Llewellyn’s Child

Beyond the craggy mountain border and far to the west of Jinny’s third floor broken window, multifarious ships slid silently through the Strait of Hormuz like crocodiles into a backyard pool at a children’s birthday party.   When acid rain stuck confetti to the ground,  the parade ended and nobody stayed to scrape up the mess–the party’s was over, and the war was on.  The crocodiles death-rolled over and over again, precipitating a conflict that destabilized the region.  Treaties were trampled, plebeians panicked, families floundered, and missiles murdered. ”

Jinny slept.

Three septuagenarians gathered twenty-seven feet beneath her apartment window after midnight—Abdul-Akim, Fasad, and Barakah—each a family patriarch; each a wannabe-a- master-of-oral-history.  Each old man breathed deeply; each grew weary of breathing deeply.  Abdul-Akim, stooped at the shoulders but level-headed, was generally acknowledged by his people as Hafiz, guardian of the word, and wisest of the tone-deaf trio.  He had composed his thoughts, hidden them within his thwab, and stood almost nose to nose with Fasad and Barakah, hoping to poetically cadence memories from his tongue like water ripples over smooth stones; but even on his best days his words puddled and drained slowly.

None had been gifted with a salubrious tongue;  none was a bard. However, each conceded that a repetition and retention of the facts of history constituted the warp and the woof of the soul, the means by which evidence of God’s power of deliverance—woven one thread at a time into the imperfect, fraying tapestry of the mind–was to be preserved for posterity. Abdul-Akim and his companions shared in common at least one other hope—that one-day treasured tomes of the heart might be recorded in something more durable than a three-ringed binder.  As was their custom, the youngest recited first.

“Well, here I go again—the pasty polish shining up the pots.  I am Barakah, by birth and tradition a Sunnite of the school of Abu Haneefah.  BUT, while abroad in recent years, my brothers and I learned of The Master.  And so I begin by declaring that we wish no man ill.  We wish to be no part of  jihad.  The listener should note that subsequent to our conversion we were bandied to blows and forced into a corner while in defense of our God-given freedom to assemble and worship as we choose.  Fearing genocide at the hand of the ayatollah’s secret police, and possessed of no desire to overpopulate the Rasht Memorial Cemetery . . . “

 “Or more likely, interment in an irrigation ditch,” tooted Fasad, who unwittingly stitching pinpoints of saliva onto Barakah’s forehead, cheeks, and chin. The younger patriarch stared into Fasad’s dilated, bloodshot eyes and, without blinking. lubricated his lips, cleared his throat, maintained a semblance of composure, and  grunted:

“Humph!  You always dislodge my decorum so early during our rehearsal.  May I please complete mine before you  commence with the second movement?  I have been promoted to third chair,  you know.”

Fasad twisted his stringy beard with two fingers and mumbled, “As you wish.”

“Thank you. As I was saying, our families endured both the picketing and incessant banter of local clerics, but when the ayatollah’s constables swarmed nearby and then hived in our neighborhood like African bees, we sought reprieve from the government.  Our sworn affidavits were considered; fumigation was denied; properties were seized without warrants; locals were summarily arrested, and we feared for our liberty and our lives.

“Finally, one night under the cloak of darkness, Abdul-Akim, our munificent Hafiz, invited forty-seven family heads—six of them brave widows—into his library, and we commenced planning our flight from the fatherland. We made ready, we sought aid from Divine Providence, we organized into companies of fifty, and during the dark September equinox we bade farewell to Rasht, our native homeland.”  Barakah paused.   “Most noble Abdul-Akim, please feel free to amend my recollections.  Some days when questions come knocking on my forehead, I sadly post a sign, room for rent.”

Barakah waited for a chuckle, got none, turned memory’s faded page, and continued.  “We in the vanguard company loaded up and left the potter’s field two hours before midnight; the second company departed at ten-thirty; the third at eleven; and so forth.  And our dream?  Find temporary refuge and work in Pakistan among our Sunni brothers and sisters, well-protected beyond Afghanistan’s towering Hindu Kush to the east.  Our long journey of what would sum to 5,000 kilometers continued into the morning.”  Barakah paused and puzzled.  “But did we really walk that far, beneficent Hafiz?”  Abdul’s eyes rolled up and he regaled his companions with a click of his tongue.

“First, be sparing with your use of audacious adjectives, Barakah; as I have counseled many times, although older, I am no more beneficent than either of you.  Flattery becomes no one.  Secondly, we drove—not walked—all the way to Jalalabad, a journey of 2100 kilos, not 5,000. You’re not that far-gone are you, my friend?”  Abdul winked, perked his ears, and stared into Barakah’s  eyes, anxious to incubate his rejoinder.

Barakah chuckled.  “No, well yes, of course.  I suppose I am given to a few lapses, relapses, overlapses, and occasional collapses.” He grinned.

Fasad was not enjoying the exchange.  “Do you remember passing the skip loader?  That would be a good place to start.”

“Details escape me.  I do seem to remember our passing a skip loader, but where?”

“‘Twas not far from the entrance to the first tunnel, high above the village; do you remember now?  You presumed it to be our first miracle, Barakah.”

“Indeed, it was our first miracle, wasn’t it?  A slide had blocked the road and had only been cleared away for a few hours.  And, yes, yes, now I remember.  Grey to black—grey to black—grey to black—grey to black—then grey to grey, and black-black-black.  But the rest escapes me.  Why is it more difficult to remember events that occurred in the middle of the night?”

Fasad steamed and blew his whistle.  “Honestly, do you think our passage through and between those stuffy tunnels worthy of description?   Here is your problem, Barakah—well at least one of your problems—you did not properly warm up before you left your apartment this evening.  As a result, you are frittering away our time.  So, begin with this:  We rendezvoused after exiting the Mazandaran Tunnel before dawn.  I know everyone in my vehicle sighed ‘amen’ after we emerged from that long black hole in the mountain.   And do you not remember the glass-beaded sign,Tehran 175 kilometers?  Well, I for one will never forget thinking to myself, ‘Fasad, you are parading in company with fools,’ for now we were upon the Haraz Parkway and, if spotted, as digestible as fresh carrion.  Why, I literally curled my toes and held my breath as we passed squad after squad of soldiers, packed together like wolves billeted along the road. We were exposed and highly vulnerable; but, fa-la-la-la-la, I strung along, not wanting to cause contention, and knowing that without me our plan would fail.”

Barakah felt the pain of a crossing guard whose sign had been knocked to the ground and run over by a bus, but he was still standing.  “Must I go on, Abdul-Akim?”

“If you please, please.”

“Very well, then.  I do remember the freshly painted lines running down the middle of the black asphalt road.  And I confess, Fasad, my countenance, too, gave way to gloom as we passed the blistered, graffitied billboard—Visit Mazandaran by the Caspian—the village where stands my modest, now confiscated summer home.   But once we arrived in the capital and saw the streets crowded with disquieted faces, paraded placards, clustered civilians, German Shepherd dogs, shielded brigades of policemen, and barricaded boulevards, I knew our noble Hafiz had chosen our exit strategy well.

“We followed the Jajrood River Road—yes, yes, that was its name—south.”

Fasad interrupted, “You must state your case clearly.  Was it the Jajrood road or the South road?”

“Never mind him.” Abdul- Akim patted Barakah on the shoulder.  “You are doing well, but please accelerate your tempo.”

“As the Americans would say, ‘I am on a roller,’ Master Abdul.  We navigated block by block through homely suburbs until we found the Old Persian Silk Road, which we followed eastward into the late afternoon. Teeth rattled at the roar of jet engines screaming overhead; a convoy of military trucks, laden with soldiers and the accouterments of war, recklessly rolled past, honking, spinning gravel from the road, and spewing black smoke . . . How am I doing?  Yes, yes, and I remember soldiers gesturing the sign-language of hell from open windows; but no one pulled us over, and no one ran us off the road.  I would say this was another miracle.

“Garmsar-Semnan-Damghan-Malek Abad, all familiar municipalities—and yes, I am good with names—they all rushed up to greet us, only to be left behind coughing up our dust.   Heavy opposing traffic cumbered the road, evidence that others seeking asylum had been turned around at the border crossing, for surely this was a season for tourists.  Did I say, ‘they were turned around’?  Was even our exile to be prohibited?  We did not know.”  Barakah spread his feet further apart and clasped his hands together.

“I blanched with fear when an amplified voice blared, ‘STOP.  TURN BACK.’  No-no-no-no.” The memory caused Barakah’s heart to skip a beat.  He blurted, “Oh august Abdul, what has become of our homeland?”    His brothers echoed only silence.   Barakah regained his composure and wiped his eyes with his thumbs.  “Forgive the outburst, but the memory is very upsetting.  The gated Kalan Corridor, shrouded in razor wire, looked more daunting than black bunting around a funeral pyre.  Military policemen blocked both border egress and ingress and paced up and down like zoo lions behind dozens of red cones, labeled CAL-TRANS, as I recall.  Engraved on my memory is the sight of automatic weapons pointed directly at our vehicle.  Little Dalir whispered in my ear, ‘Papa, as the Americans would say, ‘are we done for?’

“A sullen-faced Revolutionary Guardsman stepped from between the orange cones and sauntered back and forth to assure—I believe—that all eyes in Master Abdul’s Dodge van took note of the bulls-eyed wings on his sleeve.  He rested one hand on his holstered semi-automatic, walked to the window, and for a short eternity stood silently twisting his long-handled mustache with one hand, the other fondling his weapon’s grip.  I mumbled, ‘Yes, little Dalir we may be done for.’”  Barakah paused.  “And why is fiddling with facial hair such a fetish for some men?”  Not allowing for a response, he cleared his throat and continued.

“After rudely slapping the forged exit-visa from our leader’s hand and watching it fall, the guardsman leaned over, plucked it from the road, stepped back, and drew the parchment close to his nose. We held our breath while he walked the document back and forth in front of his eyes. To our surprise he stopped, grunted, grimaced, straightened, and commenced slapping at his bottom with the undocumented hand.  His armed comrades raised the gate and without further ado waved us across the border into Afghanistan.  The stricken officer, still slapping at his gluteus maximus, glared at each passing vehicle but stopped no one.  We could not have been more astonished had we been guests at the very wedding feast where Jesus turned water into wine and saved a celebration from sobriety.  Who could describe, my brothers, the relief and joy that poured into our grateful souls?  Another miracle. We hurried on.”

“Yes, yes, please; hurry on and up,” carped Fasad.  “I am thirsty.”

“We lost daylight but found and purchased petrol at a truck stop.  It’s brawny, under-dressed owner was so thrilled to see us line up, pump, and pay cash, he offered overnight accommodations in his pistachio orchard near the American military base in Herat.  Our women and children harvested until dark; we gorged; we prayed; we tried to sleep.  I lay by little Dalir whose asthmatic breathing worried me through the night.

“When I awoke, Dalir seemed better, despite a passing squall, and the weather had turned in our favor.   Drip-dried clothing was retrieved from the trees; our vehicles sputtered to life, steamed, and slowly paraded bumper to bumper toward a hastily constructed barricade manned by the U. S. Army.  A large sign, mounted upside-down on the crossing arm and printed in English, read, STOP!   So, we did. Checkpoint Charlie was all that stood between us and the long road to Kabul.

A few of us climbed out to stretch, spit, and cheer one another.  We decided to harmonize and sang at the top of our lungs until the heat of the morning sapped our energy and left us silently worrying over our prospects for moving on.  In the midst of our human vapor-­lock, a siren wailed like an unfed toddler.  I feared that the children’s hopes might evaporate faster than the sweat from their flushed foreheads and faces.  They looked so innocent, so absent of guile.  Little Dalir’s breathing again became labored.

“A sat-phone rang in the security booth.  All eyes focused on the MP who answered the call.  He stood and—armed with an AR-15—cautiously closed the distance between our lead vehicle and himself.  He examined Master Abdul’s papers.  No, I err, his papers remained at the border.  Our hearts sank.  The soldier continued walking slowly past each vehicle, looking, we supposed, for weaponry.  His name-tag read, O D  W Y E R.   He didn’t appear odd to me, but then, you can’t judge a soldier by his name-tag.

“After eyeballing eleven anxious faces OD WYER jogged forward and announced to our leader, ‘You may pass, Sir.  Good luck.’  Every engine came synchronously to life and hummed on key as OD WYER and two Afghan partners—also dressed in camo-green—beat 2-2 time and waved us through.  We increased the distance between vehicles so as not to draw undue attention to our happy chorus of clattering engines, happy children, and relieved adults all talking at the same time.”

“All undoubtedly following your lead,” chimed in Fasad.

“We drove through the night and arrived shortly after Kabul’s bazaar-cluttered streets had opened for business.  The locals ignored us, which I thought strange.  Gasoline seemed in short supply but available for a price, a high price; we bought and moved on, navigating the narrow gorge road beyond Kabul without mishap, and drove into the late afternoon, arriving before dusk at Two Rivers Bridge near Jalalabad.  Let the record reflect gratitude:  no flat tires; no overheated engines; no attacks; no deaths—but alas, no fuel.  Pumps had been locked and labeled with wide yellow tape: ‘NO POWER-NO PUMP-NO PETROL-NO PARKING.’

“We crossed our fingers, our hearts, the bridge, and set sights on the distant Khyber Pass, soon to be veiled by darkness.  An hour and ten minutes later one of the vehicles in the third company stalled and stopped; then another; followed by yet another.  Three strikes and you’re out.  We had no disposition to leave anyone behind, so we were stranded together in a dark, hostile  wilderness.  Our exigency drove us to our knees. Some families settled alongside the road. Others of us returned to our vehicles to endure another long, sleepless night. No fires–we feared a sneak attack of the Taliban. No traffic passed us by; cell-phones were useless, but at least we had one another.    Dalir’s condition worsened.”

Fasad teetered and was ready to totter.  He had fallen asleep.  Abdul nudged him with his leg.

“What? Who? . . .  I was resting my eyes, if you don’t mind.  Are you nearly finished, Barakah?”

“Nearly.  Every sixty minutes armed sentries sounded, ‘All is well,’ until about two-thirty in the morning.  I was awakened by the mating call of a Siberian Crane.  Safeed! It was the signal of our forward scout, returning to report. Family heads arose and gathered around my Chevy pickup hoping to hear good news.  Safeed exuded excitement as he scrambled onto the cab roof with a failing flashlight in his hand:

“‘Twelve of them. I found twelve of them,’ he jubilantly exclaimed.  “I was two miles ahead of the camp and darkness had fallen.  While hiking back to join you, I stepped on something, leaned over, and picked it up–a broken camera.  I saw nothing else on the ground and decided to keep walking, but then it happened.  A voice in my head said, “Look.”  Look?  Look where?  Through a broken lens?  I walked to the edge of the road, flashed my light down the steep bank, and saw nothing.  I crossed to the far side of the road, knelt,  and studied the ground.  Human tracks–lots of them.  My hands trembled.  I shut off the flashlight, slid from the road down the embankment, sat, and listened; no voices, not even the song of the cicada; nothing but the beating of my own heart—resounding like tympani.  I pressed the switch on my flashlight and there they were. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief.  Can one’s sight fall short of one’s faith?  Or should it be said, can one’s faith fall short of one’s sight?’”

“Enough,” decreed Fasad, startling Barakah.   “I will tell it from here, Barakah. “You wander from the score, and your voice has become as raspy as a clarinet with a dry, broken reed.”

 Barakah mumbled something no one understood, and then fell silent.

“ Barakah, you are given to wandering. Allow me to bring this recital to a chronological conclusion,” grumbled Fasad.  “I climbed on the truck, grabbed Safeed by the shoulders, and whispered, ‘Enough with the suspense, Safeed.  Repeat this to no one, but I am about to  wet my pants, so spare us the melodrama and tell us what you discovered  in the bushes.‘”

“’Abandoned handcarts.  Yes, handcarts, mostly in good repair, and that is not all.  I found this, too.’  He held up a blue-capped, plastic water bottle and for a moment looked like an Iranian reproduction of the Statue of Liberty.  ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I located twenty-three cases of water; but left behind by whom?  I do not know.  As you can attest, my flashlight needs a charge, but I no longer do,’ he concluded triumphantly.”

“’Enough, Safeed.’ I replied.  ‘Step down before you glamorize your discovery by calling it a miracle.  Go. Rejoin your parents and sister and wet your pallet.  They are there,’  I pointed.   And then you, Abdul, upstaged me by insisting that we kneel together in the dark and thank God for yet another miracle.  How utterly pointless.  Evening prayers had concluded only hours before, and as the Americans would say, ‘add insult to injury,’ I soiled my best designer jeans and had no place to rinse them out.”

Abdul and Barakah mumbled something unintelligible, but Fasad dragged on like fingernails terrorizing a chalkboard.

“Miracle indeed!  Irgla almost came unglued  trying to squeeze all our stuff into a boxy handcart.  Furthermore–and very troublesome at the time–you know who down the street refused to gag her cackling chickens.  I wanted to strangle the lot of them for fear of being detected by the Taliban.  And finally, Abdul, I had no place to ride, leaving me under the necessity of dragging Irgla’s heavy satchel.  It made me sweat like a sow.”

Abdul started to say something but Fasad interrupted. “Yes Abdul, I know, too much alliteration.”

“No Fasad, I was about say pigs don’t sweat.”

“Right, but I ask you both, was what we sacrificed worth this long journey?”

Abdul bit his tongue for the umpteenth time.  Fasad continued to pound his drum of discontent.  “It was dark and very cold when I first espied Peshawar through a thick layer of smog.”

“But wait,” plead Barakah.  “You must first mention that some among our party reported that unseen hands helped push their carts up the hill and through the Pass.”

“Excuse me,” Fasad sniped.  “YOU mentioned it.  Be assured that my memory is strong as a rope of many strands, and unlike yours, they have not frayed; furthermore, I am not given to speculation.   So, do listen and learn.”  Fasad calmed a bit and then continued, “Abdul-Akim stood before us, turned and pointed downhill toward the distant village, and declared,  ‘We must not continue on to Islamabad.   God has prospered our journey and wills that we find sanctuary among the people of Peshawar, where we must work for what we receive, for God has no use for a drone.  I command that each of you help prepare to assist those who follow, for they will come, whether you like it or not.’”  Amused that Abdul-Akim had winced, Fasad paused to sneeze.

Abdul suggested, “Private interpretations of what I actually said notwithstanding, perhaps we should call it a night, or a draw.”

“No, no, no. At our last visit you rushed my recital such that my tongue got  Charlie-horsed, if indeed, that is possible.  So now, begging your indulgence, please let me remind you both that it was I who first espied Peshawar”

“Please, put a lid on it, you pugnacious parasite.”

“Did you say something, Barakah?

“No, no, please proceed,” he sullenly replied, thankful that his jibe had been detected but not deciphered by the larger man.

“Very well then! The village square isn’t square at all; it borders the east side of the city instead of being in the center where it belongs.  And who could forget the snake?  It rattled to get attention alright, but not so it could present us the key to the village. I tell you both, the snake was a bad omen indeed.”

“Fasad, Fasad, calm down or you’ll have a stroke,” plead Abdul.

“Better a stroke than a snake bite . . .  and did that squat, so-called hospital have a snake bite kit?  Well, I didn’t find one!  And who is to blame for my dog’s demise?”

“Yes, that was sad, Fasad, but may I suggest you credit the snake?”  Barakah wanted to end the soap opera with a little organ music—his stomach growled—but Abdul didn’t pull the plug; he simply tried to moderate the volume.

“Fasad, kindly do not lose your way. Remember why we are remembering.  You are a gifted orator.  Please present your closing argument.”

Fasad’s head protruded from his thwab like a turtle from his shell, and he snapped, “As you desire, your honor–the hospital festering on the south of the square reminds me of a pustule  needing to be lanced!”

Barakah could hold it back no longer. “Since you choose to delight in such dribble, I assure you, I will now delight in your departure.”  And possibly, your demise.

Fasad folded his arms into a knot and pulled tight.  “Then YOU tell it.”

Barakah waited for a nod from Abdul-Akim, cleared his throat, and ventured to true-up the rest of the story. “I will summarize for the sake of  posterity: The birthday-cake-shaped hospital is modestly supplied and a welcome sight for sore everything.  It faces north and forms the lower leg of a right triangle.  The other leg to its left includes a cobbler’s shop, three smaller shops, and finally I come to the forgettable flat-roofed municipal building and . . .

Fasad interrupted again.  “Wait. Perhaps since I am the best informed on Muslim culture I should say that the flat-roofed municipal building abuts a much taller, magnificent minaret—lighthouse to the Muslim world—very close to the main road.  Let the line between the minaret and the hospital’s eastern perimeter represent the hypotenuse of your right triangle.  It points toward Islamabad. Not that I’ll ever get to visit,” he carped disdainfully.

Jaded companions’ eyes reeled over like symbols beneath a slot machine’s windows–no payout–but Fasad was on a roll. “It was I who first spotted this village; I was first to note that it was once the habitation of Shi’a Muslims— the very people who forced us from our homes—as is plainly manifest by the minaret.”

“Why don’t you just go on-line and market selfies,” suggested Barakah.  “You are so full of yourself, perhaps tomorrow you should go on a fast.”

Fasad snorted, “I can see that you are testing my resolve, so I shall conclude my recital, as you call it, on a high note.  The minaret reaches to a height of over fifty feet and is, like me, well-rounded and will withstand the tests of time.  It reminds me of my villa by the Caspian; it is of classic neo-natal design–a colorful canopy, cornices, decorative brick and tile work.  It  In its tower once stood the muezzin calling people to prayer.  He must have climbed through its arched portal from a fire escape, or perhaps a ladder on the municipal building roof.  Because of congenital vertigo I have never climbed the minaret, but it is the only object within two hundred kilometers of Peshawar worthy of remembering.  My wife has named it, Fasad Tower.

“Perhaps you should simply scratch its mention from your narrative,” replied Barakah.

“Now, now, my brothers, remember that contention is of the devil,” counseled Abdul.  “it is neither our purpose to draft an encyclopedia nor create a monument this evening,” he chortled as good-naturedly as humanly possible.

“Then I defer to you, Abdul-Akim.”  Know it all.

“Thank you and well spoken, Fasad.”  Tugging his thwab tightly around his shoulders, Abdul sought to mellow the moment and soothe the savage beast.  “I am Abdul-Akim.  We thanked God for what we found here:  Cobbled streets and multiple-storied dwellings; protection from the sun, wind and occasional rain; modestly manicured, furnished dwellings occupying five square blocks.  Indeed, they have outlasted many generations and peoples.  Shall I continue?  I grow weary.”

“Yes,” replied Barakah. “Your word pictures are concise, congruous, corroborative, and I am out of adjectives, dear Hafiz.  Oh yes, and I hasten to add they are pristine, poetic and to the point,” Barakah beamed. “But your employ of Persian nouns may need a little spit-polish.”

Fasad popped his knuckles. “We are Persians.”

Abdul-Akim brokered a chuckle.  “To our amazement, we discovered canned foods, cultivated garden plots, and several bubbling wells, originating, as we suppose, in the nearby mountains.  But soon—too soon—contention surfaced like a bug hatch on water and a few of our citizens complained, ‘Abdul-Akim. You are an old fool.  You have led us to this desolate valley.  And now you presume to dictate our future!  Some laud you as a  visionary, but to us you are delusional.  Wealth and prosperity await us in Islamabad, just as it must have greeted those who preceded us from this desolate place.’”  Abdul pause, sighed, and shook his head.  “It was raining the day those discontents continued on down the road, wagging their tails behind them.”

“Well spoken, Abdul,” applauded his lone debate partner.

“Omit the wagging tails,” stipulated Fasad, before once again inserting himself as narrator.

“Separated from the Afghans, Iran, and the United States Army by only the Hindu Kush Mountains, we fear that one day soon our enemies might breach the Pass from the west. I still think Islamabad an attractive destination, but here we are, stalled in the desert.  Others seeking freedom from tyranny have paused to visit and then moved on to greener pastures.”

“Yes, they moved on because we proffered open arms and a shovel,” observed Abdul. “Ours has always been a gospel of work—cultivating, planting, irrigating, and harvesting.   We desire to be as self-sustaining as possible and to live at peace with God and man.”

Fasad abruptly raised a hand.  “We are NOT self-sufficient!  Perhaps our history should devote a whole chapter to peddlers from Islamabad who take more than they give.  Scalping and thievery are not uncommon here. You would agree?  Yes, and I think alien skulduggery should be added to the glossary.”

Abdul-Akim, hoping Fasad’s discordant recital had ended, sat on a rusted folding chair—he had named it tranquility base—and munched a few pistachios.  At this late hour, he preferred his bed where he could dream being on the shores of the Caspian with a warm towel around his neck, breathing in contentment—but that would have to wait.

Barakah lay down upon the cool paving stones at Abdul’s feet and laced his finger behind head. He pondered the heavens and exclaimed, “O benevolent Abdul, the moon is so very full of glory tonight.

Fasad, perched precariously on the edge of an overturned stone bench, popped his knuckles again, and interjected, “But O benevolent Barakah, do you not see the pock-marks on its sorry face?”

Abdul’s nose and forehead bunched upward, but not because he had just swallowed his snack down the wrong tube.  “Fasad, let us suffice to say that God created the moon and stars to rule by night, and at His behest, the sun to rule and enlighten the day.”

Fasad wagged his head condescendingly, twisted his beard between his finger and thumb, and murmured quietly, “Have it your way, if you must.” Barakah, imitated a motor boat, sputtered carbon dioxide from between his thick lips and gazed up at Abdul, who had drawn back his shoulders in a painful stretch of his pecs.  To Barakah, Abdul’s profile—contemplative but not self-absorbed—mirrored the bust of a statuesque Greek god, highlighted by moonbeams.

Abdul, appeared to have taken a chill, or to have read Fasad’s mind.   He snugged the tattered thwab across his chest and cautioned, “My brothers, trouble is coming to the village.  While gathering laundry from her clotheslines atop the municipal building, my daughter-in-law finally spotted the enigmatic trumpeter. He wears the uniform of the United States Army and hides behind the parapet.”  Quick to observe wrinkling distress in his companions’ faces, Abdul hastened to add, “Tut, tut, now.  Dalal confirmed to my own ears that the soldier is harmless.  He calls himself Sham or Shram; his only possessions are a trumpet, a soiled thwab with which he pillows his head, and a shotgun.”

Recoiling, Fasad snapped, “ONLY A SHOTGUN, you say?  Abdul-Akim, his very presence is a threat, and he is either a deserter or a spy!”

“Yes, yes, my brothers, Dalal’s report is both confirming and disturbing.  Let me explain.” Wearily the three old men knelt on their haunches while Abdul skyped details to anxious ears:  “When Dalal asked why he was in hiding, the soldier gave no reply, but you know my daughter-in-law.  She persisted.   ‘Are you hungry,’ she asked? He nodded. ’Then talk to me and I will bring you food,’ she demanded.

“He replied, ‘I have disgraced my family; I have dishonored my flag; I have abandoned the only people who ever showed me kindness, back there on the road.  They should have arrived in town by now,’ he said, struggling to his feet and balling his fists.  Dalal instinctively drew her knife, ready to plunge it into his chest, but he shrank back and raised his arms  defensively.

“’No, no, please don’t kill me. I am as harmless as legless roach.’

“Yes, I believe those were his words.   He wept as he explained that the small group of old men, women and a few children with whom he had journeyed moved so slowly that he feared being apprehended by the military or attacked by the Taliban; so, he stole the shotgun, sneaked away in the dead of night, and arrived here before the dawn of a new day.”

Barakah shuddered, “He has been here for two days.. Who knows what may have befallen those with whom he traveled?”

“Yes, yes, Barakah.  Your concern was voiced also by Dalal,” replied Abdul.  “The souls who traveled with the deserter should have arrived by this evening.”

Unable to defuse his ire, Fasad fumed, “This Sham forebodes trouble, just as you have said, Abdul-Akim.  We must rid . . .”

Hearing distant footfalls, Abdul placed a finger to Fasad’s lips, listened, and then whispered. “He is coming.  Before he arrives, I remind you that the soldier was dehydrated and near starvation.  Do you fault Dalal for taking pity on him?  And I add, he consented to ascend the pole to the minaret and be watchman through the night.”

“The pole? Our watchman?  Imbecilic!  We must neither harbor nor tolerate a deserter,” whispered Fasad.

“Are we not all deserters, my friend?” replied Abdul-Akim.  “Truly, by his own admission the man deserted his post near Kabul.  Did we not flee our homeland? Who of us should be his judge?  Did he not show compassion upon the wayfarers by pushing a cartload of children to the Pass before fleeing in the night.”

They heard footfalls.  Each patriarch turned his head toward the dark alleyway and climbed to his feet.  “It’s Safeed,” reminded Abdul.  “Asalaam Alaykum, peace be upon you and your family, our friend and minister to the poor and the widows.”

“Wa Alaykum Asalaam.  Would that I might do more,” replied Safeed before losing his composure and wrenching a fist to his mouth.  He muffled a sob.  “Father is gone.  He suffering has ended.  Gharam sits at mother’s side.  She does not know.  She does not know, and . . . oh Barakah, I was so sad to hear of Dalir’s passing but twelve hours past.”  Safeed could not continue.  Barakah broke down and wept aloud.

After each had proffered consolation to the others, Safeed’s tender soliloquy ensued:  “I have come to report that our community has been added upon by four souls this very night.  Only hours ago a beautiful weary maiden pushed a cart—laden with two children and a wounded old man—into the village square. All were assisted into the hospital and administered care.  The matron reported with no apparent disdain that the young woman is an American soldier and called her efforts courageous.  Of this, her self-sacrifice offers confirmation.  The old man, near death, was found among his slaughtered companions at the Pass.  The children call the female soldier, ‘Mama’.  But I think not.”

“Ah, the people left behind by the deserter!  And now we have another?” exclaimed Fasad.

“No.  No.  Not a deserter.  Please forgive, but I overheard your outburst as I approached.   There is something very different about this soldier.  The children love her, and she exudes compassion. As I have explained, I believe she rescued both the children and the old man, and she is very beautiful.”

Barakah pressed, “Are the children relatives of the old man?  What is his name?”

Safeed gently lifted a finger and wiped a tear from Barakah’s cheek.  ” I think not..  I do not yet know the name of the woman or the old man, but the children are called Asad, age seven, and Asif, is nearly five.   They are very bright.  As I have explained, the woman pushed the cart, laden with human treasure, all the way from the Pass to our village.”

Safeed looked around.  “I see that already the cart has walked away, but the little family sleeps above us.”  He pointed at a broken window where a shutter hung by one hinge.  Of the three patriarchs, only Barakah had enough flexion in his neck to look up without again lying down.  Safeed continued, “I will care for them as for the others who have need of my help. And, oh yes, now I remember, Jinny is her name.” Safeed reiterated, “She is very beautiful, for a soldier.”

Abdul-Akim had been listening between the lines.  He spoke calmly.  “Safeed, I apprehend that grave danger follows the two Americans to our village. I also believe your conclusions to be true.  We must protect the woman, the children, and the old man from harm, just as if they had traveled with us from Iran.”

Abdul placed hands on Safeed’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “We three will pray for them, but you must be their shepherd.  I foresee that many days may pass before we return to our homeland, but joyfully, we are surrounded here by family. If the American woman has done no wrong, as you suggest, she must be reunited with her people.  Form no attachments with her.”

“And the children?”

“Allah will provide, my son.  Allah will provide.   And Safeed, please report back to us here tomorrow night.”  All nodded in agreement.

“Good night Safeed.”

“Good night my fathers.”  Safeed hurried home.

Abdul-Akim raised and gently placed his right hand on the shoulders of Barakah and Fasad, before he could pull away.  “We must stand together.  Continue to reflect with your children upon the tender mercies of the Lord.”  As each embraced the others, Abdul spoke in hushed tones, at least, hushed tones to the ears of three old men.  “When the war has ended we will return home . . . home.  Peace be unto you.”

“Good night, Abdul-Akim.”  Each patriarch merged with the evening mist and returned to his own abode.  Once behind locked doors, Abdul-Akim and Barakah knelt in private prayer for Safeed, his sister, their dying mother, and the refugees. Fasad ate a snack and went to bed.

But thus saith the Lord, even the captives of the mighty shall be taken away, and the prey of the terrible shall be delivered; for I will contend with him that contendeth with thee, and I will save thy children. [Isaiah 49: 25]

 He slumped to the tower floor and pushed his back to its southern perimeter wall.  From there, Shambling could barely see through the slots in the decorative facade surrounding the deck.  He hadn’t forgotten his promise to Dalal, but he hadn’t slept well for days.   “She called this a lighthouse of the Muslim faith.  My candle flickers.”  He willed his peepers to open long enough to cap the bottle of covenant wine she had brought him.  While screwing down the cap he repeated, “You promised Dalal you’d stand watch through the night; you promised; you promised.  His eyes glossed over and closed.  “You promised, you prom . . . ised to stand . . .

“ALIM IS DEAD!  You killed him; you killed them all.”  Sham rolled over, pushed up to his knees, and crawled to the northern perimeter of the tower.  “What the ??”  He pushed his nose against the lattice work and saw another flash of light, then another, and yet another.  “I’m finished.  It’s the army. They are coming for me.”  Too spent to run but not too cowardly to blow the horn, the deserter grabbed his trumpet, turned toward the village rooftops, put the mouthpiece to his trembling lips, and sounded a triple-tongued First Call.

Jinny and the boys failed to hear the alert.  They slept on, undisturbed, in a third-floor room, four blocks from the square.

“TO THE ROOFTOPS!  TO THE ROOFTOPS.”  As if summoned to a dress rehearsal for the First Resurrection, adrenaline-spiked residents arose from their beds.  Leaving behind their sleeping children, they clamored up interior stairwells like fish swimming upstream to spawn and die, ignoring the frightened old folks out of energy along the way.  Everyone jabbered at once.  It was a librarian’s nightmare.

A widow clung  to a handrail and wailed, “Please Lord, not more Americans.”

Tasteless tongues warmed to a broth of fear mixed with a pinch of curiosity.  Only Safeed and a few far-sighted friends remained cool and collected in thought.  They watched through thick lenses from a rooftop vista and tried to apprehend the strength of the approaching specter. On it came, winding, leaping, lunging, bouncing, swerving, and looking more ominous with each closing mile, its purr gradually swelling to a dragon’s yammer.  The serpentine Komodo had twelve eyes.

“How could this be the U. S Army?  The drivers are either drunk, frightened, or crazy. I vote drunk,” whispered Safeed.

“I number five Jeeps trailing a Humvee,” added Dalal.” Eight pairs of binoculars nodded consensus.  “Dear Lord, may their inebriated state accrue to our advantage.”

 

Ajani was dead tired.  Only the jostling jeep kept him awake.  He sat with his shoulders hunching forward, his hands clutching the steering wheel, and he was having a hard time seeing the road through the bug and dust encrusted windshield.

“Unbelievable, but there she is.  Peshawar.”  Ajani yelped like a kicked dog.  “Oh squat, she sure don’t look like a Wheel of Fortune dream vacation to me.”  He blinked hard and swore.  “Please don’t tell me the Wheel stopped on Bankrupt.That wouldn’t be good for nobody.” Ajani braked, missed a rut, peddled, braked, and—seeing no sign of life in the body next to him—yelled, “Billie Joe!  Rise and shine.  Or at least, wake up, dude, your shining days are over.”

Karim sat up with a start and rubbed his blurry eyes.  He smelled of alcohol, and his brain?  Materially, it was destined for Pickleville.  He sluggishly copied Ajani’s message into his consciousness with a dull pencil while he stared ahead. “I don’t see nothing.”

Ajani replied, “Keep your peepers open ‘cause thar she blows, Billie Joe.’  The windshield wipers beat time, and Ajani commenced rocking his shoulders, head, and the steering wheel from side to side.  “Let’s do an allemande left with your left hand; do an allemande right, but since you’re tight . . .” Karim’s head smacked the door post, and he was out.   Ajani regretted not having purchased life insurance.

For a few thousand whirs of the alternator, Karim drifted in and out of consciousness like a fluorescent lamp in need of a new ballast; and then Ajani saw it coming and lifted a right arm defensively.

“Uh . . . uh. . . uh. . .  KERCHOO,” all over the unfolded map spread out on Karim’s lap.  He blew his nose on his sleeve and burped his first intelligible thought in two hours.  “Did you know when grapes die and shrivel up, they’re scooped up off the ground, smashed together and called raisins?   Do you cotton on what I’m telling you?  That’s like grave-robbing!”

Ajani nodded. “Yep.  Yep.  I cotton. I cotton on it.”

Karim crumpled and tossed the map on the floor.  “Don’t need you anymore.”  He leaned back, let his head bounce against the seat a few times, and tried to focus. “The town looks like a graveyard. I hate graveyards, but I’d go for a good bed about now, as long as it’s not underground.   I’m clean tuckered out.”

 he overworked windshield-wipers groaned and refused to finish their work.  Karim closed his eyes and grunted, “Nothing like a good lynching to put fear in the friendlies.” He stomped on the balled-up map and added, “You ‘member how I squash folks like grapes when they don’t corporate, eh, Ajani?”  No reply.  “Boy, stop picking your nose!  You’re driving me nuts.”  Ajani’s eyes watered; his tears welled in shallow pools of self-reflection.

Karim smirked, “Say, you aren’t losing your spine, are you snake-eyes?”

The Humvee hit a rut, Ajani lost control of the wheel, bounced, and smacked his head on the door post.  Karim ignored the injury, grabbed the wheel until Ajani regained control, and pointed a thumb at his captive on the back seat.  “Don’t forget honcho, soldier boy gets hanged and gutted at dawn tomorrow—but not necessarily in that order.  Got any problem with that?”

Ajani vigorously massaged his head. “Yep.  Yep.  I mean, no boss.  I’m right behind you.  Or beside you.  Or whatever! What the ‘H’!  You know what I mean.”

Taken aback by the tremulous response, Karim opened a plastic water bottle, chugged down a few swallows, gargled, and spat on the window, which he thought was open.  He reattached and gave the bottle lid a violent twist, breaking the bottle in half, and then tossed it over his shoulder and sneered, “That’s your neck, soldier boy.  Keep breathing.”  Without turning around, Karim adjusted the rear-view mirror, exposed his tiger teeth, and grinned. “What’s the matter pooch, cat got your tongue?”  Captain Durant lay gagged, bound and unresponsive.

“He’d probably like a drink, boss.”

Prodding Ajani’s bicep with an index finger, Karim asked, “Oh, he’d like a drink, does he? You SURE you’re not going soft on me.”

Ajani nodded. “Yep. I mean, nope.  Hard as a dry turd.  Whatever you say is good with me, boss.”

“Got to do unto others as they done unto me in Arkansas.  Shove ‘em to their knees, noose ‘em like dogs, and drive ‘em all to hell. I wish we had a river.  You up to it?”

“Yep, if we don’t run out of gas first.”  Counter-intuitively, Ajani stomped the accelerator to the floor and, buzzing down the windows to aerate the cab, Karim yelled, “Yippee Ki-Yi-Yay.  Don’t buck me off, Whirlaway.   . . . Say, what are you up to?”

“Fifty-two miles an hour.  Why?”

An alarm sounded in Ajani’s head.  He released the petal and tensed, afraid to breath.  His bloodshot eyes saucered and darted right like those of a screech owl.  “BJ, whoo . . .  whoo . . .  I can’t breathe.”  Karim had drawn his K-Bar knife, reached across the seat, and pressed cold steel to his lieutenant’s throat.

“Do you like close shaves, boy?”  Ajani white-knuckled the steering wheel with both hands, took his foot off the gas pedal, and tried to avoid bumps in the road.

“Uh . . . boss.  Mind if we change the subject?”

“What subject, little man?”

“Well, how about this?  Do you cotton to reincarnation?”

“Say, what in carnation are you trying to pull?  It’s a little late to back out, don’t you know?   Can you still follow orders?” Karim growled.

“Yep, yep, no question, no question.”

“I thought you just asked one, I mean a question.”

Ajani seized the moment.  “Oh, yep, yep.  BJ, do you cotton to reincarnation?”

“Huh?”  Except to scratch his head with a grimy index finger, Karim didn’t move.  After a brain fart or two, he replied, “The only flowers I like have thorns.  Do reincarnations have thorns?”

 Ajani rolled his eyes.  “Could do, boss, could do.”  Well, that got me nowhere.  Not ready to bid adieu to life’s rocky road, and tired of hampered breathing, he reverted to an old trick—Ajani pumped hot air into Karim’s desperately over-inflated ego.

“I can still see that Taliban psycho’s beak.  What a pigeon. You had him eating out of your hand, big chief of the Okefenokee.  Mighty good thinking.  Yep. Yep.  Mighty good thinking.”

Karim grinned, withdrew, and sheathed the K-Bar.  Ajani’s breathing slowed to 120 bpm, and he pushed the gas pedal to the floor.  “Boss, not only did you save our bacon, if you’d had the notion you could have fried that Talibani’s hide and downed the whole kit and caboodle.”

After slobbering down a can of warm beer without breathing, Karim replied, “Now you’re hitting it out of the park, hot dog.”  Self-absorbed and over-inflated, he slapped Ajani on the shoulder, burped, relaxed, and calmly asked, “Did you eat all the potato chips?”  Ajani swallowed and started to sweat.

Here we go again.

As the six-segmented dragon closed on the village, horns blared, dash-dash-dot-dash.  Not a code.  A war cry!  Thirty-six bleary-eyed escapees, drivers and passengers alike, had blood alcohol levels well over the speed limit.  Distracted by roadside junk—the true spoils of war—one derelict jeep’s passenger lost his grip and rocketed over the back, only to be run over four times.   Karim witnessed the ejection through the rear-view mirror and swore, “Road kill.”

One hundred yards.

Fifty yards.

Twenty-five yards.

Karim grabbed and jerked the steering wheel, forcing the Humvee to execute a tight donut in the gravel and roll his captive to the floor like a child’s crayon from a church pew.

“Okay, now you really scared me,” yelped Ajani, boiling over like the radiator—both damaged to the core.  “We were going too fast to pull off that stupid stunt!  You almost flipped us over; awful, awful close,” he blurted.

Karim’s eyes narrowed, forcing his brow to furrow.  “Close to what?”

“Uh . . .  close to . . . riches; yep, yep, tomorrow we’ll be rich.”  Ajani slunk down in his seat and tried to lower his heart rate by taking deep breaths.

Karim unlatched his door and set his mind to cogitating on what lay hidden in the shuttered shops lining the west side of the village square.  Without dropping his foot to the ground, he mumbled to himself, spat on the ground, and pulled the door closed.  “Lets you and me clean out this chicken coop, rule the roost, kill the goose, and gather the golden eggs . . . like what the govermint does in America.  Now listen real careful.  What we snatch we divvy up fair and square, equal shares.  Do you copy?”  Ajani knew enough about tragic opera to perceive that when the curtain fell at the end of act three, few if any of the gang would survive to spend their shares in Islamabad.  What he didn’t know was that Karim considered whacking them all and taking a bow alone. When the curtain fell, it was sure to hit someone on the head.

Ajani nodded.  He’d climbed in too deep to scale his way out now, so he kept securing his psyche to the backstage wall by pounding on the same blunted piton:  BJ saved my skin; BJ knows what he’s doing; BJ knows what he’s doing.  

“On my orders—meaning when I say so—let’s put the fear of the whole Okefenokee tribe into whoever’s holed up here and kick ‘em on the kneecaps. But first, organize the men; find me an HQ with a bed; post guards; and keep your eyes open.  Tomorrow at dawn I’ll hang and gut Captain Catfish right here in plain sight with everybody looking on.  If the residentials hate the American soldier as much as we do, maybe they’ll be more corportive.  If not, you know the drill.  Let’s snap, crackle, and pop.”

“Back up, boss.   What do you mean by ‘snap, crackle, and pop’?”

“Have you already forgot how I saved your sorry-self from the Klan?

“No BJ, you won’t let me.”

“I mean ‘snap-crackle-pop’ like that.  Haven’t I told you of how I got onto the straight and narrow?  My mammy’s preacher, Dogleg Dooley, knew how to get a barbecue started.  He’d snap to it and cry, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to bury the pig, take up a collection, and treat all you born-agins to a good old-fashioned Southern barbecue.’ Then the fire would crackle, and the pig’s eyeballs would pop.  Now do you get it?  I listened good in them days.  So, after I got out of the big house, somethin’ snapped inside of me, and when I snuck into Arkansas that last time, the fire crackled, folks went running for buckets to douse the flames, and I popped the collection box open and high-tailed it out of town with some loose change.”

“That’s not all that’s loose, Boss.”

“But do you get my meaning little man?  I’m saving up to stay in one of them fancy Motel 6’s in Islamabad.  I like the sound of that name, don’t you?”

“Motel 6?”

“No, idiot. Islam-a-BAD.”

“Yep. Yep, Boss.  Got it nailed . . .  right here.”  Ajani put a finger to his temple, extended his thumb, and pulled the trigger. Like Karim, his past was spattered with blood, soot, and graffitied with caricatures of his victims—the drawn faces of the innocent—but neither reprobate paid them any mind.

Muttering, Karim again unlatched the door.  “Ajani, we’ll use just enough gas to stoke the flames, then burn Peshawar to the ground. I can smell Southern-style cooking already,” he snorted.

“I smell something, too,” mused Ajani.”  He leaned his head out the window, sucked in some dewy air, and gazed through the side-view mirror.  Seated in silence, none of the men had dared climb from the jeeps without the order: “Okay, let’s move it,” but each weary wannabe needed to stretch and take care of business.  So did Karim. After wiping his nose on a sleeve—the one bearing the stars and stripes—he pried himself from the seat and dumped his overstuffed, pilfered BDU (battle dress uniform), decorated with potato chips, into the village square where he broke wind.

Tittering broke the silence.

Without a word, Karim eyeballed his offender, walked bowlegged to the second jeep, drew the semi-automatic, and shot the driver dead,stunning each man in every jeep—especially the one riding shotgun. The bullet, a through and through, struck him in the neck.  He gurgled like a harmonica being played by someone without lips. “I’m hit. Boss, you shot me.” The gurgling stopped.  His comrades looked on, riveted to their seats, confused, mouths gaping, and in shock.

Karim crowed loudly, his retort self-congratulatory and unabashed: “Two for one day!  Come and get it.”   Aspiring pallbearers, weary of fasting, reverently circled a thousand feet above his smoking gun.  The sadistic southerner retrieved a half-pint of whiskey from the jeep and nonchalantly retraced his steps to the Humvee. He leaned through the window, forced an ugly smile, and aimed his side-arm at the hogtied hostage on the back-seat floor.  “You’re next, Captain Catfish.”

Numb-bummed, Ajani snatched a crumpled cellophane bag, finished downing a few unsalted pistachios, climbed from the Hummer, and pretended to inspect the crew, all still in shock.  “Everybody give me your attention–not counting these two.  He stared blandly at the dead then dished out orders to a pair of back seat survivors. “Seaman’s Cap, you and What’s Your Name grab two shovels—that would be one each—cross the main road, dig a big hole, go back up the road and get Huey, then bury him, Dewey, and Louie side by side.  But don’t fill the hole just yet.  And don’t forget to say a few choice words.”  The men complied—several times.

Karim hadn’t holstered his smoking gun because he was groping the minaret with his bloodshot eyes.  He spat. “Them Moslimites are everywhere except Mississippi.”  He shook his head disgustedly, hitched up his pants, walked over to the shops lining the west side of the square, rattled a few shutters, and knocked a few doors. All were padlocked or barricaded on one side or the other.   Karim hissed, “I hate these lowlife centipedes already!  All legs no brains.  These shacks smell of Sunni.”

“Speaking of stench, look who’s talking,” murmured lieutenant number two, sitting at the wheel of the third jeep.  His name, like his skin, was Coco, a former Taliban lieutenant and a Kandahar Sunni by birth.  He enjoyed a love/hate relationship with his boss—he loved hating him, and Karim wasn’t having one of his better days.  His ill-fitting uniform, now missing a button and spattered with blood, was so filthy it could have stood at attention without a body. Each shoulder displayed a symbol of military rank—on one, Karim was a captain; on the other, a lieutenant; to the villagers and his men he was demonstrably a thug.

Four blocks away, wary brown eyes darted back and forth.  Jinny lay on her back.  Gunfire?  At the range? At this hour?   No, dear, wake up. You’re still in Peshawar.  She felt measured breaths against her cheek and turned her eyes toward Asif, who lay on his side, his left hand pillowing his head, his right arm draped over Jinny’s slim waste.  Asad faced away from Jinny, close enough that she could feel his warmth against her left side. His arms were pulled up tight against his chest, and Alim’s sheathed knife lay within reach on the floor.

Jinny stared at the sooty ceiling and then at the one, two, three, four, five bleak apartment walls.  A dusty floor-to-ceiling hutch appeared to have been anchored to the skinniest wall, but gouges on the floor suggested the hutch had been moved many times. Curious.  Jinny gently relocated Asif’s arm, sat up, and clambered to her feet.   Nauseous and dizzy, she stepped over Asif, into her boots, tiptoed noisily toward dawn’s early light, and knelt by the broken window to gaze at the horizon.

An unseen hand had gloriously water-colored the sky with pastels—timeless, tinted evidence of an Artist whose work Jinny greatly admired—an Artist ever at work.  “Time?” Jinny pulled up a sleeve and glanced at the untanned silhouette on her wrist.  Timeless is right–no tick; no talk. Wait a minute, what’s going on over there?

Black and white figures—some animated, others just stand-ins—had gathered on a rooftop promenade across the way.  The assembly looked like the cast of a silent movie:  Lights-camera-action; but no organ music.   Unwilling to awaken the boys, Jinny waved, cupped her hands, and attempted a subdued greeting.  No voice. She cleared her throat and tried again, but her vocal chords merely juice-harped: “H-e-l-l-o, I’m over here. What’s happening and why all the commotion?”  She waved her arms.  Exasperated at being ignored by the dullard cacophony of actors, Jinny finally relinquished her tryout for stage manager to another day or time.  She resolved to remain alert and protect her brood by retreating to her trail-worn ruck sac, where she sat, disassembled, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled her weapons.

“Now, Jinny, how best do we exfil this bunker?”

She arose and tiptoed around the perimeter of the five-walled apartment, paused at the boarded-up bathroom, and stopped behind the entry door.  “Only a rat could sneak up three flights of stairs from the cobbled street undetected.  Contrarily, the stairwell offers our only ready means of escape.  You’ve got to stop talking to yourself, Jinny girl.”  She returned to the broken window.  It had once been shielded by a pair of wooden shutters; but one shutter remained, and it hung by a single screw.

Jinny surveilled the courtyard.  In a pinch we could rappel to the ground . . . when I find some rope.  “Safeed? Yes, Safeed!”  Her countenance brightened as she gazed upon the tokens of Safeed’s benevolence lined up along one wall:  One dozen capped plastic containers of water; a box of foodstuffs bulging with good will; and a potbellied stove near the window, kindled with kindness.  A large, capped barrel had been scoured clean and stood upright.  Around it nested four smaller barrels, each branded in black, Made in China.  Together the barrels clotheslined Jinny’s drip-dried BDUs and a change of clothes for the boys.  Near where they slept, the kettle, wooden spoon, and a small bag of games tokened yesterday’s misery.  Jinny’s Kevlar vest, helmet, and boots stood at attention in the corner by the cleaned sniper’s rifle.  A few shards of glass—reminiscent of Isabelle’s puzzles—remained on the window sill; otherwise, the worn plank floor had been swept clean, ostensibly, by Safeed.

Jinny stood and toppled gracefully forward like a sawn tree, its descent buffered by branches.  Palms down, she completed a perfect two-point landing without making a sound, hoping nothing lurked in the spider-webbed corner under the stove.  Before investigating, something else caught her eye.  She pumped from the floor in one fluid motion and landed on her feet.   The door!  I failed to barricade the blasted door.  We were vulnerable all night.  Oh, empty head, fill with wisdom.  

While berating herself, Jinny threaded the holstered Ruger onto her belt, slung it around her waist, cinched it up, and then examined the heavy slab door.  The latch-spring was sprung, the strike-plate missing, and the doorknob wobbled and spun, dizzy with age.  The gap between the door and floor was large enough to admit a platoon of rats, noses held high, while they marched shoulder to shoulder fifing, Yankee Doodle Dandy.

RATS!  Curly’s barn!  The black duffle bag!  Not now; not now, O’Dwyer!  Stay focused.  Jinny shuttered the memory, wedged a piece of firewood between the door and floor, and then tiptoed back to the broken window. Actors, extras, and stage crew had vacated the distant roof, leaving it to the sun’s rays to turn green, orange, and purple ceramic tiles into calescent coals. The fire-walk had lost its appeal as a revered passageway to manhood; although, many a daring foot—excepting three-toed variety—had lost skin in the game.

As if on cue, a mourning dove caught a breeze and fluttered down, fanned her tail feathers, and landed on the window sill. Observant but cautious, she pecked at her reflection in the broken glass and then turned her head and eye-balled Jinny, who had stopped breathing.  The dove soloed a reassuring, “Coo.  Coo-coo. Coo-coo,” and then effortlessly lifted off and winged away as unobtrusively as she had appeared.  Jinny watched her soar into the alley and alight on another sill to offer comfort, ask for a handout, or perhaps ask for directions.  The dove continued on toward the village square and was soon obscured from view by tattered clothing strung down and across the alley from one peeling windowsill to another—languishing laundry, lifeless, pinned to the line, and branded with pigeon dung.  The laundry never relieved itself; never retrieved itself; never pressed or folded itself.  Deserted, it flapped in vain.  Isolated.

That’s how Jinny felt—flappable and isolated.  Because she and the boys were sequestered some distance from the village square, she had yet to receive word of Karim’s invasion.  What she did wonder about was perplexing.  Who fired the shots that woke me up?  What scared the villagers?  And why is the alleyway through which Safeed guided us last night deserted this morning?  Does no one else know we’re up here?  No matter.  I do.

Sergeant Virginia O’Dwyer spun an about face and smiled at the sleeping children, mindful that they would soon awaken and be hungry.  She stepped forward and then, as if her thwab had snagged on a nail, she twisted free and down into a spin.   On full alert, Jinny scrambled for her rifle, crawled back, and peaked over the windowsill.  Without extending the barrel through the opening, she shouldered the rife, scoped the alley, and whispered to herself, “somebody’s down there and doesn’t want to be seen.”

Attached to a long neck, a very round head pogoed like a tipped-over jack-in-the-box from between shutters at a third-floor window fifty yard away.  Jinny forgot the hidden aggravation in the alley below and chortled, “Safeed.”  He spotted her and hardened like petrified wood. She lowered the rifle and waved. “Sorry Safeed. Wow, you read my thoughts. Come join us for breakfast. Can you hear me?” The young benefactor forced a grin and proffered a thumbs-up. Although bare headed, Safeed had much on his mind; much to do before the end of day:  Assess the strength and intent of the enemy bivouacked in the square.

Before relinquishing his view of the alley, he licked a finger and felt for a breeze.  Craning forward, Safeed looked east toward the enemy-controlled village square and became agitated.  He coned his hands.  A rapid-fire outcry in Arabic validated his concern.   Unseen by Jinny, a distant neighbor’s grandchild was peeling paint from a windowsill, collecting it in her cupped palm, and licking as if it were powdered sugar. Or opium.  Both Safeed and the guileless child were ignored, except by Ajani, also a keen observer.  He spotted Safeed from the alley and heard a woman speak.

An American!  Recoiling against a shaded alley wall Ajani hissed, “Now this should interest Billie Joe!”

Also peeking, hidden between her own shutters at a second story window, an ignoble gossip cluck-clucked aloud through loose dentures. “I tell you Rami, that bald man is a voyeur, gawking as he does at that woman.  Can’t you just imagine what’s going on between them?  Come and see.”

“Come see, come saw.  Bawk-bawk-bawk, or is it balk, balk, balk?  Either way, take your base, Mira!”  Rami was a Dodger fan.  The radio was on. Preseason play had not begun, and she’d been too long cooped up with her sister, whom she detested. Rami stroked the Rhode Island Red nested on her lap, while together they stared and Mira.  “Your wattle jiggles every time you cluck, dearie.”

“I heard that.”

“I was speaking to the chicken, dear.  Such a shame you no longer lay.  Such a shame; today’s cluck is tomorrow’s stew.”

“I tell you Rami, he gawked at her AGAIN!”  Leaning too far forward, the busy-body tumbled off her rocker and crushed a dozen candled eggs.

Needing to scramble back to work, Safeed had smiled a goodbye to Jinny.  She waved.  Her genuine, although passive response flew to him as if borne on gossamer wings. Her sanguine benefactor, soon to be co-owner of the building complex, withdrew from the window, retired to his mother’s bedroom, and knelt beside his sister.

“Is she still breathing?” he whispered.  “Ommy, can you hear me?”

Gharam mopped her mother’s lined, pale forehead.  “Her poor blistered face.  She has suffered so.  Her breathing is shallow.” Minutes passed silently.

Safeed gently held a finger beneath his mother’s nostrils.  “She’s gone.”

Placing a hand on her forehead, he stroked back her matted, grey hair and kissed her goodbye.  A wave of emotion swept over the kneeling siblings as  their mother slipped silently into an eternal sea.  They  knelt on its shoreline and wept until they had to stand. To stop her nose from running, Gharam sniffed, then shuffled to the old seaman’s chest at the end of the bed, its lid hinged by aging leather straps. She drew forth a shawl knitted from wool spun back home by her own hands, unfolded, and draped it over her mother.  “Safeed, you have much to do.  You must go. I will attend to funeral arrangements and contact Abdul.”  Gharam’s face was stained with unwiped tears.  “The woman to whom you spoke, she is an American?  I heard her voice.”

“Yes.  Few know.”

“The children?”

“Refugees.  They are called Asad and Asif.  Abdul charged me with their care.  The American woman must be assisted to return to her army, but the old man in the hospital must come first.  He is helpless.”

“That is a lot of ‘musts,’ Safeed.”  Gharam sighed and gently snuggled against her brother.  “You climb stairs to shuttle fuel and water; you administer to the aged; the sick; the widows; you give generously from your own pocket; you lead out in times of crisis—all without presumption or expectation of reward.”

“Enough, big sister.”   Gharam squeezed her arms tightly around Safeed’s waist.

“Yes, you are doing enough; more than enough.”

“That’s not what I meant, little sister.  But as Jesus would say, “I must be about my father’s business.”  Safeed kissed Gharam on the forehead, and then stared across the room at a delicately cross-stitched, even-weave fabric, framed in mahogany, and hanging on the wall near an oval mirror, which read, ‘Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.’  [James 1:27].

A coyote lifted his muzzle and, silhouetted against the early dawn, braced against the wind to howl at the moon.  Karim stood in the village square, ducked his head, and braced against a squadron of circling wasps.  They all wanted a taste.  He swore an oath at each who made his mark and completed his mission, and then in desperation Karim removed his soiled cap, slapped three yellow-jackets dead, and snapped, “Coco-Puff, what are you grinning at?”

“Just you, Meester Karim.  You is funny, funny fella.”  Karim pinched battered bodies from his cap, screwed it back on his head and, like a gunslinger in old Dodge City, strode toward his number two lieutenant.  Coco leaped from jeep number three, instinctively drew in his elbows, balled his fists, raised his forearms, and slowly back-peddled. Flee or fight?  He knew he couldn’t outrun a bullet.

“Hey, Meester. Karim, I theenk you ween.  YOU WEEN.”  He tried to smile.  Karim stopped.

“Put ‘em up.   You stepped out of bounds.”

Coco tried to masque his gnawing anxiety by stretching his arms and hands high overhead and then by he reaching down and touching his toes three times.  As he straightened up he rocked his head from side to side and tried to shake the tension out of his hands—to no avail.   Karim rushed forward, wound up, and threw a round-house punch.  Coco side-stepped.  The overweight giant spun around, lost his balance, and landed on his butt.

“Well, if that don’t beat all.  Help me up, chocolate milk.”

“Okee, Okee, Meester Karim.”  As Coco struggled to dead-lift his boss to his feet he warbled, “Hey Meester Karim, we two good match, yes?”

Karim snarled, brought up his dukes, stood flat-footed, and feinted with a left.  “Hey-hey, you thought it was all over, didn’t you?” he chided.  The tall brute swayed back and forth like a King Cobra.  “Come on.  Come on, I don’t bite.  Much.” He jabbed again.  Coco’s head snapped back; the lights flicked off; came back on; his head buzzed like a noisy fluorescent.

Jabal, a self-appointed ringside attendant, leaned forward and whispered, “Next time, Coco, don’t mano, mano, just concede the match.  Hey man, you’re bleeding.”

“Duh.”  His lip lacerated and his blood starting to boil, Coco tongued the inside of his mouth, isolated a floating incisor, spat it at Karim’s feet, and commenced yawing around the big man like a tugboat keeping its distance from a fly-infested garbage scow. He flipped open a well-balanced switchblade, then bounced, bobbed, and made wave-like motions with his hands and arms while jiving under his breath:

“Dis gig’s goad south,

Cuz you hurt yur homey.

You broked his face,

N’ ya don’t even know me.

Come awn, come awn,

Hip, hop, old frog

Me slice you up

N’ feed my dog.

Hey, dat no bad, not badatall.”

Karim huffed and puffed and feinted a punch. “What ain’t bad, Coco-puff?”

“You, Meester Karim.  You no bad. I jest jiving in da grooves, jest trying to make yur manny moves.  Shabung, shabung.”  Much of Coco’s vocabulary was home-made.

“And here I thought you was out for blood.”  Karim chuckled, feinted another jab, and without applause proclaimed himself heavyweight champion of the world.  He was right about the heavyweight part.  He threw both arms into the air, clenched his fists, bared his teeth, and rotated like a manikin dressed in a cheap Halloween costume standing in a K-Mart display window.  Coco and Jabal glared daggers.  Karim’s countenance softened when he stopped to admire himself in a side-view mirror.

“My, oh my. Do I look just like Groucho Marx or what?”

“What?” responded Coco and Jabal in the same breath.

“Never mind.  I wish I’d nicked those old Groucho Marx glasses when I had the chance.” Karim manipulated his bushy eyebrows up and down, side to side, and then snarled like a leashed bulldog waiting for the postman to come up the walk.   “Where in the ‘H’ is Ajani?”

Jabal mumbled between clenched teeth, “You answered your own question,” and then, fearing repercussions—or a concussion—signaled with his finger that Ajani was over at the makeshift cemetery across the road.  Karim barked at Coco, “Fetch.”  Lieutenant number two high-tailed it across the square, over the road, and pulled up next to the grave diggers and their stuporvisor, Ajani, who had slithered back from the alley and sat cross-legged with his head between his knees.

“I heard.”

Karim continued barking. “Jabal, you ain’t doing nothing.   Get your butt in gear and find me a place to take a hot bath.”  Jabal, a native of Farah, Afghanistan, bowed submissively and toddled bowlegged toward the hospital longing for the comfort of a military stockade and three squares a day.   After pausing to stare at the license plate nailed over the door, he pounded the panel with a closed fist.

“Open up.” The door swung open.  “Anybody home?  I’m armed, don’t you know?”  Five minutes later Jabal burped, wiped his whiskered face, and emerged from the hospital in time to see Coco and Ajani, caked with Pakistani dust, returning from the grave.  The three men lined up side by side and stood facing Karim.

“Jabal, you report first.  No, Ajani, you go first. Then, Coco, you go . . . “  Karim interrupted himself:  “I forgot what I ordered.   Jabal, what did you find me?”

Jabal took one step forward, saluted with his left hand, and said, “Yo, Boss, I found water, soap, and a tub big enough to fit your big feet, and nobody’s in the round house. It’s all yours.”  Neither Karim nor his men were aware that the hospital staff had covered Alim with linen before fleeing through a metal rear door.

“Find me some grub better than that sticking to your whiskers.  What is that, anyway?”

“It’s peanut butter, boss.”

“Stay put. Ajani, your turn.”  Ajani stepped forward, leaned up, and whispered in Karim’s ear.  He nodded approval.  His South Carolina lieutenant slithered into a nearby alley and skulked out of sight.

“Coco, Ajani says you done well.  From here on you’ll be in charge of the graveyard.” After ordering several men to unload the jeeps and carry his belongings into the hospital, Karim concluded with, “Coco, Jabal, drag Captain Catfish in there, find some clothesline, and tie him to a chair.  Good ‘n tight, do you hear me boys?  And don’t forget to loop the cord around his neck!”

Jabal and Coco nodded, hustled to the Humvee, and opened the door.  Layered with grime and clad in Karim’s baggy orange jump suit, Captain Edmund Durant had lain bound and gagged for many hours, his tongue swollen between his clenched teeth.  The only water proffered him during the torturous ride had been mercilessly dripped upon his pale face and cracked lips.  The two thugs dragged him from the vehicle, jerked him upright, and let go. The comatose soldier crashed to ground, face down, on the gravel.

In Pashto, Coco’s tongue took on a surly air of superiority–a skunk’s self-defense mechanism.  Jerking Durant’s wrists from behind his back and dislocating both shoulders, he ordered, “Git up squeezersuck!  You bean nappin’ while I did all thee drivin’.  Now say, ‘Thank you, Meester Coco.’”

No reply.

Jabal knelt, grabbed a clump of matted hair, and slapped the defenseless captive on the face. Hard.  “That’s what you get for insubadmiration.  Get up.” They dragged the comatose sacrificial lamb into the hospital.  His lungs expanded and contracted, then nothing.  The gag was removed.  No anguished cry.

“Git up bollywagger,” commanded Coco.

Jabal declared, “Hey boss, this guy looks and smells like a dead catfish to me.”  An over-sized stolen army boot brutally kicked the prisoner’s rib cage.  No groan.  No nothing.

Karim stood on the threshold eyeing the brutality.  He signaled stop by drawing a finger across his throat, and then clarified the order: “That’s enough . . . for now.” He strode confidently into the bowels of H.Q. and slobbered,“At least for the time being all your body parts are still hooked together.”  Karim closed the door behind him.  “Coco, find some clothesline.  Be quick about it.”

“But Meester Karim, Catfish is dade.”

Karim lumbered across the room, stooped, and felt for a carotid pulse.  He straightened and stared at the crown of Coco’s pointy head, then reached out, gently lifted Coco’s chin, and stared into his eyes. After what to Coco seemed like forever, Ajani came puffing into the hospital.  “Boss, we need to talk.”

“Go away. I’m interviewing Catfish’s replacement. Coco-puff says Catfish is dade,” he said mockingly.

“But boss, your best spy—that would be me—hit pay dirt.  Confirmed twice. You’ll want to hear this.”

Leaving Coco quaking like an aspen, Karim exited the building, followed by Ajani.  The door latched.

“What?”

“BJ, there is an American in the village.  I heard her voice.”

“Her voice?”

“Yes.  I can’t say for sure, but I’ll wager she’s a soldier.  She spoke from high up, perhaps a rooftop, and said, ‘Safeed.’  Yep, yep, I am sure that is his name.  Him, I saw.  He looks like Pinocchio—you know, the wooden dude—long neck and bald as a bowling ball.  I know where he lives, and get this, I heard the dame say, ‘Come sup with us, baby.’ or something stupid like that.  Baldy spoke Pashto, and he sure looked Sunni, yep, yep.  I could almost smell him.”

Inside Karim’s thick skull the wheels engaged—a poor marriage; they were few in number and in need of lubrication. “Okay now, Ajani, find where the woman lives and who lives with her, if anybody.  Be quick!  Don’t be seen! The sun is coming up.”

While Jinny stirred the morning hubub, emboldened bubbles struggled against the sides of the pot and bowed their backs, ready to explode,  yearning to be free.   Beads of perspiration tickled a comely Llewellyn nose, meandered down its graceful slope, and dried before they could free-fall three stories to where Asad and Asif splashed in puddled sand.  The boys were confident that their life-line stood  watch high overhead, but they had no idea that Ajani coiled, leaking venom, in alley shadows fifty yards away. To him, “the noisy brats” were barely visible–ever indivisible–amid the maze of  washed linens drip-dried on sagging lines. 

Jinny’s wire rimmed spectacles sagged, too.  They kept slipping down her nose, only to be pushed up again and again, being poorly held in place with a string tied behind her shiny brunette hair. Jinny didn’t need Caleb’s glasses, she needed comfort.  “OUCH.” An agitated  bubble burst and branded her tanned forearm. She bawled like a calf, which startled Asad and Asif. They looked up, jumped up, and headed up the stairs.

Ajani doubled his fists and cursed out loud.

Using  sandals as hot pads, Jinny hurriedly hoisted the blackened pot onto the largest, upended barrel.  The make-shift round was sufficient to accommodate bowls, spoons, cups, and a swirled loaf of brown bread, baked by Gharam the day before. Jinny hid the throbbing burn and unveiled a radiant smile just as  Asad and Asif topped the stairs and rushed—or hobbled—through the doorway into her arms.  She hugged  her life treasures as if they’d been away for months.   The boys had already forgotten her outcry. Full of giggles, they were soon as relaxed as poultry being honored at a beef barbecue.

Jinny wetted a rag in  soapy water and washed faces, arms, hands, and feet. Once satisfied, she pronounced them “as clean as my conscience.”  She sparkled.  “It’s time to eat. I’ve boiled a treat. We’ve washed our hands and face and feet. Let’s kneel right here, give thanks, and then . . .  STOP!” The stairs creaked. “Listen. Someone’s coming.”

“Is it Safeed?”

“Whoever it is, he’s skipping stairs and coming fast  . . . AND THE DOOR”S WIDE OPEN!  Quick, behind me.” Jinny shielded the boys, eased her Ruger from its holster, and released the safety.  She approximated center mass, tensed, and steadied the gun with both hands.

“SURPRISE!  Woe, woe!  I’m  here . . . it’s me . . . don’t shoot,” Safeed trilled as he landed in the doorway, stared into the muzzle of the gun, lifted his  palms, and spread his fingers defensively.   The weapon was holstered, and four hungry refugees  sighed relief.  Safeed tousled Asad’s hair, took a seat  across from Jinny, and quipped, “Now you really have me over a barrel.  I take it you’re not the hospitality hostess.”

She nodded. “Better get used to it; I am on duty, you know.”  The corners of Jinny’s upturned mouth betrayed a smile–but down to business.  She toweled her sweating brow with the back of her hand and remembered they hadn’t asked a blessing on the food.

“POP-POP.”

“Mama!”

“Yes Asif, what a morning. Someone just fired a gun.”  Jinny pressed a lower lip with her teeth and looked sternly at her Iranian benefactor, who deflected her gaze by staring out the window.  “Safeed, will you please tell us what’s going on?” By then the superintendent had a mouthful of bread and wished he could keep it that way.  He patted his jowls and kept chewing; but imagining the worst, Safeed had already swallowed his appetite.

Unbeknownst even to him, Karim’s stockpile had just doubled in size. Foodstuffs, a ration of gasoline, and other supplies for sale or barter had arrived by truck from Islamabad.  The Pakistani merchant—a woman— had been corralled, humiliated, terrorized, and  summarily shot to obviate disclosure of the Mississippi mugger’s  hostile takeover. He could claim title to a truck, but morally Karim was still  bankrupt; the body-count had accrued little interest.  Little did he know that what goes around, comes around–blinking satellite cameras audited  transactions from the ionosphere, while three blocks away a determined Safeed scraped the last spoonful from his shallow bowl.  Still hungry, but with a head full of competing priorities, he excused himself from the table.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jinny protested, pointing out the window.  “You haven’t answered my question. And why were people gathered on that roof before dawn?”

Asad joined the protest. “And we’re scared.”

Safeed put up both hands like a conductor stopping the orchestra because a violin string broke.  He shuddered and turned to leave. “Much to do.  Much to tell.  I’ve got to find out what just happened, then I’ll be back.  But before I return, I must visit and feed your friend in the hospital.”  The boys straightened at the shoulders.

“I come, too?” chirped Asad?

Asif  shook his head, stood,  hurried around the table, and wrapped his small arms around his brother.  Asad felt his sibling’s trembling torso snugged pleadingly against him and changed his mind about wanting to go. “But Safeed, I have Alim’s knife.  See?  His name is here.  If he is in danger, he must have his knife.”

“ I will return the knife for you, Asad.  And don’t worry, you and the old man will  meet again. Later today, I hope to  bring you word of Alim’s condition and . . . oh yes,  I will bring more food and water, but remember to bandage Jinny’s arm. I must go.”  Safeed sheathed the knife, bent down, hefted a wedge of wood, and proffered it to Jinny.  “Here is your door jamb, but it’s not good on biscuits.” His wry smile was  barely perceptible.  Her refusal was obvious.

As Safeed departed, Jinny called out, ““Thank you, Safeed, for everything, but staying up here with zero reliable intel is not an option.”

Please, Jinny.  Give me two hours.”  Safeed skipped down the stairs as quickly has he had climbed.

Re-energized  by breakfast but colored by varying shades of emotional fatigue, the boys dragged  a single mat to the wall, where they sat, leaned back, and took turns yawning  while Jinny washed the  dishes.  Then she fluttered down between them and allowed Asad to wrap her blistered arm with layered strips of cotton cloth, torn from a fraying towel.  A label drew Jinny’s attention.  After removing the sentimental spectacles, she held it close to her eyes  and deciphered three words, stitched in red and blue on a white background.  “Do you see this?  Made in America.  Home, home, home.”

Asif pushed a finger against his chin three times. “Home, home, home. Do they fly magic carpets in America?”

Jinny replied, “I believe they do–I think. Could we be sitting on one right now, Asif?”

Acting surprised, Asif nodded enthusiastically.

“Shall we hang on tight and fly  to Kansas for a visit.”

Asad perked up. “Mama, where is Kansas?”

“It’s where the grain grows tall and children run free.”

Asif tucked his head against Jinny, and they all linked arms–instead of seatbelts.  “Up. Go up.” The magic carpet didn’t move.

“Okay Captain, we’re ready for lift-off.”  Jinny leaned forward, grabbed the edge of the mat, and  pretended an engine noise with her lips.

“Wait,” cried Asad. “Magic carpet engine?”

Jinny smiled, doubled her fist into a gnarled microphone, and announced, “You’re right, Captain.   First Mate, buckle up. Captain, fly us through that window and let’s soar like an eagle.  Up!  Up! Here we go.”  Jinny swayed back and forth–first against Asad and then Asif–and pretended they leveled off at one thousand feet. “Asad, what do you see down there?”   They peered down, down, down, over the edge of the mat.

“I see mouse scat.”

“Asad, you are so funny.  Now try to imagine us high above the earth and tell us what you see.”

“I see we need parachutes,” he teased.  “No, wait, I see the big trees where we walked yesterday, and  snow on top. Want some?” he chortled.

“I do, I do,” gurgled Asif, like a brook dancing over pebbles. Asad cupped a hand and, stretching as far as he could reach, pantomimed the skimming of snow from the deodars.

“Is that snow or ice cream?” Jinny asked cheerfully.

Asad pretended to lick his palm.  “Yum. Real ice cream.  All flavors.”

“Asif, look.  We are crossing over the big sea.  What do YOU see?” asked Asad–for after all, he was captain.

Fully engaged in the adventure, Asif looked back and forth at the floor in front of them.  “I see a big, big boat and a . . .” He dimpled a cheek with his index finger and supported his chin with the rest. “Name the big fishes, please, Asad?”

“ Do you mean whales?”

“Yes, wales.”

“Whale’s aren’t fissss . . .”

“Beep, beep, beep.  Hang on.”  Jinny interrupted.  “We need to land, Captain.”  Sticking to the flight plan, they glided skillfully through the broken window and into a soft landing–just like in the story book.  “ I’m air-sick. Let’s refuel and try again later.”

The three imagineers leaned against the wall, sat cross-legged, and played pick-up sticks until–like students in a Kansas State University study hall–each began to nod, tended by the same breeze that had comforted them in the Pass.  Asad and Asif laid their heads in Jinny’s lap.

“Nap time already?”  Jinny leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

Asif sat up.  “Could you please make my foot good?”

Jinny’s eyes popped open; she unwrapped the bandaged ankle,  kissed her finger, and gently touched it to the sprain, like one would expect a fairy-godmother to do. “Is it better now?”

“Naw, kisses don’t help,” he simpered.

“Are you sure about that, little soldier?  Here, let me try again.”  Asif squealed as Jinny pulled him close, tickled, and kissed him on the neck, again and again.  Everyone giggled. “Healing takes time, doesn’t it Asif.  . . . Maybe we should just rest here for a little while.” Jinny sighed a big sigh–the kind of sigh that had always followed hugs from her papa; the kind of sigh that often followed  climbing  beneath the warm blankets next to Isabelle. 

“But I do have another idea.  Tell me if it’s good or not.  What do you say we go down to the courtyard and sniff some fresh air?”  That way we won’t be boxed in, she thought to herself. The vote was unanimous in the affirmative.  So, Jinny re-wrapped Asif’s sprain, saddled up, and carried him piggy-back down the stairs behind Asad.    Once in the courtyard, they labored to turn a stone bench upright.  Too hot, too heavy–change of plans.  They sat Indian style in the shade but didn’t notice the sun as it sneaked up on resident shadows and frightened them down another wall. Asad dumped his bag of pick-up-sticks on a diamond-shaped paving stone and each player took a turn trying to remove a stick without disturbing the tangled stack.

Tangled stack. Watch your back.

 But for the frequent breaks in the children’s concentration, the neighborhood was eerily quiet–like the Eisenhower Park and Rose Garden; like Moses, bereft of of the Ten Commandments; like Jinny, seated on a stone bench writing a poem during her senior year in high school.  The poem had never been typed, never been read aloud in school, and never published–just pasted in Gemma’s book of remembrance and photo-shopped into Jinny’s memory.

 BEHOLD

 I knelt and cradled Mary in my arms beneath where He was kept;                               We sat alone together; a troubled mother wept.                                                
The hours passed so slowly; we both heard Jesus  pray                                                     His Father would forgive them for what they did that day.
And then He tendered calmly, “Son, behold thy mother.
Help dry her tears and calm her fears; she is yours, now, my brother.”
 

I knelt and cradled Mary in my arms, my heart within me leapt.
I’d tendered food and comfort; she lingered then she slept—
 In truth, I careful scribe these words, her last, and not some other:
“John, I’m going home,” she beamed. “My Son, behold Thy mother.”
 She passed that day and trials came; I’m banished and I’m free,
Yet, I will e’er remember this:  Our dear Lord trusteth me.

–J. O’Dwyer

Ajani had fallen asleep in a dumpster, but Karim was wide awake, pacing back and forth across the village square.  He brooded, cringed, and shook his head every time he did an about face and had to stare at HQ.  The peeling adobes hadn’t been color-coated for a long time, and they reminded him of his pap’s old shanty–a Rebel barracks in days gone by–back home in Mississippi.  If he’d had more  imagination, HQ’s shape might have reminded Karim of a bulging can of spoiled tuna fish, or perhaps a week-old birthday cake–take your pick. 

Most of his motley crew sat  in the shade, nested like rotten eggs near the incessant cluck-cluck of the gas-driven Honda generator.  It was plugged into a bright yellow extension cord and fed alternating current through a hole in the wall to eight suspended fluorescent fixtures, anchored to a high ceiling inside.  The lights–apparently contemptuous of the new management–flickered and buzzed.  A large, pole-mounted fan faced away from bed-ridden Alim and,  sounding like the prop of a B-25 all throttled up and ready for takeoff, danced the Rumba in the middle of the round room.

Alim’s bed, one of several, had been rudely shoved against the rear wall. It’s metal frame felt cool to the touch; but then, Alim had a high fever.  He lay on his back exerting pressure with fingers laced over the top of his throbbing head,  hoping to blunt a migraine.  The attempt failed.  It distressed his arms and aggravated his bullet wounds.  He moaned, “Blessed Lord, take me home when you wish and comfort my people . . . no, no, never mind; they are all gone. Murdered!”

Alim fought off both  insanity and sleep, but continued playing possum with his eyes open—a doable dichotomy.  He chose to fight despair by gazing at his surroundings and describing aloud everything he recognized.  Everything.

GASP.  The front door opened, interrupted, slammed, and shook the whole building.

I am not afraid.  I am not afraid;  I am not afraid; I am lying. Yes, I am lying. I fear whoever just came in.  Oh Lord, let it not be that devil  who shoved my bed against this wall.  Let it not be that same man who slaughtered my family.

 Alim raised his head, enabling him to see only matted, curly, blackish hair piled like kitty hairballs atop the striped, high-back chair.

Now he’s snoring like an overweight Shih Tzu . . .  put a cork in it . . . O,  water . . . just a sip, please, Asad . . . .The matron and her staff fled after the first gunshots . . .   

“GUNSHOTS?” 

Alim forced himself up on his elbows so he could see the larger front window admitting light from the north.

What’s going on out there?  . . . VOICES . . .  a mob . . . Lord protect me . . .  it’s a mob.”

He closed his eyes and played dead.

“KARIM OF KANDAHAR!  KARIM OF KANDAHAR!”

Karim awoke. His horror of being captured, strung up with clothesline, and gutted by the Pine Bluff Animal Control people was only a dream after all.  He staggered to his feet, cursed, and stomped to the door, anxious to quash the unauthorized assembly outside.  He flung open the door.  “Oh-o-o.  Surprise. A parade? For me?  The Grand Marshall?”

His anger assuaged by what he saw, Karim’s frown tipped into a goofy grin as he watched his menagerie of miscreants querulously march out of step around the town square, repeating, “Karim of Kandahar.  Karim of Kandahar.” The staggering, bleary-eyed drunks–their ungodly curses filling the air– randomly fired into the sky or at the nearest apartments, shattering windows and nerves.  Coco had ordered the late-morning madness for a double-barreled reason:  Terrify cloistered citizens and patronize Karim, with whom he hoped to Band-Aid his relationship. But not much was working out the way Coco had hoped.  He would soon speak with a lisp.

“Three cheers for me, no, make that three beers for me,” Karim bellowed.  He plopped down on the front steps of the cantilevered hospital stoop, unstuck his finger from a bottle, took a swig, then drew and fired his 9 mm Glock.  His beer supply was low.  His aim was high.  The boiling lead ricocheted and stabbed a marcher, who screamed, grabbed his thigh, and fell to the ground.

Karim swore and stood up, unwilling to shoulder the blame.  His eyes and brows vainly darted up and down, then side to side, as if looking for the shootist. “Okay, whoever done this, step up.  NOW.”  No one stepped forward.  Karim eyed Coco.  “Now you’ve done it, Coco-puff.  Now you’ve done it.”  Coco vigorously wagged his head back and forth then froze. The ambient temperature was 48 degrees Celsius—118 degrees Fahrenheit.

“No siree, Meester Karim.”  Karim leveled his gun at Coco, but only the marcher nearest the wounded man stooped to quell the arterial bleeding, wondering all the while why he and his comrades had to suffer and die at the hand of a mongrel dog.  Death came without a whimper, quickly and quietly; another victim.  The malefactor’s blood oozed into the dirt.

Karim pronounced a benediction:  “Dust thou wast, and to dust thou wilt return.  One thing sure enough is true, ya won’t get what ya earned.”

Another man lost?  Coco dropped the stupid act.  “What in the the name of all that makes sense are we doing here?” he screamed.   “What are we waiting on, M-e-e-s-t-e-r Karim?” he yelled sarcastically.  “Promises, promises . . . get rich and live good?  It’s time we broke down some doors, grabbed some women, got some cash, and got the heck out of here.  Meantime, you four fall out and pick up Diesel.”  Four men, identified by the same foul expletive, hoisted the limp limbs of their dead comrade.  The funeral procession completed a circle and headed for the open grave across the road.  On Coco’s signal, both the viewing and the funeral march slowed to the loose-hipped gate of weary roaches and stopped by the pit.  All were aware that Karim’s black eyes were taking it all in.

After giving the corpse a heave-ho, the carriers—who knows of how many diseases—lingered but for a moment.  The temperature would soon peak at 50 degrees Celsius–122 degrees Fahrenheit.  The smell was horrific. “Some honorarium,” growled Coco to himself, feeling ignored and totally unappreciated. Discomfited by the heat, the parade had ended as abruptly as it had begun.  The hard-shelled loyalists crept into shaded cracks near the hospital building, sat, and slept.

Undecided about whether or not he should execute Coco, Karim executed an about face.  The sweating Mississippian–grumbling to himself about Coco’s unauthorized, failed honorarium–holstered his 9 mil, walked back inside, shut the door, and slumped in his high-backed chair, where he drank and dozed.  His head and chest rose and drooped, rose and drooped, like an oil rig pumping crude.

Safeed had heard the gunshots, but as yet only famished vultures had decided it was time for lunch–buffet-style.

Before trying the rear door, Safeed sidled up to a narrow window and pushed his nose against the glass.  He tapped three times, hoping to slip in, grab Alim, and exit the hospital undetected.  An unkempt hoary head—in view but facing away—was all that showed above a linen sheet.  Alim slowly rolled over and haltingly put a finger to his pursed lips.  Shhh. He pointed at the back of the striped, high-backed chair near the front of the room, shook his head and mouthed, “He sleeps lightly.  It’s not safe.  Go away.” Then he pulled the sheet over his face to underscore his wishes.

Safeed slung the  strapped black canvas bag over his shoulder, hugged the curved wall, and inched his way to the rusty door, where he paused long enough to read the handwritten words on the overturned license plate nailed overhead:  Exit Only.  He resisted the impulse to flee, depressed the latch, and slowly pried open the door. The hinges squealed.  Undeterred, Safeed stuck his head inside the room; like an unleashed doberman, fear bounded across the room and grabbed him by the throat. Freeze-framed, he couldn’t breath.  Karim of Kandahar snorted,  his head come up from the striped,high back chair and bobbed forward out of sight. Safeed’s brain flashed a red-light alert to all points south, screaming, TURN.  RUN.  Trembling, again he resisted the impulse to flee.  He left the door ajar, knelt, and crawled to Alim’s bedside.

Alim reluctantly pulled the cover from his face and sucked air.  His brow folded and his eyes saucered in disbelief.  His dry lips whispered, “I told you to go away.  You are either a very brave man or a fool.”

“Alim, I am neither. I am a friend. I am Safeed of Rasht.” He reached out to grasp a quivering hand, webbed with veins, and forced a smile.

Alim refused the hand and grumbled, “How do you know my name?  And why are you here?”

“I have brought water, a little food, and bandages; but as you say, we may be in grave danger.”

“May be, you say?  We are one trigger away from being executed right here on the spot.  YOU have put us both in peril,” he whispered.  “Give me a little water, then I’ll thank you to get out.”  Safeed unzipped and retrieved a plastic bottle from the bag.  Slipping a hand under the old man’s rigid neck, he lifted, enabling Alim to gulp, and gulp again.   “Enough!” Alim muzzled a cough.  “Before you leave, tell me your name again?”

“I am called Safeed of Rasht . . . after my father.” He paused to quickly rewind his unraveling emotions.   “Last night you were near death.”

Alim gazed into Safeed’s grey eyes.  “So much for your diagnosis; now leave.”

“I am not leaving without you,” he replied. “We must make haste before the giant awakes.  Come, I will carry you.  Like two humps on a camel, we will travel together.”

Alim again used his hand to resist proffered help and gestured toward what to him now looked like a black and white striped chair. “Save yourself while the skunk sleeps.  Leave me to myself.  I don’t want your help.  My life is over.”  He turned away, shut his eyes, and muzzled a spasmodic cough.

Puzzled at the stern rebuff, Safeed arose, gingerly peeled back the large gauze bandage, and examined the crater in Alim’s shoulder.  “Why do you say your life is over?  There is no infection.  You need care and time to heal.”

“Some wounds time does not heal.  Now for the last time, go away.”

Nodding agreement, Safeed pressed the dressing back in place and whispered, “Come, Allah sent me to save you.”

Hidden wounds festered.  “Allah? You dare to speak to me of Allah? Your ignorance is oppressive.  Allah abandoned me on the road.  I ask you, where was the great Allah during the attack?  He left our carcasses to become meat for vultures.”

“Shhh.”  Infrequently at a loss for words, Safeed added, “But Alim, your carcass attracts the eagles.”  Does not the Al-Injil— holy scripture– bear record? ‘Wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together.’”

“You must be a Christian.”

“Oh yes. Have you so soon forgotten the woman who flew to your rescue? The children?  The hospital staff?”

“Me? Rescued by a woman, you say?  No way.” The reluctant congregant rolled over to face his new rabbi—his imam khatib.  “I only remember the gunfire; the screams of our women and children who were depending on me; my brothers and cousin dying in the dirt; my precious Banu, wailing.” His voice broke into restrained sobs.

“Banu?”  Safeed paused.

Haunted and emotionally broken, Alim clutched at the gown.  His chest heaved, raised, and fell.  “My granddaughter; but three years old.  How could the munificent Allah permit her to be carried off by savages?  By that madman!”  He pulled away.  “You do not know my grief.”

“I do not.  But this I know.  Allah loves his children.  He is above, and for a time, we are below.  He will guide us home. “Alim, where is your home?”

“I wintered in Shiraz. But do not suppose your schmooze-talk will convince me to accompany you.”

“Very well.  As you wish.”

Attempting to right himself, Alim winced and lay back.  “Oh, that hurt!  For the last time, get out.  Leave me to dream of Alwadi aljamil ealaa shati albahr—my beautiful valley cottage by the sea.”  His wrinkled forehead relaxed.   “I have run my last race.  No more running.  No more war.”

Safeed stiffened. “War, you say?  NOt with Israel?”

“Hmm, yes.  You did not know?

“I did not.”

“Tel Aviv is no more.”  Alim took a deep breath, as if he were starved for air. “On TV, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei denounced our enemies and called them The Axis of Armageddon.  He must be mad.  ‘One down. Two to go,’ he declared.”

“What two?  Not the United States and Britain!”

“Yes, America and the English.  The whole world is afraid of Iran.  They have blocked the Strait of Hormuz. And that, my misguided missionary, is only the beginning of misery; for now, we have . . . the bomb.”

Overcome by the news, Safeed sank to the floor and drooped his forehead against the steel edge of the bed frame.

“I did not know.  Would that I did not know now.”

Both fell silent. Alim began to see beyond the end of his own pointed nose.  Touched by the angst of his shaken visitor, he gave in.  “Safeed. Will you carry me?  Time is short.”  No response. “Safeed, I will go if you will help.”

“Yes.  Yes, of course.”  Safeed arose and, before zipping his bag closed, drew out the plastic center from a roll of gauze.  Pushing it between Alim’s teeth, he added, “Bite. This may save your tongue.”  Taking Alim by his good arm—and employing the fireman’s carry—he hoisted the frail old man over his shoulder, wrestled the bag from the floor, and shuffled toward the exit.

Alim groaned and passed out.

His dream disturbed, Karim muttered, “No!  I didn’t do nothing. Huh?”   Awaking with a start, he stood-stretched-tooted-did an about face and caught his breath between both cheeks.  “Who the h_ _ _ are you, and why are you slinking around my HQ without permission?  Are you hiding there so you can sneak up and cut my throat?”  His boldness bolstered by his drawn weapon, Karim pointed in the general direction of Safeed’s head and advanced a few steps.  “Tell you what.  Let’s have a duel.  I’ll point and I’ll shoot. Call it a warm-up for the big match.  Whoever you are, you and your lame-duck say bye-bye to the great Karim of Kandahar.”

“Sentry!  Get in here.  Now!  . . . Coco!”  No response.  “The roaches are asleep.”  Karim’s grogginess gone, he slipped a finger through the trigger guard, pulled the slack from the trigger, and tried to steady his aim.  The gun barrel batted the air like a berserk chorister’s baton; but from Safeed’s point of view, it looked a cobra’s fangs—poised, full of poison, and read to spit.

“Wait! Wait!”  Safeed tried to raise a hand.  “So sorry for the intrusion, Sir.  When you arrived this morning, my friend lay confined to his bed, near death. Hoping to give him some water–I’m chagrined but confess—I overslept and arrived too late.  He is dead.  Not wanting to trouble you, I was just leaving the way I came in.  Thank you, Sir, for your patience and hospital-ity.”

Karim took two steps forward, balled a fist to clear his good eye, and took aim.

Safeed parried by drawing from his pocket a stringed bag full of coins.  After rattling it for affect, he laid it on the window sill. “I am a poor man, but this should more than cover the cost of his stay.”

“Okay, git!”  Karim gestured with the gun.

Turning his back on the drunk, Safeed bore his burden through the open door, pausing only to sniff the limp body slung over his shoulder.  “I was right, Sir. He stinks already.”

 “Zing!”  Missing by inches, the bullet zipped through the folds of Safeed’s thwab.  The door closed.  Karim fired again and angrily gesticulated.  He deliberately knocked over his chair, shattered the frame, and screamed, “All Sunni stink!  Come back here, and I’ll bathe you in your own blood.”

Safeed heard the curse. He shuddered.  Thankful to be alive, he toted Alim to the planned rendezvous, a blistered corner wall chalked with an X, where he stopped to lean and wait.  And wait.  Rebuffed by desert wasteland on his left hand and a long row of apartments on his right, he waited in vain for promised helpers and a stretcher.

“We’re at the designated rendezvous but we’re late.  Too late. Wait or go?  Wait or Go?  Alim, can you hear me?”  Safeed unsuccessfully attempted to redistribute his load.  “I’m sorry, old man; sorry, so sorry; only three blocks to go, my friend; hang on–as in breathe.” Unconscious and draped across Safeed’s shoulders, Alim couldn’t hang on.  Blood oozed from his shoulder wound, dripped onto Safeed’s forearm and, like crimson rain, bit the dust, one drop at a time.

Three anxious men  exited the hospital,  yelling at one another.  Heard before being seen, they ran flat out, around a corner, and saw Safeed and his unconscious burden in the distance.  “Augh!  We’re done.” Desperate for a place to hide, Safeed spun a full circle.  “Nothing!” He scanned the long block of closed doors, stumbled forward, and then paused as if he’d received an electrical shock.  A familiar voice calmly spoke one word: “Look!”

Filling with trepidation and draining of hope, Safeed muttered, “Look where, pray tell?”  No reply.  His eyes darted from one apartment to the next.  “Incredible!  An open door? But I thought I’d. . .  How could I have missed it?”  Staggering forward, and without knocking, he barged inside, closed, and bolted the bleached barrier behind him.  The small living space was vacant and unfurnished.  Kneeling to lay Alim on the floor wasn’t an option. Safeed worried that he’d not have enough strength for a dead-snatch.  The kitchen counter tendered an alternative.   After gently depositing his investment on the counter, Safeed turned and banked against the door.  “Go ahead. Kick against the pricks,” he huffed and puffed.  “You’re not getting in.”

Outside, Karim’s men had stopped.  One yelled, “I’d swear I saw them right here.  Blood. See?”

“Well they aren’t here,” countered the ringleader.  “You go north and we’ll go west.  Find them.  Kill them! And hope we don’t fail.  It’s their blood or ours.” Pounding feet drummed away in two directions.  Safeed turned from the door and gasped.  In slow motion, Alim shifted, tumbled from the counter, and landed on the floor like a sack of Kansas wheat.

“No.  No.  No.  Old man, what have I done?”

Alim looked up and replied, “You’ve done plenty.  Who are you?  Where are we? And why am I bleeding?”

“It’s me, Alim.  It’s Safeed.  I am so sorry.”

“Yes . . .  Safeed.  Did you drop me?”

“No, you rolled off the counter.”

“Where are we?  Is this your idea of safety?” he asked, tapping his knuckles against the hardwood tongue and groove flooring.

“No, we are in hiding.”

“Hiding from whom?”

“Our enemy in the hospital sent three of his foot soldiers after us.  Where do you hurt?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

A quick examination revealed no broken bones and no concussion–or so Safeed hoped.  He removed a displaced bandage, anointed a wound with oil, and bound it up with gauze.  “Your color is returning.”

“It’s the heat. When I awoke, I thought I was in hell.  I can tell you’re no doctor.”

“Ah, yes, of course.  Before we continue on, you must drink.”

“Gulp.  Gulp. Enough. You needn’t water-board me.  I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Alim chided.  Before attempting to dead-snatch his countryman from the floor, Safeed crept to the entrance and listened.  He could hear heavy breathing and a heart thumping.  His own.  Unbolting the door, he pried it open a few inches.

“All clear.”  Relieved, he let it swing wide.

“GOTCHA!”

Safeed screamed, “Ya alliah yusaeiduna– oh God, help us.”

Jagged shards of a broken pane reflected light from a third-floor window.  Safeed paused at his alley stoop and looked up.  Seeing no life, he turned, unlocked, and shouldered open the heavy, arched door leading from the alley to his stairway.  Doors, doors, too many doors.  Locking it behind him, he sighed, signaling both relief and distress.  “Gharam.  Dalal. Help please.  I’m down here.”  Except for his own labored breathing, silence filled the narrow void.   Safeed’s lips parted to reissue the plea, then hesitated.  “Ah!  They’re at the cemetery. Well, Alim, I guess we’re on our own.”

Grasping the brass railing, he stepped up a tread and paused to rest.  Five minutes and twenty-two steps later—done in and tuckered out—he turned the lock and pushed his way into the warm apartment. “Alhamdulillah– praise be to God.  Home at last.”  No longer able to blot out the pain in his burning muscles, Safeed staggered through the kitchen into the smallest of three bedrooms, dropped his bag near the window, and, bottom first, laid his burden on fresh linens.  “Be right back.  I must clean your knife.  I must clean your knife.”

Bleary eyed, Safeed retrieved it from his belt and returned to the kitchen.  He dropped the weapon in a shallow pan of dishwater, sloshed it back and forth, and wiped it dry.  Then without spilling a drop, he poured his assailant’s diluted blood into a bucket for later disposal.  The memory of his desperate fight remained undiluted.  After slogging to the bedroom, the weary warrior placed the blade atop a handmade doily, crocheted by his mother, which decorated an intricately carved nightstand.  Safeed dropped into a wicker rocker near the window, licked his finger, felt in vain for a breeze, and soon fell asleep.

Keeping vigil, the sun had arced but ten degrees across the sky before, on cue, the kitchen timer dinged, round two.  “Already?”  Safeed awoke, fatigued and sweating profusely. He washed up and prepared to leave. “Alim are you awake?”

His eyes were closed. As if dreaming aloud, the suffering savant replied, “Safeed?  Do I smell a hint of Jasmine?”

“I am here, my friend, and I assure you, I do not smell like Jasmine.”

Inwardly, Alim smiled. Outwardly, the majority of his forty-two facial muscles had abandoned their posts for the duration of the war; but his memory had improved. “Forgot what I wanted to say. . . . Oh yes, I remember the boy.  He is here?”

“He is not, but he and his brother are safe.”

Alim wheezed.  His eyes popped open.   “He has a brother?”

“Yes, he is called Asif. Both are from Iran.”

“It is well.  Are they Shi’a?

“No.  Like me, they are Sunni, from the North.”

“YOU, a Sunni?”  The mood in the room changed as quickly as the time it takes for a loose-leaf to be knocked to the floor and sprung open.  “By the way you comported yourself against our common enemy, I assumed you to be a true defender of the Koran.  And the people of this village?  Please tell me they are not Sunni.”

“Yes, most are Sunni.” Wishing neither to be bashed for his heritage nor touted for his bravery and benevolence, Safeed refused to either to take offense or reply.  He felt like a rocking chair—moving but going nowhere.  Unbeknownst to most in the village, Safeed, his deceased parents and Gharam, his sister, believed Jesus to be the Promised Messiah and privately worshiped the Father in his name.  They were, in word and deed, Christians.

“And you are a Christian.” Alim, incensed that he lay confined to a Sunni bed, postured to affirm his genealogical superiority.  He pressing the boundaries of cordiality and twittered, “Did you know that until five years ago, I held the chair of applied science at the Shiraz University of Medical Science?”

“No.  Until fleeing from Rasht, I had not been further south than Tehran.”

“You help make my point.”

“What point?”

“You mean it’s not obvious?” Not waiting for an answer, Alim continued.  “For ten years, my brother Hassan, a cleric, served as legal counsel to the Ayatollah; Firuz, the youngest, helped build the glorious Azadi Minaret at the west gate of Tehran.  Now do you see my point?”

“Sorry. I am so tired.  My mind must still be running the streets.”

“Well then, let me be clear.  In Iran, the Kirmani family are high achievers and well-known philanthropists.  Surely you have heard of us.”

“No, but congratulations.” Safeed yawned.  “Formerly a herder of sheep, I am but one of sixty million refugees world-wide, half of whom are children.”

Alim’s bubble leaked.  “That many? How do you know this?”

“From our own national press, about two years back.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I miss my big-screen and the nightly news before my evening swim.  Now, I swim in sweat; and this bed is like the floor where I landed today–hard.”

Safeed reached for a water bottle and readied to swallow.  As if instructing a servant, Alim said,“Yes, you go ahead and drink, but I am not thirsty just yet.”

“Remember, you have lost a lot of blood.”

“Very well.  Since you will likely pester me about it, give me a drink.”

Five long minutes rounded down then up the clock.  Safeed hoped his sister would soon return from the grave.  Until then, he was resigned to the fact that Alim must not be left unattended; so, he sat, rocked and listened.  Troubling sentiments ebbed and flowed from Alim’s mouth to Safeed’s ear for nearly an hour—a sullied stream of self-pity, yearning for open water.

“Safeed.”

“Yes.”

“I miss my home.  My world crumbles around me.  Instead of living in a palace, I soil a Sunni’s bed.  I would leave but cannot.  Tell me I will not die here.”  His self-centered soliloquy peaked and ran into the noon hour. With a piece of whole cloth, Safeed leaned forward and wiped phlegm from Alim’s nose and the corners of his mouth.  The placid pilgrim attempted in vain to clear his throat and, looking more peaked, he coughed and coughed.  Outwardly his eyes seemed focused on the ceiling.  Wrong conclusion.  Alim did not see beyond the end of his turned-up nose.   He muttered, “Safeed, I wish to die.  Will you suffocate me?”

The rocker stopped.  Dumbfounded at the suggestion, Safeed replied, “Do you hear what you are saying, old man?”

“Yes, I hear.  Your world is no place for me.  I am Shi’a.”

“But life is precious. Allah did not deliver us from the ruffian and his men simply to give up and die.”

“Tell me then, why did Allah allow my Banu to be snatched from my cart?  You don’t know the answer, do you?  Safeed, you are a fool.”  He grimaced. “My cup is filled with bitter herbs. All that is dear to me is gone. Help me die.”

Safeed shook his head. “Why would you make such a request?   He snatched up the knife and, before Alim could react, he slipped the handle into his hand, adding, “This morning Asad asked that I return this to you.  If your life is to end, it will not be by my hand. I would prefer you not bleed on my sheets.”   Irked, he settled back into the rocker and let his animated legs and feet jiggle nervously up and down.

Alim extended his palsied hand and laid the knife back on the carved bed stand.  “This was my father’s.  I gave it to the boy. Please!  Return it to him with my blessing.  Be sure he knows it is a gift.”

“As is life a gift,” Safeed curtly replied.  On edge, he retrieved the knife, returned it to his sash, picked up his bag, and, contrary to his earlier determination, arose to leave the apartment.

“Before you leave me, there is something you must understand. That knife is the very one dropped on the street by Fasul.”  As if suddenly immersed in fog, Alim’s tone sobered. “When young Asad’s large brown eyes first stared into my soul, my heart leaped. Is this my Fasul, my long-lost boy?  Is it he? As the lad arose to leave, I cried out, ‘Come back.  Fasul, come back.’”

“Fasul was your son?”

“Yes.  He was stolen for ransom.  After we paid, he was . . . “

“You should rest, my friend.”

“But first, hear this. After Asad ran away I looked up and saw a woman; an American soldier.  Perhaps she will end me, I thought.  ‘Do it.  Do it.’ Acting as if she did not hear, she cradled my head in her lap, gave me a drink, then anointed and bound up my wounds.  This I now remember.  What I said thereafter, I do not recall.  Perhaps I said nothing.  I hated her. I loved her.  An infusion of conflicting pain and gratitude numbed my soul like an opiate.  Then, she too abandoned me.  Damn her. Damn you all.”

“Oh, but there is more, Alim, much more to the tale you tell.  The woman, unwillingly separated from her platoon and far from her homeland, loaded you into a cart with two frightened orphans; I cannot imagine how she did I, but it was she who pushed on from the Pass, arriving in Peshawar after dark.  You may think me a fool; perhaps I am; you may think the comely woman an enemy; but in truth she is a compassionate American.  A hero.  Would you honor her in the way you have described?  Would you dishonor my name and my home by self-humiliation?   Shi’a or no Shi’a?”

“Ah, you think me selfish. I have offended you.  You must learn not to carry feelings on your sleeve.” Alim reached for Safeed’s arm. Too late.  “It is too quiet in here.  Why are we alone?  Where is your family?   Family is everything.”

Pausing in the doorway, his back to Alim, Safeed softened. “You are my family, Alim.  I am Sunni. You are Shi’a.  You are my brother. My mother and father?  Both died within the past twenty-four hours following prolonged illness.  Wanting not to draw attention to my home in this time of crisis, our village patriarch agreed to make private burial arrangements.  A few friends have accompanied my sister and Dalal to a graveside service.  I will visit the site tomorrow, Allah being willing.”  Only my sister, you, and I live here now.

“Dalal is your wife?”

“No.  My wife died in Rasht while giving birth to my son, who lived but a few hours. Dalal is my widowed cousin.”

“Oh . . .  but why are you not with your sister?”

Walking back into the room, Safeed lifted and clasped Alim’s closest hand between his own.  He was tempted to say, “You just don’t get it.  Do you?”  He kissed the knurled knuckles, bowed, and without another word left the room.

Alim’s thoughts unraveled, one wind at a time, and soon he was asleep.  An hour later his eyes shuttered open.  “I’m not alone, am I?”

“No, I am here.”

Too spent to be alarmed, Alim turned his head toward the voice.  A woman with piercing black eyes, her hair braided and drawn up in a bun, sat next to him in the wicker rocker by the window.

“Aren’t you beautiful?”

“No need to flatter me, old man.  I am comfortable in my wrinkling skin.”

“Why are you armed? As you can see, I am quite helpless.”

“I’m your guardian angel, Shi’a . . . and a shotgun carrying Christian,” replied Dalal.  “What can I do for you that you can’t do for yourself?”

“It’s me, Boss.”  The lean lieutenant amped up the volume. “I HAVE NEWS.  Yep, yep; good news, BJ.”  Karim didn’t look up.  He sat cross-legged on the floor looking into a small mirror, spitting on his finger, and stroking his eyebrows.    Ajani shielded his eyes from the window’s glare and pressed his nose against the pane in an attempt to ascertain Karim’s mood. “Chihuahua!”   He swore a salty phrase even his grandmother would have found disgusting, and then, trying to ease the pain by pinching his nostrils together, he carped, “Buoy dat windu is hut as a jalapeño,”while shoving open the door.  The large room was hot and smelled of disinfectant.  “What stinks? . . . Say, Boss, who busted up your chair?”

Without looking up, Karim gestured toward the back of the room.  “Go lock the door, pull out the key, and grab that bag before somebody kipes it.”

“Huh?  What bag?”

“That one,” he pointed.

“Yep.  Yep.  A present? For me?  Ah, B. J., you shouldn’t have.”  Hot and out of sorts, Karim wasn’t in a bantering mood.

“You’re right, and I didn’t.”

Ajani snatched the ransom bag left by Safeed, locked the door, trotted forward and—like a well-bred golden retriever—dropped the bag in Karim’s outstretched, sweaty palm.

“Good dog.  That’s one,” sniped Karim.

“One what?”

“One of the two things I ordered you to do.”

“Oh, of course, the key; I tried.  B. J., It’s stuck.”

“So am I.  With you!”  Ajani’s shoulders slumped as, one by one, Karim dumped gold coins out on the floor.  One piece caught an edge, rolled to Ajani’s boot, and toppled over.  The coin seemed to whisper, Take me.  I’m yours.  A nanosecond later the temptation expired.

Karim bit the coins one at a time before dropping them into the bag.  “Twelve, thirteen.”  He looked as pleased as Fyodor Dostoevsky after cleaning out the house. “Okefenokee.  Now what was is it you wanted, Carolina Clyde?”

“Clyde was my pops. I’ve got used to being called Ajani.  Why did you bite each coin?”

“Bitcoins are worth more,” Karim replied sarcastically.  “I hope that isn’t why you knocked on the window,” he added as he stuffed the money bag in his pocket.  Ajani rubbed his blistered nose.   He knew Karim’s attention span was like a short fuse connected to three sticks of dynamite, and so he spoke fast.

“Mission accomplished boss.  A hound couldn’t a sniffed out the woman any better than I did.”

“Right now your red nose reminds me more of Ronald McDonald’s than a hound dog.  Boy, do I miss them Double Macks. So, where’s the woman and who is she shacked up with?”

“But BJ, don’t you want to know about the dumpsters?”

Karim eyed Ajani suspiciously.  “Dumpsters?”

“Yes, the dumpsters. lots of them.  So, here’s the deal:  The alleys are long and straight, so it’s pretty hard to ambush anybody from a wall; but then I smelled something.”

“The woman.  Right?”

“No, dumpsters.  Like I said, Lots of them.  Hiding places.  All bullet-proof.  Isn’t that brilliant?”

“Have you forgot what I sent you do?  Get to it or get out.  Where’s the woman and who’s she with?”

Yep, yep, I’m coming to that. Hold on now and don’t get your knickers in a twilly.  I walked every street, every alley, and located every trash bin in town.” Holding up his tatted forearm, he added, “I even made notes with a Sharpie, identifying the loca . . .”

Karim drew his semi-automatic and set it on his lap.  This time the chamber entertained a live round—not a round of applause.

Somewhat sobered by the graphic, Ajani continued. “I hugged the walls as I snuck through town, feeling uneasy and all exposed; it was like I was being watched.”

“Well, did you expect these Sunnis to all be blind, Dumb-Dumb?  Get to the point.”

“Okay, boss. Yep.  Yep.  In an alley four blocks west of here, I saw two little brats chucking dirt at each other.   I thought, ‘easy snatch and grab,’ but then a woman yelled at them and I froze.  She was leaning out of a third-story window.  I saw her, but she couldn’t see me because I dumpster-dove, like in the old days.  Get it?  Hearing her voice, the little chunks laid on their backs, looked up, and waved.”

“So?”

“Like I say, BINGO!  I’m near positive the woman’s an American; the one I heard earlier.  And I tell you, Boss, she’s a real looker. The two kids must be hers.  She’ll be a real catch, that one.  Yep. Yep.  A spawner and two small fry with a short shelf-life, if you get my drift.”

Karim didn’t.  “Shelf life?  What I need is a chair.”  He climbed from the floor.  The hospital bed made a sickly scraping sound as Karim and Ajani dragged it to the middle of the room, flopped down on either end, and had an ugly contest.  “Sounds like you hooked a big one, Ajani.  When we bag her, you’ll be off probation.”

“You lost me, boss.  What probation?”

“Never mind.  Did you find the bald Sunni?”  All of a sudden Karim sprang to his feet. “No, no, no, no.” He pressed his hands against his ears and stomped around like a tipsy gypsy. “Bald, right?  Sunni, right?  No, no, no, no.”

“What’s wrong, Boss.  Got your trouser caught in your crotch?”

Doubling his fists and pounding an open palm, Karim shrieked, “He was here!  The Sunni.  I had him. I had him.”

“Safeed?  Here?”

Karim pointed at the rear door.  “No, idiot. There.”

“But Boss, if—I should say, when—we capture the American and her kids, maybe we won’t need the bald man; yep, yep, if you get my drift.”

“Oh, you think so?  No, he hoodwinked me.  I want him. I want him bad.”

“Okay, okay.  Cool your jets.  I’ll track him down.  For sure he lives in a third story apartment.  You can book on that.  By the way, have you seen Shiner?”

“The movie?

“No, one of your men,” Boss.

“Oh yeah.  No, he didn’t come back,” came the glum reply.

“Where’d he go?”

“To capture Safeed, the bald guy, with two others.”

“There were three of them?”

“Don’t get me off on that again.  We wouldn’t want to double your probation now, would we, Probie?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Boss.”

“Just think on it.  You get off probation because all by your lonesome you found me a live soldier girl.” Karim slapped Ajani on the back. “Say, maybe we can pedal the two small-fry in Islamabad.  Do you get my drift, boy?”  The two friends snort-snorted over their good fortune.   Then Karim got real serious.  “I still want the bald Sunni.”

Entangled in Karim’s plot—hook, line and sinker—Ajani climbed to his feet.  “I hear somebody grousing out in yard.”  Without waiting for a dismissal, Ajani put on his lieutenant’s stare and exited the building for a whiff of reality and some fresh air. The ambient temperature in the courtyard—120 degrees Fahrenheit, 50 degrees Celsius—would within the hour drop to a pleasant 110 degrees Fahrenheit.  “Hey buzzard food, what’s going on out here?”

On their knees in the dirt, three men sweltered and grunted below the mid-day sun.  Ajani approached.

“Hey!  Are you kissing Coco’s feet, playing marbles, or what?”  Closing fast he cautioned, “Better not let Karim catch you praying.  Get up.”  As two of the men stood, Ajani brushed by and went to a knee.  “Well, I’ll be a horny toad’s uncle.  Yep.  Yep.”

“Meester Ajani, why don’t you jist go off and croak yourself?” murmured Coco under his breath.

“What did you say, boy?”

“I say I got blood in my shoe.  Pull it out quick and get me in the hospital.”

The jackknife had penetrated Coco’s boot and foot and anchored him to the ground. Ajani chuckled, “When I tell you to stay put, you really stay put.” The sarcasm was lost on Coco and his pals, one of whom left to retrieve a first aid kit from a jeep. Ajani wiggled and pulled the blade free, wiped it on Coco’s uniform, and then folded and slipped the knife in his own pocket.

Coco reached out his trembling hand and quailed, “That’s my knife, gimme it.”

“Coco-Coco-Puff-Puff.  No, dude! Call it payment for surgical services.  Maybe I’ll return it when you are a little older.  Time you learned that Mumbly Peg is a special skill requiring adult supervision.  In your case, that would be me.  Count yourself lucky to know a pro and that’s so, Curly Cue.”

“How’s that so?”

“I just saved your life by pulling the knife out, didn’t I?  When I was a kid in South Carolina, we played this game barefoot.  Winner take all, if you get my drift.  ‘Eeny, meeny, miney, moe–just be sure you miss my toe.’  Ajani failed to disclose that his right foot was missing whatever comes after ‘miney’. He flippantly added, “Next time, step lively, boy.”

Bandaged up, bruised, and missing a tooth, Coco hobbled under the overhang of the screened produce booth and took up wishing he were back home in a Kandahar jail eating three squares a day.  Like the villagers, he was filling with misgivings at one end, while enthusiasm for how to deal with this gig leaked out, drop by drop, from the other end–metaphorically speaking.

Karim’s voice boomed like a Confederate cannon through the open door. “Ajani, get back in here.”

Ajani stepped lively. “Yep, yep, Boss, I’m coming, I’m coming.  What’s up?”  He returned to his end of the bed.  The springs squeaked; Ajani squeaked.

Karim said, “My plan’s all melted into shape, little man.  Let’s get this caper bagged and done.  It’s too doggone hot in this desert to survive much longer.  All Motel 6s are air conditioned, don’t you know, but are the men still with us?”

“Yep, yep, sure boss.”  But Ajani knew better.  “I think they want to know what’s going on and what’s coming off, if you get my drift.”

“For now, say nothing. Take Jabal, who don’t know when to shut up, and Seaman’s Cap, who has never spoke a word, and kidnap the woman and two youngsters.  When you drag them in here, make sure they’re all screaming and crying so the whole town comes running to see what’s going on.  Then I’ll—shall we say—put the fear of the Okefenokee in them. That ought to do it. When I’m done, I’ll shove her out the door, and you manhandle her while I noose her neck.  What do you think?”

“Yep, yep, but couldn’t we just scare here to death instead of hang her out to dry?”

Karim made like he was either considering Ajani’s suggestion or counting down to blast off.  Ajani sprang off the bed, exited the hospital, grabbed two men, headed down the alley, and—ignoring Coco’s complaining—left him standing alone on one foot in the shade by the produce coop.

Coco waited until Ajani disappeared from sight and then retrieved his sarcastic dialect and tweeted, “Hey, Meester Karim, where’s the loot you promised us?”  Karim sprang from the bed, stomped to the window like a Brahma bull exhaling steam through his penny-sized nostrils, and peaked through the bugs. His temperature climbed one degree at a time as each of his armed ruffians rambled from the cracks and crevices outside and gathered next to Coco, facing the window.

“A posse.” Karim gulped. He felt a sudden chill.  It was caused by more than the sweat evaporating from the back of his sorry neck.  What he saw subdividing in the square drummed up memories of mob lynchings—both real and imagined—back home in Mississippi.

“Hang.  Me?!  Ajani, where have you gone to?”

Coco dropped the accent and called out again, this time louder.  “HEY BOSS, YOU AREN’T PLANNING TO CUT US OUT OF OUR SHARE OF WHATEVER WE FIND HERE, ARE YOU? REMEMBER THE DEAL?  EQUAL SHARES.”

The men chimed in. “EQUAL SHARES.  EQUAL SHARES. EQUAL SHARES.”

Coco continued, “WHILE YOU’RE IN THERE COOLING YOUR JETS, WE’RE OUT HERE SMELLING THE EXHAUST.  YOU AREN’T PLANNING TO KILL US ALL, AND MAKE OFF WITH THE BOUNTY, ARE YOU?”

Now the men were thrusting their rifles overhead and shouting, “GET IT ON.  GET IT ON. GET IT ON.”   Someone accidentally discharged his weapon, pinged a hole through the front window, and barely missed Karim’s shaggy head.

Coco got bolder and bolder. “HEY BOSS, WHY ARE WE DRINKING MOUTHWASH OUT HERE.  WHERE’S THE BOOZE?  I’LL TELL YOU WHERE IT IS.  IT’S EITHER IN THERE WITH YOU, OR IT’S HID IN ALL THESE RUN-DOWN RESIDENTIALS.  IT’S TIME WE BROKE DOWN DOORS AND . . . ?”

Karim bolted through the front door, charged off the stoop, drew his weapon, and fired three shots into the dirt.  “Pfft  Pfft Pfft.” All eyes fixed on the great Karim of Kandahar.  Nobody made a sound.  Nobody moved.  Somewhat lightheaded and very cantankerous, Karim continued communicating the only way he knew how.  “Okay, okay, you win.  I’m here. Now hear this!”  He pulled the money bag from his pocket as if it had been a rabbit from a magician’s hat.  “Coco, I got something to give you, all of you.  But Coco, you first.”  Karim untied the bag.  Coco hobbled forward.  Karim sucker-punched him in the mouth. “Happy birthday, Coco Puff.”

“It isn’t my birthday,” Coco replied brusquely as he struggled to his feet.

The sound of cocking guns was audible to all.  Rather than melting like poised, plastic toy soldiers over heat, the men closed ranks, pointed rifles, and edged slowly toward Karim.  He was obviously shaken.  He slowly swung his gun back and forth, retreated two steps, tripped, and fell backward on the stoop in front of HQ.  His first thought was to start firing and—like John Wayne—go out in a blaze of glory and, shucks, who knows, maybe I’ll inherit a few virgins.  Not satisfied with the odds, he reached for a second thought.  Nothing came.

Coco started considering himself a lock for new commander–in-chief.  He puffed out his chest ready to match brains, not teeth, and certainly not brawn. The men chanted and pumped their rifles into the noonday sky as if they were trying to aggravate heaven by poking holes in it.  “Coco puff.  Coco puff.  Coco puff. Chew-chew, Coco puff.” The sweet and sour mood morphed into a loud chant that rocked the village. Even the vultures looked down.

All six and one-half feet of Karim twisted up from the ground like a rooted stinging nettle plant being recorded by time-lapse photography.   The visual aid castigated Coco’s presumptions of power.  He wavered.  He capitulated.  “You want that we should knock down doors and get what’s yours, right Boss?”

Holstering his weapon in an uncharacteristic display of whatever, Karim smeared the blood from Coco’s chin with the back of his hand and spoke meekly, like a Sunday school teacher: “Okefenokee, go for it.”  He then backed inside, slammed the door, continued inventorying his stash, and pompously chuckled, “What a performance. What a performance.  What a chief.” His ruse had worked, or so he thought.

Coco was greatly relieved that the brute hadn’t shot him, but he had completely misunderstood his orders.  What he heard was, “Go fire it.”  Why yes, of course, go fire it. Fire the village. Still standing on his good foot like a denuded flamingo, Coco flew into a frenzy, warbling and squawking orders to his homely chicks.  The scruffy squad toddled to the west circumference  of the hospital, lined up, and took turns funneling gasoline into empty liquor bottles from a five gallon can. Rag wicks were stuffed into the bottle-necks, lit on fire, and on Coco’s orders, Molotov cocktails catapulted end-over-end,  erupting against shutters and spreading flames down the faces of shops and the mayor’s office.  Dry timber exploded as the flames tongued, lapped, and swallowed—forcing shrieks from nearby residents who scurried from seclusion like ants fleeing the snout of a spiny anteater.  But, contrary to Coco’s calculations, proximate villagers did’t run away.  They rallied.  Led by an old man, they armed themselves with buckets, pots, and pans filled with water and rushed into harm’s way to douse the blistering blaze. But where was Safeed?

Ajani and his two henchmen ducked and dodged as they ran under the faded white towels, the stained underwear, and the tattered thwabs, all flagging surrender. The three men rumbled down the narrow alley between steep, bricked  walls, anxious to grab up the American Roo and her two Joeys.  Safeed had just stepped into the alley and heard the three men running flat-out  before he saw them and quickly locked his door. He looked up across the way, cupped his hands, and yelled, “The boys!  Jinny get the boys.”   Like a marshaller trying to corral a Boeing 747, Safeed stiff-armed the sky–both hands flagging a warning–and yelled again. He gave up the plea and raced to the courtyard.

Asad jumped up and helped Asif to his feet.  “Safeed, you scared us.  What’s wrong?”

“Gotta go.  Gotta go.  Gotta grab you up and go.”  Reaching down, Safeed scooped up the startled children—one under each arm—and, “Whoa!  Jinny!  It’s you.” Gun in hand, she had skipped down two or three steps at a time and beat him to the building’s arched front entry.

“Take Asif.  Come, we must hurry.”  Short on breath but not resolve, Safeed steeled his aching muscles and led the way.  Asad rode piggy-back and out loud tallied their progress up the stairs.  “. . . thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three.  Down, please.” Like a well-trained elephant, Safeed collapsed to his knees, enabling his mahout to dismount; but unlike a docile pachyderm, Safeed lacked a thick skin; worry lines furrowed his brow.

Asad let Jinny and her mount cross the threshold and then, without assistance, pushed closed and secured the door with the wooden wedge. “Mama, why did we run?  Who’s chasing us?” cried Asif.

Safeed raised a finger to his lips, put his ear to the door, listened, and then listened some more.  Finally, he stopped holding his breath and said, “I heard boots running this way through the alley, but nobody’s coming up the stairs—yet. Maybe I’m paranoid, but . . .”

Jinny reached out and pulled the boys close to her legs. “Paranoid about what?  What’s going on?”

“Our village . . . well . . .  the municipal building and shops are on fire.”

“What? When? Why?”

“Six U.S. Army vehicles drove through the Pass and arrived here early this morning.  They’re parked in the village square for now.”

“My people, and you didn’t tell me while you were here for breakfast?”

“Let me finish. They aren’t your people.  I’m still gathering what you call intel.  Early this morning I hoped and prayed they’d just keep going, but then we heard shots. It’s been a busy morning, and now I fear Karim has men out looking for one or both of us.  Hopefully, they haven’t spotted you, yet.”

“Who’s looking for me?  And who’s Karim?” Jinny demanded while fingering her new bandage and nervously trying to re-stick it to her cheek.

Asad nudged his brother. “I smell smoke.” Asif tucked himself beneath his brother’s arm.  Safeed stepped back and pushed his back against the door.

“I promised to protect you and I will.  Come, let’s keep watch while I fill you in.   Stay low.”  The four duck-walked or crawled to the window and peaked over the sill into the empty courtyard and alley below.  Seeing and hearing nothing, each turned around, sat on the floor, and backed against the wall—Asad and Asif nestled on either side of Jinny.  She drew her semi-automatic, racked a shell into the chamber, and set the weapon in her lap. “So, what’s going on? Now I smell smoke, too. “

Safeed reeled forward to his knees, rattled off words as fast as film being spooled to the floor by a fast-forward projector, and then started to get up.  “I must go.”

Jinny grabbed him by the sleeveless, ribbed undershirt.  “I didn’t understand a word you said.  Sit. You owe us an explanation.  In English.”

Safeed sat, elbows on his knees, and spread his fingers across his face before taking a deep breath and capsulizing the day’s events.  He purposely omitted mention of his courageous rescue of Alim.  Once his homogenized update had been shared, Jinny patted his arm and betrayed what she’d intended to be a silent sigh.  “You are right.  You must leave.  Now.”  Still eyeing the wedged door, she picked up the semi-automatic.  “Safeed, we owe you, big-time.  Be careful. Thank you for all you have done for me, for us.  Come boys, it’s time we made our way to Karachi.”

Safeed looped arms with Jinny and anchored her to the floor.  “To these boys you are a lighthouse on a storm-tossed sea, but I think you have not thought through this plan of yours.  Have you taken into account that the port of Karachi is 1350 kilometers south of here, and that you have but a pair of two legs each?”

Pulling away, she answered, “Yes, I know that.  We will stay out of sight and hike south, parallel to the road. Hopefully we’ll find some friendlies.  With God’s help we made it here.  With God’s help, we’ll make it there, but I need forty feet of rope.  That would have to come from you.”

“Rope?  Rappel to the ground with two little boys?  Surely you jest.”

Asif was about to speak up in defense of Jinny’s plan, until Asad squeezed his shoulder and said, “Shh. Listen and learn.”

Safeed turned to peek out the window. “Jinny, you need a new set of eyes.  Mine.”

Agitated, she replied, “New eyes?  What do you mean?  You haven’t seen Mama’s refrigerator door, have you?”

“Your Mama’s what, you say?”

“Never mind.  I’m not blind to the hazards.  I am a soldier in the United States Army and sniper qualified, if you didn’t know.”

“Don’t get defensive; just hear me out, and then if you still want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

“You couldn’t stop me.”

“You are probably right. But if I could, I wouldn’t.  I value your freedom of choice as much as you do.”

“Go ahead then, I’m listening, but don’t forget the village is burning down.”

“Very well,” he said, climbing to his feet, bracing himself, and extending a hand.  Safeed felt like soft toffee being pulled in two directions at the same time.  He stood eye to eye with the beautiful American and mumbled, “All I ask is that you see your options through four eyes—yours and mine.”

The lights blinked on.  Center stage and seated at an oval table, Caleb and Gemma clasped hands and glimpsed eternity.  One plus one equals one. 

 “Jinny, are you listening?”

“Yes, go on.”

“My plan has not been fully coordinated, and I have yet to report to our patriarch, but . . . “

“Patriarch?”

“Yes, our patriarch—Abdul-Akim.  Though he is halt and going blind, God enables him to see around corners.  Together we scheme to deliver you to your people.  Well, perhaps there is a better word than ‘scheme,’ but you must not leave; not yet, please, I implore you.”  Safeed had momentarily forgotten the fire; he had forgotten the missed funeral; he had forgotten the man who had occupied his bed; he had even forgotten Gharam and Dalal.

Taking Jinny by the shoulders, he kissed her on each cheek.  His heart skipped a beat.   Hers did not.  A swallow dislodged Safeed’s prominent Adams-apple before he disclosed:  “This village harbors many secrets. I have hiding places about which no living person knows excepting myself, Abdul, and my sister, Gharam.  The time has come for you to see one such place.”  Safeed abandoned the hope that Asad and Asif would continue watching the alley. He led the refugees to the tall hutch on the narrow wall and reached into the cupboard below.  Click.  “Help me push.”  Shoulder to shoulder and with some effort, they slid the cabinet laterally about fifteen inches, exposing an enclosed, triangular space behind.  Mouths dropped open.  Safeed slipped through the small opening and disappeared behind the cabinet.

“Come in, all of you.”  All four easily fit into the space and circled a vertical length of pipe, anchored to a bracket above and disappearing through the floor beneath. “If we lift out two pieces of the floor,” Safeed said, pointing to a small finger hole elongated at one end, “you will see that the pipe runs, unobstructed, all the way to the ground floor.” The boys squealed with delight.

“What’s at the bottom?” asked Asad.

“The pipe is screwed into an end-bracket on the floor.  Here, help me lift out the flooring, but be careful, it’s a long way down.”

“How do you get outside?” added Asif, substantially less enthusiastic than his brother.

“When you slide to the bottom, you will see a hinged hatch.  It opens to the courtyard.”  Safeed led them from the secret room to the window and pointed down behind the old Olive tree.

“I can’t see it,” Asif quailed.

“Even from the courtyard it just looks like part of the wall, but it can only be opened from the inside. Any other questions?”  Jinny and the boys were at a loss for words.  Safeed continued, “Mother and Father moved into this apartment when we arrived from Iran.  My twin sister and I lived across the hall.  Father was concerned about how to get the family out of here in the event of a fire or an attack.  This was his solution.”

“Ingenious. . .  How did he get the black pipe down the hole?” asked Jinny.

“Working together, we installed it in three sections.”

Jinny mused, “It reminds me of my third-grade class’s visit to our firehouse back home in Abilene. When the alarm went off, instead of running down the stairs, the fire crew slid down the brass pole to their gear and waiting engines.”

“Tell me more some other time.”  Safeed—anxious to leave and knowing that his audience hung on every word—concluded, “At each coupler you’ll have to pause and re-position your hands.  It’s not something you’d want to do every day.” Asad disagreed, but like a crippled lamb caught in a bramble bush, Asif tugged on Safeed’s hand.

“Can’t Mama, Asad, and me just leave  now and come live with you?”

Before Jinny could respond, Safeed looked down, smiled, and replied, “When I leave, be watchful from the window.  I will point out the entrance to my home as I pass by.  When and if danger approaches, follow Jinny down the pole and run to my door; but remember, you must move as swiftly and quietly as a Siberian Tiger. Be brave.”

Jinny swallowed what she had been about to say and helped nudge the tall cabinet back in place.  Then she turned to watch puffs of ominous black smoke billow into the afternoon sky.  “Safeed, we will be alright, but the fire is growing.  Go . . . and goodbye.”

“Wait!  Get down.  Someone’s coming.”  Dropping as if a rug had been pulled from beneath their feet, they crash-landed, listened, and waited.

“The stairs!”  Still on her back, Jinny rotated and pointed her Glock at the door.

Safeed felt himself tightly wedged between pressing obligations as he peaked over the sill.  “I think whoever it was stopped in the alley near my apartment. Gharam may be in danger. I must go. You know what to do.  Don’t forget your rifle and pack.”

He was right.  Seventy yards out, three men hugged a wall.  One of them pounded the bricks with fist and cursed, “Crap! Crap!  Crap!  We’ve been spotted.  Back away. . . I said, back away.” Ajani shoved Jabal, who lost his balance and landed on his built-in seat. “That’s one,” Ajani poked a single finger toward Jabal.

“One what?”

“One strike.  You got two left.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You’re right, Jabal, mostly you don’t get it.”

Jabal’s tongue slipped and sliced between his lips. “Yes, Ajani.  Of course, Ajani.  Whatever you say, Ajani.”

“That does it.” The angered lieutenant pulled Jabal to his feet, clenched a fist, elevated a middle knuckle, and double-tapped him in the sternum.  Hard.  Ajani held up two fingers and shook them in Jabal’s face: “That’s two, rookie, do you hear me?  One more and you’re out.” Ajani spat a tobacco, narrowly missed Jabal’s boot, and then wiped brown juice from his own lips.  He snarled instructions, punctuating each word. “Here’s what we’re going to do:  Circle around the block to the backside of the building, crouch beneath the stairs, and catch whoever comes down first.”

“I have two questions.”

Ajani glared.  “Make it quick.”

“If the woman comes down first are we done here?  And are you sure she’s an American?” asked Jabal, still nursing his sternum.

Ajani nodded.  “She speaks English better than me, and she don’t carry the stink of Sunni.”  Indignant, Jabal stiffened, considered his options, and decided to cool his jets.  But Seaman’s Cap, offended by the slur, abruptly turned and walked toward the village square.

“D_ _ _ _ _ deserter! Get back here!  If Karim were here, he’d . . . where’s my gun?”  Ajani had forfeited his self-control, misplaced his gun, and now, was one man short.  Fearing failure, he relaxed a fist and wrapped it around the handle of his sheathed, crescent-shaped saber.

A wide-eyed old hussy—yes, that one—thus far undetected by the enemy, quivering and too afraid to bawl, had been watching the confrontation while dusting a shutter slat with her pointy nose. In hard labor on her sister’s lap, and stressed by the tension in the room, a Rhode Island Red’s contractions stopped. Her egg lodged at the point of no return.

Outside the window, Jabal complained, “Face it, coming here was a bad idea. Let’s go back . . .”

Ajani interrupted.  “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“A chicken!”

Jabal muttered, “No, but you got booze on your breath.  That would explain a lot. Now back to the woman.  I heard she’s a real looker, eh Ajani?”

Ajani released the handle of his sheathed saber, but his sarcasm sliced both ways. “Yeah, that’s what I told you, a real looker.  And you’re a real observer.  And I’m real in charge, thank you very much. To Karim, the American is our ace in the hole.  When I’m done with her, he’ll kill what’s left over; the Sunnis will surrender, and we’ll do what we came to do. Now, do you think you can button it for a while?”

With a salacious smirk on his face, Jabal followed Ajani around the block.  Out of view of the broken window, they entered Jinny’s building and hid beneath the stairs.  “Do you want to bet a bottle of beer on who’ll be first to fall into our trap?”

“Now didn’t I just ask you to keep yours shut?”

“Keep what shut?”

“Your trap.”  Ajani grumbled. “I already figured out who is coming down first.  It’ll be the bald eagle with the neck of a goose . . . worthless scum, hatched in a swamp.”

Jabal chanced another question.  “Is he dangerous?”

“Oh crud.  When he gets here just trip and throw him to the floor.”

“Then, I got dubs on killing him.”

“You kill him and we’re both dead men. I’m in charge here, and the boss wants him alive.  Once he’s delivered, we’ll hightail it back here for the woman.  She’s my blue plate special.”

“Yep.  Yep.  The blue plate special,” enjoined Jabal.

Ajani grabbed Jabal’s arm. “Say, are you mocking me again, boy?” Jabal pulled away and prepared to duck a punch, but then a door squeaked high overhead and both muggers ducked.

“She’s coming.”

“No, he’s coming.”

One hundred and fifty pounds of charity crept on tiptoes down the disagreeable stairs.  It was Safeed.  He still carried Alim’s knife in his waistband and a keen sense of danger in his stomach.  Before the last step down, he paused, heard heavy breathing, and leaped for the door.  Tripped by a pilfered army boot, Safeed stumbled and sprawled on his face.  A knee stabbed into his back, his forehead jerked up, and a cold steel blade nicked his throat.

“Not one word or you die.  Now git up.” Ajani and Jabal each grabbed an arm, jerked him to his feet, cursed him for having no hair to grab, and dragged him through the courtyard toward the alleyway—hoping the sight would chill Jinny’s blood.  It did.

“No, no, Safeed, they have you.  Duck down boys and cover your ears.”  Her wary companions unwillingly hunkered down next to Jinny, who shouldered the rifle in one practiced motion and aligned the scope’s cross-hairs on the back of Jabal’s thick neck.  Distance forty yards—angle 50 degrees—wind, negligible—target’s head, but ten inches from Safeed’s.  Jinny took a deep breath, let most of it escape, squeezed off a round, and felt no recoil.  Jabal’s head imploded like a seedy watermelon on a fence post—128 grains of gunpowder—an easy shot.  The muzzle blast rocketed back and forth between the alley walls; and the Rhode Island Red’s egg dislodged and completed its journey.

Ajani fled, but not before Jabal had donated blood to both men and collapsed in a lifeless heap, his arms still twitching.  Safeed staggered to his apartment entryway, wiped his eyes clean, looked back at the muzzle-end of Jinny’s smoking rifle, and then disappeared, bolting the heavy door behind him.  He clung to the railing with both hands and haltingly climbed up the stairs, alarmed at how weak he felt.  His fingers fumbled in a deep pocket holding twelve keys, knowing that but one would unlock the door.  Once identified and selected by touch, he encouraged the right key to marry with the receptive Schlage key-way.  Once mated, the key eagerly tumbled over on its back, Safeed heard an amenable click, and then twisted the oval knob.

“Home at last.  YA LAHWY!”  He stared into the business-end of a double-barrel shotgun, pointed by Dalal, who was poised to pull the trigger. Safeed flailed backwards and caught hold of the handrail, which saved him from keeling over and tumbling down the stairs.

Dalal gasped, “Oh, Safeed, I almost blew your head off.   And you’re BLEEDING.”  She lowered the weapon, but her outcry  triggered a reaction behind the barricaded bedroom door.  Heavy furniture complained at being shoved aside; the door flew open and banged against the wall.  Gharam clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a scream and lunged into her brother’s arms.  Now they were both bloody.

“I’m okay.  Gharam.”  She continued to sob.  “Peace be unto you; I am okay, I am okay, dear sister.”  His ears still buzzing, Safeed tried to gently rub away the anxious lines drawn on his sister’s countenance.

“Safeed, who did this to you?  No, wait. Just sit here and rest while we clean you up.”  Still crying, Gharam poured warm water from a white porcelain pitcher into a pan while Dalal tore a stained dishtowel in half.  Together they fussed over Safeed, wiped the streaks and spots from where hair once grew, then rinsed the rags and cleaned off his, face, neck and arms.  “This tee-shirt must be thrown away, and you have a gash on your neck.  Hold still. Do we have access to the hospital? You need antibiotic ointment.”

Safeed pretended he hadn’t heard Gharam and examined the stains on his ribbed undershirt.  Alim’s dry blood and mine—comingled—Sunni and Shi’a—brothers at last.  Feeling more like a peacemaker, he turned to Dalal.  “So, where did the shotgun come from?”

“You must be in shock. I answered that question yesterday afternoon.  Should I wag that tale again?  Now?”  She waited for a familiar sign and got it. “I perceive that you await an abbreviated reply.  Yes? “

“Yes.  I confess that I have forgotten, but be quick, for I must be about my father’s business.”

“I will say it again. You have been reading too much scripture, cousin.  What you need more is to relax a minute.  So, relax.” Dalal—gifted with long slender fingers and sleek forearms—forced Safeed gently back onto the chair.  “You’re no good to us in heaven, you know?  Now, about the shotgun:  I climbed to the rooftop undetected by the hooligans.”

“When? Why?”

“Before the funeral and before Alim’s passing.”

“Alim?  He’s dead?” Safeed turned and looked into the bedroom.  The worn, wrinkled sheets—washed clean, smoothed straight, and tucked around the mattress—reverently confirmed the old man’s absence.  “Where is his body?”

Gharam wiped the sweat from her brow, pushed her long black hair behind her shoulders, and tried to console her brother. “He, too, is in God’s hands, dear brother.  Dalal and I moved him to the vacant apartment below us until we get more help.”

Dalal added, “We wrapped him in plastic, tied at both ends.”

Safeed hung his head. “Your words bring me no comfort; I deserve none; in my zeal to deliver him from death I assured that he would die . . . and be wrapped . . . in plastic.” There was a long silence.  “For now, leave him be, or perhaps I should . . .”

Dalal cradled the shotgun like a baby and calmly counseled, “Now is not the time to ponder that conundrum. Stay put and let me finish the tale.  As I was about to say, before the funeral I climbed the fire escape to my rooftop to take Sham some fruit and water, thinking I would gather in my laundry from the clothesline before returning home. I add that the laundry still awaits retrieval; By the time I dare to return, it will be twice dry, but that is of little consequence.  I found the soldier lying dead on his back, propped against the parapet, eyes wide open, a bullet hole in his forehead. His trumpet and shotgun lay beside him.  Could your American woman have done the deed?”

Before Safeed could reply, Gharam blurted, “Oh Safeed.  The woman?  Is she dead? Whose blood stains your shirt?  Who fired a gun in the alley?”

“Too many questions.” Safeed struggled to gather and contain his feelings, scattered like feathers during a cock fight. “Whose bullet, you ask?  It came from a sniper’s rifle—yes, the rifle of the American soldier.  Did I tell her name already?  It is Jinny.  Add mine to the registry of those whom she has rescued.  You both know where she and the children are secluded, and now the enemy knows where they are, too.  They are trapped up there. For this reason, Gharam, I felt compelled to share one of our secrets with her.”  Dalal looked puzzled.  “That done, I hurried down the steps, only to be surprised, tripped up, and captured by two ruffians who lay in wait and began dragging me toward the village square. What you see is the blood of an enemy, slain by a sharpshooter’s bullet, and that shooter—God be praised—is Jinny. I do not believe she killed the deserter, too.”

Dalal walked to the alley window and looked down at Jabal’s remains.  “So one of your assailants got away?  You say this Jinny remains in what apartment?  Do we need to fear her? What secret does she possess that I do not?”

“Dalal, I don’t have time for all these questions, but look:  Yes, one assailant is dead, and the other one has fled.  I fear he’ll soon return with reinforcements.   If Jinny and the boys have to flee, I told them how to escape from our old third floor apartment undetected.  As I said, you know the apartment–it’s the one with the broken window.  Please cousin, please sister, listen for them and let them in.”

Gharam wailed, “Bodies, bodies, bodies. How shall we dispose of the one in the alley?  I can’t bear even the thought of looking at him?”

Dalal replied, “I’ll call the fixer.  Safeed, go change your clothes.” She leaned out the window, fired off a Gatling-gun-like burst in Pashto, and promptly received a signaled reply from across the way. “It will be done, Safeed.”

He was already in the alley, still wearing the ribbed, sleeveless, bloody undershirt and looking up at his cousin, standing at the bedroom window.  “Be sure to listen for Jinny’s knock.”

Dalal returned to the kitchen and, while emptying the tainted water into a bucket, asked, “Help me remember to tell Safeed that Alim went peacefully.  He bid me lean near his blistered lips, reached for my arm, and whispered, “Woman, you have the smell of Sunni, but thank you.”  He struggled to breathe, relaxed his grip, and then closed his eyes.  Personally, I am glad he is gone.”

Gharam locked the door. “Will you stay with me?  We can tell Safeed when he returns.”

“Yes,”If he returns.  Dalal nuzzled the shotgun against her cheek.  The cold steel felt good against her fevered face.

“But if the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself to the battle.”  [1 Corinthians 14:8]

Coco casually swung a five-gallon gas can back and forth—its chained lid dizzily dancing—as he limped out of step between two pyromaniacs toward the hospital.  Although shy on eyelashes, the truculent trio brimmed with confidence as they sauntered up to the stoop, fingers looped in their front pockets, and paused to shade their eyes and look down.  Each anticipated—well, they didn’t know what to expect.  Coco dropped the gas can.  It clunked.  He felt like a clunk.  “Whoa! You look like road kill.   What the h_ _ _ happened?”

Ajani was trembling, soaked with sweat, and stained with Jabal’s blood.  He stared through Coco, not at him, but said nothing.   Karim sat next to his first lieutenant on the warped cedar porch. He chewed, leaned forward, fixed his eyes on the ground, puckered up, and spat.  His spittle fell short of the outfield like a pop-up fly-ball at Fenway Park; it landed on his own unlaced boot and sizzled in the sun as he jacked up, squatted on his haunches.  If one were to exercise his imagination, Karim resembled a hairy frog about to give birth.

He continued elevating until he finally peaked at six-five-and a half.  His bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets like the windows of a slot machine ready to pay off, but his tacky taunt punctured any hope of a commendation.  “Coco-puff, what have you done? . . .  I said, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” croaked the turbid toad.

Unsure of the reason for his lousy approval rating, Coco gestured toward the fire.   “Looky Boss—as you ordered—a southern-style barbecue with all the trimmings.”  Coco cogitated on making a U-turn and seeking a parking space in the sultry shade.  He wasn’t in the mood to be punched in the mouth or killed. But just then, a chilling scream re-routed all eyes toward the specter of an old man as he staggered from the smoldering shell of the municipal building.  Everyone stopped and watched him stumble and collapse on his face.  No one approached for a long sixty seconds, and then from around the corner Safeed—weary, covered with soot, and unrecognizable—walked over, knelt by Barakah, placed a hand on his back, and remained as stoic as a gravestone, as speechless as a graveyard.

Nobody else moved; no one, that is, except Coco, who caved like a prospector watching his dig collapse with men trapped inside.  He wailed, “Oh, what have I done?  Karim, what have we done?”  He stared first at Safeed, then at the smoldering corpse, and finally at the gutted building’s charred plaster—from the ground to the parapet. The adjoining tower remained unscathed. Coco cried, “I thought everybody got out; but look, yes, you!  Don’t turn away; we are soaked with the blood of an innocent old man.” Coco began trembling uncontrollably.

“I told you to ‘go fur it’; not ‘go fire it!’” chawed Karim.

“No, you said, ‘go fire it’, Boss.  We all heard you, loud and clear.” Still on his knees, Coco slapped at his arms and chest as if he were trying to smother the flames of hell.  He screamed, “I’m burning.  I’m burning.”

A woman—blackened with soot—heard Coco’s outcry and came loping like a leopard across the square toward him. She wore the unrecognizable remnant of a tattered hijab and one flip-flop. On she came, hopelessly shrieking, “YOU-u-u-u-u!  You should burn in Hades.   You murdered my baby!”  She lunged forward, knocked Coco on his back, sat on his stomach, and pounded his chest—slower . . . and slower . . . and slower.  “YOU.  YOU. YOU.  Because of you, my life is in ruins.”

“Pft.  Pft.”

Two rounds lodged in her back, and she fell forward, face to face with Coco. “No, woman! Your life is at an end because of me, Chief of the Okefenokee.  Who’s next?”  Karim bugled like an elk celebrating the rut, grabbed the dead woman by the hair, and dragged her off Coco’s quivering body.  “Coco, get up.” Karim jerked him to his feet and, winking at Ajani, muttered, “There now, do you see how it’s done?”  Ajani didn’t respond to the wink with a, ‘yep, yep,’” so Karim pointed a finger at Coco, hoping he would stop spooling like celluloid film, get jammed in front of a projector’s hot lamp, and melt down.

Coco surprised him and rattled: “So, Meester Karim, how have your plans worked out? Have you scored a win? No. Have any villagers fled like vermin into the desert? Not one.  Has anybody here seen or smelled even one perfumed pretty?  Has anyone discovered wealth?  No, and no again.  Did you all not watch the plebeians gather, run for water, fill buckets, pots, pans, and work to extinguish the blaze?  Yes.  Have you witnessed anything but poverty shrouded in sackcloth, and now, ASHES?  Sackcloth and ashes!  These refugees are but ragged refugees from Iran?  Meester Karim, YOU HAVE FAILED!”  Coco fisted his hands into the air. “ARE YOU BOYS BLIND TO HIS TREACHERY?  We are the victims, not the victors–shorn goats festering with ticks–diseased and driven into the desert by a MADMAN!  . . . Let’s pack up and go home.”

Karim hefted then released and let his weapon drop into the black leather holster.  For a swirling quarter-cup of time his egomania, taunted and shunned, drizzled like sludge into a Tupelo, Mississippi sewer.  Ajani apprehended this state of mind and abruptly arose to defend his friend.

“The only thing wrong with you, Coco-Puff, is this:  You are still breathing.”

Unafraid, Coco turned, wagged his head like a wary hound, and jabbed a paw at his antagonist.  “It is you who are on trial here.  Whose innocent blood stains your hands, you jackal?”  Backed into a corner, Ajani touched shoulders with Karim before baring his canines, poised to crunch Coco’s carotid.

Fully enthralled by the lively confrontation, Ratib Alfarsi sat alone in the dirt—ankles crossed, and heels pointing toward his groin—twenty-five feet away and beneath the counter of the vacant vegetable cooperative, shaded by a rotting, faded, blue and grey awning.  Nicknamed Baboon, Ratib was a trained pugilist, raised in the slums of Tehran.  His cohorts believed he’d once held the national boxing title, then retired, learned to play the bassoon, and held second chair with the Tehran Symphony Orchestra.

But in truth, Ratib had set up chairs for the performances, gotten into a fight with a bassoonist, and nearly beaten him to death backstage. When a warrant was issued for Ratib’s arrest, he’d fled the country and ended up sharing a cell with one Billie Joe Quagmeyer in Kandahar.  BJ, amused at Ratib’s ability to rub his forehead with one hand and pound his chest with the other, nicknamed him Baboon and welcomed him into the gang.  Everyone presumed Ratib to be best educated and most dispassionate of the desperadoes, but for the moment he fancied himself a ringside announcer.  He held up a fist, pretended it to be a microphone, and spoke softly through his curly beard:

“Good afternoon and thanks for tuning in.  My name is Ratib Alfarsi, and if we don’t soon have something constructive to do, I will go mad.  That’s m.a.d. We’re stuck here in Peshawar, Pakistan, not mentioned in most travel brochures, anticipating a fight. The contenders have been barking at one another for five minutes.  The venue is hot, the stakes high, and the language is libelous. Listen up:”

  “Just so you’ll know before I knock you down to size, Coco-puff, the dry blood you see on me belongs to Jabal.  He lost his head in the alley.”

  “Right.  Did you shoot him when his back was turned or when he was napping?  Stop distracting me, Ajani, or whatever your real name is. I know you hated him.”

  “No, man. Listen.  We were dragging the bald guy through the alley when Jabal’s head got blowed clean off by an American soldier—I’d say from maybe sixty yards out.  And get this, the shooter’s a woman.  She’s the coward.  She shot Jabal in the back of the head.  Don’t you get it?”

 “Oh, I get it, alright. Everybody and his dog knows Jabal was anything but your chum.”

 “Okay, okay, let’s agree to disagree, but we both hate Americans.”

“You ARE an American, like it or not.”

“So is the woman, and she infantry.”  Ajani looked to the Boss for approval and added, “Karim wants her captured, mugged, and dragged here so he can finish her off.  He says finishing her off will unlock lots of doors. So, let’s go fur it.”

“Give me a break.  ‘Go fur it??’ You, too?”

“I mean let’s rassel her to the ground, drag her down here and decaf, decap, oh fiddle-sticks, help the lady lose her head, like ISIS did on Al Jazeera TV.  Right boss?”

Karim, who had been channeling every word through both cauliflower ears, cuffed Ajani on the side of the head. “Listen up, both of you.  The woman don’t lose her head, got it?”

 “Yeah, Boss.  She keeps hers, I keep mine, Coco keeps his, and Jabal?  Well, Jabal didn’t get a choice.  So, what’s your choice, Coco?” Ajani didn’t need to, but he twisted Coco’s arm behind his back, unsheathed and held a knife to his throat, and admired his Adam’s apple as it struggled like a frog being digested by a snake.

“Let him be,” demanded Karim.  “Coco, Baboon, you go with Ajani and capture the woman.  Alive.”

Jinny watched the expelled brass somersault, land, roll on the floor, circle on its rim, and stop.  Little Asif opened his eyes, leaned back on his hands, and looked up. “Is Safeed safe?”

Asad blurted, “Yes, he’s okay.” But Asad wasn’t.  He had peaked over the sill and witnessed the horror.  Forever scarred, he moved mechanically on his knees, retrieved, and blew softly into the empty bullet casing. “This gold whistle needs some work, too.” He peered into the void, brushed the brass against his sleeve, dropped it in his pocket, and sat in a funk. “I saw Safeed step into his house and close the door.  Well, I only think there was a door, but anyway, he disappeared.”

Jinny tried not to imagine the nightmarish scars that had been carved into her and the children.  She backed from the window and lowered her weapon, but there was not time to commiserate.  Lively neurons telegraphed the same message:   Another attack is imminent.  “We must leave before we can’t,” she said calmly. “How’s your ankle, soldier?”    She noted Asif’s knee-jerk reaction. He had scooted across the floor toward the hutch, stopped midway, and pulled at his leg.

“Still hooked to my foot, Mama.”  Jinny knelt, ruffled his hair, and gave him bear hug.

“What I meant was, ‘how much does it hurt?’”

He teasingly batted his eyelashes.  “Do we get to slide down the pole now?”  Anticipating a ‘yes’, he climbed to his feet and hobbled to the hutch.

“Yes, Asif, it’s time, and you are master of the game bag.  Asad, will you help me move the hutch?”  Asad was slow to respond.  His ears hurt, but he wanted to be equally yoked with Jinny.  As it turned out they were as poorly matched for the task as a Gayal ox and her calf.  The hutch didn’t budge.  “Ding-louie.”

“Can Safeed come back and help us?”

“No, we’re on our own.”

“Is he on vacation?”

“No, he’s on the run, but this cabinet acts like it’s nailed to the floor.  Shall we try again?  Ready Asad?”

Asad nodded, “Do you think we can do this?  I am so scared.”

After another failed attempt Jinny tried to appear tranquil, but inside she hosted a thousand screaming ‘ding-louies,’ all wanting out.  Think Jinny, think ‘options’.  What do you mean, ‘options’? We’re out of options. Safeed was right.  Escaping through the window was a dumb idea; and the door, despite the wedge, won’t preserve us for long; we’re trapped and cornered.  “But not yet defeated,” she said aloud.  “Asif, are there any marbles in your bag?”

“Do you mean these?   They are kulla.  Does that sound right, Asad?”

“I do not know, but I do not think now is a time to play games.”

Jinny nodded.  “Asif, carefully empty the kulla on the floor near the door and spread them out.” Asif complied while Jinny and Asad looked on.  Soon thirty-two dazzling marbles slicked the surface.

“Oh, yes, I see why.”

“I think you do, Asif. Let’s get ourselves ready. Boys, when I say, ‘Bravo’, quickly line up and kneel behind me so you can’t see the door.”

“Can’t?”

“Yes, can’t.”  Jinny chambered a live round in the rifle and then knelt on one knee seven feet behind her own temporary Maginot Line—a weathered old door, wedged with a piece of firewood, and missing lock and latch.

Above and behind Jinny’s left shoulder, a meek little voice suggested, “Do we have time to pray?  It helped last time.”

Taken aback, Jinny dropped her other knee to the floor and without turning to face the boys asked, “Asad, will you ask God to help us?”

“No, no.”

“Asif? . . . We haven’t much time.”

“Okay, Mama. Heavenly Father, we’re stuck. We need help.  In Jesus, amen, I think.” It was the boy’s first uttered prayer.  Neither a desperate cry for help, nor a demand, it was the simple expression of a child’s faith that someone up above heard and would help.   Now, both touched and embarrassed, Jinny laid aside the rifle, and this time she and Asad put their backs to the hutch and pushed. And pushed.  Nothing.  Nada.

“Mama, it didn’t help.”

Jinny gasped, forehead veins filled to capacity, red-faced, and straining every muscle. “Keep pushing . . . Augh!  Ding-louie . . .THE LATCH, the latch, the latch.” she relaxed long enough to reach below a low-slung shelf.  Click.  Again, Jinny leaned into the hutch.  “Push, they’re coming back.  It’s time to go-ho-ho-ho.”  The cabinet relinquished its hold on the floor and slid to the side, exposing the secret passage.  Jinny was exhausted. Asad was relieved. Asif was speechless.  He beamed but refused Asad’s proffered hand up.  Instead, he stood, smiled, swung the small bag over his shoulder, hobbled into the sanctuary, and grabbed hold of the iron rod.  Asad and Jinny followed his lead, but Asad insisted on lugging the ruck sac, helmet, and the folded BDUs, which required two trips. Jinny carried her rifle; the hutch yielded to encouragement, slid quietly, the gap narrowed, and, click—darkness

“Oh, Asif, this is like Tora Bora.  Mama, that means, ‘Black Cave.”

Without warning, something hard slammed like a wrecking ball against the apartment door.  Asad wrapped himself around one of Jinny’s legs, and Asif, the other.  Without a word, Jinny gently separated herself from the boys, knelt, and lifted the pieces of flooring, exposing an opening the diameter of a Schwinn bicycle tire. The iron rod looked more beguiling than a furlough.  Jinny loosely secured her gear to the pole and—with no need of encouragement—it slid down-paused-and slid some more while Jinny and the boys watched like children who had just dropped a rock into a deep well, awaiting the splash. Goaded by gravity, the load signaled its arrival at ground-zero with a thump; the rifle came loose and clattered to the floor.

Ratib, by all appearances the most lustful of Karim’s mob, had crawled on his knees to the apartment door, ostensibly to peep through the keyhole for a salacious glimpse of the American woman.  Drooling with anticipation, he licked his lips and popped his knuckles to relieve stress.  His companions leaned forward, hands on their knees, and waited for their breath to catch up. Ratib whispered, “Did you hear that?”

Ajani and Coco stopped breathing and looked at each other.  “Did we hear what?”

“I dunno.  It sounded like . . . oh well, I might as well say it—a metallic click.”  Ratib kept gawking through the keyhole.

“Could be the safety on her rifle, loaded and pointed at your pink-eyed peeper.”  Ratib reacted as if somebody had just jammed a drinking straw up his nose.

“You know what, Ajani?  You are one spooky dude,” he squawked, “but I didn’t see anyone in there.  Why don’t you have a look-see for your own-self?”

“Yep, yep.  Do you really think I’m as stupid as you?” Ajani stood to the side and pounded on the door three times. “We know you’re in there. Open up.”  He waited and listened.  Next, he tapped lightly.  “Come on lady, your friend with no hair sent us with some food for you and the kids. Yep, yep, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; so help me out.”

 Convinced he was about to die from a heat stroke and miss out on all the fun, Coco shoved his way past his cohorts, twisted, and broke the doorknob off in his hand.  “Well, I’ll be darned; guess I didn’t know my own strength.”

Ajani ground his teeth, snarled, and shook his fist in Ratib’s face. “You forget who’s in charge here?  Get ready, we go on my signal.  Three, two, one.”  Ajani assaulted the door with his size 12 boot.   Coco and Ratib laughed out loud.

“I told you to put a rag in it.”  Fuming, Ajani squared up and kicked again.  This time the weakened jamb gave way—the door flew open; Ajani played marbles; his arms flailed; he landed on his back; his gun hit the floor and discharged. Hot lead ricocheted off the potbellied stove and punched a hole through the hutch.

“I told you nobody’s home,” chided Ratib.  Ajani looked up.

“Yep. Yep.  No one’s home—between your ears.”   Ajani picked up his weapon, stared angrily at the marbles, and kicked a break shot with his toe.  Like airborne billiard balls a few marbles careened off the walls and one hit the kicker in the forehead.  Ratib tempered his temptation.  He retrieved a few marbles, dropped them in his pocket, walked to the window and stood by Coco, surveilling the vacant alley.

“Why are you two standing there? The woman didn’t sprout wings and jump out the window.  Stop daydreaming and help figure out how she got out of here.” Ajani warned, “We must not, again I say, we must not go back to BJ empty-handed.” But to him the prospects looked dim.  He mumbled, “I should have never left the states.  Yep, yep.  I should have gone north to Trenton, lived with Nabil and my cousins, and made pipe bombs for cash. But no, here I am, stuck with a Moslem beatnik from the 60s and a one-footed, Coco-puff nincompoop.”

“Ratib!  Look for loose floorboards.”

Half-heartedly Ratib reached under the potbellied stove.  “Ouch. Let go.  No, no, no.”  He howled and shook his arm as if something had bitten his hand and wouldn’t let go. In agony, he jerked and fell backwards, his thumb and forefinger stuffed in the mouth of a carpet viper.  An imitation. A child’s toy.  “My hand. Ajani, my hand,” he wailed.  Ajani’s horrified reaction gave way to disgust.  Ratib looked up at his lieutenant with a smile. “Gotcha!”

“Funny? You think that’s funny?  I’ll show you funny.  Go guard the alley through the window.  Here, I’ll give you a lift.”  Jerking the older irritant to his feet, Ajani grabbed Ratib by the seat of his pants and—airborne without a parachute—the fledgling flew, gravity governed, and, Splat!  Ajani acted like he’d just put out the trash for collection.

“Keep looking.  Karim will kill us if we return empty handed.”  Ajani’s calloused knuckles rapped the walls of the dingy, third story room. Soon he and Coco were both knocking on the same wall.  Ajani stood, tiptoed, before the bookcase, squinted, and leaned.  “That’s a bullet hole.”  After extricating his pinky from a probe, he retrieved a round from his belt, dropped it through the hole and heard it roll.  Coco thought Ajani was about to have a seizure until he motioned him forward, pointed, and whispered, “The woman.”   Together they wrenched cabinet forward, raised their weapons ready to fire, and watched the heavy case belly-flop face down and die.  Befuddled, Ajani stepped into the vacant enclosure and looked down.  Nothing. “THEY’RE GONE.  ESCAPED!”

Limping down the stairs, Coco still beat Ajani to the courtyard.  Both men crawled like children on all fours, poked their heads into the open hatch and, exasperated, swore like seasoned sailors. “Let’s split up.” You go 100 yards north and I’ll go that way,” he said, pointing to the south.  “If you see the woman, fire twice.  Otherwise run back here and we’ll search east and west.”

Coco replied, “Fire what? My knife?  Karim took my gun away.” He refrained from confessing he had no idea what Jinny looked like.

“Okay, yell like a stuck pig!  Let’s move.”

Twenty minutes later they sat together on an upturned stone bench in the courtyard, catching their breath, and fearing the worst.  “When we come back empty-handed, Karim will choose one of us for his sacrifice.  You have my vote.”

“Very funny.”

In no hurry to face the music, they meandered side by side down the alley.  At about the same pace, but coming from the opposite direction, a man covered with soot from head to toe approached in slow motion.  He was bald.  “Will you looky there, Coco Puff, here comes tar-baby.  Yep, yep, he’ll do.”  Attitudes improved.

Too tired to duck or run—his face streaked with charcoal and sweat— Safeed approached the wary brigands. Like a school crossing guard, Ajani raised his hand.  “Stop. Is the fire out?  Hey, you look familiar.”

Safeed recognized Ajani and replied sullenly, “Yes, yes the fire in the village is out, but the one burning in your eyes remains.   You have murdered a woman, her child, and a beloved patriarch.  Many have burns, but Karim refuses access to the hospital.”  Safeed paused.  “What do you want from me?  Haven’t you done enough?  Let me pass. I am going home”

Sobered by the reminder of his own foul deeds, Coco asked, “Where is home?”

“Near the Caspian Sea where the grass is green, the crops grow tall, and the breeze is cool.”  He studied the faces of his foes.  “But in some seasons the Caspian seethes, the grass dies, the crops fail, and the people mourn.”

“And your family?”

“My family?  All dead.  I am dead.  Now if you permit, I will pass.”

Ajani’s mind whirred like an unmanned Ferris wheel in overdrive, and he feigned a sanctimonious reply. “You look tired my friend.  Go in peace.” Ah, so the pilgrim lies; the woman, she hides at his apartment. We will permit him to pass, follow him to his door, and with him as bait, hook Karim’s Catfish after all. Yep, yep.”

Safeed nodded as they parted company, steadied himself against his building’s bricks, and continued to play the hand he’d been dealt.  This was no time to fold.   He pretended to fish a key from his pocket—but it was Alim’s knife—and braced for the attack.

Coco followed Ajani as they trudged a few steps east toward death’s door—the Hospital door.  Up until that moment, Coco had reluctantly played along, but he sensed the end of the game was at hand and feared he’d not get to cash in his chips.   He clenched his teeth and, limping two steps behind, whispered, “We had him!  Where are we going?  Have you lost your nerve?”

Ajani, proficient at dealing from the bottom of the deck, turned and showed his cards. “The woman is stashed upstairs in this building.  I am sure of it.  See? He pauses at the door.  We strike fast, hard, and now.  Tackle him before he gets inside, do you understand?  Coco nodded and pulled a knife as they ran; Ajani left his 9 mm pistol holstered and imagined swinging Safeed around with one hand, wrapping an arm around his scrawny neck, and applying a choke hold.  Coco went in low for the tackle.

Safeed abruptly hunched down and, with his right leg extended, spun toward his assailants, jammed a heel into Coco’s gut, and deflected Ajani’s outstretched arm, all in one fluid motion—but not before Coco had slashed a gash in Safeed’s leg, below the knee.  Coco landed on his backside, lost his grip, and his knife clattered on the cobbled street.

Alim’s dagger in hand—and while blood oozed from the deep gash—Safeed swept the blade in wide arcs to keep his snarling assailant at bay. Ajani drew his gun, angled it to the side—a useless technique he’d learned on TV—and aimed at Safeed’s head.

“Gotcha!” he sneered. “Might as well surrender, scum-bag.  Where’s the woman?  Easy now, easy now, good boy, drop the dagger.”

“Easy now,” mocked Dalal as she aimed and dropped a potted plant from the third story window—down—down—down.  Karim’s best friend in the world collapsed next to Coco, and before Coco could yelp, Ajani was comatose—slain by a desert cactus.

Fearful that another bomb might be dropped, Coco rolled over and over and picked up his knife.  Panicked and in pain, he struggled to his feet and rushed Safeed, screaming, “Now it’s your turn, Sunni.” Safeed sidestepped his stumbling enemy and drove Alim’s blade home between two ribs.  With a final gasp, Coco toppled to the ground.

Safeed, in shock, slumped to the ground but kept the dagger clenched in his fist. Worried faces and anxious voices vacated the window.  Footfalls.  Locks unlatched.  Two women rolled the mugger aside, knelt beside Safeed, and tried to quell the flow of blood.   A hurried examination disclosed that his tibialis anterior muscle had been severed.

Jinny yelled, “Dalal!  We need more help.  Safeed is hurt . . . bad.”