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The Hero, the VLBs’ newsletter, refers to the article in The Voice of the Mockbas to turn the argument back against them.
The Voice of the Mockbas has called on us to be vigilant. Granted, we see their point. Things are indeed happening without our knowing, we are aware of that. But they don’t only say that we are not paying attention: they accuse us of having allowed evil to proliferate, and therefore of being complicit in some plot against our holy religion, and they criticize us—simple believers that we are, who offer up our own time to help our fellow citizens, our religious police, and the Inspection of Morality—of not fighting the terrorism this savage horde is seeking to impose upon the country. Are we also supposed to be militia and policemen? We know how much we owe our honorable mockbis, but now we must say no to their newsletter—which is their mouthpiece, since it is called The Voice of the Mockbas, or the voice of the mockbis, which amounts to the same thing, and we accuse them in turn of having failed to show vigilance and serious intent, for who teaches our holy religion to the population? The mockba—they themselves, in other words! Who evaluates the level of the believers’ morality in the neighborhoods and districts? Once again, the mockba—they themselves! Finally, who is authorized to declare rihad and launch a vast operation to purify people’s morals and their minds? Still the mockba—they themselves! Have they done this? Are they doing it? Will they do it? In reply to all three questions, no. So, for pity’s sake, may they spare us their gratuitous accusations. We are volunteers, we sacrifice ourselves day and night for our religion, we want recognition and respect. A word to the wise is enough.
A free, mimeographed leaflet, published by a rich merchant from the Sîn region: thanks to the caravan drivers a few copies are going around the country, and it tells this little story which sounds like a fairy tale from the mountains:
Civilian guards in a Dru village have reported that a helicopter bearing the coat of arms of the Honorable Bri was seen maneuvering in the region of the Zib pass to the northwest of the famous sanatorium at Sîn. We did not know that the Honorable Bri, who is currently our acting Great Commander, may Yölah assist and protect him, had interests in the region. We would have celebrated his presence among us and facilitated his business in a brotherly and respectful manner. But no, the helicopter merely circled here and there and eventually left a man off on a plateau; he was carrying mountaineering equipment. Every day thereafter the guards saw him, spotted him, caught a glimpse; he was dressed in a very odd way, shall we say old-fashioned, and he hurried here and there and yonder, as if he were looking for something—a lost trail, a legendary ruin, a secret passage, the forbidden road, perhaps. Intrigued by his behavior, the Dru villagers put together a group of young men to go up and question him, to help him if he was in need, or chase him away if he was harboring evil intentions. They couldn’t find him anywhere; he had vanished. They looked again and again and spread the word to the most remote villages. Not a thing. The Dru villagers finally concluded that the man had gone to look for the famous Border and that if he didn’t perish at the bottom of a ravine or wasn’t carried away by a mountain torrent or a landslide or an avalanche, maybe he had found the Border; or maybe he turned around and went home with his tail between his legs. The young people just laughed about it as they drank their tea around the fire, and it had started snowing again, harder than ever, erasing all human trace; obliged to stay in their shelter, they told stories about how they themselves and their parents before them had searched in vain for that mythical border. They are now convinced that it does not exist, or not in their parts, anyway; it must be somewhere over on the other side of the pass, to the southeast, in Bud or Raqi territory, beyond the summit of the Gur or elsewhere, because the Buds and the Raqi are practically certain that the border runs through Dru territory, or way up there among the Sher, who vie with the eagles for the sky.
This story about the Border is as strange as they come. If the Border does not exist, and that is certain, its legend does, and is still growing. The ancestors of our most distant ancestors already talked about it, but in our mountains at the top of the world the border is what separates good from evil. Nomads and smugglers know only too well that no border can separate one mountain from another, or one pass from another, one nomad or smuggler from another. The border is their connection. If sometimes caravans disappear, or are attacked and decimated, they know who is responsible, it’s the caravan drivers themselves, the very same who broke with divine law to devote themselves to theft and crime.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rohan Wilson’s first book, The Roving Party, won the The Australian/Vogel’s Literary Award as well as the Margaret Scott Prize and the NSW Premier’s Literary Award. Wilson was chosen as one of the Sydney Morning Herald’s Best Young Novelists in 2012.