An Immortal Dance

by Alastair Fontaine

  “Well, on the bright side, we can be proud of the boy! That girl was a great catch,” Richard opined. He caught his wife’s sudden glare and realised that he had said something wrong, “Not as great as you?”

  “Richard! This isn’t funny,” she murmured, letting the anguish in her heart show through her shimmering eyes and trembling voice.

  “Forgive me, my darling. I know we were harsh on the boy, but it isn’t your fault. That thing was really realistic! You can’t blame us for thinking it was real.”

  “It’s not just that. This girl explains why he’s been so weird lately. The kid’s suffering from a case of young love. Have I grown so old that I’ve forgotten what that was like? The suit as well. She’s clearly very wealthy. I’m sure she gave it to him. He’s just too proud to admit it.”

  “Well, that explains it then. Look, we can’t take back our suspicions, but at least now we know that we were wrong. That’s something, right? Even better, the kid’s got this wonderful girl now. She’s polite, mature and intelligent,” Richard said, recalling how Courtney had enthusiastically joined in on their nightly debate.

  “That’s true. I just wish we hadn’t been so quick to suspect him.”

  “As do I,” Richard conceded, wiping a tear from her beautiful face, “but we can’t change the past. We did, after all, fast track this whole parenting thing. At least we’ve learned our lesson now.”

  “I suppose,” Mercy said. She gently pushed her husband’s hand aside, as her face hardened with determination. “Let’s never speak of it again. Ever. No matter what, we trust our son first.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Richard agreed. “Now, some good did come of this.”

  Mercy looked at him in question.

  “When was the last time we kissed like that?” Richard laughed, taking a sip of his drink and noticing that had acquitted himself well. He thought that perhaps he should start expanding into different cocktails now that he had finally mastered the Manhattan. Nothing, however, could ever taste as sweet as his wife’s lips.

  “Hmm… we should definitely do that more often,” Mercy agreed, a hint of yearning in her voice. She put her hand on Richard’s and looked longingly into his eyes. Quickly, they finished their drinks, setting them down on the dinner table. Cleaning them could wait.

  If there is anything I have ever known about destiny and meaning and life it is this:

  These fists were created to protect; this heart was meant for sacrifice;

  if it is the dark you are afraid of, strike the matches along my wrists because if I said I loved you I meant my blood is kerosene

  I meant I’ll be the pyre if you are shivering

  I’ll keep you warm

  Don’t be afraid because this is what I am meant for write your name in the ashes afterwards so they know who I died for who

  I loved with every fibre of my soul

  I am all the pounds of flesh you need to barter yourself a little safety

  tell me what it is you are scared of

  tell me all the ways I can go to war for you

  I’ll be on the front line

  I promise. I’ll keep you safe.

  -Sarah, Canada

  12

  Bairam Khan sat inside a painted howdah as midday approached and the sun rose high into the sky. Bairam remembered when he had arrived in India. He had grown tired of the West after centuries of seeing the same scenes replay themselves over and over again. His heart had turned towards the East, and he longed to see the lands that he and Alexandros had conquered centuries before. After a long journey, he had found his beloved Babylon in ruins and saddened, moved on to the oriental city of Kabul. Hearing that its ruler was a powerful and enlightened man, he had travelled to meet Babur. He had found the Emperor celebrating his victory over the Sultan of Delhi near the place where the present battle raged. He had served that great King, as well as Humayun, his son. He had risen quickly through the ranks and, with Humayun’s death, came to rule as regent for little Akbar.

  A new pretender to the throne of Delhi, Adil Shah Suri, had sent his armies to take the boy’s inheritance. Their forces were currently locked in a battle that would determine the fate of two empires. Briefly, he turned his eyes from the carnage of the battlefield to look affectionately at the youth. If they won, Akbar would make a fine emperor.

  Abruptly, the crash of his cannons shook him from his reverie. Hemu, general of the enemy, was proving his reputation as the finest military mind in India. He had sent his elephants charging into Bairam’s wings. The massive beasts scattered men left and right, leaving behind a trail of crushed bodies in their wake. Their plate armour glinted in the hot Indian sun, blinding their opponents. Those that could see were terrified by the swinging blades attached to the tusks of the behemoths, their crazed eyes when they were driven to rampage and the horrid markings painted on their flesh. As if that weren’t enough, men sat on howdahs atop the beasts, slaughtering his men with musket shot and arrows. Bairam could not allow it to continue. He gave orders for his men to move out of the way of the berserk beasts and pelt them with arrows from the sides. At the same time, he sent his centre forward, until they were at the edge of a chasm that neither horse nor elephant could cross. The battle was back in his favour as Hemu’s forces found themselves facing a hail of projectiles from an enemy that they could not touch.

  Bairam noticed that his cavalry had at last come to relieve the wings. Their swift steeds had managed to ride around the enemy, attacking them from the rear and sending them running in confusion. His brave riders rode for the elephants, crippling them with heavy blows to unprotected legs and shooting down their riders. Even Hemu could not defend against such an assault. From across the battlefield, he heard a great horn that rose above the din of clashing arms and the moans of dying soldiers. The elephants began to pull back, taking the rest of Hemu’s army with them.

  Bairam nodded to young Akbar in encouragement and hurried to dismount his elephant. In its stead, he found a black stallion waiting for him. He rode to his cavalry commander. The time had come to end it.

  “Ali Quli, lead your men around the pretender’s army. Smash his rear while he is occupied with me.”

  “Yes, lord regent. I will bring you Hemu’s head.”

  “Should you take him, bring him alive. His head belongs to the emperor.”

  “As you wish,” Ali Quli muttered, disappointment clouding his face. He bowed his head and turned away, galloping towards his men. Soon, they were dashing across the field, eager to shed the blood of those who would reject their emperor. Seeing them ride off, Bairam took the time to address his men.

  “Loyal soldiers of the one, true master of India, you stand in the same place where your grandfathers fought for the destiny of our nation. Here, the mighty emperor Babur gave our people a future in this rich land. Now, you must soak the Earth, as they did, with the worthless blood of our enemies. Raise your swords, and have courage. Look upon your lord,” Bairam began, passion filling his voice. “He is small, yet he has the spirit of a true emperor. He stands with you today. Should you fall, he shall fall with you. Where is Adil Shah? The cowardly dog hides in his palace. In his stead, he has sent his infidel lapdog to drive us out. He will fail. Allah is in our hearts, and He shall take us to victory or to paradise. Follow me, and together we shall return our emperor to his rightful place. Follow me, and we shall open the way to the great wealth of India. Follow me, and we shall claim our birthright. For the emperor! Allahu Akbar! “

  He was met with ravenous cheers. Men that had trembled at the sight of the elephants stood tall, prepared for the bloodshed to come. Bairam wondered what part of his speech had inspired them. Perhaps, for some of them, it had been the memory of their ancestors. For others, it might have been the invocation of their God, or maybe even just the promise of riches. Pride, religion and wealth. Those three things, Bairam knew, had a way of making mighty warriors from common men.

  Looking into the distance, he observed a cl
oud of dust as Ali Quli’s cavalry moved into position. Quickly, he signalled for his wings to advance whilst his centre held the chasm. He heard the bellow of great horns around him as the din of Mughal war cries began to fill the air. Thousands of feet began to march towards the army of Adil Shah. Bairam smiled, glancing back at Akbar before riding to the front. An armoured guard surrounded him, formidable warriors taken from the elite of the Mughal army. They wielded bows and great scimitars, ready to lay down their lives for their general. As they marched on, Bairam saw men begin to fall around him as arrow fire rained down upon them until at last, his army surged forward, falling furiously upon their enemies. Surrounded by a sweltering mass of clashing swords and dying men, Bairam hacked savagely at any enemy soldier that dared approach him, opening throats and cleaving skulls. He became aware of the noise of thundering hooves preceding a deafening crash as Ali Quli rammed the enemy from the other side. To Bairam’s savage delight, Hemu’s army began to buckle.

  “Silence the officers,” he barked. Instantly, a barrage of arrows tore into any man who dared attempt to rally the enemy.

  Just as it seemed that Bairam’s victory was imminent, Hemu himself, an impressive figure riding on a jewelled howdah atop a monstrously large elephant, charged into Bairam’s men with a contingent of the tusked behemoths. The sudden charge threw Bairam’s army into confusion and reinvigorated Hemu’s beaten soldiers. To his horror, Bairam saw his men being thrown back and cut down. Around him, his guards fought valiantly but were slowly being overwhelmed. Even as he redoubled his efforts to slay those who now swarmed around him, trying to pull him off his steed, he thought furiously, looking for a way to avert what was quickly becoming a rout. He could not let a mortal general rob Akbar of his future. Bairam sensed greatness in the emperor, and fervently wished to allow him to reach his full potential. At last, an idea came to him in the midst of his battle frenzy. He had to cut off the head, and hope that the rest of the snake would follow into oblivion.

  “Humble the leader of these infidel swine!” he shouted. Around him, vengeful eyes turned to look at proud Hemu, standing fearlessly on his howdah. Bows twanged. Arrows cut through the air, singing an awful tune. Hemu fell backwards, into the arms of his retainers. His mighty elephant turned around, swiftly making its way to safety. A great cry of sorrow arose from the enemy as they saw their great general fall. Desperation gripped their hearts and they lost the will to fight. Many threw down their swords and were rapidly cut down by Bairam’s jeering soldiers. Others were peppered with arrows as they ran. Few escaped that crimson nightmare.

  “Secure Hemu’s elephant. He will be the emperor’s prisoner,” Bairam ordered, roaring above the clamour of the battle so that all his troops could hear. “The others I leave to you.”

  The gory scene dissolved, giving way to a great tent in the middle of a massive campsite. Its walls were decorated with beautiful, handwoven tapestries. Its floor was layered with exotic furs. Torches lit the interior, making it a beacon of light in the darkness outside. Hemu had survived, albeit gravely wounded. He knelt before young Akbar.

  “Welcome, Hemu. I trust you have been treated well on your way here,” the emperor said.

  There was no reply. Hemu only stared at him with a bloodshot gaze. The general knew that he had been on the cusp of victory. Instead, he had allowed himself to be taken, unmanning his soldiers with his disgrace. Without him, nothing stood between the Mughal barbarians and his beloved India. Adil Shah was a weak fool. He would pose no threat to them. It stung, and he only hoped that they would grant him a quick death so that he would not have to see his native land suffer under their misrule.

  “Well, Hemu. I would see you spared. You are a fine commander and-” the young prince continued, before being hastily interrupted by his regent.

  “My lord, a word.”

  Taking Akbar aside, away from the curious stares of the others present in the tent, he whispered, “You cannot spare this man. I have publicly labelled him an infidel and the common soldiery will never follow him. Furthermore, he has fought against you and slain many of your men. The army expects you to kill him and if you do not, it will shame you in their eyes.”

  “Bairam, this man has value. I can see it. He may prove a great asset to my army if he can be persuaded to join us,” the emperor argued.

  “And if not? Would you risk a dagger in the back from a vengeful, broken man? Look at him now. He will never forgive this defeat.”

  “Good regent, did not the prophet say ‘Be merciful to others and you will receive mercy. Forgive others and Allah will forgive you’? I cannot cut down a wounded man, much less one who fought with such valour.”

  The regent noticed the council begin to whisper amongst themselves and knew that he had to convince Akbar quickly or risk undermining him. “The blood of two great conquerors runs through your veins. Chinggis Khan, who in another age conquered half the world, and Timur, who ravaged these lands long before your grandfather even dreamt of them. Neither would have spared this man, regardless of his merits. Show the council that you are truly their descendant. Put your sword to this man’s neck. Establish your dominance over his life and theirs. Then, you will step aside so as not to ruin your royal garb with his filthy blood. I will take his life.”

  The prince struggled to hide his anguish. He knew that Hemu had to die, but it was such a pity. A waste of a good man. At last, he mastered himself and unsheathed his sword. Slowly, he walked to the kneeling general. In silence, he placed the sword on the man’s throat. He glared at his council, taking a moment to stare each man in the eyes until they all looked down in reverence. Then, he stepped aside, giving Hemu a contemptuous glance before giving the blade to his regent.

  With a single blow, Hemu’s head fell to the floor, staining the pelts that covered it with gore. The body quickly followed, falling forwards and further soiling its surroundings with the thick, ruby blood of a ruined general. Savage cheers erupted from the onlookers at the vicious act. The sight sickened him, but Akbar dared not look away, knowing that it would be seen as weakness. Thankfully, Bairam Khan quickly ordered that the body be taken away, knowing that it disturbed the young emperor. In truth, Bairam Khan had not wanted to do it either, but in such a merciless world, there had been no other choice. A good man was dead, but his sacrifice had not been in vain. With Akbar secure in Delhi, Bairam could turn his attentions to guiding the youth and ensuring that he flourished into a capable ruler. If he succeeded, India would be united under a truly great emperor and its civilisation would become the envy of the world.

  Ambrose awakened. Silence reigned in the house, but his thoughts were a maelstrom in his mind. For the first time, he remembered a dream. It confused him. He did not understand why he had massacred those men. Why had he called himself Bairam Khan? Who was Bairam Khan? Why had Courtney’s sapphire eyes been absent?

  Ich sehe dich, gestrandet

  Ich weiß nicht wer du bist

  Aber ich weiß, dass ich dir helfen muss

  Selbst wenn du ein Verbrecher bist

  Der innere Drang zwingt mich, dir zu helfen

  -Louisa, Germany

  13

  Sunday had come, and snow had begun to fall. There was supposed to be loads of it in New York, but as with most things from New York, Ambrose did not recall ever seeing it. He had been absolutely entranced by the delicate snowflakes falling from the sky, piling up and covering everything with a pure sheet of white. His fascination had lasted until the moment he walked outside. Though the cold did not bother him, snow had kept crashing into his eyes, blinding him and proving itself an intolerable annoyance. Now, he waited for Courtney on a little table near the front of the Alexandria. Nervous fingers gently tapped a chapped wooden surface. She was almost half an hour late, and he could feel his stomach clamouring for an end to the previous night’s fast. It made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat, quietly hoping that no one would notice. Unfortunately, he was very keenly aware of Jeremy standing nearby, occasionally
smirking in his direction, clearly dying to crack a joke at his expense. In response, he glared darkly at his friend, daring him to proceed.

  Just when his eyes began to glaze over, he saw Barry approaching with Courtney’s graceful figure in tow. The kindly old man beamed at him before stepping aside for her to sit. She smiled apologetically at Ambrose, extending her hand across the table to clasp his. Not wanting to interrupt the tender moment, Barry waited a few moments to offer them the menu. He shook his head in amusement when they declined, “For breakfast too? Did you like my paella that much?”

  The couple looked at each other and laughed. Courtney quickly piped up, “It’s absolutely delicious, Barry.”

  “I should hope so. I’ll pass on the compliments to the chef.”

  Only when Barry turned and walked away did Ambrose lean in for a quick kiss. He had not wanted to make the old man feel uncomfortable. Her lips tasted as sweet as ever, the hint of a summer long past. They pulled away from one another and he caught Jeremy making faces of mock disgust behind her. Ambrose allowed himself to snicker at the sight of the massive, bearded man acting so childish. Seeing Courtney raise an eyebrow in confusion, he shifted his attention back to her. “It’s nothing, just Jeremy being a fool.”

  “Oh,” she replied, looking behind her at the waiter, who developed a sudden interest in a family on the other side of the room. Laughing, she turned back to Ambrose. “Sorry about being so late! I’ll be honest, I totally overslept.”

  “It happens,” Ambrose chuckled, relieved that it was something so mundane.

  “So, what’ve you been up to?”

  “I finally got that English essay done. My God, I don’t understand why we have to analyse the hell out of books. Can’t we just enjoy the story?” he complained.

  “I know, right! I swear I almost fell asleep last class,” she agreed.

  “I’m pretty sure I actually did,” Ambrose admitted, grinning shamelessly.