* * *
The story had tumbled out of Neville like water out of a bucket and ‘Soon had bathed in it in wide-eyed silence. If the Quiet Man had noticed any of it, however, he’d kept the fact hidden behind his arm. At least until the mention of ‘Soon and Anosh and her having been at his war. When he told that part, the Quiet Man raised his arm. His eyes flickered about the room, like moths looking for a light; until eventually, they fell on ‘Soon. And then they steadied. Until, without taking his eyes from her, he croaked, “Esme shoma chist?” And ‘Soon, wide-eyed, took a step back.
“Afsoon,” she whispered. “Afsoon Rahimi.”
“Afsoon! Koja zendegi mikonid, Afsoon?”
“Aya,” she said, pointing a trembling finger toward Rahimi Island.
“Aya englisi parsi sohbat mikonid?”
“Yes. I speak English. My family . . . we are Australians now.”
“Oh.” He looked about the room blankly, his eyes pausing not at all on Neville the Less. Then, “You’re here now?”
“Yes. We came on a boat.”
“On a boat?”
He pressed his hands to his face, fingertips digging in across his forehead, and Neville turned his eyes to Afsoon. She shook her head lightly, knowing the questions, but hardly a single one of the answers.
“It’s Dari!” she whispered. “The language of Riff and Raff; from Afghanistan!”
Neville was once again flummoxed. He’d hoped, of course, that the Ragged Man’s story would provoke the Quiet Man to speech - to make him maybe pop up and say, ‘No! You can’t put yourself in danger for me!’ But for him to speak this way made no sense! If he knew that they understood the Thing-problem and the danger of confronting them. . . and were willing to help anyhow . . . what did it mean that he started talking this other language? Was it part of what happened when a person’s mind was lost? Did they forget even things like what language to speak; what things they needed; maybe even who they were?
Inspirationally, Neville thought of the photo, taken back when Neville the More was just newly The Hero. It showed him in his soldier’s uniform, being presented with his medal, and the actual medal was also captured there, inset into a panel on the photo’s edge. Neville lifted it from the shelf and, touching the Quiet Man’s arm said, “This is who you are.”
It was, of course, an assurance as much for himself as for The Quiet Man and it seemed for a moment to be working. The Quiet Man’s arm still hung in the air but he squinted, like a person really trying to remember. He studied the photo, looked a question at Neville and then, without warning became, in a startling second, the creature from Neville’s nightmare - the scorpion with the face of a man - teeth bared, eyes cruel and purposeful, the hand hanging like a barb above his head.
“Gom Shoo!” he rasped at ‘Soon. “Pedar sag! Madar jende! Gom shoo!”
‘Soon gasped and stumbled back. Her mouth juddered open and closed, and tears filled her eyes. She backed all the way to the door, her little fists clenched before her.
“Shoma ra cheh mishavad?” she cried. “What’s wrong with you?”
And without waiting for an answer, she fled.
It was all Neville could do not to chase after her.
“What . . . ? What did you say?”
The face was blank again, the arm descending once more to cover the eyes. “I told her to go home. And you . . . leave me alone.”
When Mum came home, having excused herself from Mrs Hughes’s prayers and none to subtle accusations of child abuse, she found the photo of her Hero on the floor in the hall, torn behind smashed glass. And though she looked and looked, her hero’s medal was nowhere to be found.
Resolve
There was, after that encounter, only one real need in Neville’s mind. And that was to find and soothe Afsoon. For all their sakes. Because first of all, if Neville felt sorry for anyone tackling Ava, the Terrier-of-Death, he felt equally fearful for anyone provoking the mind-scouring retribution of the pre-Amazonian witch that was Afsoon Rahimi. Which the Quiet Man . . . all unknowing . . . had almost certainly done.
But secondly, and even more importantly, what would happen if Riff found her weeping and she told of some terrible curse The Quiet Man had directed at her? He might come raging in defence of his daughter, bringing his own nightmare of killing experience to mix with that of the Quiet Man! And then what? Perhaps the war would be on again! And if it started here in Home Country, where could anyone go to escape it?
Neville the Less Page 21