The Reckoning

by Alma Katsu

  “Maybe if I shoot a couple of them, the rest will let us go.”

  “Or they’ll shoot us and take their rocks back.”

  I cocked the trigger for good measure. I didn’t want to shoot the man, but he was the only one I knew I’d be able to hit cleanly, given the darkness. At this moment the rest of the band came up on a trail from the other direction, a couple of brigands leading Farrar with his hands bound by rope.

  “Farrar!” Savva called out loudly. “Tell these devils to let Lanny go!”

  The interpreter barked a few words at the warlord at whom the gun was pointed, but before he could say anything, one of the elders spat out a few harsh words at the warlord and then at Farrar.

  “The elder says no. He doesn’t like the way you disrespected their payment. They feel you voided their relationship when you refused their hospitality,” the interpreter explained glumly.

  “They can have the blasted rocks; just let us go,” Savva called out.

  “I suggest, Miss Lanore, that you hand over your pistol. It will only be worse for us if you persist in defying them,” Farrar said. As though to make a point, the man holding the rope tied to Savva’s neck gave it a vicious yank and he fell to his knees.

  I cocked the pistol upright, nose in the air, and raised my hands in surrender.

  Back at the Pashtun camp, we were put into one of the few tents, a guard posted outside to watch. I heard voices outside the tent, which had been constructed from kilims stretched over sticks pitched low in the ground. I also smelled smoke from a fire and the savory aroma of meat cooking. “Can you hear what they’re saying?” I asked Farrar.

  “I can only think they are deciding what to do with us,” the interpreter answered. “They have no love of foreigners, even if you brought them weapons to use against the British. They’ve learned not to trust outsiders. I’m afraid it probably will not go well for us.”

  “They’ve got their treasure back and the guns, so why should they be vindictive? They should let us go if they’re so concerned about honor,” Savva said.

  “You don’t understand their view of honor. As you see, these people are nomads, and poor, and yet they offered you what little they had, which is their obligation as hosts, and you refused them.”

  “If you’d explained it to me like that,” Savva replied, a bit defensively, “I wouldn’t have turned them down.”

  “That is very bad.” Farrar hung his head.

  We were silent for a moment. Savva, sitting cross-legged on the ground, slumped against his bindings, demoralized. “What about . . . Lanny’s honor? Will they harm her?”

  Farrar looked puzzled for a second and then seemed to follow Savva’s meaning. “I don’t know. It’s possible. Generally, such acts are against our customs. We respect women, but she is a foreigner. . . . The elder of this group, he is known as a devout man, so she may be safe. We will see.”

  “Tell them to leave her alone, for God’s sake. Tell them she’s diseased, that their cocks will fall off if they touch her. . . .”

  “Savva!” I wanted to hear no more from him. It was his fault that we were in this terrible situation, as far as I was concerned. I didn’t want to contemplate what might happen to me that evening. I’d been treated brutally by Adair and thought I could endure anything, but I had no idea what these men might have in mind.

  It had grown quiet outside. Presently, the front of the tent was drawn back and the young warlord entered, crouching on the balls of his feet. He said a few words gently to Farrar.

  “He is going to take you to his tent,” Farrar explained to me. “He says you will be safe with him. He’s afraid one of the men may come for you if you remain here.”

  Savva sniffed. “A gentleman savage. How refreshing.”

  “Savva, enough. I’ll take my chances.” I felt by then that the warlord was a gentleman: he hadn’t tried to overpower me when we struggled on the trail, although he had certainly stood a good chance of getting the better of me. He’d let me hold him at gunpoint, despite the affront to his dignity. So I struggled to my feet, holding my bound hands out for balance, but the warlord reached under my elbow to help me up.

  Savva called out, “Be careful, Lanny. I don’t like the idea of us being split up.” Even if I’d had enough of him, it was gratifying to hear that he still worried for me.

  The warlord’s tent was no different from the others, except that it had a bed made of a stack of kilims and the blanket from his horse’s back. He gestured to the bed and untied my hands. He left the tent and came back with a skewer of meat, the fat on its surface still spitting and crackling from the fire. After I’d eaten, I braced myself, expecting him to lie next to me on the bed, but he didn’t. He took one of the blankets and spread it on the ground before the tent’s opening, then lay with his back to me. I was relieved by his consideration.

  I remained awake for a while, wondering how Savva and Farrar were faring and what would happen to us come the next day, but eventually my gaze fell on the warlord, watching the rise and fall of his chest. It was as natural as anything to watch him sleep—why was that?—as though I’d done this very thing before. My eye traced the high ridge of his cheekbone, then the curve of his upper lip, which suddenly looked very inviting in the moonlight. I pulled myself from this reverie before I gave in to temptation, rolled off the kilims, and climbed on top of him in his sleep. I turned away from him, resolved to remain where I was until morning.

  The next morning I waited until the warlord awoke and then followed him outside. When I looked over to where the other tent had stood, I was startled to see that it was gone, already struck, the sticks upended and lying on the ground. “Where’s Savva?” I demanded, even though I knew he couldn’t understand.

  “Miss Lanore! Here!” Farrar’s voice called from beyond a rise, and both the warlord and I walked over to find the interpreter sitting on a rock under a tree, looking off to a distant plain. Several streaks of dust rose in the air. Through the dust clouds I could make out the figures of several men racing on horseback at a flat-out gallop, performing tricks. One of them had to be Savva: he could ride like a Cossack.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Farrar, who grinned with glee at the display of horsemanship.

  “Mister Savva challenged these men to a contest on horseback. If he can do everything they do, they will let us go.”

  “And?”

  “So far, they haven’t been able to outdo him,” Farrar said.

  “And do you think they will let us go?”

  Farrar tilted his head to one side, squinting against the sun. “Of course. They are men of honor.”

  We watched the antics on horseback for a while longer, Savva playing follow-the-leader with the Afghans, leaning far over at a dead gallop to tear a handful of grass from the ground, standing on his horse’s back while holding the reins all the way to the very tip. And then, gesturing to the warlord, I asked Farrar, “Do you know this man’s name?”

  “Yes—it’s Abdul.” At hearing his name, the warlord turned toward us expectantly.

  “And could you ask him, please, if he is married?”

  A short, pleasant exchange took place between the two men, and I tried to hold on to the sounds of some of the words, but they were too foreign, too unlike English. Farrar turned to me. “No, he does not have a wife. Do you have something in mind, Miss Lanore?”

  I looked over at Abdul again. There was something about him that I found desirable. Perhaps it was that he reminded me of Adair, handsome if savage. Perhaps it was that I’d been traveling with Savva for years now, which meant the men I’d taken to my bed were few and far between, since most assumed Savva was my lover if not my husband, and for Savva’s safety I rarely disabused them of this notion.

  “Please tell Abdul I would like to thank him for his hospitality,” I said to Farrar before taking Abdul’s hand. He looked in surprise from my hand to my face, but he didn’t resist in the least when I led him back to the tent.

  We l
ay on the kilims together this time. He was hesitant to undress me, so I began, hurriedly slipping buttons free on my jacket until Abdul took over, and there was something thrilling about seeing the trembling in those strong, confident hands. He was enthralled with my body, anxious to explore tender feminine skin, raising goose bumps on my arms and the back of my neck. He helped me shift through the layers of his clothing until I uncovered his cock, swollen and seemingly ready to burst at the touch with a luscious pearl of his fluid waiting to be tasted.

  I took him in my mouth, which surprised him at first but soon had him moaning low and guttural animal noises of pleasure. He came very quickly and so I lovingly took his head and guided him down to a place on a woman’s body he’d probably never seen before. Again he seemed startled by the suggestion, but having no doubt of my meaning, he plunged in hungrily and had me spent and quivering in no time. By then he was aroused again, hard as petrified wood, and, now in more familiar territory, he climbed confidently on top of me and drew me close so that we could enjoy each other at a more leisurely pace.

  I thought at the time that I’d have one morning in Abdul’s arms—that I’d indulge my curiosity and hunger and make a gift to him of my gratitude, and that would be the end of it—but it didn’t work out that way. One day became seven, then a week became a month, and before long Savva and I had taken up with Abdul’s group as they planned an attack against the British.

  I sometimes wondered if our time together had been peaceful because we couldn’t speak to each other without an interpreter. We got by with looks and gestures and long hours in each other’s arms, and Abdul’s seemingly inexhaustible passion. But I knew the day was coming—soon—that he would have to sire children: it was expected of him as well as a necessity to sustain his way of life, much as it had been in St. Andrew in my day. We could not stay a couple. I’d have to move on or stand by as he took another wife. Besides Jonathan, Abdul was the only man to whom I would’ve happily given a child if I could have. It had been made clear long ago that this wasn’t to be; it was another of the things Adair had taken from me, and so I tried not to think of it. It was only in rare moments like these that I felt the weight of a regret that was impossible to appease.

  Plus, in the long run, I was bound to disappoint Abdul, and the disappointment would sting less if he had another wife—a wife who would bear the burden of behaving in ways acceptable to the rest of Abdul’s tribe. My inevitable apartness from him would be mitigated by a wife who would age with her husband and ease him through all the stages of his life, who would give him children and make his life complete. Besides, once we returned to his tribe he would undoubtedly be expected to take a proper bride, one of his own people, a respectable virgin who had never appeared in public without a chador. His reputation among his people might be forever tarnished by his association with a scandalously independent, foreign woman. I had no desire to see Abdul shortchanged because he’d had the misfortune to fall in love with me.

  I intended to encourage Abdul to choose a bride when we visited his village, but that day never came. Abdul was killed in a clash not far from Jalalabad, a ferocious battle won by the British, who then went in pursuit of the fleeing Afghans. Thank God, Savva had stayed with me. He bundled me up and led me away as I grieved. Kabul was close and home to a contingent of expatriates among whom we could hide. I spent months consumed by the loss of Abdul, sure that I would never find another man as gentlemanly or as brave. As soon as I could function again, Savva spirited us west to Turkey, then on to Greece. Even with the distraction of pretty island boys at Minos, we rested only a brief while, until Savva had gambled and smoked his way through much of our money, could stand the quiet no more, and demanded another adventure.

  CASABLANCA, PRESENT DAY

  I woke up from the dream disoriented. I hadn’t thought about Abdul in a long while, and it struck me for the first time—as I pictured his face, his way of moving, his strong presence—just how much he reminded me not of Jonathan but of Adair. Abdul had been more generous than most men would be in trying to fulfill my wishes. He had been unapologetic whenever he exhibited his fundamental nature—slicing the throat of an opponent in battle as unflinchingly as another man might slaughter a sheep, for instance. We had been unalike in many ways, Abdul and I, but I had been unaccountably drawn to him.

  The more I thought about Abdul, the more I started to see that he hadn’t been an anomaly. When I counted up the men for whom I’d felt the most passion, I realized, with horror, that these men all had more in common with Adair than with Jonathan. All had been direct and unapologetic about their natures. Most preferred a bit of roughness in bed.

  But the most frightening realization was that all of them had loved me even though it was not in their best interests to do so, even when they knew they would suffer—a loss of prestige; the forfeiture of wealth, a title, or independence; separation from a respectable wife—each had made the sacrifice in order to be with me. Unlike Jonathan, not one of them had shown the least ambivalence about our relationship. Even Adair, I now saw.

  I had loved Jonathan before I knew what it meant to give myself to someone. The joy I had felt in the beginning was the sweetest I would ever know, but it had soured over time. For much of my life, when I thought of Jonathan, I felt sadness and bitterness. I still hurt when I thought of his trespasses against me. I know it’s possible for love and hurt to coexist—anyone who has been married knows that—but when does the hurt, the disappointment, become too much? What had I carried with me all this time? Had I been in love with a ghost, a man who had ceased to be a long time ago?

  Whereas, when I thought of Adair, I knew I should be terrified of him, I knew he was capable of doing horrible things, but I also couldn’t help being overtaken with excitement, too. It had been like being courted by a demon, heady and intoxicating. My stomach fluttered at the memory of it. I had been loved by a man who would do anything for me: lie, cheat, steal. Murder. How many women could say that? As frightening as it had been, it also had been a singular love.

  Exactly the way I had felt about Jonathan, once upon a time.

  I sat upright, holding a pillow to my stomach as though it had some magical power to keep down the bile rising in my throat. The belief I’d held most sacred in life, the star by which I’d charted my course, had been an illusion. Even if I’d had a perfect love with Abdul and the others, each had come about because, subconsciously, I’d sought to re-create what I once had with Adair. The truth of this realization fell into place like tumblers aligning in a lock. It had been Adair all this time, not Jonathan. Adair, the monster, was the one I had loved all along.

  This couldn’t be. For a moment the inside of my head spun like a top, or perhaps it was my world flipping topsy-turvy and crashing around me. I’d always prided myself on following my heart, but I could not—would not—accept this. It must be mad lust or some kind of sick attraction dressed up to look like love. It must be trickery, one of his spells to make me think I loved him. It must be insanity brought on by Jonathan’s death. I could not be in love with a monster, I vowed. I would not let myself be in love with the devil.

  PART TWO

  TWELVE

  MARQUETTE, MICHIGAN

  For Luke, the best medicine in the world was seeing the screen door to Tricia’s house open with a bang and his daughters fly out, running straight at him as he stepped out of his rental car. He scooped them up in a bear hug, swinging them around the way he did when they were very young, like a chair-o-planes ride at the amusement park, while his former wife watched from the front porch. He felt fine for as long as he held them, but as soon as he set them down and they ran off, excited as puppies, he was filled with sadness once again. He looked up to find Tricia’s eyes studying him with concern, and she returned his heartbroken smile.

  She embraced him warmly on the top step. “How was your flight?”

  “Fine, no problems.”

  “Well, come on in and make yourself at home.” She ushered hi
m into the foyer, where Richard was waiting, in his flannel and denim, to greet him. They’d met before, but Luke had forgotten that the man was built like a bear, right down to the full beard. Richard gave Luke a respectful nod as he entered the house.

  Luke shook his hand. “Hey, thanks for letting me come by like this, with no warning. . . .”

  Richard shrugged. “It’s all the girls have been able to talk about. We’re real glad you can spend some time with us.” Luke had wanted to dislike Richard when they first met, for luring his wife back to her hometown when they were still married. But it wasn’t possible: Richard was so easygoing, so down-to-earth. Luke could admit now that it hadn’t been Richard’s fault that Tricia had left: the marriage had been over for a while. At least she’d found herself a good guy.

  Luke stood in the kitchen with a mug of fresh coffee in his hand and watched his daughters through the patio door as they helped Richard put out tables and chairs for Winona’s birthday party later in the day. Tricia stood at the island in the kitchen decorating the birthday cake—pink lemonade with vanilla frosting—in concentrated silence, each letter squeezed out with the practiced hand of a calligrapher. The familiarity of the moment—minus Richard, of course—reminded Luke of birthdays they’d celebrated when they were living in his parents’ farmhouse, leaving him feeling momentarily disoriented.

  He’d told Tricia the truth when he called from the airport in London: that Lanny had left him and he needed a place to stay and collect his thoughts. Despite their differences and the fact that their marriage had fallen apart, Luke could always count on Tricia’s dependability. With no questions asked, she told him to get on a plane and that the sofa bed in the basement would be made up and waiting for him.