Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1)

by Tyler, P. K.

  "I will tend to him; see if we need to find a doctor to come."

  With that, Hasad walked out into the small living room, past his daughter's bedroom and to the back room. It should have been storage or an indoor space for his animals, but it had become his when Rebekah reached the age where she needed a space of her own.

  Adding in some salt and peppercorns, Rebekah continued to stir the mixture, bringing it back to a boil slowly so the milk did not curdle. She placed some sugar cookies on a plate and used a ladle to scoop the tea into a bowl which she could use to spoon the liquid out of, or soften the cookies in, the way her mother had so many years ago.

  Rebekah was not a nurse. In fact, she had no formal education at all, although her father had taught her how to read and do basic arithmetic. Instead, she lived as most girls on the edge of the desert did: sweeping the encroaching sand from her home and helping her mother. But Judith Sofaer had passed away when Rebekah was only five years old, and so the child had been forced to fill the shoes of a much older, much wiser woman.

  Never complaining, Rebekah spent most of her days and many nights alone in the small home she shared with her father. Hasad was very liberal in the freedoms he gave his daughter, always bringing her new books – textbooks, language books, even romances. He read very little Turkish himself, only enough to get by but Rebekah was smart, reading books well beyond her age with nothing but an old dictionary and her own curiosity to teach her. Hasad had little interest in the gradually tightening restrictions on women and their education that occurred as Rebekah grew up. He only knew his daughter did not have a mother, and books made her happy.

  She had few friends, but many chances to meet new people and even some suitors at the temple. The life of a widower's daughter was demanding, requiring so much more of her than of the other girls whose mothers and sisters shared the burden. Everyone in their village knew Rebekah lived alone with her father, so the women had taught her how to cook and keep house. They had prepared her for life as a wife, the way her mother should have. Her mother's closest friend, Tabitha, had even taken her in when her father left to trade with relatives in India until his return.

  Many years ago her father had fallen in love with her mother, Judith, only a few months after making his way to the desert city of Elih. He intended to continue west toward the sea after raising enough money for the journey. Instead, he stopped and made a home with the raven-haired beauty who had captured his heart. Judith was his second wife; his first died in India before he ever imagined coming to Turkey. Judith and Hasad married within a year. They lived a simple life; Judith gave birth to their first child, a son, before their second anniversary.

  Ezrah, the joy of his parents, lived just long enough to see his sister, Rebekah, born. An infection the local physician could not identify had sent him to the large hospital in Elih, where the boy received antibiotics but little else, and quickly fell into a lifeless sleep.

  Hasad was never as he had been after his son's death. He believed that if he had taken his young family back to India Ezrah would never have gotten ill. The grieving man blamed the hospital, the doctors, the Muslims, the world. Judith never suffered his anger in silence. She would scold him, berate him, shame him, and remind him that their family was an epicenter of love when he sank into depression and looked at the world as a broken place.

  Judith believed Ezrah lived on with God: she believed Rebekah deserved both of her parents; she believed Hasad was a good man. Her faith in him brought him back from the brink of self-destructive anger, though a part of him had died along with his son.

  Eventually Judith and Hasad conceived again, and his heart thawed as he watched her growing abdomen. He resumed his habit of singing bangla songs to Rebekah at night and even took some pleasure in grooming his camel. The women of the village visited and when Judith's fatigue made it difficult for her to cook and care for Rebekah they took turns helping. A child was a blessing to their world. The close-knit community was accustomed to raising each other's children and caring for their neighbors in illness.

  When Judith began to bleed, signaling the end of another beginning, Hasad's burgeoning smile locked into a permanent frown. He sat in the living room as Tabitha tended to his wife in their bedroom. Rebekah sat on the floor playing with the small dolls he had found for her on one of his rare excursions into the city. Her sweet innocence crushed him as he waited, resigned to the loss of another child.

  Tabitha assured Hasad there was there was nothing abnormal about the dark grizzled blood Judith expelled after losing her baby. She insisted Hasad's worrying did nothing but add stress to Judith's sorrow. The best thing he could do for her was continue to provide for his family. Judith did not want a doctor or midwife. Children were lost every day, this one was no different. And with Tabitha's agreement Hasad conceded to allow the child's passing to happen in its own time.

  He allowed Judith her grief, and gave the mysterious world of women its due respect.

  The next day Hasad left the house to return to the small job he had found caring for the animals of tourists in the desert. When he returned home that night, five-year-old Rebekah sat on the floor next to the couch. She was holding her mother's limp hand. "Mama fell asleep," the little girl told him. "I covered her up, but she's still cold."

  "Aba?" Rebekah inquired. She approached her father's bent body with a tray in her hands. Her long skirts moved as she walked, shifting the thin layer of sand that could not be evicted from the floor.

  "He stirred. He stirred but didn't wake," Hasad said wearily, from his position next to the bed where the man slept. "I wrapped his chest. His ribs are certainly cracked, perhaps broken, but there is little the physician can do. We must watch his breathing though. If a lung should be punctured—"

  "Aba, we should take him to the hospital," Rebekah stated simply, confident in her every word.

  "And tell them what? That we found a man buried alive in the desert?"

  Frustration dripped from Hasad's words as the stranger moaned again. Stepping away, Hasad ran a crooked hand through his salty hair.

  "I will go to temple, ask the Rabbi if there are any missing men reported from the city. Maybe he will know what to do," Hasad decided.

  Rebekah nodded and sat on the floor next to the pallet, smoothly folding her legs under her so the tea was undisturbed.

  Smiling, she shook her head. While her father had removed the man's shirt to wrap his ribs, he had not cleaned the man's wounds or swept the sand from his eyes. That, however, was Hasad: always solving the large problems, never seeing the minutiae.

  Setting the tray down, Rebekah rose to go to the bathroom. She heard the front door close as her father left without a word to her, as was his way. She wet the soft cloth she saved for washing her face with warm water. Bringing it and a towel, she returned to the stranger.

  He lay still as he slept; his color gray. She feared his injuries were worse than the visible wounds. It was a real possibility he might die in her home. Despite the morbid direction of her thoughts, Rebekah could not help but stare at the strong, smooth body before her. The brown skin and defined chest of the stranger made her blush with thoughts of things she didn't yet know. It wasn't the first time she'd seen a man without a shirt; at times when her father would work outside in the hot sun he would remove a layer, but that was rare. However, his wizened frame looked nothing like the man lying before her.

  He winced as she washed the side of his face, but did not wake up. She exhaled with relief. The blood wiped away quickly, revealing a deep gash in the side of his head that would likely require stitches. At least the wound was clean now; she did not see anything to indicate infection.

  Rebekah folded the cloth to a clean section and wiped his eyes and face free of sand. His nose was strong and Roman, his dark lashes long against his dusky skin. Rebekah could see that once cleaned up, he was quite attractive. The man's hair was black like hers but his beard was red; a rare combination among Arabs.

  His fa
ce clear of blood and grime, Rebekah went to rinse out her cloth. She rummaged in the small linen closet for the first aid kit she had assembled after her father had fallen from the roof and refused to go to the doctor. She was certain she could stitch up the gash on the man's head with the small needle she kept in there. She would clean the deeper injuries with the witch hazel tonic she had made.

  As she walked back into the room, his open eyes stopped her. The green of his irises mesmerized her with their bright color and rarity. What a strange combination of features. Was he a devil from the desert, come to tempt her?

  The man sat up, his face contorted in pain with effort, softening Rebekah's heart. Guilt washed through her for her critical thoughts. Despite the pain, he continued the effort until his body was fully upright.

  "Shalom," Rebekah greeted him quietly, dropping her eyes to the ground, wishing she had at least placed a scarf upon her head before coming into the room. She felt naked and exposed. She had been alone with men before, but never with a stranger, and never with one whose mere existence presented a threat.

  "Shalom," the man replied. The dryness of his mouth and throat could be heard in the gravel of his voice.

  Rebekah did not hesitate as she walked swiftly toward the bed. His face was swollen badly, his lip split, and the gash on the side of his head slowly oozed blood. Ignoring the confusion on the man's face, she spoke.

  "You must drink, you have been badly hurt."

  "Yes…"

  He watched as she settled herself with ease on the ground next to the pallet.

  "Here…"

  She presented him a bowl with both hands. Holding his gaze with determination, she nodded and held it out a little farther. Rebekah did not help him as he grunted in pain to take the bowl, nor did she smile as he settled back against the pillow and wall in order to drink.

  She watched with narrowed eyes as he took small sips from the bowl and grimaced at the taste. When he began taking larger sips, she reached out for him to return it.

  "You cannot take too much, you will only get sicker."

  "It's awful," he stated flatly, returning the bowl.

  "And yet it's the best you have had in days," Rebekah countered with the beginning of a smile.

  The man settled back again. His eyes closed for a moment as his body attempted to process the small amount of liquid he had ingested. His fingers moved while he stretched his hands and feet before groaning from the pain in his side.

  "Nogai tea," Rebekah stated, rising to her knees, closer to his face. "It will hydrate you and replace the fat you have lost. When you are ready, I have cookies as well. The sugar will help your energy return."

  She reached out and wiped the newly sprung blood from his face with a warm cloth.

  "Where am I?" he rasped, opening his eyes again.

  "Çayustu."

  She opened the first aid kit, only setting it on the floor after she had wiped away the sand. Pulling out strips of cloth and a small green bottle, she prepared her tools.

  "South?" he asked, his eyebrows reaching for the ceiling.

  "Yes, assuming you are from the city, which seems to be the case." Her smile broadened. "You are far from home, especially for walking on your bare feet."

  She opened the bottle and the gentle astringent smell filled the room.

  "Wasn't by choice," he mumbled, his breathing labored with effort.

  "You are still hurt. Your ribs might be broken and you have some terrible cuts." She paused before continuing, "I am going to clean your wounds."

  The man closed his eyes and sighed as he slumped back into the mattress. He allowed Rebekah to gently clean the blood from his hair and sterilize his cuts. The witch hazel stung but he did not jerk away, only clenched his jaw and held on to the pain. It was over quickly, and the sizzling sound coming from beneath his skin soon faded away. When she finished, Recai opened his eyes and thanked her.

  "What happened to you?" she asked softly.

  "I don't know."

  "You are with the RTK?"

  Her voice was nervous, knowing his answer could put her in danger either way.

  "No. I am not."

  "Good." Better to be helping a man of no known character than one who identifies with the devil, she thought.

  "My name is Rebekah. My father, Hasad Sofaer, found you in the desert and brought you here. You are safe for now, but whatever happened to you almost killed you."

  Rebekah's voice did not tremble, despite her frayed nerves. She trusted in her father as much as she trusted in God. She knew whatever brought this man here was in His plan, and she would play her role with strength and dignity. And so, the diminutive woman held Recai's gaze.

  "I—"

  "Shush, there is no need to say anything. You will tell me everything soon enough. For now, I can get you some bourbon to drink if you'd like—to help with the pain. I'm going to have to give you some stitches."

  "I don't drink."

  "Ahh…a Muslim!"

  Recai met her eyes to find them sparkling.

  "A Jew," he felt his lips widen in return.

  "Assalaamu alaykum," Rebekah bowed her head in greeting.

  "Shalom Rebekah, I am Recai."

  "Well Recai, your prophet may not want you to drink, but I doubt he wanted you to suffer stitches without medicine. If I can find an Aspirin, will you concede to take that?"

  Her soft voice soothed her slight mocking tone, making it playful and kind.

  "I have suffered worse than stitches without help, I can bear it again."

  Recai turned his head to the wall and grimaced as Rebekah's embroidery needle pierced his scalp.

  Hasad Sofaer hadn't wanted to take the man sleeping in his back room to the hospital or to the doctor. In all honesty, he didn't want him in the house. Were Hasad a different man, he would have put him on the bus that came through their small town every three days, paid the fare, and let the stranger be someone else's problem. But he'd seen too much death in his time——thanks to the RTK. He had seen too many men disappear from their homes and known too many women harassed by the morality police. He did not believe this man had necessarily done anything wrong.

  In these times, the criminals are the law and the heroes are the ones running the dangerous underground.

  Seeking the advice of the Rabbi had calmed Hasad's nerves. The Rabbi assured him the man had come into his care and keeping by God's plan. Arriving home, his confidence was confirmed when he found his daughter humming, her hair neatly contained under one of her few head scarves, cooking lentils and minced meat with rice.

  Hasad walked past her directly into the back room, where the stranger slept. His face—now smooth instead of gripped by pain—appeared years younger despite the scars, now that he was clean. Hasad relaxed as he took in the man's returned color, no longer sickly jaundiced.

  "Rebekah," the old man greeted his daughter as he returned to the small kitchen.

  He sat at the table so as to stay out of her way. She spun to greet him, and with her hair pulled back in the makeshift hijab, Hasad saw the beautiful woman she had become. Her mother's unblemished olive skin shone beneath the pink scarf; the contrast in color complemented her beauty. Just like Judith she stood with both feet firmly planted on the ground when she spoke, never raising her voice but never backing down from something she believed in. Rebekah had turned seventeen last month, old enough for a family and a home of her own.

  It is time for her to marry. Keeping her here is selfish.

  Hasad massaged his swollen joints in his hands, feeling his age in their ache.

  "Aba, the man woke while you were gone," she said over the lentils sizzling on the stove top.

  Hasad nodded and asked, "Did he speak?"

  "Yes, Aba."

  Hasad stood with a determined face and strode back toward the living room.

  "No, let him sleep." Rebekah followed. "I don't believe he is a danger to us. He was awake only for a few moments, but he spoke clearly and seemed to h
ave a level head."

  Hasad nodded. For some reason, this did not surprise him.

  "His name is Recai."

  "A Kurd," Hasad confirmed, returning to the kitchen and retaking his place at the table.

  "Yes, and he was kind about being helped by Jews."

  "Damn. It would be easier to put him out if he'd been a bigot."

  The old man slumped into his rickety chair. Religious persecution rarely reached Çayustu; they were a small and insular community. But if the wrong person was crossed, or helped . . .

  "He doesn't remember what happened, Aba." Rebekah sat across from her father, placing her spatula on a plate. "He allowed me to clean his wounds and stitch the gash on his head, then he thanked me and fell back asleep."

  "Did he mention . . . is he with . . . ?"

  "I asked if he was RTK," the girl admitted.

  "Rebekah! You know how dangerous—"

  "I know. I do, but he was so easy to talk to—I had to know. Aba, he says he's not. I believe him."

  Hasad shook his head and smiled at his daughter. Her instincts about people were keen and he trusted her. Given the choice he'd rather believe in her than submit to suspicion and fear.

  Words drifted out to Recai but he couldn't take meaning from them; the sounds lined up in a row in his mind but they made no sense. The voices were hushed and familiar. His mouth was dry and his tongue thick, but as he leaned to reach the tea Rebekah had left him a sharp pain cut through his side. He gasped and pulled his arm back. Leaning back into the bed, he sighed. The heavy ache of his face and the sting of his cuts were nothing compared to the agony of his broken ribs.

  He needed to get home. He needed to get to somewhere with a phone so he could call his housekeeper and have her send someone to pick him up. He needed to see a physician.

  At least I'm safe for now.

  The old man could have easily left him in the desert to die, and the kindness of the woman who tended him spoke to their character. Why would they rescue him and take such a risk only to hurt him now? No, naïve or not, Recai chose to believe there was still good in some people.