After the bell rang and the students made their normal hasty exit, it was my free period--excuse me, planning period--and I decided to be hospitable; I invited Jerod to stay and chat a bit and he readily agreed.
In the small talk, he shared that he was from another small, rural town in Tennessee and had come to Hammerville because his grandmother who lived in Mayboro, a little town up the road, had told him the prison was hiring. He said he arrived in town on a Wednesday, filled out an application on Thursday, interviewed and was hired on Friday. (Some guys just have it made; it took me two months and four interviews to get this job.)
When I attempted to praise him for handling the students’ questions about Akadi so sensibly, his only response to my compliment was a flippant remark, “I was lying to ‘em.”
“What?” I asked, not certain I had heard him correctly.
He didn’t answer right away and instead leaned back on the student chair, lifting the front legs off the floor. He looked straight into my eyes. “You heard me right, I lied to ‘em. No reason for them to get all hyped up, just because we got the most dangerous man in America about to take up residence just across that big lake. Teens got enough stress in their life, they don’t need me adding to it.”
That was it. That was all he was going to say and he flashed that smile of his at me, that smile that seemed to hang halfway between innocence and “I just got away with it.”
Well, I couldn’t let that stand. “Do you think there is any real chance of danger here in Hammerville?”
He latched his fingers behind his head, leaned back and yawned. “Lemme put it this way. The powers-that-be at HBE believe that this guy and his group are crazy enough to try anything. With the rantings and ravings of these fanatics, I wouldn’t dismiss any possibility.” He shook his head, but the sardonic smile never waned. “The scuttlebutt among the guards is that the security they’re planning for Akadi is tighter than the skin on a dried-up rooster. Hell, it’s tighter than the presidential Secret Service detail. Cameras, microphones, even extra guards on rotating shifts. According to the plan we’re going to know any time Asad scratches his nose or his--”
I cut him off with a hard glance, but only briefly.
“Or any other bodily part,” he finished with a grin and one raised eyebrow.
Lowering his chair to the floor, he extracted his bent, large frame from the student desk, not without some difficulty, and made his way toward the hall. Though I resented him for voicing them, his words only confirmed my own fears. I wasn’t sure what to say. I asked, “Is there anything you think we should do?”
As his tall, broad body slipped through the doorway, he turned, cocky smile still intact. “Yep. Pray.”
Chapter 6
Rashid could not believe that he was here, staring down at his calloused, bare feet perched on a perfect triangle rock. He had been told this stone marked the entrance to the Cavern of Near Paradise. Like most believers, he had thought this place was merely a myth, a legend told by bragging warriors, each one exaggerating the tale to the point of incredulity. Now that he was here to discover the truth for himself, he was trembling, anxious about all he had heard. How could there be such a place as “Near Paradise”? As a warrior in the great Jihad, he had been promised indescribable delights in the hereafter if he were to surrender his life on his holy mission. According to the stories told, this cavern was a small glimpse into that pleasure and glory. The stories were too fantastical to believe, and yet...he trembled at the possibility.
After what he had endured the past few months, his rational mind told him that there was little he should fear. After all, he was no longer that scared kid; he was now a man, a tested soldier. To get here, he had experienced the harshest, cruelest months of his life. And he had survived. His trainers and teachers had driven him, day and night, till he was completely spent. All he wanted was to quit, surrender and sleep. But he had not been allowed to rest. He had been pushed and marched through the freezing rain and snow in a fierce wind that mocked him endlessly. Relentlessly he was interrogated and drilled again until he could answer every question and follow every barked order, even in his sleep.
His command of English was now so extensive that he could dream in it, complete with idioms, on the few occasions he was permitted to sleep. Of course, he realized he still spoke the foreign tongue with a pronounced accent of a man from the “Mideast”--the American derogatory reference to his homeland since all Americans believed the world revolved around them and their geography. His teachers were satisfied. He needed only to pass as who he was--a humble, backward Arab student who wanted to learn the ways of the West.
Academic studies had always come easily to him, but Rashid had surprised himself with the speed with which he had learned how to incapacitate--he truly relished that English word that seemed to ooze with his newfound power--or even kill the enemies of Allah. It is true that, years ago when his belly was empty, he had beaten off other, stronger boys who had tried to take his recently stolen food. But this strength was different.
Like his more youthful violence, this new power was driven by desperation--he only had to call up the Sheik’s message about his family as incentive--but this was also fueled by a growing hatred of Allah’s enemies, a fire so fierce it threatened to consume all else. In his heart of hearts, he realized he had grown to enjoy, even revel in this new power he would hold over the lives of others.
He easily completed the short course on explosives and found that he enjoyed the direct, hands-on applications of his earlier science studies. With practice and some focused concentration, he had even learned to wield a homemade knife with enough precision to strike its target. He admitted to himself he was no expert in any of these skills, but he knew now he could hold his own.
It had been a grueling couple of months and he found he was more tired than he could ever remember. But it was the near pleasant exhaustion of accomplishment. Rashid had become a confident soldier, one now almost ready to serve Allah. He was scheduled to leave for America in just five days.
And yet with all this newfound assurance, he was still frightened. What powers did the frail creatures of the fantastic tales hold over him? What should the newest soldier of Allah’s holy army have to fear from this cavern? And yet, try as he might, his mind could not win this battle of confidence. As he stood there outside the cavern, his bruised and beaten feet felt the grit of the rock against his skin, his gut tightened and his loins roared. Inhaling the fragrance of the moss and earth and moving water, Rashid took a deep breath and stepped through the almost invisible slit in the rock face.
Once through the opening, he panicked. For a moment he felt as if a vacuum had swallowed him, all his senses cut off. The darkness ahead of him was so complete that he jerked his head around to reassure himself by the tiny zipper of light in the rock face behind him. It seemed to be fading, but--he breathed an audible sigh--it was still there. Then, as he watched, his bare feet frozen to the spot and his body contorted backwards, the light appeared to flicker and slowly ebb before his eyes like some fading vision. His panic rose and he felt his heart beat heavily, its thumping sound like the footsteps of a predator.
A wild thought seized him; perhaps this was but another of the Sheik’s cruel trials, some sensory deprivation to further test his stamina and resolve. Involuntarily, he railed against his trainers for tricking him again and submitting him to yet another of their ordeals. His cut and bruised hands clawed at the air in front of him, arms flailing like a desperate blind man and grasping nothing. He felt his heart rate spike again and he fought his alarm.
“Just breathe deeply,” he heard a soft voice whisper in his own language ... or was it the wind, he wondered. He realized that he could feel some sort of warm breeze on his skin, was glad to experience something, any sensation.
“Please just close your eyes and take several deep breaths,” the voice said. He twisted his head from side to side, eyes scanning, trying desperately to locate the source of th
e words in the darkness. He couldn’t find it and his panic inched up.
“I know the darkness is disorienting at first, but please do as I request,” the quiet voice continued, though more insistent. “Just stand where you are and close your eyes.” Seeing little choice, Rashid surrendered and did as he was bid. “Yes. That is good. Now feel the warm breeze on your face.”
With closed eyes, he could experience the gentle touch of air moving against his skin. He took one deep, slow breath and could even hear his heart rate slowing. The voice was soothing and he felt his anxiety start to drain away, found himself able to appreciate the experience of the soft breeze like the flutter of butterfly wings on his face.
“That’s better,” the voice whispered again. “Just breathe deeply for a moment and allow the sacred air to ease your concerns.” Eyes still shut, he inhaled, a faint, aromatic scent that triggered a memory of expensive perfume from the market place. “It is the sweet breath of the holy ground on which you stand. After all the trials you have endured in recent weeks, its only purpose is to comfort you. In fact, this is but the first of Allah’s gifts sent to assuage your hurts and sustain you for the fight ahead.” The words flowed quietly across the space.
Rashid continued his rhythmic breathing. He thought, or sensed that the voice was slightly louder, but still could not quite place the direction. Just as he was deciding whether to open his eyes again, he felt the slightest touch on his forearm like the soft brush of fine silk.
“Now you may open your eyes, but slowly please,” the female voice continued and Rashid complied. This time, as he lifted his eyelids, finding them incredibly heavy, his sight slowly returned, images coming into focus, much as he imagined that the blind men cured by the Prophet must have seen. The image of a beautiful woman seemed to shimmer in the air beside him as if wrapped in a gauze of haze. His mind struggled to make sense out of the apparition.
As if reading his mind, she breathed rather than spoke. “Oh, I am real enough, flesh and blood just like you, as you will learn soon enough. Please follow me on the path and you need not worry, even with your bruised feet and injured toe. The ground here is even and the path is clear, and Allah will guide your every step.”
How did she know of the injury to his toe? Then, noticing her insubstantial form seeming to float ahead of him, disappearing into the vapor, he took up behind her, eyes darting down and to the sides. As he moved, he studied the ghostlike mist that now wrapped around him like a large white blanket. It appeared to be mist rising from beside the path, probably from some warm underwater spring.
She jarred him by reading his thoughts again. “The steam that floats through this chamber is caused by the hot spring that bubbles up through the floor of several chambers in the cavern.”
He followed her on the wide path as it wound through a series of curves and bends and as he went, he studied her form ahead of him. She was smaller than he, about five four he would guess and was wearing only the thinnest of tunics that seemed to cloak her body in translucent light as she glided lithely over the stone path. Unlike the traditional Muslim garb for women, the clothing did little to conceal the shape of her figure. As she rounded another corner in front of him, he gazed at the sway of her slim hips, and as she turned at the next corner, he caught a glimpse of two full breasts. He grew hard at the thought, his loins reacting, but then worked to restrain himself, reacting as he had been taught in the moral lessons at the camp. Before he could find his voice to utter the traditional objection to her clothing, she stopped abruptly on the path, turned to face him and spoke again. By the time he realized she had stopped, Rashid was only a few inches from her and had to pull up short.
“I am sure you must wonder at my dress,” she said quietly, her eyes first looking into his and then demurely casting their gaze to the ground. “Like any honorable man, you must wonder why I am not wearing the burqa.”
How could she read his very thoughts before he can even voice them. In his life of poverty and in the years of study and trials at the camp, he had learned to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself, to keep his “poker face on,” as the Americans would say. And yet she breathed his every thought almost before his mind could fully form it. He wondered if she also knew his most intimate thoughts and feelings. She raised her face and, when he looked across at her, she nodded slightly.
Realizing she was waiting for his agreement, he nodded and she continued. “Because of our assigned role in Allah’s plan, we have been granted special permission regarding the covering of our body, but only while in the Cavern of Near Paradise. I hope my appearance does not offend you?”
“No ... no ... no,” he stammered, feeling again like an awkward schoolboy. “I am not offended,” he said.
“Good.”
In that second, facing her, he realized that she was much older than he--perhaps ten years older--and quite beautiful. Because of her age and beauty, her tone of deference pleased him even more. Involuntarily, he felt his hard-on return. That sensation reminded him of the tales told of this place and he thought perhaps he understood her role. “Allah, be praised,” he managed and his smile met hers.
“Yes, then let us continue,” her soft voice whispered. “We are almost there.” She turned and walked down a slight incline and then bent down to step through a low doorway.
Bending his body, Rashid followed her through the opening hollowed out of the rock and stepped into a large anteroom, the air filled with a pleasant mist rising from the ground. His eyes followed the vapor as it swirled upward. He noted the chamber was so high the rock face that formed the ceiling was not visible. It gave the room the sense of being infinite.
As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the center of the chamber. Several large gray rocks lined the perimeter, each one forming a smooth platform that sloped down into a pool of gently bubbling water. A narrow path circled the small, crystal lake, weaving around the giant boulders. He peered into the water. It was remarkably clear and he could see the even stone bottom several feet below. At the edge, he dipped his toe into the surface, expecting to have to withdraw it quickly from the hot temperature. Instead he was surprised to find the water to be pleasantly warm to his touch.
When he looked up, she was standing beside him, watching him patiently. “Where am I? What is this place?” he said.
“This is called the Cavern of Near Paradise, though I suspect you have heard the name spoken before,” the woman beside him said, “and I am called Jabirah. It is an unusual name and it means ‘comforter’ because that is my role in Allah’s great plan.”
Rashid shifted uncomfortably on his tired, aching feet. As if sensing his discomfort, Jabirah spoke again, her voice a balm to his nerves. “I forget myself. Your feet must surely hurt after your long, trying journey. We must get them into the healing waters. First you should remove your tunic so we can properly cleanse you.”
Still uncertain, Rashid did not move.
“You may go behind that rock and disrobe and then slip into the holy water.” Her hand indicated the boulder halfway around the room.
Nodding his ascent, he followed the path around the room. Halfway around the circular chamber, his ears detected a sound, laughter he thought, men and women’s excited laughter. He strained to listen but the sound was gone and replaced by only the soft gurgle of the water. His eyes darted left and right but he saw no one. Yanking his torn abaya over his head, he dropped it onto the rock path and lowered his body into the water. It was warm and welcoming.
At the edge of the path, the water came up to his stomach, and as he waded further into the pool, the level became deeper till it was over his head. He allowed his body to drift under the water, all sound and sight cut off, enjoying the warm effervescence on his bruises and cuts, and then he resurfaced. He could not see Jabirah, but he heard her voice from beyond the rock.
“It gets deeper as you move to the center.” Her words floated across the water to him like Allah’s angel. “The rock in the center is perched o
n a ledge, so you may want to swim over to it.”
He made his way to the boulder in clumsy strokes, his bruised body drinking in the liquid warmth. When his hand touched the smooth curve of the rock side, he pulled himself partially out of the water and onto the rock. He lay there a while, contented for the first time in months, his back against the cool rock and feet on the underwater ledge, water lapping at his waist. Staring into the warm water, he could make out the bottom half of his naked body beneath the misty surface, could see the muscles of his strong legs and his skin marked with the crisscross pattern of fresh cuts, and noted that his penis was in that pleasant state halfway between erection and softness.
As he was staring down at himself, he heard Jabirah emerge from the water behind him. She made little sound as she climbed onto the ledge and stood up straight along side him. When he turned toward the sound, he noticed that she too was now naked. Lying on the rock, he stared up at her standing form, towering over him. Except for glances at stolen Western photos, he had never before seen a woman in the nude. He gaped at her, feeling suddenly like the hormone-driven adolescent he was. Tresses of black, shoulder-length hair framed her small face, the strands flattened against her scalp as the water dripped from the ends, glistening down onto her umber-colored skin. His gaze followed a droplet as it glided down her body like a slow-moving liquid diamond, curving around her bare hips. Her hips were wider and looked firmer than they had appeared under her garment. He took in her small, firm buttocks that curved gracefully out from her hips. Allah makes all beautiful creatures, he thought.
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