The Bones of the Old Ones (Dabir and Asim)

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “They insult God and his prophets,” Abdul spat gruffly, “and mock these dead.” Abdul was a quiet, amiable sort, and I was surprised to see him so furious. He would have attacked had I given him leave.

  “Would you cut us down?” the woman asked, almost inviting destruction. “It will not stop the savior. Better to raise a sword against a snowstorm.” Her throaty voice rose in a zealous quaver. “Slay us if you will—we shall go straightaway to paradise, martyrs who witnessed the hand of God.”

  “We will not kill you,” Dabir stated firmly. “But you must depart. You profane those who perished here.”

  She stared at him, then chattered at her men, who climbed to their feet and walked to their horses. The woman smiled once more, her eyes lingering last on Najya. “We will go. We will tell others what we have seen.”

  I ordered Ishaq and Abdul to monitor the Khazars and told the others to search the village, mostly so they would be too busy to contemplate violence against the priestess and her followers, who were slow about departing.

  Dabir, Jibril, and I joined the search, with Najya.

  We looked for the better part of an hour, but found no creature alive in that frozen village. Men, women, and children were dead where they had dropped or where ice had propped them in place, their faces rigid in fear. Dogs, cats, even fowl, had died with them. Donkeys and horses were frozen upright in their stalls.

  Najya spoke at last upon sight of a small family sitting around a cold brazier, their blue hands raised to the coals that had been extinguished at the moment of their death.

  “What could have done this?” she asked, her voice low, her face hidden beneath hood and veil. And then she answered her own question. “It was the snow women I called, wasn’t it?”

  “How could those two have done all this?” Dabir asked. “It is something more powerful still.” He did not say what that might be, and we did not ask. I don’t think any of us wanted to hear the answer.

  We knew not how to bury so many dead in frozen ground, so we prayed for them after we gathered fodder, and returned to the road.

  We set double sentries that night, no matter that we took shelter in a large caravanserai with high walls. Jibril whispered to Dabir that whatever had slain the villagers would not be stopped with walls, and I knew he was right. But what more could we do?

  A small caravan loaded down with textiles arrived from the south after us, and they quickly spread word of the grisly village to travelers from the north, who relayed that they’d heard of giant monsters roaming the wasteland, two-headed blood-drinking men, and other tales that sounded even less likely.

  The soldiers were worried, for only fools are immune to fear, and we had seen much that would trouble any sane man. I shared with them the story of the ghul and the soldier’s sister, thinking to reassure them that awful things could be overcome. I do not know that they were altogether heartened, even though they cheered in the proper places. The wind had come to seem like the enemy, and its moan had not relented since the afternoon, a reminder always that we were surrounded by an intangible antagonist of unknowable strength.

  I had noticed Najya peering out from her tent, and called her out to play shatranj even though she had withdrawn by the time the men were bedding down around the fire. I honestly did not expect her to accept, but she said that she would, and I knew a fumbling, nervous joy as we set up beside the fire, which blazed on our right hand. Jibril and Dabir sat a little ways off, comparing the marks upon the spear with Dabir’s record of them, and the two sometimes exchanged low-voiced comments. From their somber demeanor it did not seem like they made much progress deciphering all the symbols.

  Najya spoke little until we were halfway through the game.

  “Captain,” she began quietly, her voice almost lost over the crackle of the burning logs, “I have noticed a theme in your tales.”

  Her renewed formality stabbed me. Still, I did not let the disappointment show in my voice. “What is that?”

  “You meet a monster, and you kill it.”

  That was a drastic simplification. “That’s one way to describe it, I suppose.”

  “Have you ever met something strange that you did not kill?”

  “I have met evil things that I could not kill, though not for lack of trying.”

  “What of the spirit within me?”

  How best to answer did not come quickly enough to me, and I found myself staring dumbly.

  “What will you do if the spirit takes full control?”

  “You are asking if I would kill you, and I swear upon all things that are holy that this I would never do.”

  My fervent reply gave her pause, and her next question was more subdued. “Suppose that the thing within me attacked you.”

  “I would find some other way to stop it. It is only your enemies who should fear me; against you I shall never lift a hand.” Ah, that was too close. I wondered if my ardor was as obvious to her as it had been to Dabir.

  She looked down at the board, and only after a long moment did she reach to take one of my pawns. I advanced a chariot to threaten one of hers, and she pounced upon it with a knight.

  “Nicely played,” I told her. “The amulet protects you now. You have no need to worry about such things.” I put forth a pawn. Three squares more and it would reach the far side of the board. Yet I did not think she would let him pass.

  “I dreamt again, last night,” she confessed softly. “A true dream. You and Dabir and I walked in a dark cavern, surrounded by carven images. Like the ones on the spear.”

  That sounded both troubling and promising. “What more did you see? Did we find another of the weapons?”

  “No. But I dreamed also that you stood within a fortress and recoiled from me when I asked your help.”

  That couldn’t be right. “I will never fail to aid you,” I promised.

  She stared at me through her lashes. “How do you think this all shall end, Asim?”

  Never before had I known such pleasure merely at the sound of my name. Yet my happiness was troubled. I forced cheer into my voice and relayed the best possible outcome. “We will find the bones and cast out the hateful spirit. Then I shall personally lead your escort back to Isfahan.”

  “And what of the Sebitti?”

  “We shall likely have to fight them,” I conceded. “Dabir and Jibril will concoct something clever.”

  “You have such faith in him.”

  “So should you.”

  It was many more moves before she spoke once more. “It is in you,” she said, “that I place my faith.”

  I think I may have defeated her, that game, but in truth I was so pleased with her simple words that against that glow all else has dimmed.

  * * *

  Come morning the foothills of the Taurus Mountains filled the horizon. We passed through outlying villages as we drew nearer and nearer to the ancient city of Edessa. Najya informed us that she sensed one of the bones strongly now, and pointed northwest. “It is there.” Her voice quavered with something between fear and excitement. “On the height of that hill.”

  Like Mosul, Edessa had overflowed its walls. My father, who had once been posted there, had told my brothers and me that it was older even than Mosul. From him I had learned Ibrahim had once been tormented by Edessan unbelievers who meant to burn him alive. Allah turned their fire to water, and transformed their firewood into carp, the descendants of which live on to this day in a pool of water. No man is allowed to slay them. Merchants sell special food to pilgrims who come to see the fish, and my father had told me the fish eat the food from your fingers. When I relayed this story to Abdul, he was as eager as me to see this, but it was not to be. We bypassed the city altogether, much to the disappointment of the men, who’d hoped for a warm meal at least.

  By early afternoon we’d arrived at the small rounded slope Najya sought. There were tracks of beasts, but none of humans. Once we sat our mounts near the height of the place, I could look southeast beyond Edes
sa to the snow-white flatness from which we had come. To north and west mountains ringed the horizon. Here and there hawks soared, and below some wild asses rooted in the snow for grass.

  Najya walked carelessly along the gentlest slope of the hill, near its crown. Dabir followed, and Jibril and I came after. The men began to unload our packs to set up camp at the base. I had no wish to advertise our presence against the skyline.

  “Have you noticed,” Jibril asked me softly, “that she does not mind the cold?”

  Once he mentioned it, I realized Najya’s outer robe was thinner even than mine, and, moreover, it had blown open in the chill wind. She had not bothered to draw it back. Thick, strong men like Abdul kept theirs tightly closed.

  “She is too proud to show her frailty?” I offered.

  Jibril cocked a thick eyebrow at me. “Too proud? Surely you do not believe that.”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I do know that it was no spirit I spoke with last night, or this morning. That is Najya.”

  “So she seems,” Jibril said. “But I see the spirit’s dark farr more and more clearly.”

  I stopped with him, sensing he had some weighty matter to discuss.

  He gave up waiting for whatever realization I had not reached. “There is something Dabir does not have the heart to say.”

  “What is it?” I knew then a mounting sense of dread.

  “There may be a time when the woman can no longer keep back the spirit.”

  “But your amulet—”

  He cut me off with a brusque chop of his hand. “The amulet will not work forever. The spirit is growing stronger. There may be no choice, in the end.”

  I scowled at him. “You need to spend less time worrying, and more learning how to break the spear.”

  “I am trying,” he said, somewhat taken aback. “Do you think it is easy?”

  He looked as though he meant to say more, but at that moment Najya reached a hump of snow near the summit of the hill and called out that it was here. I stepped away from Jibril and called down to the men to bring shovels.

  Others have spread tales of the exploits I shared with Dabir, but I tell you that most of them get it wrong. They would have you think Dabir and I rode everywhere in ease, pausing only now and then to solve a riddle or slash our swords, then departing with baskets of jewels and the gratitude of beautiful maids. In truth we spent more time in the dark recesses of libraries, or riding through bad weather in forsaken countryside where there was neither good food nor drink, or shoveling. You would not believe how often finding secrets came down to manual labor.

  Once the men and I scraped clear the snow, we found ourselves contending against cold winter ground. We were but a half hour into our effort when two of us at once, Abdul and I, struck bedrock. At Dabir’s suggestion we cleared a larger swath of cold, dry dirt away, uncovering more stone, and he tapped it with the handle of a pick, listening carefully.

  “Hollow,” he told me. He stood and addressed the four of us who were digging, while the rest kept watch. “We must find the edges of this stone.”

  Other soldiers traded out, to spell each other, but Abdul and I did not relent, and soon stripped off our outer garments—no matter the chill wind, our labors warmed us.

  By late afternoon we had exposed some eight feet, but never found an edge. Dabir said it was probably enough. He joined me as we set to the limestone with picks, which was hard going.

  “Rock and more rock.” Hot from the labor, Dabir had removed his gloves and now stroked his beard in thought, staring at the limestone slab, scored with our efforts.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We need wine,” Dabir said thoughtfully.

  “Wine?” Ishaq perked up.

  “Not for what you’re thinking.” Dabir smiled thinly. “Any sort of wine. Vinegar and dregs should be cheaper. I should say we need a dozen barrels of the stuff.”

  Ishaq looked crestfallen. The wiry Kurd was a fine fellow, but not so abstemious.

  Dabir turned to Abdul, standing just to his left. “Ride to town and bring it as swiftly as you are able.”

  Abdul blinked at him. “Whatever for, Honored One?”

  “To crack the stone,” Dabir said impatiently; then, at the man’s uncomprehending look, he added, “Go, take three men with you, and do not tarry.”

  Good soldier that he was, Abdul obeyed, though he looked as confused as I. He called the men with him and rode off at a good clip.

  Dabir then ordered us to gather as much wood as we could find. “I want a mighty blaze, to heat all this limestone.”

  Najya passed me a waterskin, which I drank gratefully before passing back.

  “What are you planning?” I asked Dabir.

  Jibril exposed his teeth in an appreciative grin. “Dabir is thinking of Livy!”

  “Exactly,” Dabir said.

  I did not know the meaning of the word; it sounded to me as though it were a tool or instrument of some kind. “What is a livy?”

  “Livy is a who, not a what,” Dabir explained.

  “Livy was a Roman historian,” Jibril told me. “He wrote in great detail about Rome’s fight against Hannibal.”

  Now that name I knew, for some said Hannibal was as great as Iskander, one of the finest of all generals.

  Young Kharouf had come up beside us, panting rather heavily, and I realized that he had been listening when he asked a question himself. “What country was Hannibal?”

  “Hannibal was a general,” Dabir said. “He fought against the Romans. You would probably enjoy reading of him, Asim.”

  “I am not completely unfamiliar with him,” I said, and turned to Kharouf. “He took tens of thousands of men, and horses, and even some elephants, over tall mountains to battle the Romans, and he won many great victories.” Saying this, I thought, would remind Dabir that I was not completely without scholarship.

  “Correct,” Jibril said. “While high in the range of mountains separating greater Frankistan from Italy, his way was blocked by gigantic boulders. Hannibal heated the boulders, and then poured sour wine onto them, and they cracked.”

  “Why?” Gamal asked. All of us workers had gathered round, and if Jibril had been a better storyteller he might have entertained us.

  But he was not so fine. By the Ka’aba, the scholar loved to hear himself talk of learned things, and brought out the worst in Dabir. I forget the precise whys; either of them might merely have said that temperature changes are just as bad for rock as for metal, and that limestone is especially responsive to such things. That is how I best explain it.

  “Let us hope that it works as well as the historian reported,” Dabir finished.

  Abdul and his men returned in the evening hauling a wagonload of bad wine.

  “It was more expensive than you would suppose,” he told Dabir and me when he’d guided the rig up the hillside and slipped down from his horse. “I made the mistake of sounding too interested in purchasing it.”

  Dabir waved off his concern. “It is good enough.” He then commanded us to put out what remained of the fire and brush it from the slab. This we did, then four of us rolled bitter-smelling casks. Dabir positioned Abdul and me on opposite sides of the stone, one cask on its side beside us both.

  “Open them,” Dabir ordered.

  Abdul and I stove in the casks with picks. Wine flowed free upon the stone in red streams like blood spilling across a pagan altar. The liquid sizzled the moment it struck, sending up a cloud of foul steam. The limestone groaned in anguish and a crack spread, widening and branching off through the ashes left from our fire. With another loud crack, the fissure in the stone widened.

  “We need more wine!” Dabir called sharply.

  Abdul and I broke open two more barrels. With the influx of more liquid, more popping and loud snapping sounded, and then the ground rumbled. The limestone fell away in two large halves. Dabir yelled to get back, and, too late, I remembered that the stone we’d broken did not begin and end directly at the h
ole we’d dug. The snowy ground gave way beneath me and I plunged into darkness.

  9

  The barrel dropped with me. I knew an instant of panic, and then my heels struck ground, for the hole proved only two spear lengths deep.

  “Asim!” Dabir called.

  I fell backward onto cold stone, though I did not strike my head, praise God. To add to my woe, the cask landed hard on my right, bounced over me, and rolled on, spraying sour wine the while. I reeked like a tavern after Ramadan.

  I pushed quickly to my feet, gagging on the wine fumes, flexing and unflexing my left hand, which stung mightily. Fortunately neither the hand nor any other part of me seemed broken.

  Dabir was backlit so harshly by the sun as he leaned in to check on me that he looked like a blackened paper cutout. Once more he called to me.

  “I am all right!” I shouted up, though my voice was almost as unsteady as I felt. I could see nothing of my surroundings.

  There was much shouting overhead about ropes and lanterns, and before too long Dabir was lowered down on the former while holding the latter. He advanced swiftly to my side. “Are you hurt?”

  “More surprised than hurt. I stink.”

  “You do,” Dabir concurred. A look of amused relief crossed his face, lit orange in the lantern glow.

  Shortly thereafter Dabir called for the spear, and we were soon joined by Najya and Jibril, who carried torches, which we lit from the lantern wick. I ordered Ishaq and Gamal down to guard the entrance point and told the rest of the men to stand watch above, reminding them to look from the hill but to keep low.

  The darkness covetously gobbled at our torchlight as we looked about so that we had only an impression of a wide space. The ceiling was fairly uniform at twice the height of a man, and the floor likewise was mostly level. The chamber was intermittently supported by thick earth columns, each smoothed over and painted with rounded black predatory creatures: scorpions, wolves, lions, and snakes.

  Dabir tapped his fingers near a pictograph incised into the wall as we passed, glancing meaningfully at me. There were predators, yes, but there were also man shapes, with spears, and mountaintops, and low-lying clouds, or mist, or phantoms. It was hard to tell what exactly they were except that they had eyes and that they scattered fallen man figures in their wake. They were very similar to the carvings on the spear. You might think that I was pleased to know we were surely following the correct trail, but I felt on edge. Likely this place had been sealed since the time of Nuh or Moses. Who was to say what might dwell within? It would be a fine breeding ground for evil djinn.