by Luke Norris
“Speak Targon!” Oliver commanded. “Did Shael wake me with intent, at the designated time?”
“I… ah, just one moment.” He turned to Shael, slightly flummoxed. “Oliver is asking if you woke him when he asked to be woken. He seems quite serious about it too.”
“The only communication we had was when he told me his name,” Shael said, raising her hands innocently.
“Oliver,” Targon said. “Shael is still learning the ancient languages. When did you want to be woken? Tell me, and I’ll make sure she wakes you next time.”
Now Oliver looked visibly shaken, realization dawning on his face. “What did you tell him Targon?” Shael asked, becoming concerned. “He looks more worried now than when I found him.”
“Don’t be agitated my boy,” Targon put a comforting hand on Oliver’s shoulder. He was leaning forward supporting himself on the cluttered table, covered in his research papers.
“Tell me Targon,” Oliver said. “How long ago was the war with the highlands?”
“My boy, do you mean the unification war? There were no more highland tribes by the first epoch. You must mean the unification of highlands and lowlands. I get the feeling you are already an expert on the subject. Do these wars have different names where you are from?”
“Yes, the unification war,” Oliver said quietly. “How long ago?”
“That is generally agreed by historians to have taken place a little over five hundred years ago. But the…” Targon caught Oliver as he suddenly wobbled on his feet.
“You asked when I was meant to be woken,” Oliver looked at Targon. “I was meant to be woken three hundred and fifty years ago. I am King Oliver. Verity and I were the sleepers within, to be woken one hundred and fifty years after the unification, by a descendant of Ponsy.” He glanced at Shael. “I believe she woke me by accident. I would eventually have perished had Shael not found me. Have you heard of me? Have you heard of King Oliver?”
“Okay, I think that’s enough fairy tales for one night.” Targon nodded for Shael to take the tall man’s other arm so they could help him to his room. He went with no resistance, obviously exhausted from the interaction.
“I think our friend was in the jungle and little too long Shael.” Targon switched back to speaking Naharainee.
“Yes, I got the last part.” Shael rolled her eyes. “He quoted the inscription on the stone I found. This is just great. All I need is to be looking after a crazy for two weeks.”
“He’s obviously a historian,” Targon said. “He has fabricated a story which actually draws on some very obscure references. He also speaks Hajir better than anyone I know. Perhaps he has knowledge of some of the other dialects.”
Once they had helped him to bed, Shael stood at his bedroom door watching the sleeping Oliver. He was certainly foreign. The height, brown eyes. “Goodnight, King Oliver.” She chuckled shaking her head.
That night Shael dreamt of being back in the burial chamber. She was shining her torch at the stone lid where the king was depicted, except this time the face and head were was clean shaven. It was the face of the man in the next room.
*
Apart from being crazy, and believing that he was a person from five hundred years ago, Oliver was very good company. And what’s more, he was gentle and kind with the old man. Shael often saw him patiently listening to Targon, pointing things out on a map, or correcting a translation. Quite frankly, it was becoming disconcerting to watch how eager and boyish the old scholar was around Oliver. How did he possibly know things that Targon didn’t? It was clearly a testament to his study and dedication.
Shael had even taken to calling Oliver ‘Your Highness’ when he asked for things. He would just smile and laugh along at the joke. Despite his schizophrenic delusions, he was likable.
“Shael you must see this!” Targon called her over excitedly. “Oliver has told me of a highland clan I’ve never heard of. He says they were called Nasir, and their symbol was the eagle.”
The two men were bent over a map. Oliver was wearing one of Targon’s natural brown wool jerseys. It was enormous on the old man but fitting on Oliver.
“That is hundreds of kilometers from where we were,” Shael said looking at the map. “Did his highness tell you he trekked through jungle and found the ruins?” She sipped her tea, eyebrow raised.
“Tell us, my boy, why have we not heard of them if they were such a prominent clan?” Targon asked.
“Many of the Nasir men and boys took the brunt of the attack during the war,” Oliver said sadly, “and they bravely faced the most deadly foe. Sadly I was too late to save many of them. The chief survived, but the clansmen were killed. The women were dispersed afterward, mostly by taken in by Ab-Jibil.”
Now Targon was hanging his head in respect, this was getting out of hand.
“How could you possibly know that Oliver?” she demanded. “Oh wait, because you were king Oliver, fighting in the same battle right?” She hit Targon playfully on the shoulder. “Don’t encourage him. I think we need to get you both out of the house for a little while. Oliver, you’ve been inside for a week. You are looking much better. I think we can risk venturing out.”
Targon translated, then added to Shael, “I’d like to make a visit to the Sharak national archives with Oliver. I want to see if there is anything to corroborate his claim about another clan.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “But no mentioning of who Oliver is. I still have to keep our highness under wraps for another week.”
“You mean don’t mention that we are walking in public with King Oliver?” Targon chuckled.
“You know what I mean, you cheeky old geezer,” Shael said. Then she spoke slowly for Oliver. He seemed keen on learning Naharainee, so she was helping. “We are going to the City, Oliver.”
“Good,” Oliver replied. “I need to see what technological advancements have been made in my absence.”
Shael rolled her eyes. “Alright come on you two!”
Shael had to continuously usher Oliver along. He was like a bright-eyed boy, inspecting the train as though he’d never seen one before. He was like this with everything. There was something endearing about his enthusiasm, but she couldn’t believe that he had not seen an everyday train before. It was as though he believed his own delusion, which was concerning. Shael was considering bringing him to a psychiatrist after the week was up. It wouldn’t be humane to simply send him on his way. Especially if he didn’t know where he was from. Shael cast aside these thoughts as a zewka approached them down the aisle, collecting from other passengers as he went. His white long sleeved top with the small double moon insignia on his breast gave him away. The man was clean shaven, but his respectable facade was somewhat lessened by a flat nose which had been broken, and the zewka lines shaved across his short cropped hair.
“Tickets!” said the zewka. He didn’t bother looking at them.
Shael rummaged in her bag and handed the man three groties. One for each of them.
“I thought we already bought tickets,” Oliver said to Targon.
“Yes but you pay for everything twice in this city.” Targon was lowering his voice, even though nobody else could understand him speaking Hajir. “Pay once to the government and once to the zewka.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Oliver said.
As they spoke an elderly man sitting nearby was arguing with the zewka.
“We go through this every time Tomil,” said the zewka, reaching over pushing the struggling man back into his seat, and reaching over to his bag. The man was frail and old but still fought with fire in his eyes. The zewka easily held him at bay, as he rummaged through the man's things, searching for his money. “And every time it’s the same. You pay the tax like everyone else.” He pulled out several coins looking satisfied. “Plus a small fee for the inconvenience of the argument.”
It was true, Shael had seen the old man on this line before, putting up the same feeble struggle in protest to the tax. This time he
was alone though, not with his wife. He seemed to have visibly aged a lot, his shoulders looked more hunched and shaky.
“You should be ashamed,” the old man scolded him, in a frail voice. “What you’re doing to Naharain isn’t right.”
Targon was explaining things to Oliver. “But it’s the way things are in Naharain…” He broke off as Oliver stood and approached the zewka man. “Oliver sit down!” he whispered furiously. “What are you doing?”
Shael watched in horror as Oliver calmly walked over to the zewka. She snatched at his arm to try and pull him back to his seat. “Oliver sit down!”
He reached the zewka who was presently occupied taxing some other passengers. Oliver turned the stunned man around by the shoulder, then reached into his money satchel and pulled out the three groties. The zewka man stared at his money bag then up at Oliver in disbelief. Oliver stood a head taller than the man and was relaxed watching him with intense scrutinizing eyes.
“Oh Targon, we are in trouble,” Shael whispered.
“As sure as the mountains shadow,” Targon agreed, watching with wide, fearful eyes. “What is he thinking?”
The zewka was obviously wondering the same thing. He seemed at a loss for words and stumped as for how to deal with this man. He held the bag out for Oliver to replace the coins. “It’s the zewka tax,” he said as if it were self-explanatory.
To Shael’s complete dismay Oliver reached in and took several more coins. Then, to make the situation worse, if that were possible, he handed them back to the elderly man next to him. The man took Oliver’s hand with both of his and looked at Oliver watery eyed. “Finally,” he said. “Finally. Sharaq has waited a long time for someone like you.” He sat back down looking overwhelmed.
Shael was terrified but found Oliver’s actions pure, endearing, like a child wanting to save a calasp from drowning without knowing the consequences.
Oliver simply nodded and turned back to the zewka. “No zewka tax!” he said, in very broken Naharainee.
“No, no, no.” Shael buried her head in her hands, unable to watch.
But the zewka seemed intimidated by Oliver, and not willing to do anything. Shael couldn't blame him looking at Oliver’s authoritative demeanor. Had Oliver always held himself like that? It was as if he transformed into someone else before her eyes.
He wouldn’t be so calm if he realized who he’d antagonized, Shael thought to herself. Okay, I need a plan, how I’m going to talk us out of this. He’s a foreigner, didn’t know better. We maybe pay an inconvenience fee.
The zewka touched his wrist and began talking to somebody over his com-unit. That was not a good sign. Then he smiled to himself, a satisfied nasty grin, and seemed happy just to sit and wait.
Oliver hadn’t moved, and also seemed content to wait there, looking unconcerned. How was he so relaxed? He didn’t know what was coming, that was how. The rest of the passengers in the carriage appeared to be acutely aware, and they were shuffling in their seats, preparing for an exit at the next station. The few minutes it took to get to the next station felt like an eternity to Shael.
As the train pulled into the station, she could already see three zewka waiting on the platform. A smaller man and two… well two brutes. Okay, this could be salvaged, she could explain, and defuse the situation now. As the train slowed to a stop, she went to stand up, but a hand gently pushed her back in her seat.
“Stay!” Oliver said, speaking Hajir.
“Get out of my way you idiot!” Shael said. “I’ve got about thirty seconds to undo the mess you have put us in.”
Again Oliver held her in her seat. The men were coming on board. New plan. She would feign ignorance. She didn’t know this man. He was a crazy anyway, and she could quite frankly do without the stress.
The smaller man strode up the aisle with authority. He wore a suit and had perfectly groomed hair with the zewka lines running across the top. The muscle loped along behind.
He stopped in front of Oliver, not acknowledging the colleague who still sat there waiting.
“I’m sure there has been a misunderstanding here,” he said staring up at Oliver. “My colleague told me there was a passenger who was not aware of the tax. No need to fret, this happens from time to time. However, ignorance is no defense unfortunately, so the late payment penalty of one hundred groties will be added to the three groty tax. For you two also I assume?” He addressed Shael and Targon.
Okay, one hundred groties was, well lots of money but reasonable to get out of this situation. As if reading her mind, Oliver held her gently down again. Damn that man. If he wanted to risk himself fine, but now she and Targon were involved.
“No zewka tax,” Oliver repeated.
“Ah,” the small zewka didn’t seem surprised. “So you are aware of the mandatory tax then, and knowingly or willingly sought to avoid said tax? Well, that is a whole different penalty.” He paused, clearly fabricating something on the spot, probably not having had a situation like this in decades. “Four thousand groties!”
Shael gasped, that was two months salary.
“Failing that,” he continued, “sixty days zewka labor.”
Shael was shaking now. Some people didn’t come back from the zewka mines. Especially their enemies.
“No zewka tax,” Oliver repeated, actually looking satisfied with himself for getting the pronunciation right.
“Fair enough,” said the zewka officer, stepping back behind the two larger men he’d brought. They were of a different breed. The fine suits sat awkwardly on their brutish bodies.
Now he must understand, Shael thought, why then does he still look so calm? Sweet Verity, he has more than one circuit missing in that brain.
Shael winced in anticipation for Oliver. She had grown to like him over the last week, and seeing him hurt, or get beaten to a pulp, was likely the soon-to-be scenario. His grandiose delusion, of being a figure from history, was really Oliver’s only fault, and until this point had proven relatively harmless. She’d even been able to joke with him about it, and he took it in good humor. Now she wasn’t sure if this display of bravado, could be attributed to Oliver’s schizophrenia or something else.
Oliver held hands out submissively, palms up. One of the brutish zewka went to take his hands as if this were expected. The zewka was puzzled to find his own hands in Oliver’s grip. Before Shael could really register how it had happened exactly, Oliver had the large man’s twisted back at a painful angle and was controlling the man’s bulky frame, using it to block the aisle so the other couldn’t get to Oliver.
Oliver looked straight at the small officer. “No Zewka tax,” he said sternly, and in a swift upward motion lifted the man’s hands. Shael heard several sickening cracks, as fingers on both hands broke.
The zewka thug screamed out in agony, and went whimpering to his knees, trying to coddle one busted hand with another. Oliver put his foot on the man’s chest and pushed him onto his back, then stepped over the crumpled body toward the second man.
Ponsy’s hammer, he had not just put a zewka on the ground. Shael felt as if she were watching a dream sequence… from a nightmare.
The second brute took a swing at Oliver, putting his entire weight behind it. Somehow Oliver managed to avoid the punch, almost as if he was expecting it to come from that precise angle. Now, what was he doing? Using the man’s own momentum, Oliver seized the back of his head, and brought the zewka’s face, with frightening speed, crashing onto one of the steel chair corners. The brute slumped unconscious onto his whimpering colleague. Oliver hadn’t even broken a sweat. But he wasn’t finished. The ticket officer who was still sitting, watching the whole sequence unfold in disbelief, found himself being pulled up painfully by his ear. No sooner was he standing than Oliver executed a practiced looking hand chop to the man’s temple.
Shael and Targon both gaped, utterly speechless, at the pile of men on the ground at Oliver’s feet. In fact, all the passengers, most of whom had moved to the ends of the carriage, we
re staring silently. The small zewka officer was panicked and backed down the carriage. The train was between stations, so there was nowhere to go. Oliver didn’t pursue him, he stepped back over the heaped zewka and sat down beside Targon. The old man came to his senses much quicker than Shael.
“That was quite astounding what you just did Oliver,” Targon said. “Also, you maybe don’t know it yet, but this will mean trouble. There are not simply three zewka in Naharain. They are an organization, a long-standing institution.”
“Targon, back up a second!” Shael said, hysterically. “Did we just witness the same thing? Who is Oliver? I mean, who the hell is he? Oh, he’s just your everyday archaeologist super soldier. I want to know the truth! The King Oliver gag was a fun, harmless thing while we were at home, but this is deadly serious now.” She was hysterical, but in all fairness why was Targon not the same? The train was slowing for the next platform. “Right now we have to get out of here, and back to the house. We are about to become the three most wanted people in Naharain.”
Shael had been silently fuming on the trip back. Once again, she found herself in a situation that seemed out of her control, her fate being steered by this man, this stranger. She gave Oliver another scowl, as she had been doing continuously for the last twenty minutes. He still wasn’t watching her. He was chatting quietly to Targon, in perfect Hajir. Perfect Hajir? Here was a young man speaking the ancient language with ease, the only other person in the entire world that could speak it was the old man, a learned scholar, sitting next to him.
Oliver was turned away from her, but she had the distinct impression he was acutely aware of her attention and everyone else in this train. She sighed audibly so he would hear. He didn’t turn his head. He was so frustrating. This eccentric delusion he was claiming to believe, she wasn’t buying. Not the part about being a king, but that he actually believed it. No, this was an intelligent man, and such behavior didn’t add up. But then he seemed so adamant about it. He was such a conundrum. She was a scientist, but Oliver seemed like an enigma. Could it be that he had studied the period so intensely that in his mind he became a part of the world, adopting the most significant persona of that time? Shael sighed louder.
