by Eyal Kless
Eithan nodded. “Yes, Master Isaak. I swear by the Prophet Reborn.”
Satisfied, Master Issak turned and walked after the rest of the class without a glance back.
As soon as he was sure Master Isaak was out of earshot Eithan said, “Master Isaak was an ass to hit you like that.”
Rafik leaned heavily on the wooden wall of the class hut, feeling shaky and tired. “All the grown-ups are still angry at us for causing the alarm.”
“Yeah, I heard Cnaan got a good beating from his da. He said he didn’t but did you see the way he was sitti—” Eithan stopped midsentence and caught Rafik before he fell to the ground.
“Prophet. You look bad, blood brother,” Eithan put Rafik’s arm around his shoulder and an arm around his waist. “Come on, let’s go to your ma.”
11
Rafik didn’t remember the next four days of his life. He was feverish or asleep most of the time, and was moved to the barn to reduce the risk of infecting the rest of the household. He did remember being attended to by his mother and his older sister, Nisha, who tried to feed him hot lamb soup, washed him with hard soap, and constantly uttered prayers for his recovery.
A travelling healer came and went, looking like a ghost with his white mask and gloves as he poked and prodded the hallucinating boy. The healer talked to Rafik’s worried parents as Rafik drifted in and out of consciousness. The word infection was repeated several times. His wounded left hand was smeared with foul-smelling salve, which stung and hurt, before being bandaged in cloth. The only other thing Rafik remembered was hearing his mother say, “No, you cannot see him, Eithan, not yet. But he is getting better and soon you can play together again.”
On the fifth day he woke up feeling better. In fact, he sprang out of bed with a strength and vigour that surprised and delighted his mother. He ate all the food she served him—even the boiled cabbage, which he normally hated. Soon he was proclaimed healthy, and he was let out of the barn and promptly directed to a wooden keg filled with scalding hot water, in which he scrubbed off the residue of sickness that clung to his skin, being careful not to wet his still-bandaged hand.
Eithan was already waiting for him outside, and in no time at all Rafik was briefed about the gossip of the last four days. Three travelling merchants had arrived two days before. Eithan had caught and cooked a giant toad the size of a grown-up’s fist. Cnaan was seen talking to Elriya again, and her parents complained to his parents. The village guards investigated some smoke coming from the edge of a field and frightened two vagabonds, who begged for their lives before being released with a warning. Eithan was a very good storyteller who could turn even the most mundane activity into an exciting tale.
Finally, Eithan pointed at the bandaged hand. “When are you taking it off?”
Rafik shrugged. “I have to wait until the healer visits again. It feels all right, though. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Come on, let’s see it. It was really bleeding when you fainted. I carried you all the way to your home.” Eithan puffed his chest out with pride.
“It only happened four streets away.” Rafik tried to hide his embarrassment, especially because he’d insisted on walking unaided only to faint once they’d passed the centre of the village.
“Yeah? You were bleeding all over my shirt. I think you fell on it when you fain—when you fell,” Eithan said, quickly correcting himself when he caught Rafik’s expression. “Come on, let me look at it.”
“Maybe later.”
“Are you scared you’ll see your hand and faint again?”
“No, I didn’t faint because I was scared. It was an infection.”
“Maybe your hand got all twisted from the infection and now it’ll look like a claw.”
“No, it didn’t. It feels all right.”
“So . . . let’s see it.”
“I’m not supposed to. The healer said—”
“What are you, scared like a girl?”
“Fine, but if I bleed, I’m wiping my hand on your tunic.”
Rafik got up on his feet and quickly began unravelling the bandage. He could see the back of his hand as the strips of stained cloth fell to the ground. The skin there was notably whiter than the rest of his body, but he didn’t realise how different the colour was until it was completely free from the bandage.
“That’s strange,” commented Eithan, stepping closer.
“Maybe it’s the salve. It smelled like cow shit when he put it on me.” Rafik sniffed carefully. It smelled of soap.
“Well, it really healed your hand,” remarked Eithan.
Rafik flexed his hand. “True, there isn’t even a scratch on it.”
His skin was perfect, or at least the back of his hand was. There were still scabs on the tips of his three middle fingers.
“Ugh,” said Eithan, peeking from behind Rafik’s shoulder, “The scabs are really black.”
“It’s because of the salve,” Rafik said quickly. “I bet they’ll peel off.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers with his thumb, but the skin felt soft and whole, and he couldn’t catch a scab edge to leverage a good peel. Annoyed, he brought the injured hand close to his face and began scratching it. It was right then Rafik realised the scabs had shapes. The scab on his forefinger was shaped like a triangle. The scab on his middle finger was shaped like two crescent moons, and the scab on his ring finger was shaped like three tiny balls, one on top of the other, connected by a string. Blood drained from his face.
“What is it?” Eithan asked.
“Nothing,” Rafik closed his hand in a fist so tight his nails bit into his palm.
“No, I saw something.” Eithan moved closer. “Let me see it again.”
“No!” Rafik shouted. “No, get away. It’s the medicine. I shouldn’t have taken the bandages off.”
“But the scabs, they looked like . . .” Eithan suddenly choked on his words, but Rafik didn’t wait to see his friend’s reaction; he was already running away as fast as his feet could carry him. He burst into the shed and plunged his hand into the still lukewarm water of his bath. Then he pulled his hand out and looked at it again. The marks were still there. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Rafik began scrubbing his fingers with all his might—but every time he checked, the scabs where still there. He searched the shed, whimpering in fear, until he found a sharpening stone, then he began rubbing his fingers until they began to bleed again.
It was Fahid who eventually found him, crying, shivering and holding his bloodied hand in a tight fist.
12
Sadre Banishra’s expression was one of deep concern, barely held in check, as he entered the barn. He turned ashen when he saw the expressions on the faces of his wife and eldest son.
Rafik was standing in the middle of the barn. He shouted, “Papa!” and ran towards him.
Sadre laid a heavy hand on his son’s small head. He looked uncertainly at his wife and older son. Fahid bit his lip and lowered his head. Rafik’s mother slowly shook hers but held his gaze, tears trailing down her face.
“Fahid, go to the house and make sure the other children do not talk to anyone.”
“But father, he said Eithan saw—”
“Just do it!” Sadre snapped.
“Father,” cried Rafik, “I didn’t do it. It’s not my fault. It’s the medicine, right? It’s only very small, look.” He held his hand up to his father’s face.
Sadre gasped and took a step back. “Blessed Prophet,” he mumbled.
“Papa, I . . . I didn’t . . . look . . . it’s so small . . . if I put the bandage back, maybe . . .”
Ignoring the boy’s words, Rafik’s father gripped his son’s arm and inspected it, before pushing it away and checking his other arm. He then grabbed Rafik’s head with both hands and searched the boy’s face, neck, and shaved head, even behind the ears, until he was satisfied there were no other tattoos.
“Take your clothes off,” Sadre ordered. When Rafik hesitated, he lunged and tore them off his son’s bo
dy in several violent movements.
“Sadre—” Rafik’s mother took a step closer, trying to calm her husband.
But Rafik’s father turned his head towards her and hissed, “Everything is lost, everything, unless we do something quickly.”
Rafik trembled from fear and the sudden cold as his father looked over his back, armpits, buttocks, genitals, and feet—he even checked between the toes. He found no other tattoos except for the three on Rafik’s fingertips.
Sadre glanced at the corner of the barn where the tools were kept and then looked at his wife, who must have realised immediately what her husband was planning to do.
“No,” she said in horror. “He is your son.”
“He is our son,” Sadre said, his voice hard. He got up and grabbed Rafik’s wrist. “And we have no choice. We do this for his sake, and for the sake of our family.”
“What are you going to do, Papa?” asked Rafik, his voice rising with fear.
Sadre kept a firm hold of his naked son. “You must be brave, my boy. You must understand and pray to God and the Prophet Reborn, and you must forgive—” His voice cracked, and he turned and led Rafik to the chopping block.
Rafik saw his mother hand the heavy axe to his father while saying, “It’s for your own good.”
Rafik began to pull back with all his might, screaming, “No, no, please no, Mama, please don’t!” But his struggle didn’t slow his father down. Not even when he dropped to the floor.
His mother was already tearing the hem off her long dress, preparing bandages while his father opened the latch of the small oven and thrust the axe’s blade into the flames. They waited, watching the metal turn red-hot. Rafik’s soft whimpering punctuated the silence.
Sadre, still holding Rafik firmly, finally beckoned to his wife, and she bent down and brought the gleaming hot ax. This brought a new wave of panicked wails from Rafik, and although his wrist was pinned to the chopping block, he managed to curl his fingers into a tight fist.
Sadre watched the axe in his hand for a long moment, steadying his breath before slowly turning his attention back to his son. “Rafik,” he said softly, “I need to chop the tops of your fingers off. Please son, I need you to be brave.”
“No, Papa, please, no! I’ll be good, I promise!”
Sadre grabbed his son’s chin and forced him to look into his eyes. “You are cursed, marked.” The softness was gone from his voice as he spat the words into Rafik’s face. “This is an abomination, do you understand? If it is discovered, we are all finished. Your brother’s wedding will be called off, your sisters will never marry, we will need to leave this village, and you will be killed. They will hang you and leave your body to rot. Now stop crying and repent for whatever God and his Prophet Reborn have punished you for, and if you do not help me and be still, I swear by the Prophet Reborn that I will chop off your entire hand.”
It was that last threat which somehow calmed Rafik’s hysteria. Losing the tips of your fingers was not as bad as losing your hand. He slowly uncurled his fingers and turned his head away. His father suddenly bent down and kissed the top of his head.
“You are brave, my Rafik,” he whispered,“and you must remember, this was an accident.”
Rafik felt his mother’s arms around him, channelling warmth and love even as she pinned him down. He didn’t want to see what was going to happen, but after what seemed like an eternity he turned his head towards his father. It was exactly at that moment that Sadre must have gathered the courage to bring the axe down on his son’s outstretched fingers. There was a flash of pain which completely blinded Rafik, the sound of searing flesh, and an awful smell. Rafik shrieked and then collapsed on the ground as his mother rushed to cover the smoking hand with cloth. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was his father throwing the three digits into the flames, then collapsing to his knees and throwing up.
13
The voices woke Rafik up.
“How is he?” a man asked.
“He’s better today, thank the Prophet Reborn,” the familiar voice of Rafik’s father answered, “the fever is gone. He drank some water this morning and fell asleep again.”
“Thank the one God and the Blessed Reborn. What a horrible accident, and just after he got healthy. God saves us and protects us from harm.”
Rafik stood up unsteadily. His knees were weak and trembling and his mouth dry.
“Is this what all the people are saying? That it was an accident?” Rafik’s father lowered his voice.
“What else would they say? That is what you wrote in the message when you asked me to come. I traveled here, although I am no healer, so I do not know what help I could be. But Sadre, I only had to walk into the village to hear that you did not let the previous healer return or even let that pompous fool Isaak sit and pray at his bed. People are worried. They think that maybe Rafik has caught some kind of disease. What’s going on?”
“It was no accident.”
“What happened?”
“I chopped his fingers off, Simon. I took off my own son’s fingers with my ax, and my beloved wife held him down so I could do so.”
Simon was Rafik’s uncle. He lived in another village and rarely came to visit.
“Are you mad? Tell me you are jesting.”
“I am not jesting. Laughter will not touch my lips for the rest of my life.”
“But why?”
“He was marked, Simon. He had it, the curse, on his fingers.”
“No!” Simon gasped.
“They appeared on his fingertips after he fell and bled, after the sickness.”
“God save us.”
“I searched him, he did not have marks anywhere else on his body, so I . . . I had to . . . you should have heard him, Simon, my brave boy, he even stretched out his fingers for me . . . my little boy, why is God punishing me so?”
“Calm yourself. How is Fahtna taking it?”
“Badly. She’s putting on a brave face for the kids, but she cries every night and blames herself.”
Rafik leaned on the doorframe but his father and uncle, sitting at the kitchen table, did not notice him.
“What about Fahid?” Simon asked in a quieter tone
“He volunteered for extra guard duty. I don’t think he wants to be here, with him.”
“He has plenty to worry about.”
“I know. If word of this gets out . . . the wedding . . . everything I worked for my entire life . . . my girls. Why is this happening to me? I’m a good man. I pray each day, even in the fields. I pray to the Prophet Reborn to keep us all safe and healthy.”
“I don’t know, brother. Does anyone else know about this?”
“I don’t think so, but he shouted the name of his friend, Eithan, a few times in his dreams. These boys are inseparable, and Eithan brought Rafik home when he got sick the first time, and then sat by our door for four days until I had to chase him away. This time Eithan hasn’t tried to visit even once.”
“You think this Eithan knows?”
“Maybe, but if he saw the marks he hasn’t told anyone yet. They would have been on my doorstep if he had.”
Simon, Rafik’s uncle, scratched his shaved head. “I hesitate to ask, but are there many cases of the curse in your village?”
“No. The last one was two months before I moved here and married Fahtna. She told me they hanged the boy, left his body to rot for three days, then burned his family’s house and slaughtered all the livestock. That’s the only one I know of, and it happened more than fifteen years ago. But now that I think about it, there were also two girls who went to the fields and disappeared. We looked for them for weeks but found nothing, not a trace of them. I think they ran away, maybe they were marked, too . . .”
After a long pause Simon said hesitantly, “The situation is grim, may the Prophet Reborn protect us. I don’t know how I can help you.”
“I need you to take Rafik away.”
“What? Are you asking me to bring Rafik
into my household?”
“No, of course not. I’m asking you to help me send him far away from here.”
“But why? You said you chopped the fingers off. People will believe it was an accident. If you send him away, surely they’ll suspect.”
“I have to, Simon. I have to send him away as soon as he’s able to walk.”
“What are you are not telling me?”
It was in that moment that Sadre noticed Rafik leaning against the doorframe.
“Papa . . .”
Simon got up from his chair so quickly that it fell backwards to the floor with a clatter.
“You’re awake! Say hello to your uncle Simon. You last met him two years ago at the spring festival.”
Rafik nodded slowly. “Hello, Uncle.”
“Prophet’s blessings on your head, Rafik,” Uncle Simon answered nervously.
“Show Uncle Simon your hands,” Sadre said. “Go on, don’t be afraid.”
Rafik held out his right hand and Simon gasped, swore, then uttered a quick prayer of forgiveness to the Prophet Reborn.
Rafik’s hand was whole. His fingers were all there, fleshy pink and perfect, without a mark on them save the same black tattoos, which now spread across half of his three middle fingers.
14
A whistle and a snap from a leather whip marked the beginning of their journey as their cart rocked back and forth on the muddy road out of the village. Rafik was wedged tightly between his uncle Simon and his older brother, Fahid, with his hand wrapped in bandages and once again hidden inside his tunic. People stared and waved as the small cart picked up its pace and exited the village’s main gate. Two guards gestured to Fahid, who told Simon not to stop. One of the guards stepped aside only at the last moment, swearing. Fahid turned around and shouted a halfhearted apology as their pony went into a trot.
They were headed in the direction of Simon’s village, less than a day’s ride away, but it was a ruse. Shortly into their journey they would turn and head onto a narrow road that crossed the village and the fields. Rafik knew the area well; he had staged many glorious battles between warriors and infidels with Eithan on these very hills. Now he reckoned he would have to play on the infidel team, not that anyone would play with him anymore.