The Tears of Sisme

by Peter Hutchinson

  After the first few days in this black wasteland the uneasy conviction had been growing in him that they were being led into a trap. The weird civilian who had been put in command of the task force - a magician so the story went among the men - had dismissed his ideas with instant contempt, saying coldly that he could detect no support anywhere ahead for the handful of Crows they were following and if the Sergeant was afraid of half a dozen ragged rebels, he was free to walk back to base by himself, leaving his water-bottle behind, of course. He had stayed. And by way of punishment for his cowardice, he was set to scouting far ahead of the main party by himself.

  By now he was quite certain about the enemy's purpose. The army force had survived this far by the cruel expedient of carrying out the threat made earlier to him, relieving men of their half-filled water bottles and telling them to make their way back to base as best they could. Even by this inhuman means, the forty soldiers remaining would run out of water tomorrow. His respect for the band of Crows had grown with each excruciating day. What kind of men were they up ahead, forcing their way through this chaotic torture chamber towards an inevitable death? And would he face his own death with as much courage as they?

  Standing above the brimming pool, his thoughts turned upside down as he realised that perhaps he wasn't going to die. Stiffly, like an old man, he knelt down and automatically refilled his water bottle. Then he took the delicious cool liquid into his parched mouth and the effect of it spread like magic through his body. He must have been more dehydrated than he knew; just one drink and he felt like a new man. He stood up and waved vigorously to the figures inching their way over the treacherous boulder field towards him.

  The six soldiers of the first section had already slaked their thirst in grateful astonishment at their good fortune, when the commander came on the scene. What followed gave the sergeant his second profound shock in this eventful day.

  "Well, where's this spring you're all shouting about?" the civilian snapped, looking around greedily. So far he had fared well on a generous share of the confiscated water, but even that was running low.

  The seven soldiers stared at him dumbfounded. He was standing a bare pace from the pool and the rivulet which slid smoothly down to supply it was directly in front of him.

  "It's here, sir," said one rash private, pointing out the obvious.

  "Here? Where?" Following the directing finger the commander looked straight down at the pool, and then turned a face contorted with rage on the shrinking soldier. "Playing games with me, eh? You know the penalty …."

  "Excuse me, sir," the sergeant interrupted bravely. "The spring is there, where the private said. We've all drunk from it."

  The civilian glared round at the confirming nods from the others. "You've all gone crazy," he said hoarsely, then stepped away to wait for the main party. After a brief discussion he led them back to the site of the spring and the seven soldiers found themselves surrounded and disarmed.

  "Now," the commander began loudly, as if speaking to a stupid child, "tell me again, private, where is this spring?"

  Bewildered, the young soldier bent down and almost touched the surface of the water with his finger. "Here, sir," he whispered, afraid. Each of the seven was asked the same question with the same result.

  "Sergeant Major," the commander called out, and a tall figure stepped forward, still proudly erect despite his gaunt features and torn uniform.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Tell me, Sergeant Major, do you see any water in that hollow? Or in fact anywhere among these rocks?"

  The old soldier pretended to look around to gain time. He could see the pool plain as anything and could barely restrain himself from stepping forward to slake his tormenting thirst. But unthinking discipline had governed his life for a long time and he knew this particular army game very well. General Abbar himself had put this man in charge of this unit, so in charge he was. If he said the spring didn't exist, it didn't exist.

  "No, sir. I can't see any water anywhere."

  "Thank you, Sergeant Major. How about you, Corporal?"

  One by one the remaining soldiers were called on to step forward and answer the same question. With varying degrees of hesitation they all followed the Sergeant Major's lead.

  "So, Sergeant," the civilian resumed. "You were the first to arrive. Do we judge you and your six fellows as mad or bewitched or attempting to play some preposterous practical joke? Or perhaps you have some other explanation."

  "My water-bottle's full, sir," Rozta replied evenly, and handed it over at a sharp gesture from his inquisitor. All watched in fascination as the commander took out the stopper and held the bottle upside down. He turned back in triumph to the sergeant who was watching the precious liquid pour down onto the stones.

  "Full, did you say? There's not a drop in it. Why do you persist in this charade, Sergeant?" There was genuine puzzlement behind the question. Rozta, who was totally at a loss himself, fell back on the military standby of keeping his mouth shut. It did him little service.

  "Very well." The commander's face hardened. "You have brought it on yourselves. We have no room for the deranged of any description. In the morning you will start back for base. Take their rations and water, Sergeant Major, then give them back their water-bottles; they can drink imaginary water all the way back." With that he settled down for another parched and hungry night, while a few paces away moonlight gleamed on the wet slab and stars swung slowly across the face of the quiet pool.

  At daybreak the main party departed and were never seen again. Three weeks later seven tottering scarecrows in rags, which were unrecognisable as army uniforms, emerged from the western edge of the Dost el Hakla and were picked up by a passing Sarai patrol. Sergeant Rozta told his captors how even without food they had stayed alive by returning to the spring after the main party had gone on. A full waterbottle each had proved sufficient to see them right through their harrowing journey. They had found no trace of the main pursuit force, although ten days previously they had seen vultures circling far to the south of their own route.

  For the Sarai band also it was a hard crossing, in spite of being sustained by the magical water which the Talisman had brought out of dry rock. Only Rasscu seemed completely unaffected by the savage terrain and the gradual starvation of the final two weeks. The others marvelled at his growing strength, knowing nothing of his passage at dawn each day into the world of the Talisman and of the change it was initiating in him.

  The patrols watching for them at the edge of the Dost el Hakla had gone as far as they dared each day into the black maze and had left cairns and skins of water in several places. But as the days passed, Remakkib's despair mounted. The loss of the Rahidor and the Talisman could spell disaster for his people. Like any Sarab, he knew exactly how long their skins would last, and when they had not appeared after three weeks in the Dead Quarter, he knew that if they had not found water in that time, they were already dead.

  Eight days later they had come out, thin and bone-weary, yet full of a silent confidence which marked them out even among the Sarai. And as the tale of the Talisman's intervention was told, wonder replaced joy and all the assembled warriors led by Remakkib made obeisance to the Rahidor.

  Late that night the two leaders were seated on a low ridge. Below them the camp was quiet, while overhead the vast sweep of stars shone diamond hard from the cloudless night sky.

  "Always the same clear skies," Remakkib sighed turning to look northward. "Never have I known the rains so late. God grant that it is not to be a dry year. Our people have troubles enough.”

  The Tesserit hesitated a moment, and then said, "Have no fear. The rains have already begun." He could sense the Sarab turning to stare at him in the darkness.

  "There has been no word of this. Nor have we felt the breath of the zamzin." The zamzin was the wind which swept the rain-clouds onto the north western Harb each spring. "Even this far south we would feel it." There was a long silence, full of unspoken questions and adju
stments. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, Remakkib, I am sure."

  The Sarab was in unfamiliar territory. From the first he had liked this unassuming man who was destined to be Barrada's successor. Yet even as their mutual friendship had been growing, Rasscu seemed to be moving away from him, taking up step by step his role as the Rahidor. Earlier that day he had sensed the change in the Tesserit, even before he heard the story about the miraculous springs. There was something formidable about Rasscu now, and this last exchange was not alone in hinting at unknown powers.

  "This is the third time you have spoken with certainty of things which are far from here," Remakkib began slowly. "You said that all but seven of your pursuers had died in the Dost el Hakla, and you told me that there is war in all parts of the Empire. When you speak, truth sounds in every word. But where does this knowledge come from? Are these dreams or visions brought to you by the Talisman?"

  "Visions of a kind, yes, and certainly from the Talisman. When I …." Rasscu paused. "When I enter the presence of the Talisman, it reveals many things to me. Sometimes they’re random scenes and sometimes I can see the whole Empire at one glance.”

  Awed, Remakkib said nothing, so the Tesserit continued with a soft laugh, "Come, how these things happen isn’t important. Let’s simply make the most of them. The Talisman is awake at last, my friend, and that feels like the beginning of real hope. Tomorrow let’s set about freeing the Harb."

  "And after that?"

  "After that who knows? Perhaps the Empire."

  *~~*

  About the author

  As a young child I was at school in the Himalayas, before returning to England during the Second World War. From an early age I was fascinated by mountains and spent as much time as possible among them during school, army, and then university years. This passion for climbing led to a career designing and making specialist outdoor equipment for some of the world’s greatest explorers and mountaineers including Sir Ranulph Fiennes and Sir Chris Bonington. I started from scratch as a one-man business in the early 1960’s and I am still actively working in the same field at 76, designing clothing and sleeping bags for extreme high altitude and polar ventures.

  The Kivattar Bridge began as a tale for my children back in 1976. Before long it took on a life of its own and I knew I couldn’t stop until the whole story was finished. It has taken countless hours of writing and revision over the last 37 years, and now at last, unbelievably, it is done. All four books. The Tears of Sisme is the first, but the whole story is complete and ready.

  It is a long story. Adventure, travel , discovery, all the usual ingredients, but quirky enough to fall outside the mainstream. I only hope that there are some readers who will get as much enjoyment from it as I did from the writing.

  I am a slow writer and looking back I find it hard to see where I found the time. But despite the late nights and a staggering ‘café cost’ along the way it has always been a stimulating counterpoint to a busy working life. Both hard grind and pleasure, a mix familiar to most writers I guess. On balance an experience of real worth to me, made possible by the love and tolerance of my constant companion throughout the long journey, my wife.

  Peter Hutchinson. December 2013