by Lavie Tidhar
“All this needless violence,” Ndumana repeated. He cleared his throat and began to speak again. “As I said, we have sent you messages several times. Our men keep getting turned away at that wall of yours.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Musa Kun whispered into Gideon’s earpiece.
Gideon turned around and looked at Ndumana, sat behind his desk. He was a fat, well–dressed man, in a linen Mao–style suit and gold rings on his fingers. Behind him stood his security; five men, all of them holding PLA issue machine guns.
There was another burst of gunfire and the thud of a grenade explosion.
“You must stop this,” Ndumana whined. “You might start a panic in the streets. And when it starts it does not stop.”
Yusufa’s thugs had done well so far. A handful of them were outside holding the Ministry’s entrance, but they would not be able to hold the building for long once reinforcements arrived. This, presumably, was why Ndumana was trying to stall proceedings.
“Let me be clear,” the Mayor said, tapping his finger on his desk as he so often did on television. “We want only friendship with the Legion. We have many proposals to discuss with you. The kindoro have found many new rare earth fields near Kivu — fields of antimony, tantalum, platinum — very good ones. They know that this is a time for peace with your Legion. If we work together then we can all prosper.”
“As you have prospered here?” Gideon asked.
“We’ve done well here,” Ndumana said dryly. “All things considered.”
Gideon approached the Mayor’s desk. “For the last time, where is he?”
Ndumana licked his lips. “You have to understand. The man that you speak of is not ours to give. If we let you take him, then we’d find ourselves in a very difficult situation with the PLA. I cannot make such a decision without—”
“If the kindoro is here, then you have been hiding him from the PLA,” Gideon said. “If you have been hiding him, then they don’t know that you have him do they?” Gideon stepped closer to the Mayor’s desk. “Is it the reward you are after? You would cross the Legion for the sake a few yuan?”
A loud grenade explosion shook the floor. The Mayor glanced at his office door. “All this over such a simple misunderstanding.”
“We found him,” Musa Kun whispered excitedly in Gideon’s ear. “Yusufa has him. They are on the twenty–second floor.”
Gideon smiled and whispered back sub–vocally. “Tell Yusufa to bring him to the fifty–third. I’ll meet them here.”
Ndumana frowned at him.
“We have what we came for,” Gideon said. “But I still have questions for you. I still need to know who he is.”
Ndumana’s lips curled into an uncertain sneer. “Shoot him,” he said quietly. The lead security man levelled his machine gun. Gideon stepped forwards to meet him. The man stepped back and then squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He shook his gun vigorously then squeezed his trigger once more. Again, there was nothing but dry clicking. Another two did the same, their faces contorting in confusion as they pointed their weapons at the Redeemer and fired.
Gideon pointed out at the window. From the blue morning sky, a single white bolt rushed towards them and struck the ground near the Interior Ministry building. The building shook and swayed. The window of the Mayor’s office shattered. There were screams from the street below, memories of The Emergency resurging in the great host. The panic had begun.
“Shoot him,” the mayor screamed, half–lunging over his desk as if to do the deed himself with nothing but his bare hands.
At that moment, the door of the mayor’s office opened and the zumbi appeared in its frame. As one, the mayor’s security bolted to the far wall of the office. One of them broke from his colleagues and went for the window where he paused and reconsidered his options. He joined the rest of the security at the far end of the office, their useless weapons pointed at the creature. The mayor raised his hands and shrank back into his chair. The zumbi remained motionless in the doorway.
“You will not flee the Lord’s work when you see it,” Gideon said. “Yet you will flee this work of the Devil.”
Ndumana ignored Gideon. His eyes fixed on the zumbi and, with each passing moment, he shrank lower into his chair, as if his plan were to slide under his table and find safety there.
“Who is the kindoro?” Gideon asked.
“His name is John Lai,” Ndumana said. “He’s running from the Science Ministry. Life Medicine branch.” The mayor spoke briskly now, without pause, his eyes never leaving the creature in the doorway. The zumbi stared back at him, its arms motionless by its sides. At the far wall, the security men had not moved an inch.
“What does that mean?”
“Antibiotics,” Ndumana murmured.
Musa Kun whistled in Gideon’s ear.
“How did he fall into your dirty little hands?” Gideon asked.
“He was with a team that made a discovery,” the Mayor said. “The big one. The one that they have been looking for all these years. The cure.”
“A new strain,” Musa Kun whispered in his ear. “Where? Ask him where?”
“Where?” Gideon asked.
“We don’t know. We beat him, but he won’t say. Somewhere in the bush. They found it and decided to keep it. They killed their military escorts and they ran. The rest of them died but he made it here. He came to me for help.”
“What were you planning to do?”
The mayor shook his head slowly. “No plan. Beat him until he told us where. He told us that he already has a buyer. He says his buyer will pay us if we get him safely to the coast. He won’t tell us anymore than that.”
Musa Kun whistled again. “We’re going to come in,” he said. “I’ll bring the vifaru. We’ll break through the rampart. We’re coming for you right now.”
“No,” Gideon transmitted. “Wait. We keep to the plan. I will come to you. Where is Yusufa?”
“Someone killed the lift and they don’t know how to turn it back on. He’s coming up the stairs now with the fish.”
“Tell him to go back down. I’ll meet him in the lobby. I’m coming.”
Gideon walked slowly to the door, circling the zumbi on his way out. When he was behind it, he gripped the back of its head and pushed it forwards, roughly, then slammed the office door shut.
He waited outside the office. The zumbi was quick, efficient. There were a few half–hearted bursts of automatic fire. The security men had realised too late that once pointed away from the aura of the Redeemer their weapons worked again. But mostly the men in the office just screamed and screamed. It took two minutes, maybe three, and then there was complete silence. He opened the door. The zumbi stood there, its huge hands bright red, its large green cloak spattered with blood. Gideon clicked his fingers three times and ran to the fire exit. The zumbi followed.
They ran down the stairwell, all fifty–three flights. Each time Gideon felt himself flagging, the thought of the zumbi behind him kept him going, fearing the creature might crash into him and crush him to death. When he arrived at the ground–lobby of the building, he doubled over, heaving. Yusufa’s thugs were milling about, waving machetes and rifles, revelling in their victory. The lobby floor was strewn with bodies and the huge windows to the street were shattered. At the sight of the zumbi, most of Yusufa’s thugs retreated outside. When he had caught his breath, Gideon approached Yusufa and the apprehended kindoro.
John Lai smiled at him and outstretched a hand. He had one arm in a dirty sling and his face was badly bruised, but he seemed surprisingly cheerful. Two of Yusufa’s thugs flanked him; a third man had a machete pointed at his back. Wearing soiled linen trousers, torn shirt, and a pair of damaged spectacles, he was younger than Gideon had expected.
“I understand that you are the man I owe my freedom to,” John said.
Gideon shook the man’s hand, and spoke to him in Mandarin. “I am. From now on you will speak to me only.”
“Certainly,” John said. If he was a
t all surprised then he didn’t show it.
“You will go with Yusufa here and he will get you through the rampart. I will follow from behind.” Without waiting for a response Gideon walked outside, feeling the kindoro’s eyes burning into his back.
“On our way,” he transmitted to Musa Kun.
§
It was dusk, and they were high up on a rare earth mountain, a particularly deep and yawning mining cavern beneath them. The mountain ridged with the ledges and walkways used by the miner slaves. Its top was perfectly flat, a high mesa. Gideon sat alone with John Lai. A few ledges down, Yusufa’s men were making camp. They had made good ground and Bujumbura was many hours behind them. As the late Mayor Ndumana had predicted, a panic had indeed erupted in their wake. Gideon could see the orange haze of fire pulsing gently on the horizon. The great host had been stirred, and the city burnt once more.
“There is one thing I don’t understand,” John said. “The satellite charge in the city, how did you do that? Where did you people get a weapon like that?”
“That was not a weapon. That was the Word. The Word is how I defeated your soldiers in Ituri. The Word is how I will drive you out of my kingdom.”
John raised an eyebrow. “That may be what you think. But that charge was from a military orbital. Only PLA Space Ordnance has access to weapons like that.”
Gideon laughed. He spread his arms and showed John his palms. A moment later, there was a white strike in the dusk–sky, a lightning bolt that flashed noiselessly before striking the ground a mile away with a large thud. The rare earth mountain shuddered. Yusufa’s men stirred, some shouted in mock terror, others sang praises.
John’s eyes widened. He stood up, placed a hand over his mouth and stared at the smoking crater that the bolt had created.
“Behold then,” Gideon said. “In his hand are the deep places of the earth. The strength of the hills is his also.”
“All things are possible,” John said thoughtfully. “Niàn Tou. Thought platform.” He turned around and observed the Redeemer. “I’ve had men swear to me that the technology exists, but I’d never believed it. If it does exist, then I imagine there are governments that couldn’t afford it. Who do you really work for? The Indians?”
“I work for God. Your petty squabbles do not concern me.”
“Petty squabbles? Our nations will go to war soon, Gideon. When it starts it will make The Emergency seem like a dinner party.”
“If there is a war, then you will lose,” Gideon said. “You, the Indians, all of you. Only God will triumph here. Only God can. And I am his vessel.”
John looked at him for a few more moments and then shook his head. “I see that there is more to you than meets the eye. Either that or you are at the centre of some grand mischief.” He removed his broken glasses and rubbed the one good lens on his dirty trousers. “Tell me,” he said. “Have you ever heard the story of a man named Kim Nam Ku, from North Korea?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
John put his glasses on, and smiled. “Remind me to tell you about him one day,” he said. “You might find it a familiar story, and most instructive. But now I think we must focus on pressing matters.”
“I would agree,” Gideon said.
“I’m prepared to deal but time is of the essence.”
“Time is always of the essence.”
“May I make the broad assumption that the mayor explained how I came to be a beneficiary of his rather rough hospitality for these past weeks?”
“You may.”
“In which case, he may have told you that I have a buyer, but he is unlikely to have been able to tell you just how powerful my buyer is. This, for you, will come as both good news and bad.”
Gideon smiled, and crossed his legs. The zumbi approached, its arms laden with firewood. John stiffened. The zumbi dumped the firewood in a pile and then shambled away into the thickening gloom.
“It frightens you?” Gideon asked.
“Of course. It is a frightening thing.”
“So why did you make them then?”
“I didn’t make anything,” John said irritably. “The army made them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Ask them.”
They sat in silence, the last of the dusk melting away into the true dark.
“You said that there was both good news and bad,” Gideon said eventually.
When John replied, his voice was sullen. “The good news is that money is no object. There is no price that my buyer will not pay. There is nothing he will not give. You will be handsomely rewarded for your help. The bad news, for you, is that my buyer knows where I am. He’s known for weeks. He has sent a warship for me. It is moored off Madagascar. He will not come for me until I give him the information that he wants.” John leant forwards, something of a snarl on his lips now. “If you try what I think you might have in mind, then you will be crossing a very dangerous man. A man who probably already knows who you are. You were not exactly discreet back there in the city.”
“No, I wasn’t. So where does that leave us?” Gideon asked.
“I need a way to communicate with my buyer. To give him the information he needs and tell him I am ready to come in.”
“We have microweb. Two–way. Secure.”
John frowned. “That will have to do. I only need to a send a message. We’ll deal with the remaining logistics later.”
Gideon pulled a microweb receiver from his pocket and handed it over.
“You will understand if I ask for some privacy,” John said.
Gideon stood up and walked away, towards the edge of the rare earth mountain. In the darkness, the orange haze over the city made it seem as if the sun was trapped beyond the horizon, unable to rise.
“He’s sent the message,” Musa Kun whispered in his ear. “My Durban man has intercepted it. They look like map co–ordinates. Should I send a reply?”
“Don’t bother,” Gideon said. He whistled for the zumbi and it came shambling up to him. He slapped it four times on the head and pointed at John who was still looking intently at the microweb receiver, waiting for his reply.
The creature moved quickly. In seconds, it had covered a hundred feet. John screamed and began to scramble backwards on his elbows and heels. The zumbi seized him by a leg and an arm and raised him clear of the ground. Gideon approached them.
“What are you doing? I told you—” John looked at the receiver that now lay on the ground, the realisation creeping over his face. “No,” he whispered. “I can still help you.”
“You’ve helped enough,” Gideon said. “You’ve played your part.”
John shook his head and opened his mouth to say something else. Whatever it was though, Gideon would never hear it. The zumbi flung him over the side of the rare earth mountain. He bounced four times off its sloping edge, his body breaking anew each time. After what seemed a long journey down, he came to a rest at the bottom of the deep mine cavern, his body twisted, the soft red earth caving in around him.
On the lower ledge, Yusufa’s men had fallen silent, and then gradually they started to murmur amongst themselves again. One of their number began to sing in a low husky voice.
“Is it done?” Musa Kun asked in his ear.
“It is done,” Gideon replied.
Musa Kun sighed. “We’ll strike camp and send a vifaru for you. We need to set out to these co–ordinates as soon as we can. My man in Durban cannot guarantee that the message did not reach its target. In fact, it probably did.”
Gideon didn’t reply. He had already turned his gaze from the yawning bottom of the mine and was again staring at the far city and the orange halo that glowed above it so brightly.
Yusufa joined him at the precipice and stood beside him quietly. Gideon turned and looked at him. The man was a fighter. Short, bow–legged, his face a criss–cross of scars.
“Have you been in the city long?” Gideon asked.
“I was born there,” Yusufa
said mildly.
“I’m sorry.”
Yusufa shrugged. Gideon thought to ask him more, about his mother, his children if any. But he didn’t. Instead, they stood there in silence, save the husky song that was carrying over the pitted red landscape.
“What does he sing?” Gideon asked. “I do not know his language.”
“He mourns. For our men who died in the tower. His brother was among them.”
“I’m sorry,” Gideon said again. He could not remember the last time he had apologised to someone. Some strange feeling had overtaken him. Something that John Lai had said, or perhaps Ndumana, he could not remember anymore. He looked at the zumbi that sat crouched alone at the far end of the mesa and came close to envying it. The creature would remember nothing of the day.
“He sings of how his brother will live again,” Yusufa said. “In the glory of your kingdom. When it comes.”
“When it comes,” Gideon said.
The man continued to sing his lamentation. The city continued to burn. Gideon imagined that he could hear screams carrying on the wind. He thought then of Dora Neza, standing before him in his mahema, her orange kanga wrapped about her. He had not asked Musa Kun what had become of her, for he had not wanted to know. But he knew instinctively that her end would have been unpleasant. And whether he recovered or not, there was of course no question of allowing her father to leave the stronghold alive. He would return to his town and there would speak ill of the Legion. He thought of Ndumana and his security team; Yusufa’s men who had died in the tower; John Lai; the rampaging host in the burning city and the ones who died now in the great crush.
“When it comes,” Gideon repeated.
Spider’s Nest
Myra Çakan
Translated from the German by Jim Young
Myra Çakan is an artist and an author. Her literary work includes six novels and three short story collections in German — some of which have been translated into English and Slovakian — as well as many radio plays and the non–fiction guide to writing and self–publishing: Mein Buch! Vom Entwurf zum Bestseller. Her artwork, acrylics on canvas, mainly abstracts and landscapes, can be seen at www.çakan.de. She can be found at www.dardariee.de.
