by Weston Ochse
“The world doesn’t need any more daeva,” Faood said. “Yes, they are a threat to peace, just not to you. Not here. Not now.”
“Then why? McQueen asked.
“To find Rumi. Our master. Our lord. His mind became lost in the great Sefid and we believe he still exists out there. Travelers have mentioned finding him. Speaking with him. We travel now to find him. We also send those such as you. Those we can...” He glanced up at the three, then away. “Trick into finding him in the hopes that he could live again inside you… or one of us, if we were so lucky.” He placed his hand over his heart. His voice deepened as he said, “Then it all changed.”
“What changed?” Lore asked in a hushed whisper.
“We discovered that that there were other beings in the Sefid, and that if you brought them back and tamed them, you could live forever. Some of them are from before and we don’t know who they are. Some of them are from past travelers becoming lost. Narco has one of those beings inside him even now.”
“So it’s not really Hamad,” Boy Scout said.
“No. That’s but one possibility I showed you.”
“Is that why he still sleeps?” Lore asked.
“My people have tainted what had been an honorable mission,” Faood said. “Now they no longer search for Rumi. They merely search for a way to extend their lives.”
“So they can live forever,” Lore said.
“The old mystic. The one you called Sufi Sam.” He shook his head. “Such a disrespectful name. I so much wanted to stop you from this disrespect, but he wouldn’t let me. He was afraid that you might find us out, so he encouraged the disrespect. His name was Erhan and he was a young child when Rumi became lost. He was one of the first to go and try to find him. He was one of the first to tame the creature inside of him. He was the eldest among us. He said to us that the creature, the spirit that inhabited him, was older than humankind and had existed before the creation of everything we know. He and this creature lived as one. At first, he looked for Rumi like the others, but then when he was able to tame what was inside of him, he wanted to find out more about them. His wasn’t a quest to live forever. His was a quest of understanding.”
“Until Narco killed him,” Criminal said. “Enough of this bullshit. I’m going to find Bully.” He turned and stormed out.
“Why are you helping us? Don’t you don’t want to live forever too?” Lore asked.
Faood blinked abruptly. “It’s not that I don’t want to live forever… it’s just that I won’t do it based on a lie.”
“What about Narco?” Boy Scout asked.
“I need to go back in and see if I can identify the creature inside of him. There is a process of taming and this is the first step.”
“I’m going with you,” Boy Scout said.
Faood stood and shook his head. “You can’t. It’s too dangerous. Unless your mind is right, you can’t go directly into Sefid. This is why we put you in a fugue as a lure for the Sefid to take you.”
“But is it possible?” Boy Scout asked. “Is it possible for me to go into this Sefid and survive?
Faood stared at Boy Scout.
He pressed. “I asked if it was possible.”
Faood nodded reluctantly. “It’s been done before. You’ve been traveling in the fugue long enough that the Sefid might welcome you.” Then he shook his head. “But your mind has to be trained and you lack this training.”
“You don’t know what kind of training I have had, Faood. You don’t understand what it has taken to be me. I’m going to do this, and by God you should not try and stop me.”
“What about me?” Lore asked, turning from Faood, to Boy Scout, and back again.
“You and the other two are going to protect us while we’re in the Sefid,” Boy Scout said. “I need you to stand over us. Watch everything. Now go find them and bring them to me. I don’t know how long we have.”
“And me?” McQueen asked.
Boy Scout nodded to Faood, then guided McQueen into the other room. When he was sure he was out of earshot of the dervish, he said, “I want you to prepare a battle plan. What they did to us… what they did to Bully… I won’t let it stand. After I finish saving Narco, we’re going to get our own pounds of flesh back and then some. Think you can handle that, old friend?”
“Doesn’t sound too much like something a boy scout would do.”
“Well, maybe I’m not a boy scout any longer. Maybe I’ve become something else.”
McQueen looked into Boy Scout’s eyes. “Be careful about sudden change, my friend. Be careful about doing things that can’t be undone. You know what I’m talking about.”
Boy Scout didn’t say a word when he turned around and left, because he absolutely did know what McQueen was talking about.
Chapter Thirty
BOY SCOUT WANDERED outside. He needed private time; a few moments to gather his thoughts before he headed into the Sefid to rescue Narco. He felt that he’d spent so long being someone else he’d forgotten who he was… who he really was.
So he found a spot and sat.
Staring across what was definitely the terra damnata of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, he remembered that he’d once wanted to be a teacher. Killing people hadn’t been something he’d ever believed he’d do, much less become as accomplished as he was at it. In fact, he’d just finished his master’s degree in twentieth century American literature, squeaked through his dissertation on "The Lost Generation’s Influence on American Civil Rights" when 9/11 had happened. Like most folks, he’d been absolutely glued to his television, watching, then changing channels whenever a show went to commercial. He’d spent two days on his couch in his apartment, drinking beer, eating take out, sometimes crying because of the terrible loss of life, sometimes just stunned as he sat, slack-jawed and wondering who had possessed the gall to sucker punch America.
As it turned out, it was this relatively unknown terrorist group called Al-Qaeda, led by Osama Bin Laden. But he didn’t know that at the time. No one did. Everyone was guessing as the talking heads on television and the PhDs in Washington’s think tanks failed to make the connection, all of them as shocked and tearful as Boy Scout had been.
Then he saw a specific image and a forking path was presented to him.
There have been images over time that have caused the world to pause. Images so iconic that they represent a moment in time to perfection. Sometimes these images present themselves immediately. But other times, the images rise like a dead body in a lake, impressing themselves on a nation’s psyche.
Boy Scout remembered the first image like that he’d ever seen. The photo was in an immense Time Life book in the basement library of his grandfather’s house. Called the "Napalm Girl," the black-and-white photo showed a nine-year-old Vietnamese girl running stark naked down a road, screaming. Napalm roared in shades of gray behind her. Other Vietnamese children ran around her, screaming as well. But they were clothed and it was that clothing that somehow magnified her terror… her situation. Her nakedness made everyone who saw the picture want to stand up, find a blanket, and wrap her, take her away, whispering that we never should have bombed her village and we are so damned terribly sorry. Then they’d expand their optic and realize that there were American soldiers in the photo. Then they’d blink and wonder. Why weren’t they helping the girl? Why weren’t they covering her? Then they’d realize that one of the soldiers seemed to be shaking out a cigarette from a pack, uncaring and unconcerned… inhuman.
Then Boy Scout remembered the power of the picture of the burning monk in Saigon. In fact, later he’d discovered there was a series of pictures, detailing the events before and after the immolation. But on that first occasion, it was only him, in his grandfather’s basement, staring at the picture of a man sitting upright, posture perfect, and completely on fire. The monk had done it intentionally to bring attention to the South Vietnamese regime’s discriminatory Buddhist laws. That a person would do something so final to themselves, so
viscerally and unimaginably painful, had kept Boy Scout silent for a full day. He hadn’t spoken a word after seeing the photo, not until his grandfather had asked him what was wrong.
Boy Scout recalled what his grandfather had said.
“Don’t think he did that to himself, Bryan. We did that to him. The South Vietnamese government did that to him. Imagine how desperate a man has to be, imagine how terrible his life must be, for him to do such a thing just so that there would be enough photographers to bring the image to the world, and in small print, the reason for it.”
But those images were from a different time… a different war.
The night of 9/11 Boy Scout found his own image.
The image called "The Falling Man."
It was an image taken just after nine in the morning, of a man jumping head first from the North Tower of the World Trade Center. The unknown man wasn’t the first to fall or jump from the burning tower. Estimates say that as many as two hundred people leaped to their deaths instead of dying in the flames.
Again with the theme of fire.
Like his own burning sky, a vision he couldn’t shake and could barely understand.
Boy Scout would later note that there were many images of the Falling Man, all taken by Associated Press photographer Richard Drew. They showed an unknown man tumbling and out of control, knowing he was going to die, struggling against his gravitational fate. But Drew chose a different image. He chose one he felt was more powerful, and it was forever imprinted on Boy Scout’s psyche.
The Falling Man photo was one of a man diving head first, his legs slightly crossed and extended, much akin to Jesus on the cross, his hands behind him as if they were bound. There was no one else in the shot. The background was of the white surface of the World Trade Center. The image was as simple as it was stark—an image that when looked at couldn’t be understood. At first the head wants to twist so that it can see the image right side up. Then the eyes go to the hands and wonder why they are at his sides. Then they notice the slightly crossed legs and, having seen a crucifix more than a thousand times, the person immediately makes the comparison.
The Falling Man.
9/11 Jesus.
He died for our sins.
The Falling Man was Boy Scout’s forking path.
Either Boy Scout could acknowledge it and continue on his life arc to be a teacher, settling in some Midwestern town, marrying a girl he met at the grocery store, having two kids, a boy and a girl, going to soccer practice, and having weekend barbeques with friends… or he could join the army and become a United States Army Ranger, wearing the Falling Man on his soul as his fellow Rangers wore crosses or emblems of St. Michael on their chests.
He chose the Rangers.
Instead of being a teacher who taught English to white privileged kids, he became a leader of men and women, training them in better ways to kill, effective ways to survive, and how to set up anti-personnel mines in less than thirty seconds. He wasn’t going to get married. He’d already decided that he wasn’t about to bear the responsibility of bringing children into this fucked-up world. He’d gladly traded it to become the pointy end of the American spear, willingly allowing himself to be poked into the heart of whatever enemy was of concern at the time.
Never once did he forget about the Falling Man.
Or the Napalm Girl.
Or the Burning Monk.
Or the burning daeva.
They all stood for something that couldn’t be ignored.
They all stood for something larger, grander than themselves.
He wasn’t sure what that something was—and he’d been chasing it ever since—but if he ever found out, he just might be fulfilled enough to stop.
Just maybe.
But until then, he was Boy Scout, former US Army Ranger, now leader of an operation support team deep in the northern Hindu Kush in Afghanistan, prepared to revenge the ass fucking a group of whirling dervishes had bestowed upon them only because the dervishes had figured out a way to fucking live forever. But first, before anything else, he had to save a friend.
He got up and dusted himself off.
Faood stood at the entrance to the cistern complex. As Boy Scout approached, he put his hand over his heart and bowed slightly.
Boy Scout returned the gesture.
“I wanted to apologize to you personally,” Faood said. He looked down and shook his head with embarrassment. “Sufi practice is aimed at bringing about the cleansing and awakening of the heart. It was not meant to be a vehicle to find a way to live forever. I never should have allowed the others to… I never should have been part of this thing. It wasn’t until recently that I discovered what was going on, and I’m still coming to terms with it.” He paused, then said, “I’m from Istanbul, originally. Have you ever been?”
Boy Scout shook his head.
“It’s a glorious place with such a tapestry of history, it could tell the secrets of Byzantium. Istanbul sits at a crossroads of East and West—Islam and Christendom. The Bosporus strait both separates Europe from Asia and connects the Black Sea to the Sea of Amara and then the Mediterranean.” Faood grinned. “I can see you looking at me, wondering why is he suddenly talking like the Travel Channel.”
Boy Scout grinned despite himself. “Something like that.”
“Don’t judge all Sufis as you judge us. A Sufi is a great worshipper. I came from Istanbul wanting to join the Mevlevi. We, they, strive to perfect the worship of Almighty Allah.” He touched his breast and bowed. “We have a rich history, as rich as Istanbul’s itself. Do you know that we originated with a pledge? We base our spiritualism on the bayah—a pledge of allegiance that was once given to the Prophet Muhammad. This pledge committed Muhammad’s followers to the service of Allah. We believe that if we give our own bayah to a Sufi shaykh, we have a spiritual link to Muhammad, and then to Allah. They get our allegiance and in return we shall get a great reward.”
Faood chuckled before he continued. “I know that the West has made great fun of our seventy-two virgins. I’ve read your jokes on Facebook. And yes, they are funny. But these virgins are but an aspect of the afterlife. They are one page of a million-page book. Don’t you see? Allah has so much more to give. This is why our pledge is so much stronger. The idea was that we would live a life that shines glory onto Allah. Instead, my order has spent its time trying to get their reward before it is even bestowed.
“There are many different kinds of Sufi, just as there are many different nationalities in Istanbul. Tourists complain of headaches because of all the varying languages they hear and all the different people they see. If one isn’t used to the place, it can become very confusing. I’m explaining this to you because having realized that what we are doing was wrong, I want you to understand that there are Sufi who believe differently.”
“But it was Rumi who discovered you could travel,” Boy Scout said.
“Travel to learn. Travel to discover. Not to be who we’ve become. We Sufi memorize thousands of Rumi sayings. He was truly marvelous with words. Want to know my favorite one? Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.”
“Notorious,” Boy Scout repeated. “That’s a hell of a word. Is that what made you come around?” At Faood’s confused expression, he added, “Change sides. Did you want to be notorious?”
“Many things I didn’t like, but yes, this saying is central to who I am.”
“Well, consider your reputation with Faral destroyed. There is a Faral, right?”
“Yes. He is one of our more militant leaders. He would have us fight jihad, but that’s not who we are.”
“I once wanted to be a teacher,” Boy Scout said. “Then I became a killer. Think there’s ever a time I could be a teacher again?”
“Intellect takes you to the door, but it can’t take you into the house,” Faood recited.
“Was that Rumi again?”
“No. That was from Shams Tabrizi, Rumi’s teacher.”
“Everything is necessary. Nothing is necessary. It depends on your design. Listen, these are merely sayings. We have thousands of them. Sayings can mean many things to different people. The meanings of sayings are not owned by those who say them.”
“Then why offer me the saying to begin with?”
“Every word is a doorway. Every thought is an egress. Doors are everywhere. There is no shortage of doors. What’s important is deciding which one to go through.”
“Are you saying you can’t go back?”
“Once you are who you are, you can’t become someone who you were,” Faood said. “Be who you are and become what you want to be.”
“You know how that sounds, right?” Boy Scout asked.
Faood blinked and asked, “Like what?”
“You sound like a fortune cookie.”
Faood grinned. “You mean I sound like the paper inside a fortune cookie. Ever wonder where that paper comes from?”
“A factory? A machine?”
“Ever wonder why that fortune comes to you?”
“It’s random.”
“Is it now?” Faood nodded. “Yet the fortune always seems to fit. Interesting.” Then he put his hand on Boy Scout’s shoulder. “Now go inside and prepare. We will travel shortly.” Then he strode out and into the day.
“Where you going?” Boy Scout called after him.
“To pray.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The Sefid
LORE HAD BEEN right all along. There wasn’t any time travel. There was no such thing as moving sideways through time. It was all pure invention. With the help of these Mevlevi dervishes, each of the TST members had created part of the greater universal landscape of their reality within which to interact. The people, the buildings, the cars… the very air everyone breathed had been invented by the combined weight of the thoughts of the tactical support team. There was no Joon with her crippled son. There were no camels with Joe Arpaio’s face on the side. Lore had never worn a tin foil jump suit. Boy Scout was never a fat, drugged-out loser. McQueen was never a bouncer at a gay bar. None of it had happened. That it seemed so real was a testament to the combined might of their brains’ abilities to construct something so perfect and seamless.