by Nana Malone
The light, clean scent of an ocean breeze lifted the cloying stench of blood and fear that gripped the tent like a fist and eased her breathing. Whenever he was close, the air felt as though a thunderstorm had scrubbed the world clean. His scent. A buzz of electricity gave her goose bumps, but not in an unpleasant way. It felt like standing next to the Tesla coil at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry.
He was close. So close that if she reached out, she was certain she could touch him. Memory of the last time she had touched him surfaced from deep within her memories. When she had touched him before, it had felt as though she were being reunited with someone she’d waited to see for a very long time. Her hand moved of its own volition towards where he stood.
“Elisabeth!” Katima shrieked, grabbing her hand and pulling it away just as Elisabeth felt him move back. “Don’t touch him! His touch is death!”
“But I touched him once before?” Elisabeth reached up. Her hand met with … nothing. He’d moved back. In fact, she could tell he was no longer in the room. The stench of sweat and blood rose up to suffocate her once more. He was gone.
For some reason, it felt like loss…
“You’re going to be okay,” Kadima touched Mahboobullah's forehead. “Malak al-Maut has found you worthy to live.”
The thunder of Chinook helicopters carrying their wounded pounded through the air as they approached the base.
“We’ve got more incoming wounded!!!” an airman stuck his head inside the tent. “Some crazy Aussie signalman crawled in under fire and dragged their sorry asses into a creek bed to patch ‘em back together! He’s gonna get a medal for sure for this one!”
“Get him out of here!” Elisabeth gestured for a couple of assistants who had come in to move out the previous rotation of wounded into the recovery tent to make room for the new wave. “Kadima … can you go with Mahboobullah and stay with him a little while? I don’t think I’m going to need a translator for this next shipment.”
“Sure,” Kadima stepped aside so the corpsmen could move the patient onto a litter and carry him out of the tight confines of the tent.
Elisabeth tossed bloody sponges and medical implements into the trash and hastily dumped alcohol onto everything else to sterilize it as best she could. They’d gone through their ‘sterile’ instruments two shipments ago and were now sterilizing things on the fly. Not an ideal situation. One of the corpsmen stripped the bloody gurney and tucked in a clean sheet. At least they had enough of those. For now.
“Elisabeth?” Kadima made eye contact just before she disappeared. “We need to talk. Later. He’s not evil.”
“Mahboobullah?” Elisabeth deliberately pretended not to understand who she was talking about.
“Malak al-Maut," Kadima said. "The Angel of Death. He told Mahboobullah he would spare him because you asked him to. He said you are his friend.”
Elisabeth stood there stupidly as though waiting to catch flies. Any further questions were cut off as Kadima was shoved to one side by a fresh shipment of wounded. American wounded. Lots of them.
They were seriously understaffed. It was triage time. Shoving her questions out of her mind, Elisabeth buckled down to the task they had trained her to do. Sort the seriously wounded, who needed attention right away; from the less seriously wounded, who could wait; from the hopeless, who would receive no treatment at all except for comfort as they died.
Marking a big black ‘X’ on the forehead of a tall, skinny kid who had even less chance of surviving than the last patient, Elisabeth had to wonder just who was the angel of death now?
As technically a still-student nurse, Elisabeth’s only real job was to sort, assist, and give comfort to the hopeless…
“Go to hell,” Elisabeth muttered, glancing at the direction she had last sensed HIM before he’d departed. Gesturing for one of the corpsmen to assist, she heaved the lost cause onto her makeshift operating table and shoved a fresh sponge into the corpsmen’s hands. Her version of ‘giving comfort to the hopeless’ saved lives.
The corpsman took one look at the side of the kids head and retched, nearly blowing his supper upon the floor.
“Jackson,” Elisabeth snapped, reading the name off the corpsman’s name badge to distract him. “What’s this kid's name?”
“Basile!” The corpsman read the name off the dog tags and carefully averted his eyes to not look up to the kids grey brain tissue hanging out behind his missing ear. “Jimmy Basile.”
“Listen up, Jimmy,” Elisabeth reached into the kid's shattered skull and picked out pieces of shrapnel from his brain. “I already lost one kid today and I ain’t in the mood to lose no more. So you’re just going to have to do as I tell you and not go with that black man when he comes to take your hand or I’m going to get really pissed off. You got that, soldier?”
Her face grim, Elisabeth began to piece the wounded soldier back together.
* * * * *
Chapter 32
The difficulty, my friends,
Is not in avoiding death,
But in avoiding unrighteousness;
For that runs faster than death.
Socrates
Earth - AD March, 2002
Afghanistan
“So, tell me everything you know about our visitor,” Elisabeth asked. She wrapped her hand around a cup of coffee strong enough to melt the rust off of a Humvee.
“Malak al-Maut?” Kadima grimaced as she held her lower back. “It’s kind of personal.”
Elisabeth wasn’t in the mood to hear excuses. For three days the two had worked together in a fog. Elisabeth had done the best she could to save lives, feeling let down when she’d failed, and each of those days, usually just before a new shipment of incoming wounded arrived, HE paid her a visit.
The brain-shot eighteen year old had somehow managed to survive...
Another Afghani soldier who had come yesterday had not. Despite Elisabeth’s best efforts, when Malak al-Maut had taken the poor man, even Elisabeth had been forced to admit it was for the best. The lower half of the man’s body had been blown off by an RPG. Thank god her ‘friend’ had come before the man regained consciousness. HE had taken him the moment Kadima convinced her to step aside.
“I’m Bosnian,” Kadima whispered. “Muslim Bosnian. I survived the Serbian genocide.”
“Oh.” Elisabeth realized she was intruding upon something deeply personal. She’d been a little girl at the time, but even she had heard what had been done to female Muslim survivors when they covered the class in World History.
“Malak al-Maut came for the man who … hurt … me,” Kadima hedged. “He judged him evil and took his soul straight to hell.”
“At least I’m glad he serves some purpose other than ripping apart families,” Elisabeth said caustically.
“He didn’t have to come back for me,” Kadima said, a hint of anger in her eyes as she defended him. “But he did! He told me a war crimes commission would be convened and asked me to testify so the world would intervene. Then he reaped the souls of the other evildoers so we could escape. Twenty-eight of us got away because of him.”
“Oh,” Elisabeth said, somewhat mollified. This was different than how she was used to thinking of him. She’d suspected he was an angel, perhaps even a so-called death angel, but the … thing … she’d seen him turn into after he’d stepped between her and the bullet defied explanation.
“Sometimes he checks in on me,” Kadima said. “Especially since I joined the Patricia’s to be near my husband. Some of the people we’ve treated have been so badly wounded that it’s a blessing when he takes them.”
The Princess Patricia’s were a light infantry division of the Canadian army. They specialized in missions where enemies needed to be cleared out of mountainous terrain.
“I’m finding that out,” Elisabeth said, feeling somewhat ashamed. “It still doesn’t change what he did to my parents.”
“How did your parents die?” Kadima asked.
“Dru
nk driver,” Elisabeth stated as though she were discussing statistics. “Ran a red light. Killed my parents, my brother, and both of my grandparents. They were all I had in the world. And then eight years later he took my foster-mother away from me, too.”
“What happened to her?” Kadima asked.
“Drive by shooting,” Elisabeth said. “Chicago. Gangs. Nancy was still alive when he came for her. She told me she wanted to go with him, and then he took her even though I begged her not to go.”
“Azrael didn’t kill any of those people,” Kadima said softly. “His touch is a mercy to those he takes. It is said he seeks to alleviate the suffering of ten good men for every evildoer he drags to hell.”
“Did he have to take Nancy?” Elisabeth shouted, and then realized the entire mess tent had heard her. She lowered her voice to an angry hiss. “She was still alive when she took his hand. They could have saved her!”
“Apparently not,” Kadima said. “Or he would not have taken her. He refused to take me. He forced me to stay even though I pleaded with him to take me to paradise after … after …” Tears welled in her eyes.
“You don’t have to say it,” Elisabeth realized she was acting like an ass. She squeezed Kadima’s hand and deflected the conversation into a less painful topic. “So … how did you end up in Canada?”
“The U.N. Peacekeepers who found us happened to be Canadian,” Kadima got her emotions under control. “Harold was a real gentleman. Made sure we all got to safety. Kept checking up on us even after it was no longer his concern. He even came to hear us testify before the U.N. War Crimes Commission.”
“He liked you?” Elisabeth said.
“I think so,” Kadima said. “But he wasn’t the only Canadian who came back to make sure we stayed okay. Just the one I eventually fell in love with after mourning my first husband.”
“Weren’t you offered asylum in the U.S. after you testified?”
“Yes,” Kadima said. “But even before September 11th, Canada was a much more welcoming place than the United States. There’s a decent-sized Muslim community in Edmonton. Several of us relocated there.”
“My countrymen don’t think too highly of people from this part of the world,” Elisabeth nodded agreement. “They treated the Chief Medical Director where I went to nursing school like crap even before September 11th. But you don’t look Muslim. You’re almost as fair-skinned as I am.”
“Eastern European Muslims look like anyone else,” Kadima said with a shrug. “I’ve gotten less strict since I moved to Alberta, but I still wear long sleeves and cover my head.” She pointed to the simple triangular kerchief she used to tie back her hair when off-duty.
“Bosnia was … what?” Elisabeth asked. “Ten years ago? Your accent is barely perceptible. How’d you learn English so fast?”
“Hard work and motivation,” Kadima clasped both hands around her mug and stared into it. “The U.N. communicates to each other in English. Harold felt my testimony would be better received if I spoke English, so he taught me English.”
“It sounds like he was quite taken with you?”
“He taught all of us,” Kadima said. “It wasn’t like I had anything better to do at the time. It took nearly a year for the international community to get off their collective rear ends and do something. By the time they did, there was no home left for any of us to go back to.”
“Not having a home is something I understand,” Elisabeth was remorseful for her grouchy attitude earlier. “I’m really sorry.”
“I’m okay now,” Kadima said. “Harold adopted my two daughters and has encouraged them to be respectful of Muslim ways, not just his own Christian ones. He has a grown son from a first marriage and my daughters are now grown. We make it work. I joined the Patricia’s after the last one headed off to college so we wouldn’t spend any more long deployments apart. I miss him when he’s gone.”
“You should have them train you to be a nurse," Elisabeth said. "You’re damned good at it.”
“Then I’d be assigned to a different unit than my husband,” Kadima said. “As it is my being stationed with light infantry is highly irregular. Technically I’m their Muslim chaplain, translator and also a medic. Harold’s got enough rank that he was able to pull some strings once I learned Pashto. They’re desperate for translators.”
“Understatement of the year,” Elisabeth said. “Having a chaplain in your unit who’s friendly with the Angel of Death?” It was a rare attempt on her part at humor.
“Harold says he’ll take every advantage he can get,” Kadima said. “I’ve told him about my angel friend. He humors me, but I don’t think he really believes me.”
Elisabeth stared down at the congealing coffee-mate floating in the top of her cup of coffee. Across the room, she heard somebody call her name. Coffee break was over.
“At least I’m not the only nutcase walking around talking to invisible angels.” Elisabeth downed the rest of her cup in a single gulp. “Until he stopped a bullet from hitting me the day Nancy died, the counselors all had me convinced I was nuts. Especially when I told them he watched me.”
“He watches me, too,” Kadima said. She gave Elisabeth a smile. “Though never as much as he watches you. You must be very interesting if he checks in on you every day.”
“That’s me,” Elisabeth said with a shrug. “A rat in a maze.”
“The last time someone took that much of an interest in me,” Kadima said. “They asked me to marry them. Harold. He’s my angel.”
“Not likely!” Elisabeth headed towards the trauma surgeon gesturing for her to come. “But it was good talking to you. Can’t keep the doctor-gods waiting.”
Elisabeth made the Muslim gesture of hands to forehead, lips and heart that Kadima always used to give thanks to Allah towards the pompous prick of a trauma surgeon who’d been the bane of both their existence this entire operation.
Kadima snorted coffee through her nose at Elisabeth’s blatant irreverence towards the doctor who was also a superior officer. Elisabeth was glad Kadima could appreciate the humor without getting upset.
The doctor … not so much.
* * * * *
Chapter 33
The guards that went around the city found me,
They smote me, they wounded me;
The keepers of the walls
Took away my veil from me.
Song of Solomon, 5:7
Earth - AD December 24, 2002
Lashkar Gah, Helmand Province, Afghanistan
“Joy to the world,” the soldiers sang at the top of their lungs in the mess tent where they had all gathered for some Christmas Eve cheer. “The Lord is come!”
“Elisabeth!!!” Kadima called over the din, her words inaudible above the cacophony but her lips clearly forming the words as she waved. “Come!!!”
Kadima was Muslim, but she appeared to enjoy the Christmas holiday as much as anyone else on the base. Harold had his wife firmly pinned against his side, one bearish arm wrapped around her shoulders.
“No…” Elisabeth shook her head as she knew there was no way Kadima would hear her above the ruckus. She used her hand to point towards herself and then the door of the mess tent. “I’m going outside.”
“What?” Kadima shouted.
“Outside,” Elisabeth yelled. “I’m going outside for a walk.” To accentuate her words, Elisabeth made a motion with her fingers as though she were walking.
“Okay!” Kadima shouted. Harold held what appeared to be a sprig of dried mistletoe, although it was more likely a weed, over his wife’s head and pulled her in for a kiss. The Princess Patricia’s cheered and egged them on.
Elisabeth gave a false smile and worked her way out the door, avoiding eye contact and pretending she had someplace important to be. The last thing she wanted was to be forced to participate in the Christmas revelries. She did not wish to explain she was a Grinch because her entire family had been taken from her one Christmas Eve, and then her foster mother two weeks befo
re another.
Elisabeth passed a contingent of British troops just returned from a mission rifling through the lucrative poppy fields irrigated by a dam funded by the United States during the 1950’s. Warlords! Elisabeth didn’t know which was worse. Ousting the Taliban? Or dealing with the warlords who were often the only allies the Coalition had? Lashkar Gar would be a desert town if it weren’t for the Helmand River and the dam.
The city had been laid out by United States engineers in an orderly fashion like the suburbs of Los Angeles in the 1950’s, with wide tree-lined streets and modern concrete houses. The Soviet invasion had ended all that. Most trees had been cut down and walls built around the houses to shield the local inhabitants from stray bullets. Now … it was just another hotspot up for grabs in the war.
“You’re not s’posed to go outside the fence without an escort, Second-Lieutenant Kaiser,” the British serviceman chastised her with a Cockney accent so thick it nearly bludgeoned her ears. “Who’s gonna patch us all up if ye get yerself shot?”
“I’m just going down to the river, Lance-Corporal Leatherby,” Elisabeth grabbed the black headscarf Kadima had finally strong-armed her into using and wrapped it around her head in a makeshift hijab. “I promise I’ll be careful.”
As a member of the nursing corps, she’d been promoted to the lowest level of commissioned officer the day she’d passed her nursing exam. Six months ahead of schedule! That meant she outranked most of the enlisted soldiers, something she used to feed her need for privacy. Leatherby would not stop her from going.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Leatherby gave her a salute and a grin. “Merry Christmas, Ma’am.” As a frequent guard at this gate, Leatherby was used to her peculiar comings and goings.
