The ring seemed to have been carved from a single piece of crystal. A multitude of facets refracted sharp edges of light. She ran a finger over it and found that it was not sharp to the touch. Twenty tiny star sapphires surrounded a large blue translucent stone set in the ring; a stone that sucked her in, threatening to drown her. She felt dizzy again and a wave of nausea washed over her. She steadied herself, dressed quickly and went back to the main room.
The homey scent of warm bread welcomed her and made her mouth water. The unleavened bread and the fresh cheese were delicious, as were the nuts and dried fruit that served as dessert. She and François ate in companionable silence. For a few delicious moments she relaxed and felt worry free.
“How is it that you, a single man, are able to have a female cook?”
“I offered refuge to a widow, Fatma, several years ago. She and her three children live in the shed behind my house. Her sons run the errands and do the shopping. She never leaves the compound. No one knows she exists.”
“In effect, a prisoner.”
“Oui, but a prisoner who is not starving or threatened or beaten. A mother who can provide for her children. You would like to spend some time with her?”
“Yes.”
“You will not need a translator. Madame, you speak French and the local languages so well and in the earlier reports of you, they said you spoke their languages with ease. How is it you are able to do this? How many languages do you speak?”
Yet more unknowns. No matter how bad something was, she’d rather know. Besides, how bad could it be? Oh, God…
“When will you file your report on this?” she asked.
François muttered under his breath, the reporter in him obviously frustrated as hell. Publicity about her actions didn’t concern her in the least. She figured whoever was running the show was taking care of that. Taking care of everything. Taking care of her?
Chapter 6
Fatma and her children lived in a walled off square in a corner of the tiny courtyard behind the Frenchman’s house. A small hibachi, two cooking pots, and one lonely dilapidated green plastic lawn chair sat in front of the opening to the home.
Inside several faded rugs stacked one on top of the other served as beds. A small chest covered with another old rug, was the only bit of furniture she had. François helped, by the look of it. Tins of food poked out from under a rug in one corner along with a couple of boxes of medical supplies. T-shirts and jeans hung on nails protruding from one wall. It was crude, but it had a warm homey feel.
Shrouded in her burqa, Fatma rose slowly, holding her children protectively behind her. The children whispered and giggled as they peered out from behind the protection of their mother’s body.
“This is a dream,” Fatma muttered under her breath. “A dream.”
“But—” The taller of the boys began a protest. Fatma hushed him with a stern look.
“You’re too perfect to be real, too … your clothes … no burqa.” Slowly she reached out, and then let her hand fall.
Fatma stared. The children whispered.
“The boys were in the streets today,” Fatma said. “I didn’t believe the wild tale they brought home. But Monsieur Durocher said yes, it was true. He even promised to show me pictures. And now. You are here.”
Fatma gestured for her guest to sit on one of the piles of rugs. She removed her burqa and signaled to her children to sit with them. She was a short woman, solidly built with a broad face warmed by a quick, genuine smile. The children huddled close to their mother, their eyes round and large.
Conversation with Fatma personalized everything about conditions in the country. Questions erupted unbidden, many that only a woman could answer. Answers from Fatma that chilled to the bone. Yes, people were arrested for having foreign visitors in their homes. Yes, women doctors had been shot after operating and saving the lives of Spinda soldiers; fine for a woman to save their lives, but to be in the presence of a man not a relative … Yes, even in an operating room. Yes, women stoned and beaten to death. Yes, acid thrown in the faces of unveiled women. Yes, limbs chopped off for theft or less. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Fatma was a doctor specializing in pediatrics. She feared for her sons. Mohamed was ten, Faroud eleven, and both would soon be targets for recruitment in the Spinda army. The boys looked glum as she spoke.
“Your daughter?”
Alyia was sixteen and wanted to be a doctor like her mother. With no hope of formal education, not even the basics, this was a dream that would never come true. She, especially, had to be kept hidden from the Spinda lest she be forced into marriage with one of them. Alyia shivered as her mother spoke. The beatings and atrocities committed by some of the Spinda on their wives were often much worse than the stories. Fatma knew. She had attempted to treat a number of the victims.
She gulped back tears. If Fatma didn't cry, how could she?
“I do not worry for myself,” Fatma said. “My worry is for my children. Without Monsieur Durocher they would have died of starvation long ago. Yet, living in hiding, in this limbo with no chance for education, is almost worse. What will become of them?”
The silence stretched until it seemed the very air would snap.
“What will you do next?” Fatma asked. “You stopped them today. Will you be able to stop them forever?” Her voice was low with suppressed emotion.
“I have a plan and I could use your help.”
“Me!? What can I possibly do?”
“You can come to the square tomorrow with your daughter and lead the others.”
“How?”
*
“The things humans do to each other boggles the mind. No wonder the Guardians want something done.”
Elspeth shivered, moved closer to me and gripped my arm. She wasn’t cold. It was never cold in the Guardian world. “I don’t understand why they waited so long.”
“I’m there now with my Little Soldier. We’ll clean up the place.”
“Does your Little Soldier have a name?”
“She will have many names. I call her M.”
“She’s strong. Forcing herself to be so for the others. For herself too. I hope her plan works.” I noticed Elspeth cross her fingers behind her back.
“It will.” My poor Little Soldier was in an agony of anticipation. What if her plan didn’t work? What then? Surely she knew by now that any plan of hers would work. Hadn’t her first experiences taught her that? I mean she was intelligent and clever; she should have known… But, then she hadn’t met me—yet.
*
“I know there are pockets of resistance to the Spindas in hiding. How do I contact them?”
“Leave that to me.” Fatma smiled for the first time. Her eyes shone. She looked hopeful, and beautiful. “We women have an effective network system. I’ll get a message to Mustafa. He was steadfast in his fight against the communists and still is in the struggle against the Spinda. He is the most respected leader in hiding.”
They studied the sketchy map François had spread out on the table. Fatma pointed out the general area of Mustafa’s camp on the fringes of the Northern Plain, and traced the route with her finger. Winding narrow roads. An eight-to ten-hour drive with a reliable vehicle. Did they have such a vehicle? No, but there would be one at the Spinda outpost. Could they get word to the men? Yes, Fatma said. Had she not explained the communication system? She sounded a bit put out. M stumbled through an apology.
“But, will they come?” François asked.
“They can’t refuse my request.” M said it like it was the naked obvious truth, but Lord only knew what would happen. She paced the room, her mind churning for ideas. “At least, I don’t think they can.”
M turned to Fatma. “This is what I want you to tell them. They must—”
“It won’t work. They won’t come based on a message alone; it is too dangerous for them. And even though they will have heard about what happened here today, they will need to see you
for themselves.”
“But we’re running out of time and I need Mustafa here by noon tomorrow.” M looked at the map again. If François could find her a truck… If she drove all night… “Please prepare the men for my arrival.”
Fatma’s eyebrows rose. “Nothing, could prepare them for the shock of you.”
François grunted. “Ca, c’est sûr!”
“Maybe a plane or helicopter?”
Fatma shook her head. “They will hide at the sound of approaching craft and it will alert the Spinda at the outposts.”
“Fuck! There has to be a way.” M slammed her fist on the table. Fatma jumped back, her eyes wide.
M patted Fatma’s shoulder awkwardly and returned to pacing.
“I need those men here tomorrow. I have to get to them.”
Her feet lifted a fraction from the floor and she was in mountainous terrain. Transported from there to here. She looked around wildly, terrified and thrilled at the same time. “Good God! I control the travel? What did I say? What did I do?”
*
“Wow!” Elspeth clapped her hands. “Yves, this is so exciting.”
“Yahoo!” I shouted and punched the air.
“Look at you.” Elspeth grinned. “My little brother letting loose.”
I hooted and hollered. Yes, I admit freely that I lost my cool, made a whole lot of noise, jabbed the air with my fist and held my hand to Elspeth for a high-five. Undignified and unacceptable behavior of course, but hot damn, M was good. She’d figured it out.
Chapter 7
A volley of rifle fire snapped M to attention. A forward roll brought her up behind a large rock. She kept her head low and waited. She counted to a hundred, then a hundred more and again. She peered around the rock, crept out of hiding and studied the forbidding landscape littered with the remnants of battle; empty shells, machine parts, burned hulks of vehicles, even an old tank lying on its side. In spite of the devastation, the view of the Northern Plain from the craggy heights was spectacular, nothing but desert for miles and miles.
Behind her, the rocky landscape exposed little, but ten minutes of determined searching revealed the entrance to a cave. Odors of ashes told her it was inhabited. Ducking low to avoid hitting her head on outcroppings of rock, she entered the cave cautiously. The setting sun provided enough light to see threadbare carpets and small bundles of clothing piled to one side. Two dented cooking pots, and a few metal plates, cups, and utensils sat neatly at the side of the cave nearest the fire pit. A few embers glowed in the ashes. No evidence of food. What did they eat? Perhaps there was enough wildlife to hunt. She couldn’t picture berries or greens in this mountainous terrain. Then again, she couldn’t picture animals either. She went back and poked a knife into the ashes. Small bits of bone. Mice? Rats? Snakes? Could be.
She rubbed her eyes wearily, left the cave, found a relatively flat rock nearby, and sat. “Mustafa, I know you are there. Come out.”
A dozen men emerged from hiding and circled her, fingers twitching on the triggers of their rifles. They looked wary and rough wearing an assortment of grimy, baggy pants, shirts, long vests, and sandals. None had socks or boots. A couple wore military camouflage jackets, three had blankets slung over a shoulder. Their turbans were grubby, but bound neatly.
The men gaped at her. Damn, I should have borrowed some clothes from Fatma.
She studied them and they stared back, hostile and unrelenting. She waited. They circled. She waited. They watched. She waited. Hell, this could go on forever. “Please, sit.” Her words sounded thunderous and seemed to echo across the plain. “We must talk. I need your help.”
“You are the one from the square?” The voice was rough and challenging. Mustafa made no effort to hide his censure.
“You know, gentlemen, I’d like to know what’s going on here too,” she muttered under her breath. Then louder, “Yes. I’m the one from the square.”
“How did you get here?”
What could she say? I was transported… I transported myself… There’s some force that… controls me… tells me what to do… makes me do the things I do… controls people’s reactions to me… I know what to do… instinctively… Maybe if… It’s like this Mustafa, I have no idea how the hell it happens or why. You'll just have to trust me on this one. As if! She chewed her bottom lip searching for the right words.
“You must come with me and take your rightful place as leader of this country.” Oh, Christ, how lame was that? She groaned and buried her face in her hands.
The circle of men tightened.
“Tell us what happened in the square.” The words snapped crisply, a military order. She related the events briefly. Mustafa’s stony expression didn’t change. The air crackled with tension. The men scowled and shifted, looked to Mustafa then back to her. They played with their rifles; they could and would kill her. Mustafa just had to say the word.
She sat motionless and counted as she forced her breathing to slow and the muscles in her neck and back to relax. Finally Mustafa spoke and the men let their rifles dangle by their sides. She sagged with relief, yet she had not truly feared for her safety.
She shivered in the cool mountain air. One of the men held out his old woolen blanket. It stank of campfire and sweat. She didn’t dare speculate on what might be crawling in it, but smiled thanks, and drew it tightly about her.
“What can we do?” Mustafa gestured almost helplessly to the few men around him. Even the young among them looked old, worn, tired, and in desperate need of food.
She outlined her plan. “I need you in the city by tomorrow morning. Do you have a vehicle?”
“No, but the Spinda have a nice Land Rover at their camp a few kilometers from here. You will help us steal it.” Mustafa grinned and appeared a dozen years younger. Hope made them all look younger and eager.
She couldn’t help grinning back, but her stomach dropped at the thought that the whole damn thing could fall to pieces. She could be leading them to their deaths. She gritted her teeth and crossed her fingers.
*
“Hiking boots, that’s what I need,” she muttered as she tramped along the trail behind Mustafa. She excused herself from the group. They were polite about leaving her alone, probably thought she had to relieve herself. What she really wanted to do was to test her theory about the travel/transport/beam-me-up-Scotty thing that was happening to her. She thought maybe she could control it, and the flimsy sandals were sufficient excuse to try. She attempted a transport back to Mustafa’s camp. She wasn’t about to go too far in case she had to walk back.
“Yes! It worked!” She danced and spun and hugged herself and punched the air. “Yahoo! It worked.” She tried a transport up the trail. That worked too.
She rejoined Mustafa and his men a few moments later and settled in to the walk again. Her sandals—so very pretty—magically provided traction on the steep trails and she didn’t have to struggle to maintain balance and keep up with the men. Still, she really shouldn’t be hiking in the dainty things. Too bad she couldn’t use her new found skills, but she didn’t want to cause more suspicion and fear. She laughed inwardly. Who was she trying to kid? She was already an abomination, or a miracle, depending on one’s point of view. How much worse could it get? She told Mustafa and his men she would meet them at their destination and did the transport thing again.
Standing beside Mustafa, looking down from their vantage point, she studied the outpost and the terrain around it.
“How many?” Mustafa asked.
“Those two are patrolling, but I counted seven in all.” A battered and rusted Land Rover sat beside the hut that served as outpost. Rumor had it that Land Rovers never died. She hoped like hell that rumor was right.
Mustafa pulled out an old pair of binoculars from a worn case and meticulously polished the lenses with a scrap of soft cloth. “Two spare tires and four jerry cans of fuel in the back. Hopefully, they’re full.”
“The keys are in t
he ignition,” added one of the men who had his rifle scope trained on the jeep.
Mustafa turned to his men and issued instructions. “We will go,” he said indicating four men behind him. “Ali will drive.”
“I’ll go down first and distract the Spinda,” she said. “You can then take over.” Whether the Spinda died quickly or died horribly was not something she wanted to contemplate. Sometimes “not knowing” might be a really good thing, she decided.
Mustafa studied the cliff. “We’ll have enough cover for our descent.”
“But after that, it’s open terrain,” one of the men said in a tone that told her he was stating the obvious and how stupid could she be. “How do we cross it without being seen?”
“We’ll all be killed,” another said.
“You’ll be okay, honest.” She could have done it herself of course, disarmed the Spinda and herded them into the hut, but these men needed a victory, small though it might be.
Mustafa studied her, brows narrowed, forehead furrowed.
“You can do it,” she said. “I’ll help.” Man, this ‘stop the Spinda’ thing I have going had better work or we’re all screwed. Her throat was thick with fear.
“Like you did in the square?” Mustafa asked.
What if it didn’t work again? She could only nod.
“We’ll do it,” he said. There was no further protest.
Thirty minutes later she was watching the dust whorls as Mustafa and his group sped away.
It had been ridiculously easy. She had transported to the Spinda camp just as the men reached the bottom of the cliff. She sashayed out from behind a land rover, twirling her skirt around her calves, and then froze. Oh my God, what am I doing? Taunting them like this. Two patrolling Spinda screamed and raised their rifles. More men spilled out of the hut. M raised her hand to stop them. Sunlight glinted off her ring, momentarily blinding them. More shouting and curses.
“Tsk, tsk,” she said. “That's not very nice language. What would your mommas say?” Jesus, what's wrong with me? More curses from the men. She waved her hand again and the ring sent out sharp shards of light that had the Spinda squinting and covering their eyes. When they dared to peer out at her, she swished the skirts of her dress. Light danced off it, bounced along the sand and seemed to climb the men's clothes. They cried out and dropped back. She giggled. Christ, I've got to stop this.