turned back to help Nick to his feet. "Fish," he explained... to quell the fear he read in Nick's face. "It's OK." He closed his eyes, in which Nick had seen worry... even fear... and took a deep, fortifying breath. "Allah has heard.... Da'reek's soul... his fate.... Allah gives us his sign."
"He gives us his sign?" Nick said, incredulously, as he limped towards the door. His throat had tightened; his voice became strident. "And it's goddamned fish!... What the hell kind of answer is fish?"
Yusuf shrugged, eloquently. Nick could read the confusion of emotions in the youth's dark eyes.... Fear and confidence were one.
"Bullshit!" All Nick could think of was Sloan's statement of the night before... "God hears our prayers, but his answer is not always what we want."... but the words had whispered through his mind in Derek's soft lilt.
"No!" Yusuf harshly retorted. "Allah has decided.... Come!"
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