By this time Mustafa and his men had crossed the kilometer of open plateau and wasted no time securing the outpost and locking the Spinda in the hut.
A grinning group surrounded her. Mustafa clapped her on the back. The others joined in. She was astounded. She would never have thought they’d dare to touch a woman. They almost knocked her over in their enthusiasm. They pumped her hand, crushed it in their energetic grips, and shouted messages of encouragement. Little kids really. It was nice to see them so excited.
Now, if only she didn’t fail them.
*
Elspeth danced and clapped her hands. “Oh, Yves, I love what you did there with the ring and her dress. Clever.”
“And fun.”
“And I love your M. She's so brave.”
“Yes, but....” I frowned. “She really shouldn't have teased them like that. It's dangerous. I'll have to put a stop to that.”
“Little brother,” Elspeth said, with a hand on my arm, drawing my eyes away from the earth scene to look directly at her, “everything you have her doing is dangerous. Let her have some fun too.”
Chapter 8
“Hey neighbor. You okay?” Jimmy called from his front door.
“Yeah, sure, why?”
“Thought the cold had gotten to you. You were frozen to the spot there for a minute.”
“Just thinking.” God, I’m such a liar.
“I’ll be out to help in a minute,” Jimmy said.
“No, it’s okay.” Her protest was too late. Jimmy had closed the door on her words and would be dressed and out with his shovel in a couple of minutes. Not that she minded the help, but she needed time to think and he’d chatter as they worked disrupting her thoughts.
Back in the house twenty minutes later, M settled on the sofa, wrapped an afghan around her legs and sipped a Baileys. Mustafa? Fatma? François? Did they exist? She would have liked to chalk it up to imagination, or dreams, or even hallucinations, but the wound on her leg from the machete five days ago—was it only five days?—served as a grim reminder of the reality of her travels.
The television was muted. She wanted to think, but she also needed to see the news. François had taken pictures. What would she do if her face filled the screen? She’d be recognized. It was one thing to explain away a momentary lapse of attention, a foreign word or two coming out of her mouth, but pictures of her blasting out to the world would be a whole other story.
And that was another thing. How could she be in Raftan, messing about in their affairs and be here at the same time? She took another sip of the Bailey’s. The warmth of the liqueur spread through her and she felt herself relaxing.
There she was on the screen. She sat bolt upright. Yes, it was her. François’ pictures captured her perfectly, damn it.
*
Morning came much too quickly. She dreaded facing the students and staff. Playing hooky would only delay the inevitable. She crawled out of bed, showered and dressed. Over her bowl of cereal and banana, she rehearsed the responses she’d come up with during the sleepless night. “Looks like me? You’ve got to be kidding.” “Looks like me? Tom, you need new glasses.” “Looks like me? Ha, ha, flattery won’t work; you still have to do your report card comments.” “Looks like me? Well, they say everyone has a double somewhere in the world.”
“Morning,” students said as she walked down the hallway to her office.
“Morning.” The teachers she encountered en route greeted her.
“Morning, Boss,” Tom called as she entered the staff room.
What’s this? Didn’t anyone watch the news last night?
“Did you see the news last night?” Sue asked as she filled her coffee cup.
“Isn’t it amazing, what that woman did?”
“If it’s real.”
“Ah, you’re such a skeptic.”
“Well, what can you believe these days? You know what the media is like.”
“I for one would like to believe it’s true. Stopping the Spinda. What a breakthrough.”
“Time will tell.”
*
Elspeth frowned. “I don’t get it. Why don’t they know it’s her?”
I chuckled. “Simple. What’s happening in Raftan is so far from their daily experience that they don’t think anyone they know could be M.”
“So, no matter how much they see of her on the news, they’ll never make the connection?”
“Nope.”
“But what if someone does? That Tom is sharp.”
Elspeth was right again. I couldn’t take chances. “Hum, I’ll put up some barriers just to be sure.”
*
On her way home from school, she sat at a red light tapping her steering wheel. Why am I not afraid?
*
François Durocher returned home late that afternoon to find M sitting in the center of his courtyard, head on her knees. The children looked at him helplessly.
“She has been like this ever since she came back half an hour ago,” Mohamed said. “She does not look at us or talk or anything.”
“Where is your mother? She’ll know what to do.”
“She went out,” Faroud said.
“What! But she never goes out.” François looked at the fearful children and immediately regretted having stated the obvious. “Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but she did say she would be back soon.” Alyia wiped frantically at her tears.
“She will be back.” François patted Mohamed’s shoulder. “Now, let us see what we can do to help Madame.”
“Try talking to her,” Alyia said.
François spoke softly, “Madame, what is it? What has upset you so?” He spoke louder. “Madame, you must tell us. We can help.” Not a flicker of recognition in her eyes. He panicked, shouted at her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her roughly.
“No! no!” The boys cried as they scrambled to pull him away. Alyia covered her face, and then peered between her fingers. None of them saw Fatma enter the compound.
“Leave her. She will speak when she is ready,” Fatma said. “We wait.”
The boys pressed close to François, one on either side. Alyia clutched her mother. They sat a respectful distance away, eyes averted. None of them wanted to see her pain. Hearing was bad enough. The torrent subsided to sniffs and hiccoughs and eventual silence. Fatma brought a cool damp cloth and gently washed Madame’s face and neck.
“Can you tell us?” Fatma asked.
“I saw … I saw … the dead … the villages in the south. I saw … the refugee camps. I saw the roads. I saw the gate at the border …” She began to cry again.
François picked her up and carried her to his divan. The others followed. Mohamed patted her shoulder awkwardly. Alyia stroked her hair.
“How can this be?” she cried. “There can be no God.! I have seen poverty, lived in some of the poorest countries in the world, but never have I seen anything as devastating as this. The children reduced to… to… worse than begging, run over and killed in the crowds stampeding for a few grains or seeds, a few bits of clothing, a few coins. I can never do enough. Never!” Her sobs verged on uncontrollable again.
“Madame, what you have done already has begun to awaken our people,” Fatma said.
“You must think of yourself as the catalyst for change,” François said.
“Madame, it will be up to us to finish what you start.” Alyia’s mouth set in a determined line.
“Please Madame, do not cry anymore,” Faroud held one of her hands in both of his. She reached out with the other and ruffled his hair.
Fatma held out her hand. “Come I will prepare you a warm bath.”
*
A car honked. She glanced in her rear-view mirror. The driver gestured angrily. She checked the lights. Green. How long had she sat there lost in another world?
*
I watched my Little Soldier and fretted. That was a new feeling for me. I tried to explain
it to Elspeth. I think she had some understanding for she seemed to be worried too. But, there was nothing I could do for M. What was the point of being a Power if my hands were tied by all the damned rules? Don’t do this. Don’t do that. I mean, what was a Power to do?
I fretted now, too, waiting for my first meeting with Mentor. She ruled the Powers. Of course, as a Drone, I’d never had dealings with her, had never even seen her up close. But, I’d heard plenty. And none of it was good. My friend, Exelrud, insisted she was a termagant. One tough cookie was how he put it.
An aide showed me into Mentor’s chambers. She sat on a high-backed chair on a dais. I stood humbly before her. I had no idea why I was the first Drone ever to be appointed a Power. For the sake of all Drones, I had to succeed.
“Why all the drama?” Mentor asked.
“I don’t know. What she saw… seems to me the earth is pretty much all like that.”
“She’s too soft to do the job.”
Okay, I wasn’t off to the best start here. “One of the reasons I chose her is because she has travelled and seen the realities of her world. I don’t know why the conditions in Raftan are so shocking to her.”
Mentor blinked and we saw M again and François trying to soothe her. “That man does go on.” Mentor shook her head. “The children are a little more understandable.”
M’s sobs, great tearing sounds, echoed in my ears. I’d never heard anything like it. Shocked me, I tell you. I felt all knotted up inside and there was a funny catch in the back of my throat.
Mentor closed the view. “I’m disappointed with her weakness.”
I felt a wave of dizziness sweep over me. Similar to the feelings I had felt in M as she worked for me. I think she called it panic. “She’s not weak,” I said. “It’s how humans release tension.”
“Humph!” Mentor raised her chin and her eyes narrowed. “And what did you do to help her?
“I used the ring. I sent pictures, clear ones, not the ambiguous swirls that she couldn’t read. But she didn’t hear me. I set the ring to vibrating. Still she didn’t look.” I had shouted too. I’d never raised my voice before. The loud sounds had reverberated in my head. My body had grown hot and then cold.
Mentor cleared her throat drawing my attention back to her. Oh Guardian, how much of this does she know. Her tight smile was not comforting.
“Very well,” she said. “Continue.”
Chapter 9
M found François standing at his door watching men, women, and children tread softly as they headed to the square. They spoke in hushed whispers, with many warnings to be quiet. She left him and transported to the road north of the city to meet Mustafa and his men. Thankfully, the rusty old Land Rover had proven reliable and they had arrived only a few minutes before. They were cold and weary, but for safety she insisted they walk. Blending in with the crowds moving to the center of the city would be the best disguise. Mustafa agreed.
François and his neighbors had cleaned the second-storey rooms, and provisioned them with water, towels, soap, food, and blankets. There were even a few pieces of clean clothing. It must have looked like a little piece of heaven to Mustafa and his men
While the men devoured the food, washed, and rested, she had François help her suspend an oval-shaped metal tub from the balcony. She had brought one of the jerry cans from the Land Rover and poured the little bit of leftover gasoline into the tub swishing it on the sides; greasing a cake pan. Images of a woman baking at an old woodstove flitted at the edges of her conscious thought. She didn’t try to capture them. She knew that was futile.
She fingered the box of flimsy matches from China that François had given her. She’d used them before, but she couldn’t remember where—Mali maybe. They flared up nicely and would suit her purpose.
She stood just inside the balcony doors. Nervous tension emanated from Fatma and Alyia who stood behind her. Mustafa was somewhere behind her too, muttering words and phrases that she couldn’t quite hear. Practicing his speech? His men, further back in the room, shifted from foot to foot. Ali wiped sweat from his upper lip and then rubbed his palms on his pants.
“Sixty seconds, Madame,” Ali said quietly. He had François’ watch.
“Thank you.”
Mustafa opened the makeshift doors the men had put up, but she did not yet step forward.
The square was packed, but with little color and none of the usual restless shifting of waiting, warm bodies. Men and boys hung motionless and silent from every available window. The rooftops were as packed with people as the square itself. The old buildings seemed to sway and threatened to collapse under the weight.
“Thirty seconds.” The men tensed. She was edgy, anxious, and tense herself. She had experienced everything from panic and despair to moments of the wondrous joy of play as she experimented with transporting. She had reacted instinctively, made wild guesses, schemed and worried. All of that came down to this moment and doing it right.
“Twenty seconds.” Mustafa shifted. She heard his rapid, heavy breathing and felt puffs of air on the back of her neck each time he exhaled. She turned to face him and impulsively threw her arms around him. He went rigid but she didn’t let go and then he was hugging her back—fiercely.
They broke apart avoiding each other’s eyes. “Eight, seven, six….” Saved by Ali’s final countdown.
She was calm now and had time to wonder only briefly about where that came from. She stepped out at the exact moment Ali said zero.
“I have been sent to bring you a message. Life here must change immediately. You will listen to me and do as I say.” Rumblings of anger and dissent rose to the balcony. She could see the Spinda shifting, raising weapons, while the citizens moved out of their way with fearful glances. Oh great, what the hell do I do now?
“All persons with weapons of any kind will take them to the building directly across from me.” No one moved. Slowly the armed men began a surge forward. “Now!” She shouted. The word reverberated around the square as if carried by a will beyond this world.
The Spinda lost momentum. Halted. Slowly, as if pushed by unseen hands, the Spinda wove their way through the crowd of citizens to do as she said. The people shifted and parted to allow the Spinda through. When all weapons were placed inside, François and two helpers closed and bolted the doors.
M sagged with relief. What made the men obey? Surely not one little word from her. She looked at the ring. It was maddeningly blank.
“From this day forward, women and girls will not be forced to wear the burqa.” She knew that removing the burqa in public would be too shocking for most of the women, but she hoped some at least would act. She beckoned to Fatma and Alyia.
The two came forward and remained motionless for such a long time that the crowd began to stir and murmur. Oh God, we’ve come so far, please don’t back down now. Alyia moved first. Slowly, ever so slowly she raised her burqa above her head and let it slide to the ground. Her mother followed hesitatingly and then with more confidence. Fatma looked grim, but determined as she placed both burqas in M’s hands.
Fatma and Alyia stepped back clutching each other. It seemed that the world stood still. M waited to prolong the dramatic moment, then dropped the burqas into the tub hanging below the balcony. The Spinda roared their rage and surged forward, ready to rip the three women apart with their bare hands. When the first of the Spinda were just steps away from the tub M lit three of the fragile matches, tossed them into the tub and backed away. The gasoline caught immediately and flared. The stench of burning wool filled the air. When the flames and smoke had died down she stepped forward to see the Spinda encircled, trapped by the crowd.
“All women who wish to may remove their burqas.” No one moved.
“I’m crazy, fucking crazy. This won’t work. How can I possibly expect the women to throw off generations of subjugation here, in such a public place?” Mustafa, standing behind her, grunted agreement.
Al
yia stepped forward. “Do not be afraid.” She waved and smiled widely at the crowd, urging the women on. M could hardly believe it. Neither could Mustafa judging by his sharp intake of breath. “Bless the young and foolhardy,” she whispered. He nodded, his face a mask of astonishment. She wondered what he was thinking, whether he approved or was as horrified as the Spinda were.
Some of the women and almost all of the young girls removed their burqas. Something out there…. She looked up to the sky. Something out there….
Fatma, taking the example from her daughter, led the women in a loud ululating cheer. When the noise died down, M spoke again. “One more surprise.” She motioned Mustafa forward. His beardless face was almost as shocking to the crowd as the women removing their burqas had been.
At first no one recognized him. Then one lone voice cried, “Mustafa!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa!” the crown chanted. Mustafa raised his fist in salute, holding high the beard he had so recently cut off. He dropped it into the tub with the still smoldering burqas. The stench of burning hair rose in the air.
Mustafa turned to her and bowed. The crowd went wild. “You will stay?” he pleaded in a voice so low that only she could hear.
How could she tell this man, his eyes desperate with hope, that she didn’t know? “They are waiting.” She gestured to the crowd and stepped back. Her left hand tingled. She looked at the ring and saw an urban slum, a young man calling for help, sirens blaring…
*
She astonished me in so many ways. I hadn’t suggested the hug and I didn’t push Mustafa to hug her back, but I could almost feel that hug. Her arms around me, mine around her. It soothed, warmed… My heart pounded. Damn, I couldn’t go there.
And, I was dumbfounded by her actions—the tub, burning the burqas. I knew why she wanted to put the spotlight on the women, but I had been sure it would fail. It seemed my Little Soldier was developing powers separate from mine. It was as if she didn’t always need me. I wasn’t sure I liked that. Be honest, I told myself. You don't like it at all.
Of course, I was the one who controlled the Spinda, made them give up their weapons, and herded them into a tight circle bound by the citizens. I puffed up with pride. I could move millions.
Chapter 10