That night Nick lay awake for a long time, wondering what his father looked like and whether he really had a red neck. Rain pattered against his bedroom window and he wondered if it would flood and carry his mother out to sea forever. He began to cry. Then Gran came in and told him about heaven until he began to yawn and fell asleep.
In the morning a strange man came to the house. They were having breakfast in Gran’s “breakfast nook” when Esmeralda came in and said there was a Mr. Tim Curry at the door. Nick smiled. That was funny, because Curry was his name too. He was Nick Curry. Gran looked at Gramps.
The man came into the breakfast room. Esmeralda looked at Gramps, who dismissed her with a wave of his hand. The man had very broad shoulders, dark curly hair and gray eyes. His face was dark as an Indian’s from the sun and Nick craned his head to see if the man’s neck was really red like Gran said.
“I’ve come for my boy, Marjorie,” the man said in a quiet voice, but he wasn’t looking at Gran. He was looking at Nick. No one had ever looked at him like that and he felt uncomfortable.
“It’s a little late for that now,” Gran said.
“Hello Nick. I’m your father,” the man said with a smile. It was a nice smile and Nick felt his face grow red.
“What Elizabeth ever saw in you …” Gran said.
“It was the war,” the man said simply, as though that explained everything.
“I have to tell you that I’ve already spoken with my attorney. We’re taking steps to secure legal custody,” Gramps said. Gramps stood up.
“He’s my son,” the man said.
“You should have thought of that before. Neglecting Elizabeth so you could go tramping all over the world. If you’d stayed where you belonged, none of this would’ve happened,” Gran said, her face twisted like someone about to cry. Her eyes were hard and bright as diamonds.
“Elizabeth wouldn’t let me see him. You know that,” the man said, wearily shaking his head.
“I want you out of this house now, Tim, or I’m calling the police. If you have anything to say, you can say it in court,” Gramps said, crossing to the phone. But the man was quicker than Gramps. He grabbed the phone and jerked it out of the wall.
“It’ll take more than courts or the police, Wallace. It’d take a fucking army to keep me from my boy,” the man growled.
Nick swallowed hard. The man had used a bad word.
“Get out of here … you redneck,” Gran hissed.
The man scooped up Nick as easily as if he were a football. His arms and chest were thick and hard as a tree trunk. Nick peered at the back of the man’s neck and sure enough it was red, just like Gran said.
“Don’t try to stop me, Wallace. Don’t anyone try to stop me,” the man said, turning to go. Nick clung to the man like a monkey to a tree. On their way out, the man yanked the hall phone from the wall. That was fun. Nick had never seen that done before. The man carried him to a car and as they drove away, the man asked him, “Have you ever been on a plane, Nick?”
Nick shook his head.
“Well, we’re going on a plane, little boy. And it’s going to fly so high that all the houses and cars will look like tiny little toys,” the man smiled. “We’re going to a magical land with more wonderful things than you can imagine. And there’s oil there. More oil than anyone knows. The greatest treasure in the world! I can smell it, boy!” the man declared with a wink and a sly tap on his nose.
Nick laughed.
Later, on the plane, Nick looked down and saw the houses and cars were small as toys and the people were so tiny he couldn’t even see them. The man didn’t look out of the window. He just smoked his pipe and kept glancing at Nick. And once, he grabbed Nick and held him tight. He smelled like tobacco. It was a good smell.
“I love you, Nick. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that I haven’t thought of you,” the man whispered in a thick voice. Nick felt warm all over. It felt good.
Except that now his father was dead. They all were. The black-robed riders had dismounted and were running towards him. He didn’t know what to do. There’d never been a time when there wasn’t a grown-up around to tell him what to do. The men with the guns came closer and he was afraid. He turned and began to run.
One of the terrible black-robed figures chased him. Nick ran wildly without direction, half-blinded by the sweat stinging his eyes. Around him the sandy plain lay flat and endless and blinding white as a linen-covered table. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Arab only a few steps behind him, stabbing the air with a long curved dagger. Nick ran even harder, but it was hard running in the sand and he stumbled. He scrambled on all fours like a monkey and then a hand yanked him off his feet.
He looked up to see the black figure towering above him, the knife blade glittering like fire in the sun. Nick closed his eyes. His ears filled with roaring like the sound of the surf near Gramps’ house on the Palos Verdes shore. His body tensed for the blow, but nothing happened. At last, he opened his eyes. The Arab lay beside him in the sand. In the center of his forehead was a small black hole oozing blood. It looked like a third eye.
He became aware of the sound of gunfire. He saw an Arab bending over his dad suddenly straighten up and then crumple to the ground. The black-robed Arabs were running away. Nick turned in the direction of the gunfire but he couldn’t see who was firing. The desert was empty all the way to the horizon. When he turned back, the black-robed figures had mounted their horses, spurring them into a desperate gallop. They fled like shadows disappearing in the blinding light.
Nick ran back to his dad, who was lying there exactly as Nick had left him. Nick had never felt so alone. Who’s going to take care of me now, he wondered.
In the far distance, he could see black specks approaching. As they drew closer, he saw that they were Arabs riding on camels. The Arabs approached slowly, as in a dream. The heat haze made it look like the camels were running through water, but he knew there was no water in the desert. It was hard to know what was real.
Now he could see the Arabs clearly. They wore brown robes and carried rifles strung with fringes. Nick pulled the Boy Scout knife his dad had given him from his pocket and opened it. He would kill anyone who tried to touch his dad.
The Arab on the lead camel drew to a halt and looked around. His face was dark and wrinkled like a walnut. His curly beard was speckled black and white and he had a big hooked nose, like a bird’s beak. The camel began to sink down on its haunches, rocking back and forth like a boat as it settled to the ground. The Arab slid easily to the ground and stood before Nick.
“Eenglizi?” the Arab asked.
“What?” Nick said.
“You—Eengleesh?” the Arab said, pointing at Nick.
“We’re American,” Nick stammered. Americans were the best, Gramps always said.
The Arab nodded and began to approach Nick’s dad.
“Don’t touch my daddy!” Nick screamed, his voice thin and wild as a bird’s cry. His grip tightened on the knife. The Arab seemed not to have heard and began to kneel by the body. Nick struck.
“Ya Allah!” the Arab cried, jerking his hand away. It dripped with blood from the wound. One of the other Arabs aimed his rifle at Nick.
“La!” the Arab cried, throwing up his wounded hand and jumping into the line of fire.
“The boy showed courage protecting his own, as a man should. Besides, we are Moslems, the khalifah of Allah on earth. A Moslem does not make war on children,” he said in Arabic, then in English to Nick:
“Do not be afraid, little Scorpion,” thereby conferring the nickname that was to stay with the boy. “Those who attacked you were Saar, the wolves of the desert. They are our enemies too. I am Sheikh Zaid ibn Bushir of the Mutayr. All that you see is my dira”—flinging his arm out wide as if to display the desert like a painting. Zaid squatted down and looked levelly at Nick, his eyes soft and very brown.
“Put away your sting, little Scorpion. I am bound by God to protect you,” Zai
d said. Nick looked distrustfully at the Arab.
“You won’t hurt my daddy?” he asked tremulously, his chin trembling on the verge of sobbing. Zaid looked at the body.
“No one can hurt your baba any more,” Zaid said.
The two regarded each other for a long moment. Then Nick folded the knife and stuck it in his pocket.
“You are a dhimmi, a Child of the Book?” Zaid asked.
“I don’t know,” Nick shrugged.
Zaid pondered, as though considering a knotty problem. Finally, he shook his head and stood up.
“Where is your mama?”
“She died and went to heaven,” Nick said, eager to answer a question he understood. Zaid smiled with approval. A child who believed in heaven was obviously not a pagan.
“You are—orphan,” Zaid said, pointing at Nick.
“I don’t know,” Nick said uncomfortably. He didn’t want to be an orphan. One time Gramps had let him stay up to watch a movie about orphans on TV. It was called Oliver Twist. Orphans had to wear rags and eat awful stuff called gruel. People were mean to orphans.
“The Messenger of Allah, blessed is his name, taught us to protect the orphan,” Zaid declared. He looked down at Nick with his kind eyes, then turned and walked towards his camel.
“Come, you can’t stay here. You would die in the desert,” Zaid said. Nick stood by his dad, uncertain.
“Come, little Scorpion. You will be hungry,” he said and mounted his camel. Nick trudged over to the camel. It turned its great head towards him and drew back its lips, as if it would bite him. Nick froze, afraid to come closer.
“Don’t be afraid, little Scorpion,” Zaid said.
Zaid leaned down and stretched out his arm. He took Nick’s little hand in his and pulled him up. He struck the camel lightly on the neck with his riding whip. The camel rose awkwardly in stages, like a beam being jimmied up. Zaid struck her again and called: “Hatatat!” Nick almost laughed, because it sounded like he was saying “Hot-hot-hot,” and they were off.
At twilight the men of the Mutayr lined up their prayer rugs and bowed their heads towards the dying red sun that lay in the direction of the gibla, which is towards Mecca. After the maghrib prayers, everyone joined Sheikh Zaid in his tent for dinner. They ate chunks of roasted lamb on a bed of rice called shawirmu, served on a single great round brass tray, and dipped pieces of pita bread into bowls of fool and goat’s milk cheese called gibna beyda min. Everyone reached into the same bowls with his fingers. Sheikh Zaid plucked choice morsels of lamb and fed Nick with his own hand. The meat was hot.
Sheikh Zaid’s son, Youssef, who at ten was much bigger than Nick, taught Nick to reach for the food with his right hand only. The left hand was used to wipe yourself after you went to the toilet, except the only toilet was a hole in the sand. Youssef explained this to Nick in clumsy English and a pantomime that had all the men laughing.
After eating, a veiled woman served thick coffee in a copper pot with a long curved spout and disappeared behind a woven curtain. Then they sat and listened to old Muhammed recite from the Koran from memory.
Nick sat on the woven rug with his legs stuck out straight in front of him. He looked around the tent. From the outside the tent was made of plain black cloth, but inside it was hung with colorful woven rugs, the tent poles festooned with brightly dyed woven hangings. Behind one of the rugs he could hear the clatter and murmur of the women as they cleaned the dishes. The sound of the wind outside was woven into the drone of Muhammed’s recitation, as much a part of the saying as the words themselves. The tent ropes creaked in the night. It sounded like a boat in the middle of the sea.
By the noonday brightness, and by the night
when it darkens, thy Lord hath not forsaken
thee, neither hath He been displeased.
Surely the future shall be better for thee
than the past; and in the end He shall be
bounteous to thee, and thou shalt be satisfied.
Did He not find thee an orphan, and give
thee a home; erring, and guided thee;
needy, and enriched thee?
Youssef translated the words for Nick in a whisper. The stuff about the orphan was about him, Nick thought, and remembered his dad.
“And the vein, habibi. Tell us of the vein,” Zaid said to Muhammed. The old man raised his eyes soulfully to the top of the tent and recited:
Is He not closer than the vein of thy neck?
Thou needest not raise thy voice, for
He knoweth the secret whisper, and
what is yet more hidden …
He knows what is in the land and in the sea;
no leaf falleth but He knoweth it; nor
is there a grain in the darkness under
the earth, nor a thing, green or sere
but it is recorded.
Youssef noticed the way Nick was sitting with his legs splayed out in front of him, and tapped his legs sharply.
“To show a man the soles of your feet is to insult him,” Youssef whispered. He showed Nick how to sit cross-legged. Nick frowned. There was a lot to learn.
Directly across from him, a teenager with a thin scraggly moustache and a cast in one eye was staring at Nick, his eyes narrowed. His lips were thin and tight as a knife edge.
“Who’s that?” Nick asked.
“That is Bandar, son of my father’s younger half-brother, Faraj. You should not have pointed your feet at him. Now he is your enemy,” Youssef whispered.
“I didn’t mean it,” Nick whispered back, a lump in his throat.
“It’s too late. You must remember, you are not alone. If you bring dishonor on yourself, you also dishonor your family and your entire tribe,” Youssef said.
“Who is my tribe?”
“That is yet to be decided,” Youssef replied.
The old man had finished his recitation. Sheikh Zaid took out a pouch, rolled a cigarette and lit it. Then Bandar spoke.
“There is a kafir among us,” he said, his good eye glaring at Nick.
Sheikh Zaid exhaled a thin stream of smoke which curled in the air like strands of hair.
“The Messenger of Allah said: ‘When any man says to his brother “Thou infidel!” one of the two deserves the name.’ That is a true hadith of Bukhari from Abdullah ibn Umar,” Zaid replied mildly.
“The little dhimmi is not my brother,” Bandar retorted hotly.
“The child is an orphan. We saved him from the Saar dogs and the desert. Are we not bound?” Zaid asked, addressing himself to all of them.
Faraj, a thin man with a beard but no moustache, straightened his back and placed his hands on his knees.
“The boy is a Giaour. Better to remove the stone of offense, my brother,” Faraj said in a troubled voice. Perhaps he felt called upon to defend his son, Bandar.
“What says the Holy Koran?” Zaid appealed to Muhammed.
The old man closed his eyes and spoke in a clear voice:
They will question thee concerning the orphans.
Say: “To set their affairs aright is good.
And if you intermix with them, they are your
brothers.”
There were nods of agreement around the tent. Nick yawned. He was growing sleepy, but he tried to stay awake. They were talking about him. He looked at the bejeweled khanjar dagger in Sheikh Zaid’s belt. It was very pretty. He wondered if he could have a knife too.
“Then let him be returned to his own tribe. There are Americani at the oil rigs in Dharan,” someone said.
Faraj nodded his agreement and quoted the famous proverb of Father Noah: “‘The ploughman to the plough-woman, the retainer to the retainer-woman, and the slave to the slave-woman.’ To each according to his own.”
There were mutters around the tent. The shadows of the men danced against the tent walls in the firelight as though they were engaged in some ancient pagan rite.
“There has been heavy fighting in that area since the border dispute. The I
ngilizi are so stupid they cannot tell a Rualla noble from a Hteym slave. They would think we were brigands and shoot at us,” said Safooq, a beardless man who was the husband of Faraj’s daughter. Although his words were cautious, Youssef whispered to Nick that Safooq was the best marksman among the Mutayr.
“King Abd al Aziz has forbidden any but the Solubba to visit the foreign kafirs. The Mutayr are loyal to the House of Saud,” said Faisal, a handsome youth who was Zaid’s oldest son.
“Even so,” Zaid murmured.
“Besides,” Faisal declared proudly, “I would sooner die than be taken for a Solubba sani.” Asani was a member of a vassal tribe, Youssef explained to Nick. The sunna tribes had to pay a khawwa to a noble tribe like the Mutayr. But sunna like the Hteym or the Solubba were inviolate from attack. Like women, they were considered creatures too inferior to fight.
“But what would the dhimmi’s status be?” Bandar declared, bewildered at the turn of events.
“You should learn mercy, my brother’s son,” Zaid said sadly. He tossed his cigarette into the glowing coals. “According to the hadith of Bukhari from Usama ibn Zaid: ‘God has no mercy on those who do not have mercy.’”
“What’s a hadith?” Nick whispered in Youssef’s ear.
“A hadith is a saying or action of the Prophet Mohammed, the Messenger of God. The sunna or practices of the Prophet guide us in all things. Since some hadith are more authentic than others, my father always cites his sources,” Youssef whispered back.
“So the boy stays,” Faraj said.
“His kismet has brought him to us. Allah does the writing, we are merely the readers. Perhaps we can bring him to the Truth,” Zaid said, patting Nick’s head. He gazed seriously into Nick’s eyes.
“Would you like to stay with us, little Scorpion?” Zaid asked.
Nick didn’t know what to say. He was very confused. He remembered how Zaid had knelt by his dad and saved him from the Saar. Grown-ups knew what to do. He was just a kid. But Zaid’s eyes were warm when he looked at Nick. It reminded him of the way Mom looked at him sometimes, and Dad on the plane. He nodded.
Scorpion Page 14