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

by Tyler, P. K.

  "Hasad?"

  Recai reached out and stepped toward the old man as if seeing a ghost.

  "How…?"

  The pain in his gut twisted its way through Recai, wringing every drop of misery out of him, spilling it on the floor, leaving him to wade in its sea.

  "Son, are you all right?"

  Hasad's gruff exterior fell away as he took in the broken young man before him.

  Recai's eyes filled with water again as he fell on his knees before the old man. His life had been saved so many years before, only to be the cause of Rebekah's death. There was nothing about him that was worth saving. He failed time and again, never able to do or be enough. But he ached for the understanding of the only soul who knew the pain he suffered. He wept for the first time in a long time since Rebekah's death. Hasad placed forgiving hand on his shoulder.

  "Hasad, I'm so sorry. I should have… I should have protected her. I shouldn't have lived when she didn't." Recai's voice cracked as the tears streamed down his face, cleaning a path through his bloody features. "I could have—"

  "There's nothing anyone could have done."

  Hasad did not embrace Recai, nor did he move away. He simply stood, accepting the other's tears with a strength he didn't possess, but which Recai needed.

  "I don't know why I lived. I never wanted to. I failed her in this life, I would have been happy to follow her into the next."

  "Recai," Hasad began, pulling Recai's attention up out of his misery. "I pulled you from that fire. There's a reason you lived. There's a reason you're here. Stand up."

  Hasad waited patiently as Recai stood and once again took in the old man before him. Hasad hadn't changed much since Recai last saw him in Çayustu. The lines in his face were deeper and his skin looser, but wild intelligence still shone from his eyes.

  Those eyes bore into Recai as he asked, "Now, where have you been?"

  Darya sat in front of her vanity with a soft smile on her face. The celebration for her uncle had ended unexpectedly, and while she was frustrated with Recai's rejection, she didn't take it to heart.

  Her long hair hung down her back over her silk nightgown as she poured a small amount of oil into her hands. She rubbed them together filling the room with the earthy scent of sandalwood, transforming the heat from oppressive to languid.

  It had been three days since the kum firtinasi, and the sand was still settling into the cracks of the streets. Another week would pass before the reddish tint would be gone and life would return to normal. Until then she would stay in her apartment, thankful for the luxury of technology that allowed her to continue her work running the empire that funded her uncle's government.

  She never knew where his funds came from and never asked; she simply invested and managed them, increasing his wealth exponentially. All the while she siphoned off just enough to run her own projects without anyone ever suspecting.

  This morning her mind would not focus on business or on the constant insult of having to hide her face and name from those she worked with, enraging both her vanity and pride. Instead, her mind drifted to Recai. His lips had been soft and his hand sure when he placed it on her back to dance. When they spoke he had not avoided her eyes or acted as if she committed a sin by speaking her mind. He had laughed, and looked at her the way she dreamed someone would.

  Whatever the reason he left, she didn't care. His momentary lapse in piety gave Darya a glimpse into the passionate man within.

  Darya began to oil her hair. She moved section by section, applying moisture to her damaged strands, bringing back the beauty the desert heat had stolen. Pulling her hands along the length of her locks she weaved her fingers into her hair, spreading the oil evenly from scalp to ends. The process was time consuming but soothing, allowing her mind to drift.

  While she worked, she closed her eyes and dreamt of a life with a man she hardly knew, a man with rare and insightful green eyes.

  Darya prided herself on being capable. She ran her own life and made her own decisions, but something about a mate and equal appealed to her. She would give anything to have love. Real love—not the kind traded for favors or blackmail. The kind that freed you. She believed Recai was different from other men, that he would be able to appreciate all that she could offer.

  In the hall she heard her attendants fuss about something. There was always a fuss about something. Her uncle insisted she have guards even in her own home, keeping her in purdah regardless of his claims to value her above all his other confidants. She held the reins of his power, yet had none of her own.

  She longed for change, for freedom. Her gilded cage closed in around her every day. The constraints so tight she feared she may run out of space completely. She grew tired of being allowed out in the street only if she covered herself. She resented being permitted to work only if she hid behind false names and computers. Someday the whole city would know who spoke directly into the mayor's ear, and then she could take what she was due.

  Bursting through the doors to her bedroom, her housekeeper struggled to keep someone out.

  "You can't simply walk in there! This is her bedroom!"

  "It's fine," Darya stated calmly upon seeing her half-brother's silhouette. She turned on her ottoman to face the disruption.

  "Beyan!" the housekeeper protested.

  "I said it's fine."

  "Your uncle would not be happy," Darya's housekeeper said with a tsk before eyeing the man now standing just inside the double doors leading to Darya's suite.

  "Sister…" he began as the housekeeper slid past him and shut the doors behind her.

  "Why are you here?" Darya demanded, annoyed by his presence in her home. Their relationship was not supposed to be public; that's what made it work so well. As soon as anyone associated them with each other, or found out they were related, so many of Darya's plans would be compromised.

  "Don't start with me! Do you see these fucking bruises on my face?"

  "So? You're always doing something insane. It's about time someone raised a hand to you," Darya responded blithely to her half-brother's harsh tone. She turned back to her vanity, watching him in the reflection as she poured more oil into her hand to resume her task.

  "It was your dirty errand that did this, Sister," he sneered, his eyes narrowing in the mirror until the left one disappeared under the swelling of his brow. He resembled his mother so much it was hard to believe he was her father's child; but Darya remembered the wedding and his birth in painfully vivid detail, despite having been only four years old when he was born.

  "Is that so? Fahri Kaya's little sister was more than you could handle?"

  Isik stalked toward his sister with a heavy limp. As he approached, his façade never softened and his eyes never moved away from hers. When he was behind her he took her hair in his hands and combed the oil through it with calloused fingers. Darya tensed, unsure of what to make of this seemingly affectionate gesture.

  "That little bitch wasn't the issue. She barely put up a fight."

  His voice was smooth and deep.

  "Not surprising, they rarely do."

  Darya allowed her mind and body to relax into her half-brother's ministrations.

  "There was someone else there."

  "In the kum firtinasi? There was someone else out in that storm? I thought only you and the devil were brave enough for that," Darya mocked, knowing Isik's penchant for exaggeration. Maybe that girl really had been too much for him.

  "Darya, I'm not in the mood for your shit."

  He yanked her hair back, forcing her to open her eyes and look up at him. She let out a small gasp at the assault before smiling up at him mischievously.

  "There was someone out there!" Isik declared.

  He held her still for a moment, his eyes boring into her, the threat of his presence palpable between them. Finally he released her and sat heavily on the end of her bed, stretching his injured leg out beside him. He was lucky it had only been dislocated and not broken by the dervish who attacked
him.

  Sighing, Isik brought his hands to his eyes, intending to rub the heels of his palms into his sockets to clear the confusion of his mind. He winced at the contact, his bruises still too raw.

  Darya turned finally and leaned forward. Her nightgown fell apart slightly and allowed Isik a haram glimpse of skin.

  "Look at me," he sighed, gesturing to his swollen face, his eyes softer than they had been in years.

  Taken aback by Isik's momentary vulnerability she found herself reaching out to him.

  "Tell me what happened…"

  "I got your call and tracked down Kaya's sister," Isik smiled, re-donning his mask and allowing himself another glance at his half-sister's cleavage. "You know I love it when you get vengeful."

  "It does look good on me," she flirted, resuming the game before sitting back and covering herself.

  "I found her at some house over in Yesiltepe. I watched, hoping she would get a car and I could catch her at home alone, but she decided to walk."

  "Masha'Allah!" Darya clapped and leaned back.

  "Stupid bitch walked through the city in the middle of a sandstorm! I drove ahead and parked, waiting for her to get near her home so Fahri wouldn't have to search too far for her. Everything went smooth, and then…fuck, Darya…"

  "What?"

  "I… I really don't know…. Some thing came out of the street, the sand all up in the air. I could hardly see with the storm moving in but it was spinning all around him.. He disappeared in it and then he was right in front of me."

  Darya narrowed her eyes, trying to follow her brother's disjointed thoughts.

  "He fought, was a good fighter, but that wasn't it. He…he had something over his face and I couldn't see him right, the storm caught up to us and…"

  Darya stood up, disturbed by his loss for words. She stepped toward Isik and tenderly placed her hand on his shoulder. At her touch he wrenched away and struggled until he stood on his feet, towering over her.

  "Don't pity me! It was that sandstorm. It did something to him."

  Isik began pacing the room, the pain in his knee forgotten as his confusion and insult raged. As he walked his anger grew until it threatened to overtake what reason he possessed.

  "What are you talking about?" Darya asked.

  "I'm telling you, there was something not right about that man. He came out of nowhere and was gone just as fast, leaving me there in the storm."

  As she listened, Darya sat and watched Isik run his hands through his cropped hair in frustration. She had never seen him so unsettled.

  "When I woke up, the girl was gone and the sand was covered in blood. I don't know…"

  "She's safe?"

  "I told you, someone attacked me."

  Isik stopped his movement and stared at his sister.

  "So you didn't finish your task?" she berated.

  "He interrupted me!"

  "Does she know who you are? Do any of them know who you are?"

  "Does anyone what!?"

  "Isik! Can this man track you back to me?"

  "That's what it's about again." He continued pacing once more, the tight-fitting shirt he wore rolling with his shoulders as he seethed. "You aren't concerned that Sabiha is going to be able to describe me or that whoever the fuck was out there was able to do this in the first place?" He gestured angrily to his bruised and disfigured face.

  "I am, but…"

  "No, you're only concerned with it being connected to you. You selfish bitch!"

  "No," Darya backtracked, standing cautiously, trying to calm her brother. "I was only… If anyone connected you to Mahmet…"

  "Right, our beloved uncle," he hissed, the head of his tattoo peeking up out of his shirt, the snake tracking her with its eyes.

  "Tell me about the man again, maybe…maybe there's something we can do to find him before he finds out who you are."

  "And when we find him, I'm going to shit in his mouth and make him eat it before I take him apart, one piece at a time."

  When Maryam read the headline in the paper, she knew instantly it was Recai. She recognized the line of his brow and the conflicted glower in his eyes in the picture.

  Returning home from her shift at the hospital, she had stopped at the grocery beneath her apartment to buy eggs, rice, and juice, and maybe one of the cheap novels they kept behind the counter. If Abdullah was working, he would sneak her one of the novels restricted from women in the city. She hated breaking the rules, but nothing in her faith stopped her from expanding her mind. Those were the laws of men, and her life was governed by the laws of Allah.

  As she stepped up to the counter, she placed her items and small canvas grocery bag next to the register. While Abdullah packed her items, she read over the headlines of the various newspapers, Hurriyet, AGOS and Elih Gazetesi. Next to the headline of the last paper appeared a sketch of a man wearing a niqab with narrow violent eyes. She stared at the image, mouth agape.

  "Assalaamu alum Sister Maryam," Abdullah greeted.

  "Walaikum as salaam," she replied automatically, eyes still glued to the paper.

  "Amazing isn't it?"

  "What?" Maryam lifted her eyes to the man behind the counter, having momentarily forgotten where she was. "Oh, yes, yes, amazing…"

  "A woman was being attacked during the kum firtinasi and someone rescued her. They're calling him The SandStorm. She didn't get a good look at the man who saved her, but that's what they think he looks like."

  Abdullah leaned across the counter, his long curly hair bouncing as he spoke, giving him the look of an over-friendly cocker-spaniel.

  "Rescued her…" Maryam repeated

  "The Holy Prophet, Salla Allahu ‘Alaihi Wa Sallam, taught us it is the man's duty to protect women."

  "He did…"

  Maryam's thoughts were distracted. The image of the man on the paper glared out at the world as if he might set it aflame. She reached out and allowed her finger to trace over the headline: "Masked Protector Saves Woman from Ruin." Yes, the ruin would certainly have been the victim's, not that of the man who attacked her or the society that made it impossible for her to be outside of her home alone. No, the woman who was attacked would be the one forever ruined.

  "Maryam, I would protect you."

  Abdullah spoke quietly enough so that no one could overhear, even though no one else was in the small shop save the two. Maryam blushed and lowered her eyes, wishing she had worn one of her abayas instead of being seen in dirty scrubs.

  "I worry about you living upstairs alone, traveling to the hospital every day."

  "I have a car, I park safely, Abdullah. You needn't worry over me."

  "I… want to worry over you…"

  Maryam ducked her head lower and turned away from him slightly. Abdullah was a kind man. She enjoyed talking to him, but no flame of desire burned for him within her. However, his moment of softness allowed her a rare opportunity.

  "Abdullah," she began her voice quiet and low, hoping not to inspire lust. "Do you think… could I have an Elih Gazetesi? This story, it's something I'd like to read."

  Keeping her eyes down, Maryam held her breath, hoping the rules might be broken, just this once. Usually when she acquired something forbidden he offered it; she had never before asked.

  "The mayor says allowing women to read the news is haram," Abdullah said, his voice unsteady.

  "I'm not familiar with that hadith."

  She was venturing into dangerous territory, and kept her eyes downcast, her stance modest and deferential. Waiting for his reply, her fingers itched to take the newspaper from its stand.

  After a moment of silence she took twenty-five Turkish liras out of her bag and handed them to him, the silence between them threatening to burst into a scream. Normally she ignored the restrictions of the RTK and went her own way, living the life of a proper muslimah and staying out of trouble. This afternoon, in the stuffy heat of a small corner grocery, the reality of her oppression closed in on her.

  Abdullah han
ded over her change and lingered, looking at her soft features. Before he allowed himself to over-think the consequences of his actions, he shoved a copy of the paper into her bag.

  Two weeks later a small man sat uncomfortably on an oversized couch in the Osman estate's formal living room.

  "I'm sorry, Recai, but I simply can't explain it," he repeated. The bright green of the room made his brown skin appear jaundiced. Or perhaps his sickly appearance was due to the fact that he could not explain a significant discrepancy in the corporation's books.

  "You can't explain losing four billion dollars?" Recai pressed.

  Recai sat rigid in his father's leather chair. His fists clenched and unclenched as his jaw strained. His body wanted to act, to beat an explanation out of Ali, the man in front of him, to force things to make sense. But his mind restrained him, locking him in place. His father would not have reacted so extremely, and Recai had a legacy to uphold.

  Ali Kalkan had worked for the Osman Corporation for twenty years. He had advised Baris before his disappearance and had worked to keep the business running smoothly in the face of Baris's—then Recai's—sudden absences. Ali had always hoped that one day Baris would return. He never had much faith Recai could run things as he should.

  Recai fumed and looked around the room. The familiar pain of a young boy's loss saturated the air, like everything in the home. His mother's linens shone brightly, reminding him of his solitude, and the décor remained a beautiful reminder of his misery. Recai's time at home was always painful but he could not bring himself to change anything. A portrait of his mother hung on the wall behind Kalkan's head, dwarfing him, her kind wisdom looking down on them.

  "The books are in order, everything adds up, but in the end the numbers are short."

  Kalkan studied his laptop intensely, hoping to find a miracle on the screen before him.

  "There has to be an explanation, Ali. Money doesn't simply disappear." Recai closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself. Nothing would come from him lashing out at Ali. The one thing he'd learned living in the desert was that only a clear mind could lead the way toward understanding.