I put a bullet through Ethan’s head.
It was a lot of money.
The bloodstain on the kitchen floor calls for me.
Soon I’ll be able to paint the door and move on, but not until Ethan’s gone.
I sign for an overnighted FedEx box that contains fifteen thousand in unmarked messy bills to cover the last two jobs. The package is an Amazon box with a return address of someplace a thousand miles away. I’m not even sure where the money comes from, only that it’s never late, and is laundered and shipped from a phony company called ABC Books. Books hide the money well. Inside, I find a stack of hollowed Bibles with the pages cut out to make room for the cash. Sometimes they’re Bibles. Sometimes they’re encyclopedias. On a Post-it stuck to the inside of the first book is a name to verify against the next coded address waiting for me at my door: JAMES PILCHEN.
The Internet gives me directions to his house, and his Facebook profile is public. He lives seven miles away and I’ve seen his face. That’s all I need—or want—to know about him.
I twist the silencer onto the barrel of my Colt .38 and check the chamber before sliding the gun into my concealment holster.
My neighbor doesn’t greet me when I leave.
In less than fifteen minutes my car is parked half a block down from the decoded address for James Pilchen. Surgical gloves wait for me in the glove box. Ten grand for this guy.
I sit in the car reading a Repairman Jack novel on my Kindle and lower the digital book every few pages over the course of several hours. James has a yapping dog in the living room that yaps even louder when a black Mercedes pulls up the driveway. He’s got a wife, a trunk full of groceries, a little girl in a paisley dress.
Ethan wanted kids.
I drink at a bar called The Stagger Inn until I shouldn’t drive, and then I stagger out.
A text message on my phone from several hours ago reads: “When you’re out, you’re out” from an unlisted number.
It can only mean one thing.
I should be arrested for driving while intoxicated, or should have at least crashed along the way, but manage to turn onto Feagleship Road and make it to the complex in one piece.
The maze of endless hallways smells like paint, and my door matches all the others in the apartment building. Even over the alcohol, I can smell it. The door is painted eggshell white with the numbers 691 etched onto a little plaque above the keyhole. A folded piece of paper waits for me, tucked beneath the door—smashed against the mat—with a copy of a copy of a copy of my lease agreement stapled to it: page three. Ethan’s name is crossed out on this one. There’s a circled section of small print near the bottom for me to read, but I already know what it says. I’ve read it a dozen times. I’m concerned with the paint code, which I’ve also seen before: 101FR#691-70.
My neighbor is not there to greet me. He has no more rhetorical questions for me to answer and is done sliding notes underneath my door.
I go inside, but not to scrub. I go inside to paint the kitchen floor.
THE WELLMASTER’S DAUGHTER
BY JAMES S. DORR
Touila ... Toufourine ... Oum el Asel. From there, six days journey to Bir Ounane. And who am I, who camps in this wadi, surrounded by the stinking corpses of camels? I am the master of Bir Ounane.
From there, five parched days more to El Mraiti. These are the links that hold the caravan routes together—the wells in the desert within the Great Desert. These are the pearls that Allah has cast in the midst of the furnace, lest men should come to forget His mercy.
I am but a man—a just man, I think. Yet a man who has lived his whole life in the desert.
I have no mercy.
I had a daughter whose name was Zumur’rad, the Jewel of the Desert. I named her myself and, after my wife died, I raised her alone at Bir Ounane. I taught her the values of the oasis and of the desert: About the camel trains that came to us and why, when spring’s briefness gave way to summer, most ceased their travel. About Allah’s grace that made me a wellmaster, serving at the Caid’s pleasure, and made her my daughter.
And always she would have me say more.
“Tell me, Ab’sahib—Lord and Father—about the sands of the Erg Sekkane,” she would ask as we sat in the evening, washed in the final light of the sun. “Tell me about the crescent sands, and how they strive to mount even the rock cliffs until all is covered. Tell me as well of the great star dunes, and how they rise to reach the height of two hundred men.” We would listen awhile to the far off wind, and I would then tell her about the djinn of the trackless desert, away from even the caravan routings, and how they pleased Allah as I in turn pleased my earthly master, I by doling out water to travelers and they by proclaiming the Lord of All’s might.
“And tell me,” she would ask yet again, “about the wadis. Tell me about the phantom rain.” And again we would listen and I would explain why the desert grows hot—so hot in summer that when storm clouds come, such rain as they carry boils back to the sky before reaching its surface. And how the wadis—the burnt remains of what once had been rivers—thus stay bone dry until a second cloud follows the first, discharging its water onto a ground that, even if thirstier now than before, at least has been cooled enough to receive it.
And so we would often continue to sit the entire night through, I speaking, she learning, beneath patterned stars so bright one could touch them.
We spent our time that way until her twelfth spring.
I have met the Caid. He has a palace near the ocean which he departs from only twice every fourteen years. On one of these journeys he visits his cities along the rivers and by the sea, making sure they are garrisoned strongly, while, on the other, he enters the desert.
On this second journey, seven years after the first is completed, he visits the wells. He checks to be sure that his commerce is flowing—to see with his own eyes that what his soldiers, who visit the wells every two or three seasons, have told him is true. It is on this journey that he makes sure that tools and seed, and fresh, healthy camels, and such other things the wellmasters need to tend their oases are being supplied. It was on this journey that he met me.
My daughter had scarcely known five springs when the Caid arrived at Bir Ounane. She does not remember the way he greeted me like a friend. The way he confirmed me as his wellmaster and later, as we drank tea together, told me that when he arrived again, in fourteen more years, he would see that Zumur’rad had a husband.
She does not remember the way we spoke of many things in the perfumed shade of the Caid’s pavilion. And so she would ask me, when she became twelve:
“’Sahib,” she would say, “tell me about the Caid’s palace beyond the desert. Tell me about the cities he visits, and what the ocean is like that he lives by.”
And I would tell her what he told me, about the djinn of the ground and the water. I would explain how, in parts of the world, the water lies beneath rock and sand—as it does in our desert—but yet, in other parts, through Allah’s mercy, these djinn change position.
“And this is what the Caid called the ocean?” she would ask further. “This changing position. How can such things be?”
“For Allah,” I would say, “it is as easy as blinking one’s eye.” I would have her be silent and we would listen to the earth’s murmur beneath the sand, and then I would tell her how rivers of water flowed under the ground, to feed wells such as ours. But elsewhere, such rivers flowed on the surface, and fed not wells, but vast basins of water that stretched as far as a man could see.
I would repeat what the Caid had told me, about dunelike waves that moved through the water, about dust-like ripples that washed on the shore. I would tell of the storms, when the djinn of the air fought those of the water, and how they were feared more than even the storms we knew in the desert—the storms where sand would sweep up to the sky and the sun’s face would blacken. And she would weep then.
“Tell me not about storms on the desert,” she would say, “nor abo
ut an ocean that frightens me more. Tell me instead about the gardens. The cities where the caravans come from and where they go. Tell me about the things of beauty.”
At those times I would wipe Zumur’rad’s tears away on the hem of my own sleeve. I would then describe, in a gentle voice, how the caravan routes came out of the desert into a land filled with trees and flowers, no matter what season. How birds would sing when the camel drivers arrived at a river, and how that river would flow to the ocean, its waters sweeter than even the honey the caravans’ merchants sometimes gave to her when they passed by us. I would describe to her how, where the water was at its sweetest, men built vast cities of emeralds and gold; and how they built palaces out of marble as white as milk, with roofs and domes and turrets so thick the sun couldn’t reach through; and how the air within these great halls was at all times as cool as the water of Bir Ounane in the first days of springtime.
Zumur’rad would smile then.
By Allah’s grace, the world lies in layers. Layers of sand over layers of water. Layers of heat. Even the phantom rain is a layer—a layer of promise above the dry desert. A promise fulfilled with the second rain.
And so, in this wadi, I bury my camels beneath the sand. I have little strength—my leg has been wounded and even now festers—but I do not have to bury them deeply. A hand’s-breadth or two beneath the surface, the ground is cool enough for insects and worms to burrow. A hand’s-breadth of sand sprinkled over the corpses protects from the sun.
I work on my knees. When my work is completed, I dig a trench, also, to fit my own body. A place I can lie in relative coolness, conserving the moisture that keeps me alive.
By Allah’s grace, thus might I endure forever.
I think about layers—how even a child’s growth is patterned in layers. How even trade changes. When Zumur’rad reached her fifteenth spring, the nature of the goods that came by us was different from what it had been in past years.
When once the caravans had carried iron tools from the north, and brought back ivory and spices, many now carried weapons for trading and brought back slaves. And these were larger than most camel trains. As well as the camel and caravan-masters, the boys—apprentices—who swept dung for the evening fires, the cargomaster when one was needed, the slavers’ caravans also had guards.
In part for this reason, the slavers were shunned by those who knew more of the ways of the desert. In part they were shunned because slaving is evil—because Allah punishes those who would deal in their fellow men. And yet they continued.
So worried was I about these changes, I did not realize that the nature of Zumur’rad’s questions had changed as well.
This time she asked: “Why is slaving evil? Why, if the slavers gain riches from it, do others insist that Allah disdains it?” And I tried to tell her about men’s suffering, and death in the desert. About the maltreatment of human cargo by men who sought too great and too fast a profit.
I tried to explain this by telling her stories—unpleasant stories—of Allah’s wrath. Of one caravan, in ancient times when they carried slaves too, that was led by inexperienced masters into a sandstorm, cargo and all; and how, unlike the storms of the Caid’s ocean, this storm sucked it dry. How it stands to this day in the Erg Iguidi, beyond the well of Oum el Asel, as a silent warning, its camels and slaves and guards and drivers all turned into statues. Their flesh hard as stone.
And I told her that these were the fortunate ones—in Allah’s mercy, their deaths were at least swift. That there were other caravans whose masters allowed their camels to sicken until, still days from the nearest well, they could go no farther.
And she interrupted. “Tell me not about death,” she said, “but about those who live to enjoy the riches they gain from such cargo. Tell me about the things they buy, the places they live, when they have enough wealth, far away from the desert.”
I looked at her when she asked these questions, and saw, for the first time, how much she had grown. I tried to explain how Allah punishes, in the long run, all who traffic in evil. She would not listen.
“Tell me,” she demanded instead, “why the Caid wishes to stop the slave trade.” I had no answer—I had not known.
I asked her how she had heard such things and she answered with yet another question.
“Tell me about men.”
Spring had ended. Summer was on us and, because of the heat of the season, all caravans had ceased their travel. And so I told Zumur’rad about men.
I told her of the Caid’s promise and how, if she would be patient for only a few years more, a man would be found who would be worthy of her. She would have a husband, and I a partner to help in my old age.
And yet she defied me.
“I will not wait for your Caid’s man,” she said when I had finished speaking. “I have gotten a lover already. His name is Bes’fariq and he is the leader of one of the largest slave caravans—it was he who told me about the Caid. And when we are married, unlike the man you would choose for my husband, he will not force me to stay in the desert.”
Spring had ended. The wind had shifted, the burning wind from the south combating the final remnants of air from the north—from the Caid’s ocean. This was the time when such clouds that were seen—high, mist-like wraiths above the Hamada, the rock-crowned plateau that separates the Erg Sekkane from Oum el Asel—produced sudden downpours but no lasting rain. When the true water that comes to the desert, through layered rock underneath the dry courses of ancient rivers, had slowed to a trickle.
This was the time when even the sparse green jewels of Allah—the wells that break through the desert’s surface—have seen the grass that surrounds them turn yellow, the flowers die and the trees fold their leaves, and so there was little that I could do but pray that one of the Caid’s supply trains would come in the fall. I would then send Zumur’rad north to his palace in hopes he could find her a husband right then—even a husband who would not wish to apprentice himself to me at Bir Ounane. But there were no caravans that fall, nor during the winter or early spring of the following year.
Until, finally, Zumur’rad was sixteen.
Again, spring was ending. Again, the winds battled when, out of the north, from Oum el Asel, a caravan came. Zumur’rad ran out with a dipper of water to the lead camel, offering it to the rider who swung down. The water consumed, the rider took Zumur’rad into his arms and kissed her as if they had been long married, then brought her back to me.
“Old man,” he said, “my name is Bes’fariq. You may as well know that I deal in slaves.”
“I have seen you before,” I answered. “In past years I have given you water—that is my job. But is it not too late in the season for seeking slaves? Or do you intend to spend the whole summer south of the desert, and bring your cargo back in the fall?”
The rider turned and conversed with Zumur’rad, speaking in whispers, then motioned to his fellows to dismount. “It is late in the evening, old man,” he finally said when he turned back to me. “My men are thirsty and need to be fed. We will leave in the morning.”
“To spend the whole summer south of the desert?” I asked again. I looked at my daughter, pressed close to his side, and purposely spoke in mocking tones. “Slavers spend weeks to gather their cargos—even such prosperous slavers as you—and by then it would be too hot to cross back with such a burden.”
“Not to spend the summer, old man,” Bes’fariq said, his voice rising in anger. “Nor to seek slaves—at least not for this journey.” He paused and twisted again for a moment, to ask a question of one of his men, and Zumur’rad continued.
“There has been a war,” she said—she did not call me Lord and Father. “Your Caid attempted to put down the slavers and they have revolted. Bes’fariq goes south to join an army that’s already gathered at El Mraiti, to bring it back north.”
“To bring it back north, with the first heat of summer, and push the Caid into the ocean,” Bes’fariq added, again at her side. “We will r
ide on the edge of the wind, old man. At the very end of the caravan season, stopping only to refill our waterskins, in order to strike when we’re least expected.” He lowered his gaze and looked at Zumur’rad, then back to me.
“And she will ride with us.”
“No!” I shouted. I pushed myself between him and my daughter. Grappled with him. Saw—from the corner of an eye—the hot flash of metal.
I twisted and lunged—felt pain sear my thigh.
And looked at my daughter. Saw how she had stabbed me.
I had no daughter.
I looked at the knife. Looked up at Zumur’rad from where I had fallen.
Watched as the blood—the water and flesh that had bound us together—dripped from her hand.
I wake in the desert, stiff in my trench, my nostrils filled with the odor of half-rotted camels—the three already sickened camels Bes’fariq gave me. I heard him talking when I woke that morning at Bir Ounane, discussing the camels with the man he had questioned before. I woke in the hut where I keep summer fodder for my own beasts and heard Zumur’rad join their conversation. It was she who suggested the camels be given to me.
“He fears the desert,” she told Bes’fariq. “He fears the slow dying. Therefore let him ride one of these as far as it takes him. Let him have the others as well. You have no need for them.”
“That is true,” her lover replied. “The ones we have gotten at Oum el Asel, plus the ones we have here, will be more than sufficient. But what if he does not go into the desert? What if he stays here, where there is at least water?”
It was Zumur’rad who kicked the door open and looked down at me where I lay on the ground. She inspected the wound she had given me the night before, looked approvingly at the signs that it had already begun to fester.
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