by Prue Mason
It’s like a bad joke. And the joke’s on me because my bag is not on the ground where I left it. It’s in the back of a Toyota truck that’s bumping over rocks and swerving around the thorny trees as it speeds out of the valley.
As I watch, it disappears in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MIDDAY, DAY TWO
‘I’m not going to eat Marge. Never!’
I could strangle Walid. He’s managed to hack the legs off poor Marge. But even though he’s collected a heap of firewood ready to roast them over, he’s stuck now because he’s got no matches to light the fire.
I almost feel sorry for him. The way he looks disappointed. I think he meant well, even though what he did was so heartless. I just don’t know how he could kill a living, breathing, trusting animal like that.
‘Let’s get rid of the carcass anyway,’ I say. ‘It stinks and the flies … It’s revolting.’
We both drag what’s left of Marge around the back of the bushes. At least I don’t have to look at her now.
While Walid’s sitting by his heap of firewood, playing with the knife I was so stupid as to give to him, I’m thinking about that Toyota truck. People wouldn’t be driving through the mountains for no reason. They must have been Bedu. My dad says that Bedu are usually friendly, but you have to be careful not to get on the wrong side of them or say the wrong thing because they can be pretty fierce. He says they live by the rules of the desert, which are pretty much ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’.
I guess they must have been out looking for something, or somebody. Then, like I’m waking up, I realise.
They must have been looking for me. It’s been over twenty-four hours now, and my mum would have arrived in Melbourne last night, our time. She and Dad would know by now that I didn’t get to Suman and they would have sent somebody to come and look for me.
Now I really hope I am rescued. Except for Marge’s raw legs, we’ve got nothing to eat. All my clever plans are totally blown. Even if I get a major telling off with the certainty of being grounded for years, at least I’ll be alive.
And I wouldn’t be surprised if the Americans have arrived in Abudai by now and everything’s back to normal. Maybe my dad is even at home with Tara right now. Yeah, I bet that’s what’s happened.
If only there was some way of sending a message telling those Bedu where we are. I try to think how they might have done it in the old days when nobody had phones. Then it hits me. Smoke signals. Of course. But we need to light a fire for that, too. I look at Walid’s heap of wood. I’m as stuck as he is.
‘If only I could find one small piece of glass. With this, the sun could make a spark in this dried wood.’
‘What we need is a bit of glass,’ I say to Walid as he’s sitting there flicking out all the little tools on the Swiss Army knife. It’s then I see it. We both see it at the same time. The magnifying glass.
We turn and slam our hands together in a hi-five.
To get the fire going we get some dried grass, bunch it together and break up the wood into smaller bits of kindling. Walid carefully holds the glass over the tiny pile. He moves it around until a beam of sunlight falls on it. Underneath the glass it gets really hot and it doesn’t take long before there’s a small wisp of smoke. Walid looks at me and grins. I can’t help it. I grin, too. In no time, the fire’s crackling and the smoke is heading upwards in a lovely spiral.
Marge’s legs begin to sizzle. I wish that meat didn’t smell so good. My stomach’s grumbling and it’s starting to feel like it’s pressing against my spine. What am I going to eat? I’m going to be too weak to walk anywhere if I don’t eat something soon. If only I’d gone back for the backpack last night, then at least I’d have the dog food.
I throw some more dried wood on the fire to get more smoke going. I’ll save us both with these smoke signals. I hope those Bedu aren’t too far away. Walid’s turning Marge’s legs over the coals so they don’t get too burnt. They’re browning nicely.
I’d kill for a plate of chops and peas and mashed potatoes. My mouth begins to water. Chops come from sheep. A sheep would have had to be killed. Marge is dead. I can’t bring her back …
As I chew on the tough, stringy, half-charred, half-raw meat and suck on the bones, I think about the rest of the journey. Without the dog food, sometime during the next few days maybe I might have had to kill Marge anyway so we could eat. Could I have done it? I’m almost glad Walid has saved me making that decision.
I chuck the bones on the fire and heap more wood on to keep the smoke going. Please, please let someone see it. Then we hear the sound of a truck.
In the distance I can see a swirl of dust in front of a white Toyota. At last, my prayers seem to be answered. It’s heading in our direction. Not that I had a chance to have a good look this morning, but it looks like the same one I saw heading out with my backpack.
‘Allah! It is Breath of Dog and Old Goat! We must be running away. For they are bad men and surely they have returned to kill me.’
I hear Walid yell something about a dog again as I jump up and wave my arms in the air and start screaming and running down the valley towards the truck.
It’s speeding along, bumping over the rocks heading straight for us. Good old Bedu. They’re real country people who notice things like smoke. Not like city people. Barby always says city people are too busy rushing to see important things. Things that could save a person’s life. And it’s true.
‘We’re saved! We’re saved!’ I yell, as I’m dancing around like a lunatic. I feel so fantastically happy, I turn to give Walid the biggest hi-five of all time.
But Walid’s not there. I look around. He’s vanished like he’s melted into the rocks.
‘Walid, you moron! Where are you? We’re saved, Walid!’ I yell out, as the truck stops and two men jump out. But they don’t look like Bedu. One is tall as a giant and the other is small. The big one has a black beard and a moustache like a black bush sprouting from his face. He’s wearing baggy pants and a knee-length shirt like the tribal men from the mountains of Pakistan wear. Tied around his head is a red checked tablecloth. I know it’s not really a tablecloth, but my mum’s bought one from the souk – the market – and she uses it on the barbecue table outside.
The short man is old and skinny and stooped over. He’s got an orange beard. It’s too orange. It’s been dyed with henna. And he’s got the biggest nose I’ve ever seen. He’s carrying a long thin stick.
These two definitely don’t seem to be the friendly, rescuing types, but then, like my dad says, you can’t judge a book by its cover.
But maybe this time you can.
‘Where Walid?’ Baggy Pants growls at me, as Old Orange Beard limps over and grabs me by the arm. I try to twist away, but he whacks me around the legs sharply with his stick. I yelp. That hurt.
‘Where Walid?’ Baggy Pants leans down and flecks of spit hit my face. His face is so close to mine, I can see the almost perfect drops of sweat pricking on his wide brown nose.
I suddenly feel something cold clamp around my heart.
These must be the men who tied Walid up and left him for dead.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AFTERNOON, DAY TWO
‘Walhumdillah!’
We all twist around when we hear a blood-curdling scream. Leaping down off the rocks is Walid. He’s got the knife in one hand. The blade is out and it winks in the sunlight as he holds it in front of him like a dagger.
‘Am I pleased to see you!’ I yell at him, and he flashes me a monkey grin and yells something.
‘Foolish one! Why did you not run fast away when I am yelling firstly? You are going to get us killed.’
‘Go, Walid!’
Old Orange Beard lets go of my arm and shrieks something at Baggy Pants.
Baggy Pants growls and lunges at Walid. I see my chance and put my foot out. Baggy Pants trips and sprawls along the ground, landing heavily with a thud that raises dust.
&
nbsp; ‘Ithnayn walidun Battaa!’
Old Orange Beard screeches something about two boys. I guess he’s not happy with either of us.
Baggy Pants lumbers to his feet again, shouting.
‘Yusalla! When I am getting my gun, I will be shooting! Allah walidun yamoot!’ I hear Breath of Dog yelling, cursing.
‘May you rot in Hell forever,’ I say to him, as I run.
Walid ducks under Old Orange Beard’s long camel stick and slashes and jabs at the tyres of the Toyota. There’s a hiss of leaking air.
Old Orange Beard hobbles after Walid screeching at him and trying to beat him with the stick.
But Walid’s too quick, twisting and turning this way and that, like he’s done this before.
‘Come on, Walid!’ I scream. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’
Walid ignores me and jumps up into the back of the truck where my backpack is.
He grabs the bag as Baggy Pants lunges at him, and chucks the bag at me over his head.
Walid makes a slashing movement and a fine, red line appears down Baggy Pants’s arm.
‘Aiee!’
The big man curses loudly, grabs hold of his wounded arm and dances in a circle.
‘Come on, Walid! Let’s get out of here.’ Then I realise, as I look around, we’re trapped. We can’t go down the valley because it’s so narrow at this point and the truck is parked across our only way out. Baggy Pants is at one end of the truck and Orange Beard is at the other.
If Walid had run straight away when I yelled the first time, we might have escaped. It’s too late now. But I have to admit it was smart of him to go for the backpack. We’ll have my mobile now and some food.
‘Come on!’ I’m really screaming now and, finally, Walid follows me. The only way to go is up the rocks. We scramble up like goats. But it’s then we realise we can only get about halfway. The rest is a straight-up cliff. We’d have to be Spiderman to get up any further.
I’m sort of surprised neither of the men come after us. Sure, Old Orange Beard wouldn’t be able to make it, and Baggy Pants has a cut arm, but the wound didn’t look that serious.
We’re both panting like crazy.
‘We must hide, for soon Breath of Dog will bring his gun.’
Walid tugs at my arm and I squat down beside him behind a big rock. My head is thumping, and sweat’s pouring into my eyes. We’re stuck up here on a ledge, behind a rock. It’ll be hours until sunset. At least there’s some shade, and I’ve still got my water bottle.
‘That was so cool,’ I say, as we catch our breath. Just then, there’s a cracking sound and a high whistle. A rock nearby splits.
‘Holy Hell! They’re shooting at us. This is not cool!’ I’m tempted to peer out from behind the rock, but I know that would be crazy with that madman down there with a gun.
I must be mad myself. I’m in the most dangerous situation I’ve ever been in, in my whole life, but I feel sort of good. It’s got to be all the adrenalin pumping. Why else do I always want to laugh when things are at their most dangerous and frightening?
‘We’re sitting ducks up here,’ I say to Walid and grin. He looks worried.
I am thinking I am a big fool. Much more foolish than Ad-am, for now Breath of Dog will kill us for sure. But I was feeling so angry, and I had this good knife, and when I think about the faces of Breath of Dog and Old Goat, when they are seeing the tyres go down, I too am laughing with Ad-am.
Walid still looks ridiculous with my jocks on his head, but I have to say he’s got a lot of guts. I wouldn’t have taken those two guys on with only a pocket knife. Especially knowing they had a gun.
But there are a lot of questions tumbling around my head. I mean, why are they shooting at us? Why do they hate Walid so much? Who are they? Did they really tie him up and leave him to die? He’s just a kid. He can’t have done anything that wrong. And how did a kid get involved with evil-looking sorts like them in the first place? Was it after his father died? Is one of these men his uncle? I wish I could talk to Walid properly and find out a few answers. From somewhere in the back of my head, I remember the word for ‘uncle’.
‘Aam?’ I ask. Not that it means much because kids here call anyone older than them ‘uncle’ or ‘auntie’. They don’t have to be related.
‘La! La! – No! No!’ If only Ad-am could understand that this is not a funny business. Soon, we may both be dead.
Just then, I hear a familiar tune from below. It’s going ‘dom diddle domdom domdom’. It sounds like the tune on my mobile, but it can’t be. I’ve got my bag, and the battery on my mobile is dead. Fancy those guys having the same tune on their phone.
‘I bet they’ve called for backup,’ I say to Walid. With a gun and a mobile no wonder they didn’t bother chasing us up the slope. ‘They must think they can get us any time they like. We can’t move without them taking pot shots at us, and now there’ll be more of them to surround us.’
I peer out from behind the rock, carefully, to see what’s going on. I can see Old Orange Beard talking on the phone. He’s waving one arm around like whoever it is can see him.
There’s another crack, and I hear the ping of a bullet ricocheting off another rock a little distance away. Baggy Pants is not a very good shot or maybe his rifle is old. But I keep my nose in behind the rock all the same.
‘Mafi Inglizi. Mafi Inglizi.’
We can hear Old Orange Beard yelling. Somebody’s got the wrong number, I guess.
Then, over his yelling, I hear the sound of another car.
‘This is it. It must be their friends arriving.’ As I peer out, I see an old dusty Datsun Sunny with tinted windows and big wheels driving at full speed up the valley towards us. It’s burbling and roaring like it’s got no exhaust. Probably got ripped off ages ago. It’s amazing what the locals drive around here, in places where you’d think you could only use a four-wheel drive.
The car pulls up behind the old Toyota truck, which has settled down onto its deflated tyres like a hen on a nest. The Sunny’s engine is still chugging, all four doors open. There’s a blast from the car radio. It sounds like magpies screeching at screaming cats. Well, that’s what most Arabic music sounds like to me.
Six guys who look about eighteen years old spring out. All of them are wearing small, round, embroidered caps, so I figure they must be from one of the little villages in the mountains. Maybe they haven’t heard about the invasion in Abudai yet. Maybe they won’t for another hundred years, either. They’re pretty isolated. If we get caught now we could just disappear into these mountains and nobody would ever know what happened to us.
We watch. Baggy Pants and Orange Beard shake hands with the men, and they all talk at once. I can hear them jabbering in Arabic and see them nodding as Orange Beard points to the tyres and then up to the rocks where we’re hiding.
‘This is going to be one big fight. It is best if you take this knife. I will use a sharp rock. We can kill maybe some men before they kill us.’
Walid holds out my knife as he picks up a rock in the other hand and grimaces fiercely. He says something about the men, but I don’t know what. He can’t really think we can take on this lot, can he? That’s just plain crazy.
‘We can’t go up and we can’t get down without being caught. Against eight guys there isn’t much chance of getting away.’
Just then, I notice one of the men glance at the sun, which is now about half way to the horizon. All of them, including Baggy Pants and Orange Beard go and wash their hands and face in the pool of water, which is already starting to dry up in the heat.
For a minute, I wonder what they’re up to, but when they pull some mats out of the car, I realise it’s prayer time. I remember Mrs Haifa, our Arabic teacher at school, said that the five prayers a day started because people didn’t have clocks in the old days. The call to prayer told them what time it was and what everyone had to do.
There’s Fajr, just before sunrise, telling everyone to wake up, then Zohr at midday telling p
eople to finish their morning work. Then there’s Asr saying get back to work until Mahgreb at sunset. The last prayer of the day is Ishr. After that everyone’s meant to go to bed.
Mum said Christians used to have the same thing in medieval times. They used bells, though, to tell everyone to pray. But when I told Jason that he laughed. He said his dad reckons that kind of thing belongs back in the Dark Ages. His dad says they need to catch up with the rest of the world. ‘For Christ’s sake, it’s the twenty-first century,’ he said.
I’m very thankful for the tradition now though, especially since I’m pretty confident about that business about not stopping prayers once you’ve started. Not for anything. Not even if someone’s getting away …
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MIDAFTERNOON, DAY TWO
‘Come on, Walid,’ I whisper urgently. ‘This is our big chance. We’ll take the car. It’s still running.’ I point to us and the car and to the men kneeling on the ground. I think he understands, but he hesitates.
‘But, I must pray – I do not want to steal this car instead. Allah will punish us greatly. But if I do not go with Ad-am, the men will certainly kill me. What to do?’
God. I forgot that he probably has to get down and pray too. Isn’t there some flexi-time built into exactly when a Muslim has to start their prayers? When the call to prayer comes from the Mosque it takes most people, at least, a few minutes to stroll down there and then they have to wash themselves.
‘You can pray in the car. Look, I’ll even let you use the rest of this water to wash yourself so you’re pure.’ But I’ve seen how fanatical he is about his prayers, and I can’t take the risk of letting him start so I grab him around the waist and we half slide down the steep slope, then I half carry him down off the rocks. He doesn’t struggle, I guess he wants to get away as well. He even runs with me to the car.
The engine is still running and the Arabic music is blaring as we jump in. I pull the door shut and through the tinted side window I can see them all praying. I bet they’re trying to finish their prayers as quickly as they can.