“You must not tell me that the patient shall not last the night unless it is true. I shall not be brought out on a fool’s errand.” An overweight woman in a stained white jacket strode into the room and stopped at the alien sight of an Ingush trader alongside a foreigner. “What do you want?”
“Only to help,” Wade replied.
“You stay,” the trader told him, and headed for the door. “It is not safe for you to be seen.”
The woman showed growing confusion. “You are sick?”
Wade shook his head. “Do you need supplies?”
“Ah, another trader bearing the dregs of Russian medicine,” she muttered bitterly. Shadows of fatigue gouged deep crevices under her eyes. “Save your strength. I have no money with which to buy even aspirin.”
“Then I shall give it to you,” Wade replied.
The hostility hardened into anger. “Do not joke with me,” she snapped. “I face yet another winter with no news of shipments which are six months late. Six months! Do you know what it is like to treat people with hot water and herbs?”
“Yes,” Wade said, and turned as the trader brought in the first load. “Here you will find analgesics. In these two boxes, sterile solutions. And here are two hundred disposable syringes. They can be boiled and reused, but only the needles can go into your sterilizer. The syringes will melt.”
The trader departed with a broad grin for the doctor’s growing confusion.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“It does not matter,” he replied. When the trader reappeared, Wade went on. “Ampicillin, one hundred doses. Another hundred sulfas. Urinary tract medicines, digestive tract, anesthetics, both local and general. Can you read directions in English?”
The woman sought support from the doorjamb. “You are giving these to me?”
“Yes.”
“Do not jest,” she pleaded, her voice touched by desperation. “I tell you, I have no money. These people are too poor to pay.”
The trader straightened from setting down his load and declared solemnly, “Woman, I am Ingush. The Ingush do not lie. I tell you truthfully, this is a man of God. Take him at his word.” He turned and left the room.
“Here are a few instruments,” Wade said. “Not many. Thermometers, scalpels, probes, needles, and gut. I hope it is enough.”
“Enough,” the woman murmured, her eyes on the boxes.
“This is the last of them,” the trader announced, depositing his final load.
“All I ask,” Wade told her, “is that whenever a trader or his family enter here, be it night or day, winter or summer, you will give to them from the best of what you know and have.”
A single tear escaped from the woman’s eye and made its way down the broad features. She whispered, “It will be as you say.”
They arrived at the entrance to Krestovy Pass just as the setting sun turned the gathering clouds to burnished gold. “The Georgians call this the Jvari Pass,” the Ingush driver explained to Wade. “Jvari means cross. It is here that the Terek River, which flows into Russia, and the Aragvi, which flows through Georgia, are both born.”
From his perch behind the driver, Wade saw glaciers clinging to every visible cliffside. Their passage had carved boulder-strewn scores deep into the alien landscape. From the glaciers’ lower reaches poured great flows of whitish-green waters, which gathered in pools and lakes and streams in every direction as far as Wade could see.
The trader had proudly taken charge of Wade’s truck before the final onslaught on the pass. Wade had protested, not from a desire to drive himself, but for the sake of the three Russians who remained cooped up within their cramped tunnels. But the Ingush would have none of it. The man of God did not know what lay ahead, he had proclaimed. Otherwise he would not wish to see, much less drive himself. With a nod from Rogue, Wade had agreed.
Out of respect for his years, Wade had insisted that Mikhail take the passenger seat. After checking that the Russians were doing as well as could be expected after almost seven hours in their stuffy burrows, Wade lifted the canvas awning up and out of the way. This would allow more air to filter through and also grant Wade an uninterrupted view.
The road leveled out for its final advance upon the pass. They detoured around what before had been an avalanche tunnel, now smothered by a rockslide so large its lower stones dwarfed the trucks that crawled past. The road deteriorated to a crumbling track, often submerged beneath swiftly running waters. Twice there were great crashing booms as rocks loosened and fell somewhere out of sight. All jollity vanished from the Ingush trader. He drove at a snail’s pace and with a white-knuckled intensity.
The road skirted a giant snowdrift frozen into place for countless decades, with only its tip carved away so that vehicles could crawl past. Then came a series of hairpin curves with drops so savage Wade had to struggle not to turn away. And then, with a shout from the trader, the road began to descend. Even Mikhail sighed his relief as the descent turned steeper and it became clear that in truth the highest reaches were now behind them.
It was then that the first snowflake descended through the deepening gloom to coast across their windshield. The trader laughed and pointed and said, “See, healer? This is your doing!”
“That is the silliest thing I have ever heard,” Wade replied without rancor, glad only to be heading downward.
But the trader was not to be dissuaded. “Allah has protected us. This I know in my bones. Why else would the snows have been held back for our passage?”
Wade was saved from a reply by their line of trucks pulling into a rubble-strewn turnout. Wearily he clambered down from his perch and took in great drafts of the icy-fresh air.
The Ingush trader approached. “Three hours ahead, the road enters the last Chechen enclave this side of the mountains.”
Wade called Rogue over and explained what the trader had said. Robards directed, “Ask him what he would do in our place.”
Clearly the man had given the matter great thought. “Two hours further descent will have you beyond winter’s reach, so you should have no further need of our help. There is a track which turns off just before the enclave is reached; it is used by Ossetian traders who have no wish to deal with the Chechen.”
“I know it well,” Mikhail said, coming up alongside.
“There are wars and rumors of wars in these southern Ossetian lands,” the Ingush warned.
Wade translated for Rogue, who nodded once. “Thank the man and tell him we’ll take his advice.”
“What about the wars?”
“If you’ve got to choose between the bogeyman you can see and the one you can’t,” Robards answered, “go for the one who might not even be there.”
Wade turned back to the trader. “Our debt to you mounts with each passing hour.”
The trader who had driven for Wade shouldered his way forward. “The tale of the man of God will brighten firesides for years to come. There is no debt. May Allah guide your footsteps and light your path forever, healer. These days I shall carry with me to the grave.”
12
As usual, Ali was there to greet Allison when she arrived at her office that morning. “Hello, Western Lady. We talk about democracy today?”
“No,” she replied flatly. “That’s absolutely the last thing I want to talk about before another cup of coffee.”
“You sit, I make. My coffee is best, you see. American style, just like you want.” Five minutes later he was back. As he poured coffee from the burnished copper pot into the little cup, he said, “The mullah, he say to look at Britain. Three hundred years ago was great power. But America was primitive. Now America is great, but Britain has lost power. The mullah, he say America will go like British Empire. They are corrupt. They have not strength to hold power. America has big army, powerful weapons. But America has not strength of belief. Yes. They have lost inside strength. They will continue for little while only, the mullah say. Then will come Islam. Why? Because we have this strength.
We live for Allah. Not for self. Not for gold. For Allah. And Allah will win.”
He set the tiny cup down in front of Allison and nodded happily at the thought. “Oh yes. Allah will win. We will defeat all enemies.”
“I am an American,” she said, sipping at the cup. Ali was right; his coffee was delicious. “Does that make me an enemy?”
“Oh no,” he replied solemnly, shaking his head. “Enemies are governments. Not people. Never people. We wish to show you glory of Islam, to have you to join us. How can we do this if you are enemy?”
Allison reflected that she felt very much a part of her culture and certainly was working for her government. “So where is it you think you’re headed?”
“Simple, Western Lady. Arab nation ruled by Allah. This is the good future. Everywhere rule of Shari’a, law given by Allah in Koran. Islam is all one system; you cannot separate. All must be done together. All is one goal.”
“It doesn’t bother you to see the drop in Iran’s standard of living since the fundamentalists came to power?”
He hesitated at that, but then shook his head. “Listen, Western Lady. I tell you great truth. People not go to paradise because of big GNP. We are not slaves to money and job and success. We are slaves to Allah, who created us. That is difference between West and Islam. Not one difference. The difference. Only difference.
“At the time of the Prophet, peace be upon him,” he went on. “You have people who were sinful, people who were hypocrites. So government was important, to block ways of the wrong. That is meaning of good government. But now in West all is changed for the bad. Governments protect the wrong and hurt the right. The government is bad, you see. And we, the chosen of Allah—we are told to make it right.”
“How?” she demanded.
He shrugged easily. “How does not matter. That we do is enough.”
“You learned this in school?”
He gave his head a violent shake. “I went to European school. All I learned, I want to forget. School set up by colonial regime, taught me to be slave, not free, not Arab. All I learn at school was lie.”
“Democracy was a lie?” Allison scoffed.
“You understand nothing,” he replied scornfully.
“Try me,” she retorted.
“Democracy is not suit. You not go to shop and buy. You build. You shape to people and nation. But we Arabs, we are old people. Older than time. Democracy is new, Western. You have vote, yes, but we have Islam. You take this path, walk two steps, change and go here, there, anywhere you like. We have Allah, and he say, you go here, you do this. Democracy we shape to will of Allah, not shape Allah to will of democracy.” He looked triumphant. “Now, Western Lady. You tell me, which is stronger way?”
“Democracy,” she said flatly. “The only form of government that gives equal power to each individual.”
Ben stuck his head in her door. “Ali, you are needed on the children’s ward.”
Ali stepped out and smiled back brilliantly. “We talk more tomorrow, yes?”
“I can’t wait.”
Ben entered and surveyed her progress in the office with a bemused expression. “I never thought so much could get done in such a little time.”
The room was neat and orderly. All forms and correspondence not filed away were ordered into neat stacks—pending, questions, awaiting response, and so forth. Fragrant desert blossoms sprouted from a mason jar on one of the filing cabinets. Allison pointed at her overflowing out box. “I just need you to look these over and sign them, and then I can get them in the mail.”
“Later,” he replied. “I want to take you into the desert this afternoon, and for that we need to make an early start.”
They stopped at several villages along the way, all cut from the same depressing mold. The houses were square and squat and flat roofed, all constructed of concrete blocks. The wealthier dwellings were encircled by concrete block fences topped with broken glass. Around every house, goats and camels and donkeys searched for meager shrubs. There were no trees. Children in filthy djellabas played in the dust. Everyone stopped to stare at the strangers. Ben flitted from house to house, then quickly returned, and they were off again. Every twenty minutes, Allison made note of their whereabouts.
They were inspected twice, once by blue-shirted policemen and once by the army. In both cases the uniformed men spoke in gentle tones barely above a murmur. Fareed, Ben’s driver, answered the same way. When Allison remarked on their almost effeminate voices, Ben replied simply, “It is the desert. Quiet breeds quiet.”
Beyond the third village, they passed through the final army checkpoint and left the highway. Soon the world consisted only of rock and sun and sand and wind.
They traveled a washboard road, and the ride was too noisy to permit talk. They rattled and bounced their way between steep-sided mountains, the surrounding desert ever changing and ever the same.
At a spot where one of the gnarled acacia trees grew large enough to offer shade, they stopped. “Time for a breather,” Ben said.
Allison got out, stretched her back, and gazed at a scene void of anything familiar. “You know,” she said quietly, “I’ve heard about this part of the world all my life, and even studied it, but I never imagined what it is really like.”
“I call this the land of thyme,” he said. “Do you know your Plato?”
She shook her head no, her thoughts filled with the sound of wind.
“ ‘Just as bees derive honey from thyme, the strongest and driest of herbs, so too does man gain great rewards from mastering the difficulties of this world.’ ” He stood for a moment, sharing with her the vastness of their landscape, then turned back to the car. “We must be getting on.”
The mountain faces were nature’s art boards, molded into fantastic dreamscapes and painted a thousand hues. Eagles called out their desert songs, as much at home in these empty reaches as the wind. Plants grew in scattered profusion, their twisted branches as white as bones.
“The rock is smoothed by sand, not water,” Ben told her at their next stop. He pointed up to a semicircular cave. “Bits of sand become trapped in hollows, and over thousands of years of wind the sand carves out caves. The Bedouins use them as dwellings during the worst of storms, pushing their herds in before them.”
He led her around a spit of rock to where the mountains clenched in together. As they started into the cleft, Allison noticed a sweetness to the dry air. “What is that I smell?”
“Water. Even after just a few hours here, our senses become more attuned to its presence.” He pointed to where the passage was blocked by barbed wire. “Up ahead is a Bedouin spring. Rights to its use have been passed through the local Hawaitaat tribe for countless generations.”
He stopped before the remains of a fire and tested the ashes with his shoe. A plume of dust rose at his touch. “Stone cold. They haven’t been here for days. All right, we must search elsewhere.”
“You don’t know where they are?”
“Of course I do.” He waved an expansive arm, taking in the rocks and mountains and sky. “Somewhere out there.”
Beyond the narrow passage, the mountains opened into a vast yellow sea of sand. Rock islands pushed up at odd intervals. For some reason, their presence amplified her sense of aching emptiness.
The Land Rover lurched its way over a sand track of dips and curves and bumps. Fareed released his two-handed grip on the wheel long enough to turn on the radio. Arabic music filled the car. Allison continued her vigil out the windows and found the music to be in harmony with all that surrounded her.
They spotted the camels first.
At the sound of their approach, the animals sauntered over a ridge, vanishing from view. Fareed topped the slope and cut off the engine. In the sudden silence, Allison heard the bleating of goats and the shrill calls of children.
There were perhaps a dozen tents, each about thirty feet long and half as wide. A cluster of acacia trees marked the presence of water. A trio of old trucks wa
s pulled up nearby.
“In twenty years this way of life may be gone forever,” Ben said, leading her toward the camp on foot. “As the old generation dies off, more and more of the Bedouins are choosing to settle in permanent villages like the ones we just visited. It is a far easier life, but I for one will be sad to see this world disappear.”
Allison followed Ben into the central dwelling, where a toothless old man croaked a welcome and waved them in. Ben shook hands with a hawk-nosed younger man, whom he introduced as Mahmoud.
“He is the effective leader of the clan,” Ben explained, seating himself gracefully on the carpet-covered ground and motioning for Allison to join him. “His father rules in name only.”
At the center of the tent was a rectangular dugout lined with coals, over which rested a brass coffeepot. A woman entered, murmured greetings to Ben, knelt, and poured them thimble-size cups. Allison accepted hers and tried not to stare at the intricate tattoo that ran across the woman’s forehead and down over the bridge of her nose, across her lips, and onto her chin. She was perhaps nineteen or twenty years old.
“Tradition requires you to accept three refills,” Ben murmured. “Shake your cup from side to side when you have had enough.”
The two Arab men wore the kaffiyeh, or checkered headdress, and western-style jackets over their robes. An interminable discussion ensued, all in Arabic. Allison sipped her coffee, watched the men talk as much with their hands as with their mouths, and took in her surroundings.
Around the tent’s periphery were low cushions covered with soft carpets. Taller square cushions were set at intervals, upon which arms and bodies were leaned. The tent’s interior was surprisingly cool.
Abruptly Ben stood and announced, “Time to begin.”
They made their way from tent to tent trailing an entourage of chattering children. With each woman and child patient, Allison stood in quiet attendance. When the sick person was a man, she waited outside. As they walked through the camp, Ben told her quietly, “They have heard of new smugglers operating through the desert routes.”
Riders of the Pale Horse Page 15
