In Sheep's Clothing

by Emily Kimelman

  Inside the cave was pure, thick darkness until Dylan turned on a pen light. "Help me move this boulder." Dylan shined the light onto a large rock near the entrance. They rolled the giant stone just enough to obscure the entrance but still leaving room for air to pass through.

  "How do you know about this place?" Mulberry leaned against the rock, catching his breath, and Dylan propped the pen light into a crack in the wall, illuminating the small space.

  A few cans of food and some water sat in the corner. "We keep places like this all over the mountains." He brought his gun around and went to the narrow entrance, looking through his scope down the path.

  "Smart." Mulberry reached over and picked up one of the water bottles. "We do a similar thing with safe houses." Joyful Justice kept real estate around the world, places where agents could find security. Allowing for topography this wasn't so different.

  "They will give up soon. Then we can move out."

  "We'll be walking though."

  "Yes, they destroyed my truck." Dylan shook his head, keeping his eye pressed to the scope. "I really liked that beast."

  Hours later they left the cave. The waning half moon had risen over the mountains, and Mulberry could make out the narrow path more clearly. Dylan led the way in silence. They each carried a water bottle.

  Both bottles were empty when the sun began to rise. "It's about to get hot." Dylan warned, pulling his brimmed hat low over his eyes. "We may reach camp before you get heat stroke." He looked Mulberry up and down, a small smile on his lips.

  "You've got kind of a sick sense of humor."

  "Ha!" Dylan laughed, the sound ricocheting off the towering rocks around them. "I hear that a lot."

  It was only another twenty minutes before they crested a hill that looked down onto a small valley within the mountain range. They stopped to catch their breath. Mulberry scanned the area below and realized he was looking at camouflaged structures between the giant boulders.

  "Is this it?" he asked.

  Dylan grinned. "Yup."

  "I guess I survived."

  He pointed at the steep descent. "We're not there yet."

  "You're an asshole."

  "At least I’m not afraid of heights."

  Mulberry did survive the rest of the journey, and they arrived at a small, camouflaged building built into the rocks as the day began to really heat up.

  A woman wearing a makeshift uniform and rugged boots nodded to them. "You must be Mulberry."

  Dylan bowed to the women. "Eh, Mujurda, nice to see you, sweetheart." She didn't crack a smile, keeping her eyes steely as she examined the men.

  "The pleasure is all yours."

  Dylan laughed. "Oh, I do love you. Can we get some water? We ran out…after my truck got exploded." He smiled, and then quickly frowned, putting on a sad puppy expression. "You know how I loved that truck."

  Mujurda’s lips didn't even twitch. Mulberry was impressed. She really couldn't be charmed. "Nice to meet you." He held out his hand.

  She shook it, her grip strong and firm. "You're welcome here." Mujurda stepped aside and waved toward the entrance of the structure. "Zerzan is expecting you."

  Mulberry pushed open the rough wooden door and entered. Rock walls glowed golden from the light filtering in through the wood boards that formed the ceiling. A woman sitting at a small desk, her dark head bent over a book, looked up when he came in.

  Dark, elegant brows arched above deep brown eyes, lit with intelligence and a spark of ruthlessness; this woman was a killer.

  She stood and gestured for him to come in. "You're Mulberry. We've been expecting you." Her English was accented, lyrical.

  "We had some trouble on the road."

  She nodded. That was nothing unusual around here.

  "I'm glad you made it."

  "Thank you." He stepped into the room, and she came around the desk to shake his hand. There was a bandage on her forearm. "What happened?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Trouble on the road."

  "Right."

  On her throat, three deep slashes, hardened into scarred ridges, caught the sunlight coming through the door. This was where she got her nickname: the Tigress. No wonder she was such a mythical figure in this war.

  "Do you have any news?" he asked.

  The Tigress shook her head, frowning. "It is very strange. I have heard nothing of Sydney Rye. There is no talk of a dead body—not that that would be so unusual, but a Western woman? We would hear something, I believe."

  "What do you think happened?"

  Zerzan went back to her desk and, reaching into one of the drawers, pulled out a bottle of water. She handed it to Mulberry. He'd forgotten his thirst but upon seeing the bottle felt it acutely. He unscrewed the lid and took a deep sip. "I am concerned." Zerzan said. "There are rumors of a new prophet who is performing miracles."

  "A prophet?" A chill tingled over Mulberry’s body, despite the intense heat of the day.

  "Yes, a new prophet, a weapon of God. Come to free women from oppression."

  "That sounds dangerous."

  "Yes," Zerzan nodded and then caught his gaze. "Very dangerous for men."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nadia

  Nadia first became suicidal in the slave market.

  It never closed.

  Men came day and night—though with the windows shuttered, the girls lost track of which was which. They stood in a line, their palms out and chins up, so that the buyers could inspect them. The pose, eerily like the one they'd performed with their families to pray each day while facing the sun, humiliated them; the girls became livestock, no more human than a goat.

  Nadia didn't bathe; she wanted to be disgusting, to be unattractive to these men who considered themselves so pious that God had given them dominion over her.

  Two weeks after her arrival, a tall, thin Saudi with filthy, tangled hair, entered the room, and a hush fell over the other soldiers. He must be a commander of some kind.

  Two soldiers trailed behind him, smirking, as he traveled down the line of girls—pride oozing off them. When the commander’s gaze fell on Nadia he smiled, exposing yellow, crooked teeth.

  Nadia kept her eyes down, but his gaze raked over her like a hot coal rolling across her skin. His hand reached out and brushed gently down her cheek, and everything else disappeared except that sensation, that violation. His touch was as intimate as sex, as aggressive as a punch.

  "She's a virgin?"

  "Yes, unmarried."

  A small snort escaped him. "That doesn't mean she hasn't…" He left the sentence unfinished, and Nadia's cheeks burned. A woman's honor was all she had. If Nadia had sex outside of marriage, she would not only dishonor herself but her entire family. Her worth lay intact between her legs. If she lost it, she was nothing. No Yazidi man would want her. Better off dead.

  And this man planned to buy her honor, as if a monetary value could be assigned to it.

  "You see the way she blushes," her guard said. "Clearly she is not experienced with the ways of men."

  The Saudi lifted Nadia's chin. "Look at me, girl." She raised her eyes to his, her body trembling, Nadia tightened her jaw trying to still it. His eyes were black, the pupils and iris almost the same exact pitch. "You saving yourself for marriage?"

  Nadia didn't answer.

  "I don't think she speaks Arabic," her guard informed him. The Saudi nodded, letting go of Nadia and stepping back. He retired to the back room where negotiations took place. Nadia's entire body shook. She'd spent so many hours dreaming of getting out of there, but never in the clutches of a customer.

  Nadia had imagined breaking through the doors, the other women following her, flooding onto the streets, running so fast that no one could catch them. She'd never really believed it, but had refused to let her mind focus on being sold. None of the girls talked about it.

  It was too horrible.

  The Saudi came back smiling and took Nadia roughly by the arm. She bit her cheek, refusing to cry
. Refusing to show any emotion. He led her outside, and the sun touched her face for the first time in two weeks. Every morning and every evening of her life she had prayed to the sun.

  Let me die before he ruins me.

  She stopped walking, closed her eyes and tilted her face up to God. Nadia's new owner backhanded her. She stumbled from the impact and stars of light burst across her vision. In her stunned state, he threw her over his shoulder, carrying her the final steps to his car. The Saudi tossed her into the passenger seat and handcuffed her to a metal ring on the dash, then went around and got into the driver seat.

  The two soldiers he traveled with climbed into the back, laughing, making some joke about Nadia that she couldn't follow, the Commander's blow having left her dizzy and disoriented.

  As he pulled out into traffic, the Saudi's hand left the gearshift to land on her thigh. He pushed up her skirt roughly, grabbing at her flesh. Nadia twisted away, trying not to be touched, her body revolting. She banged her head against the glass window.

  The Saudi and his men laughed.

  "That's good," He dug his fingers into the tender flesh of her inner thigh. "I like it when you struggle. Fight me."

  "She's a devil worshiper." One of the men in the back said. "You can see the devil in her."

  "Yes," her new owner said. "I'll fuck him right out of her." They all laughed at that, and Nadia slammed her head harder against the glass. The skin on her forehead broke, and blood trickled into her eyes.

  They parked in front of an apartment building, and the Saudi threw Nadia over his shoulder again, slapping her on the ass. Fear made her wild, blanked her brain of any thoughts but escape, escape, escape. She struggled, wriggling against him, but his grip only tightened—he was so much stronger than Nadia.

  He took her up to an apartment and carried her through to a bedroom, dropping her onto a mattress on the floor. She scrambled away, her wrists still cuffed, as her owner began to lay out a prayer rug.

  She huddled in a corner, searching the room desperately for some kind of weapon but there was just the mattress and a bare dirty floor, littered with rodent droppings. Light came in through a barred window, dust motes dancing in the sun's beams. From the ceiling hung a naked bulb.

  The two soldiers, who'd followed them into the house, guarded the door.

  The Saudi began to pray, bowing toward Mecca and repeating scriptures from the Quran.

  He viewed her rape as an act of God.

  He was the one worshiping the devil.

  Nadia stood up and raised her fists, lurching forward to strike him. He knocked her back easily. The two men at the door laughed. Her owner returned to his prayers. Nadia's body hummed with fear and adrenaline. She had to escape.

  She leapt at the bare bulb, hoping to break it, to stick her finger in the socket and electrocute herself. To die.

  But Nadia wasn't tall enough, big enough, strong enough.

  The Saudi turned to her as he rolled up his mat. "You are mine." His voice was low and calm—the voice of a true believer.

  Looking over his shoulder at the soldiers in the doorway, he gestured with his chin for them to wait outside. "Continue to serve Allah, and you too will have a slave." They smiled as they left.

  The Saudi turned to Nadia. She held her hands up, covering her face, tears escaping finally, hot as liquid fire. Shame thrummed through her as he dragged her to the mattress. She thrashed and fought, pounding on him with her bound hands, crying out, begging for him to stop. "Please!" she screamed. "I am a person. Like your mother." He reared up and slapped her, anger glittering in his eyes.

  "You are a Yazidi whore," he pronounced.

  "Your mother, your grandmother, your sister!" Nadia screamed in Arabic.

  "You're a lying whore! You speak Arabic? You little…" He pulled up her skirts, his strong fingers grabbing at her panties. Nadia tried to roll away, but he pressed down with his other forearm against her chest as he ripped them off.

  He was so much stronger than her.

  There was nothing she could do.

  He took her honor. He shamed her family. He ruined Nadia.

  Nadia's world became that apartment. She cleaned it, scrubbing the floors while her owner watched. The sight of her on all fours excited him to the point where he took her there, Nadia's face pressed into the suds, tears joining the puddle on the floor—she'd knocked over the bucket trying to escape him.

  He offered to make her his wife—she just had to convert to Islam. They were lying on the kitchen floor, his heavy thigh across her waist, Nadia's wrists still gripped in one of his meaty hands.

  "No."

  He beat her for that.

  The Saudi kept Nadia for himself, at least. A small gratitude she held tight as she laid on the mattress, locked in her room, searching for a reason to live.

  There were none. But there was also no way to die.

  She found a knife, small and hardly sharp, and she tried to cut him with it. He loved it. Taking it away easily, he held the knife to her throat as he took her, saying over and over again: "You belong to me." The words made his eyes roll into the back of his head; Nadia's helplessness fueled his hunger for her.

  How could she change that? How could she be the powerful one?

  It was impossible.

  "Become a Muslim. Be my wife." He whispered against her neck, his weight pinning her to the ground, the knife still in his hand, pressed against the flesh near her eye.

  When she didn't answer he sat up, anger crossing his face. "You think you're too good for me. Too good for Islam?"

  He shook his head, and pressed the blade closer to her eye. Nadia stared at the glinting metal, waiting for whatever he would do. Praying he'd kill her. He sliced it down her face, hard enough to draw blood. She winced away, but didn't struggle.

  When she fought him, he just liked it more.

  Her owner grunted and stood, dragging Nadia by her hair back to the bedroom and throwing her in. He locked the door and she lay on the mattress, naked, bleeding, his seed drying on her.

  The following evening he unlocked the door and threw a black burka and long dress in. The same as she'd seen the women on the streets wearing. "Get dressed."

  She pulled the dress over her bruised and sore body—it covered every inch of her skin. The burka covered her eyes with a mesh that made it seem as if she were in a hidden place. Nadia flashed back to playing hide and seek with her brothers, peering through the curtains she'd jumped behind.

  Would she ever see them again? Were they even alive?

  The Saudi brought her down the steps and out to the street. Nadia looked up at the night sky, a cloud cover reflected the city lights; gray and yellow. Like the bruises he left on her.

  Nadia's owner put her in the trunk of a car, slamming and locking it. They drove for hours. Nadia flitted in and out of consciousness—the burka and close quarters making it hard to breathe.

  When he pulled her out, they were in the central square of an army camp, surrounded by barracks. He dragged Nadia over to a container where guards waited.

  They opened the doors, and he threw Nadia into a cramped room. "I'll be back for you later." She fell onto the ground, her burka twisted, blocking her vision. The door slammed, and she sensed movement around her. Nadia scrambled to sit up, pulling the burka around so she could see, holding up her hands to protect herself from the encroaching figures.

  They were women.

  "Are you okay?" one of them asked her in Kurdish.

  Nadia's eyes pricked with tears upon hearing her native tongue.

  Gentle fingers helped remove her burka. Farridah! They had not seen each other for months, not since the Saudi bought Nadia. She burst into tears seeing her young friend. Farridah pulled her into a tight embrace, and they rocked back and forth, sobbing. Farridah pulled back, and Nadia saw that she had bruises on her throat and a split lip.

  Nadia reached out to touch the blood-crusted wound but pulled her hand back quickly. They must not speak of what they
'd been through.

  "Nadia," Farridah swallowed, her voice thick.

  She nodded. Yes, it was wonderful to be together. But horrible that they were here. "Where are we?"

  "This is an oil field, we are in the barracks for the slaves."

  Women sat on mattresses under windows with drawn curtains. At least they were not boarded up so she'd get to see the sun. Nadia recognized the other girls. Jihane, tall and thin, was two years ahead of her in school. Another, Berfin, spent summers in their village visiting her grandparents. The other two, Souhayla and Shayma, were twin sisters that Nadia knew from the yearly pilgrimage to Lalish for the Feast of the Assembly.

  For centuries, the Yazidi found safety and solace in Lalish, the site where Tawsi Melek, The Peacock Angel, first arrived on earth. God sent him to end the earthquakes and volcanoes, to make the planet more beautiful with his rainbow feathers.

  Nadia's mind filtered back to those carefree pilgrimages, when all the local Yazidi gathered to celebrate their history. How could they have fallen so far? Why did God do this to them?

  After a restless night, morning sunlight woke Nadia. The weak rays warmed her, giving her a small sense of solace. At least here she could pray.

  Nadia joined the other prisoners, holding their hands out, palms up, as they faced the sun, in the way that they had prayed every morning and evening of their lives. The pose, so like the one she'd been forced to take at the slave market, brought nauseating memories back to her. How many men had she stood for like this, allowing their eyes to trace over her body?

  Nadia forced her mind to return to the moment, to her prayers, pushing away the darkness and dread. The sun caressed her face, and the women's whispered prayers filled the air. She began to say Amen, but the women spoke one more line, something Nadia had never heard before. "The prophet has come. Our value is our own to decide."

  Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen

  "What was that?" she asked Farridah.

  The young girl took her hand, settling them onto one of the mattresses so that they faced each other, their knees touching. "The prophet has come."