The Pestilence

by Faisal Ansari

  “Relax Bill, Hazel’s just kidding,” said Samuel. “I will just make a scratch and see what happens. Mama, pass me a clean knife.” Dalia passed him a knife and Samuel made a small cut on Bill’s index finger. It drew a thin line of blood which trickled across the nick. Bill winced. They all watched, they all waited. Dalia meanwhile began toasting the almonds for the maqluba.

  “Looks like nothing’s happening,” said Bill. “My finger stings a bit though. Maybe that little girl was a special case as you thought.”

  Mariam took Bill’s hand and wiped off the drying blood. The cut was gone. The skin looked perfectly normal.

  “Immunity,” said Mariam.

  “Immunity from what?” asked Bill.

  “Probably everything. Dina, the little girl, and now you have just shown that the Healed have ongoing immunity to injury. Samuel has been healing for three days now. Anything he has encountered, every sickness, injury and disease he has cured. I don’t have a strand of smallpox handy that I can inject into you Bill, but I think it’s logical to assume that the injury immunity we have just witnessed also extends to sickness and disease.”

  There were a few moments of silence as the weight of the words sank in.

  “Bottom line,” said Samuel, “you are never going to get sick and should recover almost instantly from injury.”

  “Yikes. Thanks for stabbing me Hazel. Samuel just made me superhuman. Woohoo.” Hazel threw a little bow Bill’s way.

  “But this changes everything for Samuel.” Mariam shook her head. “Our improbable task has just become an impossible one.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Bill.

  Mariam shrugged. “Simple numbers. Hazel, help me out here. On your phone look up and tell me how many people die from chronic illnesses each year.”

  Hazel produced her laptop from her bag. “Let me use this, it’s quicker. Okay, the CIA World Fact Book says that global mortality rate is 7.89 per 1,000 which is the equivalent of 55.3 million people dying per year. Wow that’s a bummer. I haven’t got a number for all diseases but the World Health Organisation does have data on the four main non-communicable diseases; cardiovascular disease, cancer, diabetes and chronic lung disease. These account for 68 per cent of the 55.3 million deaths. Which is, let me work this out… ”

  “Thirty-seven point six million per year,” said Mariam. “And that’s just the life-threatening main diseases. The number is absurdly high. Bill, just do the math. How many people would Samuel need to heal per day, assuming that 37.6 million people are magically in the same place waiting in a nice orderly line?” Bill made a “no idea” face so Mariam answered her own question. “One hundred and three thousand people every day. That is the improbable task.”

  “Which has now become an impossible task,” said Hazel catching Mariam’s train of thought, “assuming that Samuel can immunise the healthy.”

  “I’m sure I can,” said Samuel.

  Hazel continued. “Then Bill’s finger means that the 37.6 million number has just become a seven billion number. Everyone on Earth will want immunity, a life free of injury and sickness. Who wouldn’t want that? My goodness, who wouldn’t pay for that?”

  “Exactly,” said Mariam. “But logistically there is absolutely no way Samuel could heal or immunise everyone. He couldn’t get anywhere close.”

  “Yikes,” said Bill again. “So only a few will be chosen. Perhaps only the righteous, like me.” He grinned. “The people who get healed would end up living much longer, healthier lives than the rest of humanity. Samuel, you could be creating a master race within our species.”

  “Which is a bit of a bummer, unless you’re one of the Healed,” said Hazel glancing at Samuel then at the scab on her palm.

  Dalia inverted her cooking pot and the lamb, vegetables and rice fell onto the serving plate. She garnished the dish with chopped parsley and the toasted almonds. “Food’s ready, come and eat,” she said.

  At that moment Mariam’s phone, Hazel’s phone, Dalia’s phone and Bill’s phone all rang in unison. The same 001 United States number showed on all four caller IDs. Save for the synchronised ringing of four mobiles the apartment was still. Hazel was first to answer and as she did all the other phones fell silent.

  “Hello.”

  The man who replied had an unmistakeable French accent. “Hello, I must be speaking to either Dalia Srour, Dr Mariam Fara or Hazel Sears.”

  “It’s Hazel.”

  “Hazel, would you be kind enough to pass the phone to Samuel Srour.”

  “Can I say who is calling?”

  “Victor Pierre Chaput.” Hazel stared at the phone in her hand for a moment then passed it over to Samuel.

  ***

  BY the evening over a hundred of the Healed had come and read over the Original Task List nailed to the farmhouse door. Some had donated a few hours, others committed to stay until the work was done. The Healed donated more than their labour; people brought food, clothing and camping equipment. Money was pooled and other needed supplies were purchased. The scrubland around the farm was being cleared and a makeshift camp set up. Rami had constructed a rudimental kitchen, the fire of which was the focal point for the evening’s discussion.

  Eight of the eleven tasks on the Original Task List had been completed and the assignments related to the setting up of the camp were naturally added to the list. The current discussion mainly centred on the priorities for the following day.

  Rami poured coffee and enjoyed the debate. So far all decisions had been made collectively and dialogue was open and trusting. Where someone had expertise on a topic, they would naturally lead the discussion and the camp seemed not to have an overall leader. All who spoke were listened to and respected. It was a fluid dynamic. Rami enjoyed it. He hoped that this was the shape of things to come.

  ***

  SAMUEL stood on the balcony of Mariam’s bedroom. To his right the Temple Mount crowned by the glorious Dome of the Rock presided over the sleeping city. Samuel could hear Dalia snoring; somehow she managed to find sleep on the uncomfortable sofa. Mariam was also asleep in the bedroom behind him. She was leaving him tomorrow. It seemed a permanent feature of their relationship, ironic that this time she was the one going to Haran while he remained in Jerusalem. In the bedlam of the airstrike Mariam had left her research material back at her mother’s. Despite the absurdity of the last few days, Mariam’s mind was turning back to her work. That was his Mariam he thought. As he toured hospitals healing the sick she wasn’t prepared simply to become a smiling appendage. Mariam had her own life, her own priorities and for that he loved her deeply.

  His mother was leaving as well. She wanted to visit the small camp of the Healed who were trying to rebuild her farm and elected to join Mariam on their drive to Haran.

  Samuel would be staying on campus. He had visited seven of the twelve hospitals in Jerusalem and tomorrow would be working at the teaching hospital attached to the university. Mariam had made the arrangements with the Dean who in turn asked Samuel to heal his wife’s haemorrhoids. Samuel was only too pleased to oblige.

  Samuel grasped the railing and leaned over the balcony. He could see the TV trucks parked off the main entrance, another request of the Dean to increase security and restrict access to campus.

  He reflected on his brief discussion with Victor, the benevolent billionaire. Samuel felt great kinship with the only other person to have been touched by the lightning. He was relieved for the security Victor had volunteered. Samuel knew, after Bill had published his article on immunity everything was going to change.

  A car alarm sounded somewhere beyond the campus. Samuel moved to close the patio door behind him so the noise wouldn’t disturb his sleeping family. He played the numbers issue over in his mind. He knew that immunity was real and everyone could benefit but what good was this power if he couldn’t use it for the benefit of all. He clenched his fists, looking down at his hands and the remarkable power they now commanded, this ability of his, this gift, this poi
son chalice. He cursed the impossible task he had been given.

  Samuel looked up at the Temple Mount once more. He looked hard, anger rising from within. “Come on,” he whispered. “Show me something.” Samuel grasped the handrails of the balcony and sunk to his knees, the skin on his knuckles turning white. For the first time in his life he closed his eyes and begged for guidance.

  When Samuel opened his eyes, Jerusalem fizzed and glowed around him. The sheer number of people made it impossible to decipher the healthy from the sick but close by, concealed in a thicket below the balcony was a shimmering aura. At this distance the acquisition of memories and intentions was difficult so Samuel called down softly.

  After a few seconds’ hesitation a woman stepped out of the thicket into the light directly beneath the balcony. She had dark straight hair and unmistakeably Japanese features. She stood with her back to the full moon. In her right hand she held an unsheathed samurai knife, a Tanto. The blade was a nineteenth-century copy of a twelfth-century weapon made in reverence to the glory days of the samurai. The Tanto was a masterpiece forged from Japanese tamahagane steel. A master swordsmith used two types of tamahagane, the brittle higher-carbon hard steel and the supple lower-carbon soft steel. The raw steels were heated separately in a blessed forge, hammered, split and folded to increase the strength of the metal. After hundreds of hours of folding and hammering the hard steel was wrapped around the soft. This allowed the finished Tanto to hold a razor sharp cutting edge surrounding a flexible core.

  A full-length Katana blade that would slice only through a wrist or ankle would have a lower certification than a blade capable of cleaving straight through a human midsection. The best blades, the venerated masterpieces of Japanese sword making were the five body blades, swords capable of slicing through five human beings in a single stroke.

  The twelve-inch Tanto contained a small double edge in the Kissaki-Moroha-Zukuri style. While naturally shorter than a traditional Katana and without the deep curve of a full-length sword the Tanto was still a blade of the highest quality. It was principally made for stabbing through samurai armour and in terms of craftsmanship was without doubt the equal to a five-body Katana.

  Beneath the balcony, the woman held the Tanto so the moonlight caught the length of the blade. She pointed the tip at Samuel, an invitation, a challenge. “I am White,” she said.

  She was now close enough for Samuel to peer deep into her aura. He saw a tightly controlled mind racked by conflict and self-doubt but one which still had the courage and sense of duty to challenge him so brazenly. He dared ask himself, could this be a sign? Could this be the challenge that unlocked the answers he was seeking? Samuel knew in the core of his being that he was up to the task. Samuel nodded his acceptance of White’s challenge.

  Samuel carefully made his way past the sleeping women, ghosting silently out of the apartment, down three flights of stairs to the lobby, then out of the main entrance where he circumnavigated the building to stand directly beneath the balcony. White waited patiently for him, the Tanto now sheathed in its black leather scabbard and held loosely in her left hand. White bowed deeply from her hips. Samuel reciprocated.

  “I’m sorry White. I’m not the False Messiah.”

  “Our father said you would speak with a forked tongue.”

  Samuel wore only a thin T-shirt and a pair of shorts. He hoped it was the cool breeze that raised the hairs on his arms and not the immediate proximity of the deadly Tanto.

  “You saw your father die in Tokyo.”

  “My other father.”

  “Ashen?”

  White’s composure was momentarily disrupted. “Only the chosen may refer to him by that name.”

  “Ashen poisoned then burnt the bodies of your family and his entire congregation. You know this. You know he murdered them.”

  White silently stared at Samuel, her aura iridescent but racked by confusion.

  “I’m not going to call you White anymore. You have a proper name, a name you shared with your late mother. May I call you Mariko?”

  White shook her head.

  Samuel ignored her. “Mariko, tell me, why were you amongst the chosen?”

  “Because I’m capable.”

  “I know you are not a killer, you are one of the innocent. This path isn’t for you.”

  White looked at Samuel with black dead eyes.

  “I know Ashen has shared his plans with you. He has, hasn’t he? After the coming of the King he wants to rebuild his church and you, Mariko are to be Eve to his Adam.”

  A barely disguised look of revulsion crossed Mariko’s face.

  “I know that isn’t what you want. You hate the way he looks at you. With your family now gone, who will protect you from him?”

  Samuel had exposed Mariko’s shame, the root of her uncertainty but he wasn’t sure it was the right button to push. He was close to reaching her, he could see in her aura that he was getting through. He desperately wanted to steer her from the twisted path she was on.

  “I think it’s a profound human need to feel that you belong. Whether it’s to a family, a group of friends or a church, the need for belonging is powerful, we all feel it. But this need shouldn’t override your individual sense of what is right and what is wrong because in our hearts we all know the truth. When the group you are part of murders innocents in the name of God you need to have the courage to walk away. I can help do that. I can help you walk away.” Samuel extended his hand to Mariko.

  White ignored it.

  “Let me help you, Mariko. Your scripture says that the False Messiah controls an army, is bedecked in the finest jewels and silks and he deploys advanced weapons in battle against the coming of the King.” Samuel spread his arms wide, no shoes on his feet. “Look at me Mariko; I’m nothing more than a simple farmer.”

  “Your tongue is forked and you have drawn a veil over my eyes.”

  Samuel wondered if White always spoke like that or was it because she was talking to him. He was tempted to stick out his tongue to show her the unforkedness of it. He imagined her in Tokyo ordering sushi: “I command you to bring forth my maki roll this instant.”

  They stood eyeing each other warily. Samuel was sure Mariko had not been sent to engage him. She was a spy, an advanced party for the ferocious killers who were to follow. He was constantly trying to read her intentions but her aura was similar to when he had first looked upon it, hugely conflicted and with each passing moment shifting one way then the other. Samuel saw her strength gather and her aura shimmered with a dark malevolence. He glanced at the sheathed Tanto and for the first time wished he was safely back on the balcony three floors up.

  “Mariko what would your father think of you becoming a killer at the behest of the man who murdered the rest of your family? He was a man loyal to Ashen and was betrayed; is this how he would want you to act?”

  The fierceness of White’s stare wavered momentarily. “My father was descended from a noble samurai family. He lived his life through the Bushido warrior code. Above all he believed in loyalty, devotion and duty to our liege lord. He would be ashamed.” White shook her head. Her intentions suddenly crystallised and blazed through her aura.

  Samuel instantly realised his mistake. He had questioned her loyalty and that sense of loyalty, of duty, had been brainwashed into her since birth. He knew he was dead; killed by his own arrogance. This was no test; this wasn’t ever the answer he was seeking. He had begged for guidance and found only the twisted bitterness of failure.

  “My father would be ashamed that I waivered in my duty or questioned in any way my loyalty to our liege lord.” It was pointless running, she was too close and the Tanto was already silently sliding out of its scabbard. Samuel closed his eyes, thought of his sleeping family three floors up and waited for the end to come.

  Behind him and to his right Samuel heard two firecrackers explode. He opened his eyes to see Mariko lurching towards him, rich, dark arterial blood spraying from a wound in her neck. Samu
el caught her as she fell and the Tanto dropped to the grass at his feet. The first bullet had caught her in the auricle of the ear, causing a myriad of micro fractures as it penetrated her skull. The second bullet passed straight through her neck severing the carotid artery. The damage was catastrophic. Samuel witnessed the light of life leaving Mariko’s eyes as she bled onto the grass. Her aura grew pallid and rapidly diminished. Samuel laid Mariko down as gently as he could. He was trembling from the shock of witnessing her shooting. Her blood leached into his clothes, staining his skin. Mariko, through the dark pools of her eyes, stared defiantly into the half distance. He had failed her. Samuel did the only thing he could think of, he placed his hands on her face and his thumbs covered her eyes.

  “Don’t do it Mr Srour. She was about to slice open your throat. She’s not worth saving.” A tall man in an expensive suit kneeled down beside him, his cologne failed to drown out the stench of Mariko’s blood and bodily fluids pooling around them. Mariko’s aura was fading into the Jerusalem night. She was a damaged woman, but Samuel saw that her heart was not in itself evil. Samuel concentrated. He felt the energy flow through his fingers pulsing into Mariko’s aura, recalling it from oblivion.

  The first bullet had broken into fragments on impact with Mariko’s skull and it was these fragments that were forced out by the healing energy. The second bullet had passed straight through her neck. The tall man watched as the artery, the cartilage, the muscle, the tendons and finally the skin renewed itself and the hole in Mariko’s neck closed before his eyes.

  The vast amounts of lost blood were rapidly being reproduced in Mariko’s bone marrow and she took some time to stir. Samuel picked up the Tanto and tucked it into the back of his shorts. “I’m keeping this. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

  “You’re lucky he saved you.” The tall man had a southern European accent. “You deserved to die.”

  Samuel turned to the tall man and said, “There is a blue BMW parked in the campus car park. The keys are in her pocket. Her purse is in the trunk with her passport. Have your men take her to the airport and put her on the next plane back to Tokyo. There are more people like her, well not like her, much, much, worse. They have a base in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City. You need to find them. They won’t stop until I’m dead and they will kill anyone who gets in their way.”