Читать книгу The Lost Puzzler - Eyal Kless - Страница 15

Rafik lay on the ground, trying to stay still and control his breathing. If his pursuers would hear him it would be his end. He heard shouts and the thumping of feet hitting the ground a few yards to his left, and he fought the urge to bolt. There were two of them. A third one moved farther away, searching, but Rafik guessed he was still within earshot.

“Did you see him? Are you sure?” It was one of the infidels.

“Yes, I’m sure,” came the answer from such a close distance it made Rafik’s heart jerk with fear. “We take him out and we’ll have them all.”

Rafik closed his eyes and dug his chin down in the dirt, willing himself to be grass, praying to the Prophet Reborn for help, berating himself for any blasphemous thoughts or deeds in his past, for surely his sinful ways had brought him to this predicament. If what the infidel said was true, all his friends were either captured or taken out. He could not make up his mind which fate was better; the infidels had their nasty ways with captives, and he knew that for a fact. Poor Eithan—Rafik had made efforts to protect his friend, but they’d split up in the woods and Eithan was among the first to fall.

One of the infidels took another step towards the shallow ditch, and Rafik shivered involuntarily as he heard the enemy’s feet crushing the grass.

They were almost above him, standing on top of the mound. It was a sheer miracle neither of them looked down and spotted him practically lying under their feet.

After an eternity, he heard one of them say “Let’s go. He probably kept running east. We’ll find him soon enough—he can’t be too far away.”

The other infidel mumbled a defeated reply, and they began to move away. He was saved; thank the God and the Prophet Reborn. Rafik’s body, suddenly realising he’d been holding his breath for far too long, exhaled quickly. The gesture was followed, naturally, by a large intake of breath, which carried dust from the plants or the earth. Before Rafik could control himself, he sneezed loudly.

The rest happened in kind of a blur. He heard shouts of discovery and running steps getting closer. Rafik’s fist clenched over dirt and dead leaves as he uttered one last prayer to the Prophet Reborn. When they were on top of him, he jumped up and flung the handful of dirt into the face of the incoming infidel—who, bless the Prophet Reborn, was just opening his mouth in a shout of triumph. The result was pretty spectacular, but Rafik did not linger to watch. He was running again, this time faster than ever before, faster than he’d ever run in his life. He heard his pursuers behind him and bolted through the undergrowth, trying to lose them. There was no point in turning and fighting; he would be overwhelmed for sure. There was only one thing to do now: complete his mission or die trying.

Rafik altered his course midstride and burst through the undergrowth again. As luck would have it, he actually ran right between two surprised infidel guards, and before they managed to react he was already back in the foliage. Now there were four of them running after him. Four, two, it doesn’t matter, the exhilarating thought flashed in his mind, as long as they cannot catch me.

The infidels probably realised what he was trying to do, as several cries rose from the areas he passed, and they began converging on him from all directions. In his peripheral vision, Rafik saw dark silhouettes rushing almost alongside him. Soon they would pounce. Instinctively, he abruptly altered his course again, which took him in a direction away from his goal but also traced an arc that would confuse his pursuers just a little while longer—at least that was what he hoped to accomplish.

Suddenly he was confronted by an infidel who stepped from behind a tree and tried to grab him. But he misjudged the power Rafik had accumulated in his mad dash. They collided, and the infidel fell back on the ground with a thump and a cry of surprise and pain. Rafik barely lost speed, but the little he lost was significant. They were almost upon him, and he was getting too tired to keep this pace much longer. It was now or never.

Rafik roughly calculated his position and changed his direction once more, ducking under the arm of a pursuing infidel, his bare feet feeling as if they were hardly touching the ground. He could see his mark now, getting closer, but also the infidels who were running towards him from all directions. He passed the bodies of his friends lying on the ground in neat rows, Eithan among them. It was over, he knew it. One infidel was in a better position and would intercept Rafik before he could reach his target. The others were only an arm’s reach behind him; he heard the sound of their steps hitting the dirt and could almost feel their breath on his back.

There was no power in him anymore; his lungs were on fire, his feet were bleeding, and his body was in agony. In a few heartbeats, Rafik knew, it would be over. The unbelievers would triumph, yet it was something he was still unable to come to terms with. God was with the believers, and the infidels always lost. Always. It was something Rafik had known as a fact from the moment he could comprehend words from sound. Just as he felt himself slow into despair and defeat, his body already accepting the fate his heart was yet rejecting, the infidel who was about to intercept him stumbled on an invisible twig on the ground. An accident? Surely not! It was a miracle.

Rafik’s spirit soared as he skipped over the body of the fallen infidel guard, galloped the last few yards, and wrapped his hands around the tree that was his target, shouting, “Boom!” again and again in ecstatic joy. He heard the infidels curse in defeat and his teammates, the holy warriors, shout in joyful triumph as he raised his hands and proclaimed victory.

When Rafik turned around he saw his teammates jumping up and down, roaring their excitement. Eithan ran forward and hugged his friend, picked him up from the ground, and spun him around in a circle. The infidel team looked disappointed, but many among them held Rafik’s view on God’s attitude towards the believers and were almost visibly relieved to lose.

The boys changed the name of the game often, sometimes to “Pure Blood and Tattooed” or “Guards and Bandits.” The rules were pretty much the same, but when they called the game “Holy Warriors and Infidels” there was always an extra excitement in the game, much more at stake than a simple afternoon’s honour. No matter what the odds, the holy warriors were the blessed sons of the Prophet Reborn. The Infidels had to lose, they had to, even if this time was too close for comfort.

Rafik squirmed and kicked a bit until Eithan finally lowered him down, though he was still full of excitement, and he kept hugging and thumping Rafik’s chest with open palms even as the rest of the boys were calming down. That was typical Eithan; he always became completely engrossed in everything they did but remained a little too enthusiastic for too long. It annoyed Rafik, who found Eithan’s company embarrassing at times, especially around girls. But when one chooses his best friend at the age of three and they swear to each other in blood at the age of seven, one does not break the friendship just because pretty Elriya keeps laughing whenever Eithan behaves like a fool. Nor do you walk away from a friendship because your sworn brother happens to be absolutely awful in any kind of physical game and sport, and you have to coerce your teammates with promises and threats so they pick Eithan for their team.

Rafik pushed his friend gently away before the others began taunting them. With his attention focused on Eithan, Rafik did not notice the two boys who emerged from the bush. One of them was Cnaan, the boy who had swallowed the dirt flung by Rafik. Strictly speaking, when the only rule of taking a combatant out of play was that his back had to touch the ground, Rafik’s move was perfectly legal. Yet Cnaan was not trying to dispute the victory or debate the rules; he just wanted to get even. In his clenched fist, he held a massive ball of leaves and dirt, and he charged Rafik with the zeal of hurt pride and the confidence of someone who outweighs his opponent by a full stone.

Eithan called a warning, but Rafik only managed to turn before he was lifted off the ground for the second time. A heartbeat later the ground claimed him back with a cloud of dust and a blow that took the air out of his lungs. His right hand partially blocked the fall, and he felt the skin scratch and split open on the gravel.

Momentarily dazed, Rafik could only shield his face from the barrage of vicious blows Cnaan was landing on him. He twisted and managed to half-turn on the ground, but Cnaan turned him back with a vicious shove and sat firmly on Rafik’s chest, pinning him down. As his eyes cleared, Rafik’s vision was filled with Cnaan’s heavyset frame. One chubby hand grabbed Rafik’s jaw while another was poised, ready to shove a fistful of revenge into his mouth.

Suddenly Cnaan’s overbearing weight was lifted off Rafik’s chest. Rafik rolled to the left and rose unsteadily to his feet, wiping dirt off his face with his bloodied arm. Cnaan and Eithan were rolling on the ground, kicking, punching and, in Eithan’s case, occasionally biting. That was another trait of the little guy; fearlessness and a blind loyalty to his blood friend. Rafik did not mind that side of Eithan’s personality. The problem was that Cnaan had friends as well—perhaps more followers than friends, but boys ready to join in the fight, especially if Cnaan was winning. They set upon Eithan, and it was Rafik’s turn to come to the rescue. Rafik had friends, too, boys who suffered from Cnaan’s attention from time to time and were waiting for an opportunity for payback. In a few heartbeats, the entire group was brawling.

As the battle commenced, time slowed and the outside world vanished from existence. Rafik flung his limbs in all directions, hitting anyone he did not recognise as a friendly face. As in any battle of grand proportions, alliances were formed and promptly broken as one side lost heart. A few of Cnaan’s entourage fled the fight, bleeding and crying. When Rafik saw the glint of fear in Cnaan’s eyes, he knew he was going to win the day yet again, but victory was snatched away with cruel suddenness as a heavy set of hands clamped around his collar and he was hauled to his feet. Angry words were hurled at him from several grown-ups. He was slapped across his brow, and that was stronger and more humiliating than anything he’d suffered during the fight. The rest of the boys were held by other angry adults.

Rafik held his breath and tried as hard as he could not to cry. At the corner of his eye he caught Cnaan’s frightened stare; like Rafik, he was trapped between two pairs of heavyset arms. A temporary alliance silently formed with that very glance, as a new common enemy was recognised: the grown-ups.

“Why were you fighting? Who started this?”

Rafik did not answer, nor did Cnaan, or Eithan.

“We thought it was a bandit attack; the entire village is up in arms,” said another angry voice to his left. “The signals were fired, men are coming back from the fields, women and children are hiding, what were you thinking? I will tell your father, Rafik, and I hope he’ll put his belt on you.”

Many more grown-ups were now arriving, all of them carrying weapons. Rafik’s heart sunk. It was true; now that the ringing noise in his ears had subsided, the ringing of the alarm bells was clearly audible. They were in trouble—worse, he was in trouble.

“Tell me who started this or …” The hand rose up again and Rafik flinched, knowing the slap was going to hurt and this time he would cry.

“That’s enough, Rachmann.”

The commanding voice of Fahid, Rafik’s older brother, froze the threatening hand as it was poised to strike. Instead, Rafik was released.

The man called Rachmann turned to face Rafik’s brother. “The boy’s mischief frightened the entire village.” He pointed an accusing finger at Rafik. “Is there no discipline in your household?”

“I do not see Rafik standing alone here, do you?” was the calm reply. “And he was not fighting with himself, yet I see your hand raised against only one boy.”

“Well, we all know he is the one full of mischief,” grunted Rachmann, who was many years older than Fahid and disliked being told off by someone who had just come of age.

“Even if what you claim is true, it is not your duty to discipline my brother. Only our father has this right. I assure you he will admonish Rafik for his misdeeds.”

Perhaps it was the assured voice which calmed Rachmann down, or the rifle that was casually slung over Fahid’s shoulder—the same rifle with which Fahid had single-handedly fought off the bandits only two months before and brought honour to the Banishra house. Rachmann grunted something mildly offensive under his breath and stepped aside.

At a gesture from his older sibling, Rafik began walking away from the group, but not before glancing meaningfully at Eithan and Cnaan. If their condition reflected his own, Rafik was a sight to behold. He felt the tickle of blood streaming gently from his hand, and his left cheekbone was already swollen and tender.

The siblings walked in silence for a while until they cleared the trees. Fahid stopped, put a hand on Rafik’s shoulder, and said, “Now, let’s take a look at you, little brother.”

He turned Rafik this way and that, and after a brief inspection he proclaimed, “Goodness, your shirt is torn and you’ve got a nice black eye here. And look at your hand, it’s bleeding all over the place. Mother will kill us both.”

There was definite concern in Fahid’s tone of voice. Rafik shuddered. Their father was a quiet and resolute man who rarely shouted and never hit his children. Their mother, on the other hand, was his fiery opposite, with a mighty forearm and a heavy-duty ladle, which she used to dish out her own painful version of the holy scripts.

Fahid smiled as they continued walking. “So who threw the first punch?”

When he grows up, Rafik wants to be just like his older brother: tall and strong and loyal, known to be a source of quiet strength and courage among the villagers even though he would only reach sixteen springs this year. Yet Fahid was a grown-up now, and one did not snitch to grown-ups, no matter who they were. Rafik shrugged and did not answer, not wishing to lie to his own brother nor betray his friends.

But although Fahid was about to be married soon, he had not forgotten the code of his own youth, and he laughed as he ruffled his younger brother’s short hair. “At least tell me you gave as much as you got.”

Rafik tried to smile but found the cut in his lower lip hurt too much.

“Eithan and I, we were winning.”

Fahid let out a short chuckle. “You are a brave pair, the both of you, fighting those odds.”

And that was the best compliment Rafik had ever gotten.

Pain all but forgotten, he walked on air after his older brother all the way home to be berated by their angry mother.