Читать книгу The Lost Puzzler - Eyal Kless - Страница 23

Rafik watched as the symbols on his fingers stretched and grew in front of his eyes, until he fell into them, enveloped by darkness. For a brief moment, he lay suspended in warm nothingness, but soon he heard soft, distant voices whispering. He could not make out what they were saying, but it didn’t bother him. He was comfortable, warm, and safe. The dots of light, which appeared before him in the darkness, drew his attention.

They grew into symbols, eventually becoming large enough for him to see their shapes clearly. Many reminded Rafik of his own tattoos, featuring crescent moons and dots, while others were completely different. He recognised numbers on a few symbols while others were completely alien. Once the wall of symbols eclipsed his horizon Rafik stopped falling and lay suspended, watching, mesmerized. It reminded him of an army of ants he and Eithan once discovered when digging in the garden of his home. The symbols kept moving next to and over each other, shuffling positions, rising and falling, disappearing as other symbols moved to the fore and reappeared elsewhere.

Rafik couldn’t take his eyes off the symbols. He felt a strong desire to touch them, to move them around, and a growing, inexplicable urge to organize them into a pattern. He somehow knew that this symbol should stand next to that one and the next one should go there.

He heard voices again, up above him, from far away.

“Don’t wake him up.”

“We can’t just leave him here like this.”

“It won’t make it any easier. Look at him, he is now at peace.”

A deeper voice said, “You shouldn’t have given him the spiked goat milk. We should have had the chance to say good-bye.”

“It is for the best—”

A more familiar voice interjected angrily, “If you ever hurt him, I hope I never find out about it, because I will kill you.”

“There aren’t many who have threatened me and are still breathing, but I assure you I have no intentions of hur—”

Rafik drew away from the voices; they were spoken from such a distance they could have been from a different world. Perhaps the voices were a dream, and the symbols before him were the only reality. Besides, he’d just realised something very exciting: there was a pattern hidden among the symbols. You only had to stop that one and move this one and cancel this line here. Rafik watched his hand stretch and extend to an impossible length, towards the wall of moving symbols. He couldn’t see his own fingers, but he was not afraid.

This is what is supposed to happen, this is how it should feel.

His hand plunged into the symbols, and Rafik discovered he could now stop some of them in their tracks. He exposed part of the pattern by holding down specific symbols with his fingers, but whenever he would take hold of one symbol the others began moving again, and since the symbols all had different patterns of movement he kept losing the pattern. Only after what seemed to be an eternity, Rafik discovered the symbols would stay in their places if he concentrated just enough on keeping them where he wanted them. It took him a while longer to figure out how to maintain control over several symbols at once. The more he concentrated, the better his control over a growing number of symbols became. He managed two symbols with relative ease, then three, then five, but soon after he realised it was fruitless. There were thousands of moving symbols in front of him, and he could stop only several at once. Rafik withdrew his hand, feeling disappointed. He could sense the pattern, but he could not control a large enough amount of symbols to reveal it. Feeling suddenly very tired, Rafik floated slowly upwards, away from the wall of symbols and towards the light above him.

The growl of a heavy engine and a horrendous blast from a passing truck’s horn startled Rafik from a very deep sleep. He found himself lying on a mat in a small room, naked under a thin linen sheet. His clothes were neatly folded on a sheepskin cushion, which matched the pillow under his head. At a glance, he saw several mats spread out evenly in the room, but they were unoccupied. Rafik’s heart lurched in his chest as he realised his brother and uncle were not with him. The only other person in the room was the scary-looking man who guarded Khan before and was now sitting on a stool with his back resting up against the wall. Upon seeing Rafik sit up the man became fully alert, got up from the stool, and shoved the pistol he was cleaning into his belt. “Finally,” he said, “I tried to wake you several times but you were out like a burned fuse.”

“Where are my brother and my uncle?” Rafik asked, his heart filled with dread.

“They went out to shop for stuff, they’ll be back soon,” the man said, but something in his eyes told Rafik he was lying.

“I want to see them.” Rafik jumped up and started to put on his clothes. He had to stop himself from bursting into tears. He remembered pleading with his brother to take him home with them, but Fahid kept promising they would come back for him when he was cured. But there was no cure. That was what Khan had said. Rafik didn’t remember who gave him the cup of sweetened goat milk, but his last memory was quenching his thirst with it. Now his uncle and brother were gone.

He had to run after them; they had to take him home. There was no cure, so there was no need for him to stay here with the man who puffed smoke from his mouth and drank cursed water and threatened his brother with a pistol. He would keep his hand in his pocket the whole time, he would never bring it out, he’d promise them. Perhaps his father could chop his fingers off again—maybe they wouldn’t grow back this time.

“You’re supposed to wait here,” the guard said. “Khan will be here soon.”

Rafik bolted towards the door.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The guard moved to intercept him with catlike speed, and he caught Rafik’s arm. But he underestimated Rafik, who was fed by the sheer terror of abandonment. The boy lashed out with all his might at the guard’s groin. The man swore in a surprised, tightly choked voice and folded over, releasing his grip on Rafik as he toppled over onto the stool behind him.

Rafik made it through the door and down a short corridor when Khan appeared in front of him, grabbed him with both hands, and dragged him kicking and screaming back to the room. The guard was still there and was not looking happy, but Khan didn’t pay him any attention. He plonked Rafik firmly on a stool, pulled over a second one using his leg, and sat himself down, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Look at me, boy,” he demanded.

“I want my brother, I want my uncle,” Rafik wailed.

Khan grabbed Rafik’s chin roughly, “I said look at me. Now tell me, how old are you?” Khan’s eyes were almost night-dark and his breath stank.

“I’m twelve.” Rafik’s voice trembled, “Where are—”

Khan leaned forward and dug bony fingers into Rafik’s cheeks. “Shut up and listen,” he said. “When I was your age I killed my old man. Do you believe me? I see in your eyes that you do. Good, now pay attention: I’m a bad guy, I am the bad guy, do you understand what I’m saying? I’m the kind of man your mummy warned you about, and the good news is that I’m on your side. I’m protecting you now, because I owe your father a favour and I promised your idiot brother that I’d take care of you.” Khan released his grip and sat up, still looking at him intently. “Now, as I said, I’m a nasty, bad man, and I won’t think twice about breaking my word, so don’t do anything that will convince me not to be on your side, like trying to run away, do you understand? And stop crying. I have no use for tears.”

“But where are my—”

“They’re gone. They left you here with me and ran back to the backwards village you were unlucky enough to be born in. They left you because—and listen to me well and stop crying, because this is important—they left you because they do not want you anymore. Because if they brought you back home you would be hanged and quartered and burned, and so would they. They abandoned you here with me, and now I need to take care of you. From this day on I am your father, and your mother, and uncle and brother and whatever other extended family you might be stupid enough to miss, Rafik. Those fools are so backwards they do not realise what a blessing you are. You may not believe it now, but one day you will look at this as the happiest moment of your life. You can never go back to your village, ever. I can see you don’t want to believe me, and perhaps you are already thinking about running back to the mud huts and the bearded fanatics there. But I’m going to stop you, not only because you wouldn’t last two strides in this town before a big, fat trucker turned you into his love doll, but because when I find you—and have no doubt that I will find you—I will make you beg for the trucker. Understood?”

Rafik did not know what a love doll was, or what a fat trucker would do to him, but he understood the threatening tone clearly. He nodded, too afraid to speak, but Khan seemed satisfied.

“On the bright side, if we play our cards right, you and I are going to be rich and live a nice, comfortable life. Do as I say, and I’m going to take care of you, understand? Nod if you can’t talk. Good. Now do you want some food? You need some food in you. Martinn here will bring you some food, and you will eat it all and you will not leave this room unless I give you permission to do so, are we clear?”

“I want to go to the bathroom, and I want to wash,” Rafik said suddenly, realising how many days it had been since his skin last felt fresh water.

“The shit shed is outside. Martinn will take you there. Be careful not to fall in. I’ll bring up a basin and some soap. If you’re good I’ll take you to the bathhouse in a couple of days.”

Rafik was taken to the shed outside, which was a hole in the ground boxed in by thin wooden planks. It was there that he discovered what had been left in the inside pocket of his tunic. It was the knife his brother had taken as a trophy from one of the bandits he’d killed. The sharp blade sprang in and out of its sheath with the pressing of a button. Rafik always envied Fahid for owning such a blade. He’d even stolen it once and played with it all afternoon, earning a hiding from his brother when he was discovered. Now he held the weapon in his hand and knew he would never see Fahid again.

But with this realisation, a certain calmness washed over him. This was the will of the Prophet Reborn. He was on an adventure, and in his hand he held a knife. When he came out of the shack the knife was hidden again.

Martinn gave Rafik permission to go and wash his hands and face in the basin rooms. Rafik opened one of the doors only to find the biggest man he ever saw, with a woman half his size crushed between him and the wall, her legs wrapped around the man’s mighty waist. They were doing something Rafik had only ever heard about in whispers. He did not see much because the woman, in a feat of impressive flexibility, leaned over and slammed the door in his face, muttering, “See something you want, boy?”

Rafik completely forgot about washing himself as he ran back to his room, knelt down on his knees on the sticky floor, clasped his hands before him, closed his eyes, and prayed to the Prophet Reborn with all his might.