by Tom Gamble
‘That’s how it is. We could already have married, but I wish to wait until she is seventeen.’
‘No, not that. I wouldn’t have thought. You’ll make a fiery couple.’
‘She has temperament. But, Harry, you are avoiding the subject.’
‘The war?’ offered Summerfield. Badr nodded. Summerfield put down his plate and cleaned his fingers. ‘Yes, you’re right. I feel very bizarre, my friend. It’s as though I’m not concerned anymore, as though it all belongs to another time, another world. Not my world.’
‘The destiny of France, perhaps. But England, Great Britain—your country?’ The young man ladled another portion of vegetables onto Summerfield’s plate and handed it back to him. ‘And Jeanne Lefèvre.’
‘Good God…’ Summerfield raised his eyebrows. He had surprised himself. ‘Yes, I’d… I’d almost forgotten,’ he said distantly.
‘Perhaps you have deliberately pushed all that into forgetfulness, Harry. Perhaps it is too painful to think about.’
‘You may be right, Badr. Do you have any news?’
‘She did not leave for France.’
‘That’s something.’ Summerfield withdrew into silence. ‘And Abrach—Abslem?’
‘I cannot say much, I’m afraid. But I believe he is continuing the struggle against the French. Things may change now. No contact with Lefèvre—ever since the event. The Administrator is protected twenty-four hours a day.’
‘He should have killed him when he had the chance,’ said Summerfield, shaking his head.
‘It wasn’t how he wanted things to happen, you know that,’ replied Badr, washing his hands in a bowl that smelt faintly of oranges. It reminded Summerfield of the letters. So long ago it seemed. ‘Abrach wasn’t a man intent upon murder—he was too good for that. He just wanted Lefèvre to admit, to repent.’
‘You said was a good man,’ repeated Summerfield.
‘Yes. I said was. What he has experienced has…has turned my master into a bitter, vengeful man. I am afraid he will become like the people he wishes to defeat—merciless.’
‘And you still fight with him?’
‘I fight for a wider purpose, Harry. And I hope, in the deepest part of me, that he will see the truth and change back to the generous man he was before.’
Summerfield put his plate back down with a grunt. ‘Badr, you are an intelligent, courageous and honest young man. But you are flying so high with lofty convictions that you fail to see the reality of life. Your naivety is as dangerous as Abrach’s cynicism. Take care—please. As a friend I ask this of you.’
The young man smiled sheepishly and sat up straight. ‘Enough of me and my failings, Harry. And may I remind you that you are one to speak of naivety! But your war? You didn’t answer me.’
Summerfield thought for a few moments, inwardly trying to summon up his true feelings. They wouldn’t come. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he exhaled. ‘As you said, maybe I don’t dare thinking about it all—it will hurt too much. But then again, I feel unburdened of it all. I’m—I’m almost at home here in the valley. If I were free to leave tomorrow, then I would probably return to defend my country. But I am not. And as every day passes, my skin changes a little in colour, my mind begins to think as you do and my tongue manages to speak your strange language better and better.’ Summerfield paused, stunned by a sudden revelation. ‘Good God, Badr! I’m almost happy here.’
‘Almost?’ said Badr, cocking his head and smiling faintly.
‘Almost,’ repeated Summerfield.
The cesspit to the British throne toilet took a further day of digging to finish. They had to pull out Summerfield and his two small helpers using knotted ropes. The children, Raja, Badr and now a growing gathering of curious adults cheered when his head appeared, gleaned in sweat, from the hole. Climbing out, Summerfield noticed the old Mullah on the edge of the crowd. He was staring at him with unsmiling eyes.
The next two days saw screens made of brushwood and discarded wicker go up between the thrones, so that only the head and shoulders of the adult user could be seen. The children liked this idea, inventing a game involving peeking around the screen and frightening the hapless occupant.
The problem of water supply remained, however. It nagged Summerfield at night, crept into his sleep. He thought of setting up a sanitary unit whose task would be to carry water in buckets and clean away the waste for a fee. But this was no good. It would make him a boss and anything as absurdly outrageous as being an employee would never be accepted by the tribes’ people. He thought of prospecting for water nearer the pit, but the work would be gigantesque. He also thought of the mule and having it bring water regularly to the throne room, but he’d probably have to hire it or buy it from its owner and he had no money. When Summerfield’s dreams became so full of toilets, flushing water and the threat of rotting faeces that it began to wake him long before dawn, he decided to take a break from the project for a while. Perhaps, like writing, the idea would gestate in his mind and pop up as a perfect solution when it wanted to.
Badr came to him next morning—with a manly lurch to his walk. Under his arm was a long, rolled rug that looked surprisingly stiff. Sitting on his cushions outside his hut, Summerfield looked up sure that something was on the young man’s mind. A solution for the cesspit, perhaps?
‘Good morning to you, Harry.’
‘Hello, Badr. Is something the matter? Can I offer you a tea?’
Badr sat down. ‘No, thank you,’ replied the young man, brusquely. ‘Harry. Today I have decided to teach you something.’
‘Oh—I thought it was the cesspit,’ said Summerfield, mildly. ‘And what, pray tell me, Badr, do you intend to teach me?’
‘I remember that at one time you were ready to fight in Spain.’
‘My convictions at that time, Badr. Yes—yes, I was.’
‘And how exactly were you going to fight?’
Summerfield frowned and sat up. ‘What d’you mean how?’
‘With your hands, perhaps? With your fists? Or maybe with a pen!’ Badr let out a brief guffaw.
‘Now look here,’ began Summerfield, aware that the young man was mocking him. But he didn’t have time to finish.
‘Today I will teach you how to use a rifle,’ said Badr.
‘A rifle? You mean a gun?’
Badr stood up, giving his head a little shake of regret. ‘Harry, the world has suddenly changed. It is at war. How would you be able to defend yourself if you don’t know how to use a rifle?’
‘Can you trust me?’ frowned Summerfield. ‘After all, I’m supposed to be your prisoner. I don’t understand.’
‘Prisoner you say!’ Once again, Badr guffawed, but this time followed it by a slow scratching of his beard. It was a sign that Summerfield had hit on something. Badr smiled tersely. ‘You are no longer our prisoner, Harry.’
‘What?’ It was Summerfield’s turn to stand up. ‘You mean I’m free to go?’
Badr nodded. ‘The chief and the elders have decided. They think it dishonourable that they should keep you from your country’s war. If you wish, you are free to leave, Harry. But one other thing—the chief and the elders also consider you as one of their people. They—perhaps the right word is—appreciate you.’
‘Well.’ Summerfield took a few steps, turning on himself, feeling a little lost. ‘That’s—that’s very pleasing to hear, but…but now I have to make a decision.’
‘Take your time. Their decision is not an invitation to leave the valley today.’ Badr sighed and looked across the valley to the mountain peaks. ‘If you decide to remain, then you may have to one day defend this valley along with your brothers.’ Summerfield looked at him. ‘The French, Harry. Though they have been defeated in Europe, they still have their empire. And this long war between them and us, they still want to win. They are becoming very active in the foothills. Patrols have been sighted in the higher valleys. Opinion is that they are preparing a campaign.’
‘I’ve nev
er fired a gun in my life,’ said Summerfield, distantly. ‘Though I’d like you to teach me. It would be an honour.’
Badr beamed. ‘It is also an honour for me. And as a sign of our trust and friendship, I have brought you along a very special gift.’ At this, the young man placed the rug on the dusty ground and delicately unrolled it. ‘For you, Harry—a Lee Enfield Mark II 303. A British rifle, almost a legend. Still one of the best in the world.’
‘How on earth?’ said Summerfield, gaping. ‘How did it get here?’
‘It’s always been in the village. Some say it was brought up by a caravan in the early part of the century. Others say it was smuggled in from British spies in the 1927 uprising, happy to see us fight the French.’
‘In any case, it’s a superb gesture, Badr.’ Summerfield felt overcome with feeling. ‘I thank you,’ was all he could manage.
‘Take it. Pick it up—it is not loaded and I took care to remove the bolt.’
Summerfield bent down and lifted it. ‘That’s heavy. Much more than I thought,’ he said, surprised by the weight.
‘Come,’ said Badr, cheerily. ‘You will see how it kicks!’
That evening, eating some salted semolina and vegetables he had prepared, Summerfield’s ears still rang with the sharp crack of the Lee Enfield and the strange aftermath of echo, almost like a tear of lightning, that had whorled through the valley. Badr had been right—the old rifle had a beastly character. His shoulder hurt like hell from the fierce recoil. After Badr had taken him through much theory, making him adopt various firing positions, bracing himself, assembling and reassembling the mechanism, loading the stubby magazine and going through various cleaning techniques, Summerfield’s first shot almost sent him falling backwards and the bullet upwards. God knows where it had landed. Because ammunition for the British rifle was scarce, he could only fire off five rounds. By the fifth, Summerfield felt proud—for he was able to hit a boulder some three hundred yards away that Badr had designated. True, it was quite a large boulder. But Badr had assured him it was encouraging.
As Summerfield ate his simple meal, he kept glancing at the Lee Enfield lying on his cot with the bolt removed. A faint smell of cordite still emanated from it mixed with bees’ wax that Badr had administered before handing it over to Summerfield. And then his thoughts turned to his conversation that morning and his newly obtained freedom. He could simply go. However, before his mind went down this labyrinth of thought, there was a soft knock at the door. Summerfield rose and opened it.
It was the old Mullah. Summerfield started in surprise.
‘Are you not going to welcome a guest inside?’ said the old man and Summerfield relaxed a little. There was no trace of animosity in the old man’s voice.
‘Of course, Respected Teacher. Do come in. Please, sit. Can I offer you some mint tea?’
‘With pleasure, Mr Summerfield. But make it China tea. And may I suggest you add a little of that English habit into it.’
‘You mean milk?’ Summerfield frowned and felt a distant sense of mistrust flicker in him.
‘I would like to try,’ nodded the old man, delicately. ‘And I see,’ he added, sending a glance at the Lee Enfield on Summerfield’s cot, ‘that our young Badr has initiated you in the art of shooting.’
‘My apologies,’ said Summerfield, hastily covering it up.
‘No need, no need. It is a custom in these valleys for a man to have an arm. Though a crime, I must add, for a man to use it unless he is attacked or unless he hunts.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Summerfield, putting the kettle on the fire. ‘Both our religions forbid murder.’ A few moments of silence overcame the two men, a sort of uncertainty about what to speak of. ‘The weather…’ offered Summerfield then changed his mind. ‘Have you come to dissuade me about completing the thrones?’
‘Very direct,’ nodded the Mullah and sighed. ‘No. Rather I have come because I am still not totally convinced.’
‘Then you have indeed come to voice your disagreement.’
The old man sat back and folded his arms, his stick slipping out of his arthritic knuckles and sliding gently to the floor. ‘Please, Mr Summerfield. I have come because I want you to persuade me.’
‘Can’t you be persuaded by yourself?’ said Summerfield and softened his tone. ‘I think you have seen the progress in construction, oh Respected One. You know the reason why I wished to build them.’
‘Really?’ The old man gave a knowing grin and showed several missing teeth. ‘You say you wanted to build this edifice for the health and hygiene of the villagers. Is that all?’
‘It’s enough, don’t you think?’ said Summerfield, beginning to feel irritated. ‘That and what the French would call pudeur. We can’t have womenfolk baring their backsides in broad daylight.’
‘To my knowledge, this is not currently the case,’ returned the Mullah, frowning sternly. ‘If there have been cases of indecency, then I’d like to know who.’
‘There has been no indecency,’ replied Summerfield, increasingly interested in the verbal skirmish. ‘It was just a turn of phrase of mine.’
‘I feel relieved,’ said the old man. ‘It is true that the occasional wild young boy will tend to flaunt his nascent snake from time to time, but our people are generally good and proper. So tell me—what else made you want to build the edifice?’
Summerfield paused, the time it took to pour the water into another kettle containing tea. ‘I needed something to do, oh Mullah. That is the truth. I could not work the fields—I now know why and I accept the rule. But my body and mind were restless. A man must have a goal.’
‘Ah, good!’ beamed the Mullah, his wrinkles making his skin look like an old prune. ‘We agree on something at last.’
‘I wanted something to do. And it was when I came across the public gully that the idea came to me.’
‘Humm,’ pondered the Mullah. ‘Yes, I suppose I can quite understand you. I try to avoid the area, but it is sometimes necessary to…use the gully myself. At my age! I can hardly squat anymore and when the cold east wind blows straight down the gully between your buttocks and you have to get some cheeky young boy to hold you while you do it, I can tell you it is most embarrassing!’
‘Especially for a man of your status, oh Respected Mullah,’ nodded Summerfield.
‘Especially,’ echoed the old man.
‘Am I right,’ probed Summerfield, carefully, ‘that you think the construction might be of use after all?’
The old man shifted in his seat. ‘First, some of your English tea, if you please.’ Summerfield poured, added milk, stirred and handed the bowl across. ‘I thank you,’ said the Mullah and took an alarmingly loud slurp of the scolding liquid. There was no reaction of pain or surprise and Summerfield raised his eyebrows with a tinge of respect—the old badger must have a throat made of iron. ‘Let’s say that I am beginning to be persuaded,’ continued the teacher. ‘Though, how should I say it…’ The Mullah’s voice suddenly took on a delicateness much like honey, insinuatingly rich. It seemed to be pointing Summerfield in the direction of a request. ‘I am still not entirely, one hundred per cent convinced—even if so many others are. However, if…’
Summerfield looked at the old man and found himself mimicking his nod of encouragement.
‘I see,’ said Summerfield, with the feeling that something was about to dawn on him. ‘Perhaps…’
‘Yes?’ nodded the old man, energetically.
‘Perhaps, if you would honour me with a favour?’ said Summerfield.
‘If I can,’ replied the old man, once again aloof.
‘By accepting the honour of being the first to try and test the construction,’ said Summerfield.
The old man let out a sigh of agreement. ‘I would indeed be inclined to accept this honour, Mr Summerfield. When?’ he added, rather quickly. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone to cheat and get there first! It would spoil things.’
‘Absolutely. What about in two days’ time. I must f
irst find a solution for the water supply.’
‘Ah, the water!’ The Mullah looked suddenly defeated and a look of what could only be described as sadness overcame his face. It lasted a full three seconds before being replaced by a fleeting grin. He made to stand up and Summerfield had to help him. ‘A solution will be found, Inchalla,’ said the old Mullah, accepting his stick that Summerfield held out to him. ‘Where there is a will. I bid you good night now, Mr Summerfield. You are indeed a very persuasive man.’
‘As indeed you are too, oh Mullah,’ returned Summerfield with a respectful bow. ‘And also a man of action,’ he called out as the old man hobbled off into the darkness.
A hot breeze filled the valley, blew nonchalantly for a morning then disappeared. A balmy heavy weight of heat settled in, making beads of sweat appear on his brow at every movement.
Summerfield made plans. He would meet the Mullah in the evening, at his convenience, in a day’s time. Together, they would inspect the works and Summerfield would demonstrate how to use the new fangled thrones before leaving the wise old man to satisfy his business. A bucket of water would suffice for the test phase. The following day, sure that the Mullah would have spread the good word, Summerfield would announce the identity of the man that had been the first to successfully test and use the thrones. Hopefully, he could then announce their opening for general use with the Mullah’s blessing. Perhaps some other dignitary would endorse the project too before what was sure to be a rush of children and their parents. And the water? The best bet would be to ensure that everyone brought along their own supply and be responsible for cleaning away the waste. It was the simplest, easiest solution. If the project proved a success, then perhaps he could persuade the elders to build an overhead irrigation channel—a sort of pipeline—from the well up in the village to the site, though it would mean much work and require many resources.
The morning drew on and the heat became stifling. The women in the fields took frequently to the shade, wrapped from head to toe in robes as protection. Summerfield still couldn’t fathom out how they managed to do this. For Europeans, the slightest hint of sun and heat provoked a systematic discarding of clothes. Here, it meant the opposite: the tribes’ people covered themselves up.