She stopped to let her words sink in. She had wanted to go back to Baher-Ghafé in search of survivors. She had wanted to bury the dead and save what could be saved. After five years, she had accepted the harsh truth: Baher-Ghafé may one day be rebuilt, but not by the families that had lived there. The same was true for Wrok-Atul.
“My friends, we share the same plight, the same fight. Thanks to the quick action of the Black Robes, you have survived. You are alive. You are here and you are safe, but many, so many of your family are dead.” Hayat lowered her voice, “Wives, husbands, children, parents; all dead. Killed by the sword of Baal. You have escaped, but they did not. You could not even give them a proper burial and their souls remain in torment, wandering the land of the dead without rest.”
There were no shouts of anger, no protests, no call to arms. The people of the land of Uratu were submissive to a fault. They expected life to be short and bitter and had never even hoped for a bright day they could call their own. They believed that what happened to them was the will of the gods, and who were they to complain? They had learned to keep their pain and sorrow to themselves, trudging along until death overtook them. Hayat knew there was no point in rousing them, but this was not her intent either. Her well-crafted speech was meant to uncover untrained spies, the type the Temple employed to collect simple information—such as the whereabouts of the Black Robes. Trained spies were harder to spot and only Ashod’s expert eyes could catch them.
No spies here, she thought, just a group of folks whose spirits have been broken a longtime ago.“Here, you eat if you work. You will have a place to call home if you do your part. But first, you will wash-up and rest. Men, move to my left and women to my right. Children under the age of twelve gather in front of me, boys to my left and girls to my right.”
Usually, parents, who had escaped the massacre of the Temple with their children would immediately protest being separated from their young ones. Traumatized parents were not be able to listen to reason, as separation from their youngsters was unbearable.
Slowly, the men got up and shuffled to her left and the women went to her right. The children—about thirty of them—dutifully came and sat in front of her. A woman who sat in the back row caught Hayat’s attention when she jerked and gazed intensely at the little girl sitting next to Jabbar’s wife. There was nothing strange about the woman’s reaction. Presumably, she did not want to let go of her daughter; a natural reaction. But the native Uratuan’s obedience was flawless, even when anguishing over their children.
If I did not see it with my own eyes, thought Hayat, I would have not believed it. Only this woman reacted. Maybe she’s not from Uratu. She may possibly be a visitor caught up in this tragedy, or a Temple spy. Ashod will find out. She nodded twice and a man and woman who were fellow members of the Black Robes walked in and took charge of the adults. Another six female Black Robes entered the room. Three of them stood by the young girls and the other three by the boys. These trained women would discreetly question the children. Baal had not yet used children as spies, but it could not be ruled out. Hayat knew that the fate of the Black Robes—hiding in various bases, all inside intractable canyons—was largely dependent on their ability to ferret out spies.
To that end, Ashod had set up a complex system to process the refugees who would come to the Black Robes’ camp near Rastoopa in Mitani. This camp was set inside the ruins of an old city in a swampy area that was seldom visited by High Riders. Should the High Riders attack, their sentries would sound the alarm long enough for them to disappear in the swamps, making it difficult for the Temple to hound them.
The camp sheltered the refugees until the reality of their new life sank in: They were no longer citizens of a village or kingdom, but fugitives, with nowhere else to go but one of the remote Black Robes’ camp.
After initiation, new members were sent to remote training camps, and when ready, received their first assignment. The Black Robes were members of a clandestine organization created to save as many lives as possible from the massacres of Baal. They had a small trained force to preserve the peace and an even smaller group for special missions. A Temple’s frontal assault would destroy the organization, but since their camps were geographically dispersed, such an assault would require the full mobilization of the High Riders; something akin to a global war. As long as they remained in the shadows, the Temple would leave them alone. Still, their number steadily grew, and they were now far better organized than when Jabbar, Hoda, and Hayat had joined six years ago.
During the first four years of their exile, Hayat had feared for her daughter, who had retreated into darkness. Hayat knew she could not reach Hoda. She understood why the young woman was angry with her; she knew the feeling all too well. Her daughter preferred to die than to face a world without her younger brother. Still, what could she have done as a mother? From her years as first servant to a high priestess, she knew the High Riders would have killed or tortured Hoda if she had not held her daughter back that fateful night. But in Hoda’s inexperienced mind, her mother had cold-heartedly abandoned Ahiram to his fate.
Refusing to give up hope, Hayat threw herself into the fray and took on a function similar to the role of a first servant responsible for the day-to-day operations of the Temple. With natural ease she led the integration of refugees into the Black Robes.
Jabbar did not fare as well. The destruction of his village, the loss of his son, and their shattered lives had been too much to bear. He retreated behind the fire and smoke of an anvil, and had become a well-respected blacksmith, though he was no longer the man she had married.
“M’Lady, we are ready.”
Hayat realized the Black Robes in charge of the men and those in charge of the women were waiting for her signal. She inhaled sharply, and then breathed out slowly to regain her composure. I am daydreaming again. This cannot continue. She nodded and the remnant lives of Wrok-Atul left the hall following their guides. Hayat helped with the dishes and the cleanup, and then went out to check on the refugees to make sure everyone was well taken care of. By nightfall, she walked the camp’s perimeter to check on the sentries. It was not uncommon for a sentinel to fall asleep. After all, most Black Robe members were not military recruits, but simple civilians.
As she made the rounds, Hayat realized her patience was waning and her endurance weakening. She had reached a breaking point and could no longer carry the weight of Ahiram’s disappearance alone. Jabbar’s retreat behind the anvil, along with the constant beating of metal—as if he were trying to beat the memory of his son out of his own head—was more than she could bear. They rarely spoke and barely ate together. A few more years and we will become total strangers, she thought bitterly. There must be something I can do to bring Jabbar back, but what?
She was now close to the two large dormitories set aside for the new refugees. A cluster of pine trees separated the two buildings.
“No, Rajek, staying here I am not.”
The woman’s voice reached her from the cluster of trees. She spoke with the distinct Uratuan accent, soft and melodic. “My children, I will seek and my path to them must lead.”
“But Luliand,” pleaded a man, “children of ours are gone to the Wind-End. None shall we see, none left for us to hold.”
The couple, evidently from Wrok-Atul, was having an argument, one she had heard a hundred times over, one she could recite by heart. The mother wanted to go back and search for their missing children, and the father tried to dissuade her. Jabbar and Hayat had had that same argument six years ago over Ahiram. She wanted to inquire about their son, find out if he was still alive, but Jabbar had refused. “Our son is dead, Hayat,” he insisted. “There’s no point looking for the dead.”
Back then, his refusal had hurt her deeply, but over the years, seeing the same drama repeated before her eyes, she had forgiven her husband.
“Deter me you shan’t,” persisted the woman. “Keep me here you can’t. A quest my heart calls for, and my hear
t will I follow.”
“Wrok-Atul destroyed it is,” Rajek replied softly. “Houses by flames are devoured, bones and shadows, will you find. But Luliand, to Wind-End, our children are gone. From all that could be left, we and their memory are left.”
“Wrok-Atul my destination is not,” insisted Luliand. “Rajek, the path to the Ancient of Days will I take. A pronouncement will he utter, and on my way must I be.”
“The Ancient of Days,” exclaimed Rajek. “A legend he is, a dream dreamed by wily minds.”
“No, Rajek, a dream he is not, but a legend he is. Where my children are, he will tell, how to get them back, he will show.”
“But Luliand, how to him will you go? The road long it is, and the dangers unforgiving they are,” Rajek said.
“A caravan I shall take, a seamstress I shall become, through the land of the giants I will cross, and to Salem, I will sail.”
This was unexpected. The woman was ostensibly far more learned than Hayat had thought. She is not going back home, instead, she wants her husband to go with her to ask a prophet about the fate of their children.
This was not the most extravagant plan Hayat had heard; some refugees wanted to demand an explanation from the Temple of Baal. Unable to believe the Temple had destroyed their village, their first reaction was to seek counsel with the Temple. Others wanted to travel to Sheit Mot, the Vanishing Land, where they thought they could find the relatives that they had left behind. Still others were adamant to find the door to the City of the Dead. Some were even ready to bring calves, sheep, goats, or hens as an offering to Mot, the god of the netherworld.
Others attempted to learn the fate of their children through divination by using the entrails of a chicken, a duck, or a serpent. Hayat did not find any of it laughable. She knew all too well that the human spirit could go to extremes and was ready to believe the impossible rather than face the cold, brunt reality of death and muted separation.
“Luliand,” called Rajek, “tonight, rest we must. Tomorrow, plan our travel we shall.”
“Rajek, Luliand ask not you to come with her. Her mission it is.”
“Rajek the heart of Luliand he knows, and where she must, he goes.”
Having heard enough, Hayat silently walked away. As she moved toward the center of the camp, a thought that must have been germinating for a long time suddenly turned into a clear and forthright idea. It was so simple that she wondered why it had taken her this long to think of it.
Now, she thought, barely able to contain her excitement, I think Jabbar will listen to me.
Purposefully, she walked toward the blacksmith’s workshop, but abruptly changed course and strode to Ashod’s small hut instead. She stepped inside, and then exited just a few minutes later. Smiling and determined, she returned to the blacksmith’s shop and found her husband at the anvil, next to a pile of broken swords.
“Jabbar, we need to talk,” she said, beaming.
“Where do you find the strength to do what you do?” he grumbled. “I don’t get it.”
“From my hope.”
“Hope?” he said, confused, “What hope? Don’t you see, we are merely surviving here? We are alive today, dead tomorrow. This is not a life, this is a shadow of a life.”
Beads of sweat covered his forehead. He set down the hammer and wiped his blackened face with a dirty rag. In the span of those six years, Jabbar had aged fifteen. Still, his arms were strong and his hands steady.
“Perhaps,” she answered, “perhaps you are right, Jabbar. But think, they never found his body. What if he’s still alive? What if he’s out there?”
“Then what?”
“If you knew with certainty that your son was alive, what would you do?” she asked him.
He brought the hammer up close to his face and stared at it for a long time. “There’s a dent, right here,” he said, “It’s a gash actually, and if left unchecked, one of these days, this hammer will break in half.”
“What would you do, Jabbar? Answer me.”
He looked at her. “What would I do? What could I do, Hayat? I am … was … a shark fisherman, content to live in a small little town. My life, my entire life was there, in Baher-Ghafé, in Byblos, in Baalbek, and in Tanooreen. That’s it.”
“This is a lie,” snapped Hayat. “Before you married me, you had been on a ship. You have seen the world.”
“So? That was before, when I was young and—”
“Selfish. When you were young and selfish. Go ahead, say it. You could travel when you pleased, but if your son needs you, you are telling me you will continue to hide here, behind this anvil?”
“I am not hiding, woman.”
“Yes, you are. You are scared. Scared of the High Riders, scared of what they will do to you if they capture you. Or me. Or Hoda.”
“And who wouldn’t be? It’s sheer madness to stand up against the Temple,” he yelled.
“Is it better to submit to fear, to death?” shouted Hayat.
Back in Baher-Ghafé, they had never raised their voices. But these past six years had been filled with acrimony, and their harsh words were lacerations they inflicted on each other. Unable to fight the Temple, they fought each other; afraid that otherwise, they would end up in a sullen silence and slowly decay into indifference, and then despair.
And despair was to be feared at all cost.
He remembered Ashod’s warning, If you despair, if you truly despair of your lives, then rest assured, a Kerta priest will find you. He will slowly worm his way into your mind and your soul. He will convince you to deliver yourselves into his hands. The suffering he would inflict on you would make you long for this life.
“I don’t know, Hayat,” said Jabbar. “What is the point of this anyway? What can we do differently today that we did not do yesterday?”
“Come, sit next to me,” she said as she removed two boxes filled with nails from a dirty bench. “Let’s sit together. I have something to tell you.”
He dropped the hammer, wiped his hands with the dirty rag, and joined her on the bench. He smelled of sweat, metal, and burned coal, and had a rancid odor from the cheap wine he had taken a liking to.
“What?” he asked gruffly.
“Today a fresh batch of refugees joined us from the latest village the High Riders destroyed.”
“Wrok-Atul,” he replied with a smug look.
“You know?” she asked.
Jabbar heaved a deep sigh and explained that even though he seldom left his anvil, he knew what went on in the camp.
“I know that,” she had said. “Listen, on my walk tonight, I overheard a couple talking outside their dormitory.”
“You mean like we used to do.” Jabbar scratched his thick beard, a wry smile on his face.
“Yes.” Hayat smiled. “Like we used to.”
“And, let me guess,” he continued with a sarcastic tone, “he wants to look for their children and she is telling him that he is crazy.”
Hayat bit her lip. She refused to reopen that wound. “Something like that,” she said calmly, “but not exactly.”
“Oh? Don’t tell me they were arguing over what to eat or what to wear? Now that would be a novelty.”
Hayat had anticipated that talking to her husband would be hard, but she had not anticipated anger and frustration to well up so quickly in her heart. She got up and clenched her fists, ready to leave.
“Hayat,” he said in an unusually soft tone. “Sit down. Tell me what you wanted to tell me. I won’t talk. I promise.”
Something in his voice, a tinge of deep sadness, dissolved her anger. It’s not his fault. She repeated firmly. He is the victim here, as much as I am, as much as anyone else in this camp. Hayat moved closer to her husband and took his hand.
“The woman, her name is Luliand.”
“Really?” exclaimed Jabbar, “I met a Luliand once in a jolly tavern of Singatava. She was blond and …” Seeing his wife’s gaze, he coughed and signaled for her to continue.
; “Her husband’s name is Rajek, and she told him that she wants to go to Salem to ask the Ancient of Days about their children.”
“They were discussing a trip to Salem?” asked Jabbar, incredulous. “Now that’s a new one.”
“So, I asked Ashod about the Ancient of Days, and he confirmed that apparently, there is a sort of a prophet living on one of the mountains of Salem who could answer such questions. He doesn’t know of anyone who has met him, but he told me that his sources, which are reliable, were certain the story is not fanciful.”
Jabbar sighed. He knew Ashod held greater sway with his wife than he did. The way she spoke now was different from when they had lived in Baher-Ghafé. She used longer words and more complex sentences. But, a prophet who could tell him whether his son was dead or alive? Was that even possible?
“Let’s say this man exists,” he said, tentatively. “How would we get there, and why would Ashod let us go? We could betray him, you know.”
“Exactly. But here is the thing. To get to Salem there are two routes: one, a maritime route through Quibanxe, down to the sea of Babel-Amon, then a dangerous crossing into Salem. It would take us at least three months to get there, maybe more.”
“And the other?” asked Jabbar wanting to test his wife’s knowledge. When did she learn about all of this?
“The other is through the Kingdom of Marada.”
“The land of giants?” scoffed Jabbar. “Do you believe such nonsense?”
“Whether the giants exist or not is irrelevant,” she protested. “What is relevant is that this kingdom is a destination for caravans, and Ashod would like us to join one of those caravans and go to Marada.”
“What for?”
“He wants me, us I mean, to deliver a message to a friend of his there.”
“Why can’t he ask a zakiir?” He saw her stare at him and realized the absurdity of his proposition. There were no zakiruun, memory men, among the Black Robes. In a world where the written word was considered a forbidden act of magic and a capital crime, the League of the Zakiruun consigned to memory—against a handsome fee—the important affairs of others.
Wrath of the Urkuun (Epic of Ahiram Book 2) Page 19