Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  Marika finds it strange how men and women alike sometimes hold hands while walking together. This affectation seems at odds with the guns. Men and boys down to the ages of nine or ten carry AK47 rifles in the same way as Australian males carry surfboards or cricket bats. Marika remembers reading somewhere that Somalia has sixty thousand armed boys, who have no trade but war, fending for themselves by force of arms, living and dying in a cycle of violence that seems unstoppable.

  It is hard not to make comparisons with teenagers back home — their world of hairstyles, smartphones, iPods and iPads, desperate to obtain the most recent designer electronics before their peers, and where the natural world, life, and death appear through the interpretation of writers, editors, programmers, and news directors.

  Many of these young people, aware of the basic injustice of society, even of their own relative affluence, joined the ‘Occupy’ protests that began with Wall Street then quickly spread to nine hundred cities world-wide. This was a grass roots reaction to injustice and inequality, and as such deserved respect, even applause. It also, in Marika’s opinion, brought about a feeling of connectness between the youth of the world. A feeling that young people in Cairo have the same overall goals as those in Melbourne, or Beirut, or Paris, even if the circumstances are vastly different.

  Some of the protesters, however, acted without understanding that they were part of the problem. That the smartphone in their jeans pocket or handbag, was, ultimately, purchased with the blood and sweat of the developing world, and with money borrowed from the future.

  Braver individuals from the ceaseless stream of refugees beg as they go past, falling to their knees, displaying children with rib cages like tree branches, and sunken eyes and cheeks. The local villagers, however, are afraid of Dalmar Asad’s men, hurrying away at the convoy’s approach, taking to the shadows and tukul huts. Even those with weapons avoid aggressive stares or postures. In this world of violence, Marika reasons, there is always someone stronger to be afraid of.

  They reach the first massive refugee camp, an informal collection of fifty thousand or more souls, most without shade or shelter. Charcoal and dung fires create a miasma that hangs over the dry valley. Near the roadway, men with AK47s operate a shop of sorts, rows of trestle tables loaded with bags of rice, cigarettes, tinned food. Plastic bottles of drinking water in one, five and twenty litre sizes sit beside the tables. The scarcity of customers suggests the exorbitance of the prices. As they pass, a tall woman, dressed in a lime green kikoi, one child at her hip and another clutching her leg, haggles over what appears to be a ring in her hand. The older child turns to look at the passing vehicles, head too big for the rack thin body, eyes like brown moons seeking out Marika, who wants to tell the driver to stop the car, to give the woman what she wants. To feed them all, for God’s sake — though of course there is not enough, will never be enough.

  The driver of the lead vehicle slows, and Captain Wanami stands, half out the door, half in. One of the armed men at the stall comes across and talks. Marika sees that they are dressed and armed in the same manner as her guards. These too must be Dalmar Asad’s men, and she does not have to guess where the profits from this and many other such places flow — all to maintain one man in a palace while a million others starve.

  The tall woman at the stall hands over her ring and takes a small cardboard box of foodstuffs and water in return. Marika clenches her fists. To take the last item of jewellery from a destitute woman in return for a meal or two infuriates her.

  Again she compares this woman with those of her own suburb, many if not most preoccupied with tennis, gardens and the latest handicraft; raffia hats; decoupage; scrapbooking; stained-glass windows — beautifully made up faces; trying on outfits at Myer, preening in a mirror while a less fortunate woman, no less intelligent or capable, carries a twenty-litre water can five kilometres from a well.

  Marika tries to rise, reaching across for the door handle, but the man next to her reacts, shouting, ‘Mia. Mia.’ To emphasise his point, he slides a Tokarev pistol from his holster and holds it to her temple, continuing to do so until she settles back into the seat. The conversation at the front vehicle concludes and the technical surges forwards, past another kilometre of the massive camp, then a cemetery, thousands of crosses among the whistling thorn. Marika feels hollow. Empathetic yet helpless.

  They pass an abandoned airstrip with a single derelict building and the hulking wreck of a Russian Antonov AN-70 transport plane lying skewed beside an overgrown runway. Even from the road Marika can see the three remaining propfans, and the holes small arms fire has drilled into the fuselage. A blackened gash near the tail wing gives a clue to the aircraft’s demise.

  Soon, she knows, she will have to ask them to stop so she can relieve the pressure of her full bladder. In the meantime she crosses her legs, closes her eyes and dreams of other times, other places.

  Day 4, 14:00

  Socotra. Dvipa Sukhadhara, the Island of Bliss in Sanskrit, officially part of Yemen but in actuality something more distant, more ancient, appearing first in recorded history as Dioskouridou, in The Periplus of the Erythraean Sea, a seafarers’ guide written back when the stone at the entrance to Jesus’ tomb was still warm from repeated rollings back and forth.

  An archipelago of four major islands and innumerable rocky outcrops, the landscape is more akin to that of Jupiter’s moons than of earth. Trees that weep blood, giant succulents, and bizarre flowers grow in the arid earth. Grosbeak birds and reptiles found nowhere else on earth roam arid mountains and plains. The unique fauna of Socotra has seen scientists tag it the Galapagos of the Indian Ocean.

  The islanders were Nestorian Christians when Marco Polo dropped by, but their religion was mingled with bizarre magic rituals that dated back to the days of the Oldawan stone age culture. The Mahra sultans conquered the islands in the sixteenth century and brought the inhabitants into Islam.

  To soar with the wings of an eagle over the islands is to swoop down stone cliff faces and over vegetation that looks like nothing else on earth. To visit Socotra is to understand that the world is not all known and familiar, that there are cubby holes of strangeness and mystery beyond the ordinary. A niche tourist industry in the first decade of this century ended with the capture and ransom of eighteen foreign nationals, eleven of whom were murdered before ransom money could be delivered. Since then the islands have slipped deeper into anarchy, a haven for pirates, extremists, and criminals.

  The Sa-baah, when it comes into view, is a toy in the heavy seas pounding against red and guano-streaked cliffs, rising three or four hundred metres with the regularity of cut crystal from the turquoise sea. Not trusting his vision through the screen, Simon stands on the side deck, wind in his face, gripping the rail and staring. The vessel sports a single heavy stack, low to the water, waves breaking against the beam as she drifts out of control towards the rock. Simon has seen old tugs like her rusting away in ports all over England. The last coat of paint, a lusty red, has all but flaked away, victim of corrosion from within.

  My girls, Simon says to himself, my darling girls are in that death trap. What are they thinking? How are they feeling? Have they been fed? Allowed to wash? There are darker questions he does not dare articulate. Is there still breath in their lungs? Are they living still? He ducks back inside. ‘Have you raised them on the radio again?’

  ‘Not yet, but I am trying.’

  ‘Try harder, for God’s sake.’

  Unable to let the vessel out of his sight, as if he were keeping it off the rocks by sheer force of will, he stares out through the screen. A garbled stream of Farsi comes through the radio, and he turns. The frightened voice is as clear as if the speaker stood beside them: ‘We have no power, and are drifting out of control. The rocks are just four hundred metres off the bow. Mayday. Mayday.’

  Lubayd looks at Simon. ‘I am sorry, but there is nothing we can do but ask them to abandon ship. We will then try to pick up what survivors we can. It is t
oo rough to go alongside — too dangerous.’

  Simon hesitates, aware of how difficult a rescue mission will be. ‘Ask them if they can abandon ship safely.’

  Lubayd does as he is asked, and a reply comes through, even more confused than before. The truth dawns on Simon. They have no lifeboats. No floatation devices. He grips Lubayd’s arm. ‘We have to take them in tow.’

  ‘That is not possible. I am sorry, Simon, but we can do nothing. We do not have the power, nor even a tow cable.’

  ‘The anchor chain, use that … and you have done nothing but boast about the power of this vessel since I first climbed aboard.’

  ‘How will we pass a line across?’

  ‘You must have some cord we can use as a messenger rope. I will swim it across and then we’ll use it to drag the chain.’ He uses the gun as a pointer. ‘You are a sea captain. You are obliged to render assistance. You have no choice.’

  Ishmael crosses his arms. ‘I say that we sail away. It is dangerous.’

  Lubayd purses his lips. ‘We will give it one try, out of respect to the rules of the sea. Just one. Insha’ Allah, it will be enough.’

  ‘Well for Christ’s sake let’s hurry then.’ Simon looks down at the gun. ‘I’m going to have to trust you.’

  ‘Of course. You have my word that I will try once.’

  Simon walks out onto the side deck and throws the gun underarm, like a bowling ball, out into the sea.

  ‘Rope,’ he calls, ‘and hurry.’

  Up close the cliffs tower over them like seaborne skyscrapers, raucous colonies of birds on the many faces — terns, petrels and gulls — some roosting, others leaving and arriving, wheeling and arguing. The ammonia smell of guano mingles with salt spray. The waves appear to sense the barrier ahead, gathering strength for the confrontation, rearing higher and curling.

  The old tug wallows like an animal carcass. Even to Simon’s lubberly eyes she is obviously taking water. Men scream for help from the deck as they steam closer.

  Lubayd picks up the radio handset, and announces, ‘We are attempting to swim a messenger line over, please have men standing by to haul.’

  As Simon strips to his underwear, the Jameela turns in a wide arc, bows facing the seas, presenting her stern to the tug. Ishmael appears with a long coil of rope around his neck — ten or twelve millimetre white nylon cord. Simon takes one end, passing it twice around his bare waist. ‘Just feed it out as I go,’ he says, ‘and that way we should avoid tangles.’ Looking into the other man’s eyes he sees malevolence, but puts it from his mind. You cannot put a gun to a man’s head and expect him to like you.

  This thought echoing in his mind, Simon climbs over the rail. The boat’s twin propellers churn the sea to froth as Lubayd fights to keep the vessel straight. Gathering himself, coiling the muscles of his thighs and knees, Simon dives far out into the water.

  The sensation is initially pleasant coolness on his skin, but as his head surfaces and he begins to strike forwards, that feeling disappears, replaced by a terrible fear that has him stroking in a mad panic for the tug, still fifty metres away. These waters are infamous for sharks. He pictures them in his mind, looming below, dark and hungry.

  The rope tied to his waist catches for a moment and the shock jolts him, before it continues to stream away. Already the muscles of his arms and shoulders are tiring, and he swallows air with each stroke.

  The tug looms up quickly — the strong current helping — but when he raises his head he sees that the island is now so close that breaking waves are a continuous thunder. Men on the side decks and cockpit mill around; arms reaching down like sea anemone tendrils to grab him as he surges along with the swell then drops down into the trough.

  He makes contact with one outstretched hand, but loses grip at the last moment. Tries for another. A firm hold this time. Clambering aboard, half dragged, a dozen voices talk at once in three different tongues. Many of the crew are bare chested, brown skinned, and scarred. Some wear turbans, one a hooded thoub. Others sport wild hair matted from salt air and a paucity of bathing.

  Standing there, chest heaving, leaning over to untie the line from his belly, he looks back towards the Jameela, Ishmael in the cockpit, chain in his hands.

  ‘Haul,’ Simon bellows. Naked backs and arms take the strain. With a wrap of cord around his hands he joins in, turning to see that the towering island is just a stone’s throw away now, the tug surging with the waves, fragile as glass against the dangerous black rocks. The smell of shaded, drenched earth mingles with that of bird dung, kelp, and dead sea creatures.

  Simon realises that they might have lost the battle already — the chain is impossibly heavy, even for a dozen hands. A swell picks up the vessel and drags her sideways, rope slipping, men falling all over each other. One jumps out into the foaming sea, and attempts to splash his way towards the rock.

  ‘No,’ Simon cries, seeing the man disappear beneath the surface, ‘don’t give up, for God’s sake! Pull.’

  The chain comes closer, heavier with every metre as the coil of rope on the rusted iron deck grows. When the first links appear, Simon loops a metre or two of chain over his shoulder and heaves; a wave hits the stern, drenching them, yet that pulse of power adding to his strength. He removes the chain from his shoulder and wraps the links in and around the massive port-side cleat.

  ‘Chain secured,’ he shouts across at Ishmael. ‘Pull us off.’

  Even over the surging ocean he hears the Jameela’s engines, then the metallic snick as the chain comes taut. The tension almost pulls the chain clear of the water, all but for the peaks of waves. Simon clutches for balance, the rocks so close now that he can identify each barnacle. Brown-yellow kelp strands wave like hands in the shallows.

  The sea is too strong, and he watches as the Jameela is pulled sideways by the force of the waves. But for that tow, however, the tug would already be on the rocks, pounded into scrap metal by the surf. In the cockpit he sees Ishmael, at first staring back at them, then moving forwards and rummaging in a locker, returning to the bow with an axe. They are going to sever the tow, Simon realises — abandoning them, leaving them to certain disaster. Brute force is necessary to sever a chain under such enormous pressure as this one.

  ‘No,’ he screams, climbing to the gunwale and diving over the side, stroking overhand to reach the other boat.

  Now, however, both the swell and surge are against him. His progress is slow, like walking up a steep slope of loose pebbles, every metre gained an exhausting struggle. Raising his head once, he sees Ishmael taking his stance at the bow, where the chain loops around the stainless steel cleat, the only place where he can strike without damaging the hull.

  Swimming up-current, sobbing with effort, eyes stinging from the salt, Simon strikes something hard and unyielding and realises that it is the chain itself, rigid as an iron bar. Reaching out with both arms he uses it to drag his body towards the Jameela, close now, seeing the world through a lens of water and spray. Ishmael raises the axe, brings it down, the blade landing awkwardly and his face contorting in annoyance.

  Simon feels his strength ebb away, but somehow his arms still thrash through the water. It is as if his physical being no longer matters, only the irrepressible will inside. Finally the boarding platform is close and he grips a rail, swinging himself aboard just as Ishmael’s axe reaches the apex of its swing. Seeing Simon coming he alters the stroke at the last minute, aiming for him, killing rage on his face. A hashish-misted murderous rage fills his eyes.

  Simon seizes the axe behind the iron head and pulls, sending Ishmael off balance. He throws the heavy implement overboard and takes hold of the other man’s neck. Even as his thumbs push against the windpipe some small part of him cries, What kind of man have I become?

  ‘No. Mercy, please,’ Ishmael gasps. ‘We must cut the tow or we will all be killed.’

  Simon relaxes his grip, moving his hands to the loose cloth of the younger brother’s robe, using it as leverage to push and
shove him into the saloon. He shouts at Lubayd, ‘We had a deal! Your brother was about to sever the tow.’

  ‘No deal includes risking my boat.’

  ‘There’s only one way out of here — drag the Sa-baah off. Do it now.’

  ‘It is not good for the engines to exceed four thousand revolutions.’

  ‘I don’t care what is good or not. Give it every ounce of power or I’ll throw your brother overboard.’

  Lubayd says nothing, but his hand drops to the throttle lever and eases it forwards. The engines build to a steady whine, hull vibration quickening. The vessel straightens. Simon’s eyes drop to the chartplotter, speed over the ground reading, 0.1 knots, then 0.0.

  ‘We’re still not moving,’ Lubayd said. ‘It is no use, you see — we cannot do anything. That is full power. We have no choice but to stop the tow — stand off and hope we can pick up survivors.’

  ‘There won’t be any survivors after she hits those rocks. My girls are on board. Locked up in some dirty iron cabin. That boat will sink like a stone. Put her out of gear for a moment while I take the chain off the cleat. Get ready to engage the winch.’

  Lubayd shrieks, ‘No. It will just drag us closer to her. It is too dangerous.’

  ‘We have no choice. It is the last chance.’

  ‘You know nothing about boats,’ Lubayd says. ‘It is very hard to tow a boat by the stern.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’

  ‘Because you just hurry, hurry, do not give me a chance to say anything.’

  ‘Then get on the radio and tell them to move the chain forwards. I’ll give them some slack.’

  Simon walks out onto the side deck, then aft to where the chain is wrapped over the cleat. The straining engines die and the chain goes limp. The place where Ishmael struck with the axe is visible, one of the links severed almost through on one side.

  ‘Hold, you bastard of a thing, please,’ Simon whispers. In a single twist the chain is free, and he begins to pay it out as the men on the other boat move the tow, waving when it is done. He turns back towards the bridge and shouts, ‘Now — take her off.’