Divinity Road

by Martin Pevsner

  One, two, three, four...

  The soldiers keep shifting around and he has to start again. He tries to remember whether all the firewood-collectors have returned. There is too much movement and so, frustrated, he gives up the count.

  Rasheed turns his head. His sister is obscured by the white man’s body but he knows she is there.

  Munia, are you well?

  I am fine, she answers. There’s a steeliness in her voice he’s never heard before.

  What should we do? he asks. As always, he defers to her when it matters.

  Be patient, brother. Be patient.

  Rasheed starts to count the soldiers again.

  ***

  The second blow to Greg’s head seems to have done more damage than the first. He lies on his side where he was thrown down on the ground, his hands tied together in front of him, his arms roped to his sides. The combination of the battering and blindfold render him dazed and disorientated, a passive bystander.

  Since the moment he regained consciousness amongst the crash debris, he’s been feeling strangely anaesthetised, blanketed in an odd glow of self-perceived invulnerability despite the moments of terror as he fled from Poll Pot’s men. After all, he’d fallen out of the sky from several thousand feet and survived.

  Now, having witnessed the casual shooting of the old man and the treatment meted out to Asrar, he’s suddenly and painfully aware of the infinitesimal margins that separate life from death, the precariousness of the tightrope he walks. That comforting sense of invincibility has disappeared.

  When Munia surreptitiously tugs on his sleeve, pokes and prods to get his attention, he makes an effort to regain his senses.

  Greg, she whispers. She pronounces his name well, just like he taught her.

  Take off my blindfold, he says. And then, to explain, I need to urinate. Sshh, she answers, unwilling to draw attention to themselves, to arouse their captors’ wrath. She wants only to know that no permanent damage has been done, that Greg can still function.

  So Greg remains blindfolded. He can hear but not observe Goatman’s return with the other leader, the assembling of troops, the barked orders and hasty departure of the two vehicles, both packed this time with armed men. He is unaware that he and his fellow captives have been left with just two guards.

  Munia knows that their fate is in her hands, that it is time to act. The two militiamen are busy attending to the horses. She watches them, waiting for her moment. One of them, she observes, has got the white man’s hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. When they have finished, they squat under an adjacent tree. Hunting Rifle produces some playing cards and begins dealing out a game. Munia recognises the other militiaman as the Hossein who marched her mother away from her uncle’s village. She feels a surge of energy, knowing that she will not rest until she has exacted vengeance from this man. This knowledge soothes her fury, tempering it with a chilled serenity.

  She’s still sitting on the ground, her hands fastened with cord. Slowly, carefully, with the most imperceptible of movements, she begins to shuffle on her backside, past the sightless figure of Greg, towards her brother.

  ***

  Rasheed only becomes aware of her approach when he turns and finds her squatting behind him. He smiles at her uncertainly, opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it quickly when he sees the look in her eyes, the slight shake of her head. He waits while she manoeuvres herself to his side, then turns slightly in towards him. She turns once to check that the soldiers are still absorbed in their card game, then edges closer and extends her bound arms towards her brother. For a moment he is confused and wonders why she is offering him her two hands, tied together and bunched into fists. Then she slowly opens her right hand and he sees the penknife she has been concealing. He looks up into her eyes and understands.

  Manipulating the slippery penknife between them to prise open the longest blade with their hands secured with rope is a tricky and painfully slow process made worse by the need to conceal it from their captors. It takes twenty minutes to get the blade open, Munia holding the knife handle while Rasheed works to open up the cutting edge. When they finally succeed, Munia allows herself a tight smile. Rasheed, seeing it, feels fortified.

  Now they begin the next stage of the process. Munia holds the knife steady as Rasheed works the rope around his hands across the blade, back and forth, trying to minimise his movements, to draw no attention. He keeps one eye on his sawing work, the other on the two soldiers. At one stage Hossein throws down a card and cries out in triumph. While the other guard picks up the deck of cards and begins to shuffle, Hossein looks over at his captives and sees that they have bunched together since he last looked at them. Rasheed freezes, closes his eyes and pretends to doze. Munia, who has her back to Hossein now, senses the danger, slips the knife into her dress and awaits the guard’s approach with dread. But Hossein sees nothing amiss, or more likely cannot summon the energy to get up and investigate, and the moment passes.

  The card game resumes in silence. Munia and Rasheed continue their surreptitious work. A horse whinnies and its comrade responds.

  Greg’s discomfort is growing. His blindfold, soggy with sweat, is itching madly. He’s tried to distract himself, to let his mind drift to a more peaceful place, but he’s become aware that his need to urinate is growing and the pressing ache in his bladder keeps bringing him back to reality.

  I need to pee, he says to no one in particular.

  Munia jumps, surprised by Greg’s proximity and his breaking of the silence. She looks up from the knife she’s holding, aware that he’s drawing attention to their presence.

  She whips the weapon back into her pocket.

  Ssshhh.

  I need to piss, he says. Can’t hold it in much longer.

  Shut up! Munia hisses.

  Greg turns his head towards her, senses that his talking is unwanted and lapses again into silence. Munia waits for a nod from Rasheed and takes out the knife. She sees with satisfaction that they are making progress on Rasheed’s rope.

  For five minutes they work in silence, but then their progress is again interrupted by Greg. The tightness in his bladder has developed into a sharp stabbing sensation. It’s all he can think about. This time, despite his vulnerable state, the ropes and blindfold, he stirs and gets to his feet.

  He takes two tentative steps forward, teeters there for a few seconds, uncertain where to relieve himself.

  Can somebody help? he asks, raising his voice a little.

  One of the guards notices his movements.

  Hey, he shouts, temporarily abandoning his cards. What are you doing?

  Need to piss, Greg repeats. His bound hands rest just above his groin and he manoeuvres them down to his fly, unzips and takes out his penis.

  Sit down, the guard calls out, his initial confusion giving way to annoyance. There’s a trace of menace in his voice now, but Greg’s need is too powerful. With a sigh, the pee begins to flow, an angry stream that is instantly absorbed by the sandy soil.

  The guard has grabbed his rifle, is rising to his feet when he realises what Greg is doing. He looks at his colleague, they exchange a few words, laugh, shrug their shoulders and he resumes his seat. They watch Greg as he relieves himself, zips himself up, takes a few hesitant steps backwards and sits down again. Hossein cracks another joke, the other guard guffaws. They put their guns down and pick up their discarded cards.

  Meanwhile, Munia and Rasheed have used the distraction to cut through the last few strands of the cord binding the young boy’s hands. Careful to keep their movements measured and unhurried, Munia passes the knife to Rasheed who sets to work on her ropes. This time he has full use of his hands so his cutting actions are far more efficient. Within a few minutes, both children are free.

  Now Munia takes back possession of the knife. She indicates to Rasheed that he should hide the severed
ropes in his shorts. She bunches her hands together in front of her as if they are still fastened together, holds the penknife in her closed fist, the blade facing downwards, concealed between her legs. She’s ready to proceed.

  Munia, whispers Rasheed. What are we going to do?

  Listen carefully and do exactly what I say, she answers, her voice low and calm. We need to find a moment when one of them moves away. To relieve himself, perhaps. Or fetch firewood. You must watch them carefully. When it happens, you call out to the remaining one that there’s something wrong with me, that I’m very sick. Make it sound convincing. After that, I’ll do the rest. OK, Rasheed? You understand?

  Rasheed nods.

  They stay like that, afraid to move, aware of the guards’ every movement, every utterance. Munia wills Greg to stay silent, wills one of the soldiers to get up. Finally, after what seems like time without end, she hears a slapping of cards, a jeer of victory. She holds her breath and then, just as she resigns herself to another hand of cards, Rasheed nudges her. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turns her head a full ninety degrees and sees that Hossein is still sitting down, is fiddling with a cigarette, while the other guard is heading away towards a termite hill beyond where the horses are corralled.

  He must be defecating, she thinks. It’s now or never. She watches the man disappear behind the mound, checks that her hands still look tied, that the knife is concealed, then nudges Rasheed.

  Hey! Help! My sister’s dying! Help me, please. For the love of God, help me!

  Munia was worried that Rasheed’s acting might be feeble, that they would see through the ruse easily. Or that he might make such a racket that he’d send the absent guard hurrying back to investigate. But he’s pitched his appeal perfectly. It’s authentic-sounding but not too loud. She tenses herself.

  Hossein drops his cigarette when he hears Rasheed’s cries. He gets to his feet, picks up the hunting rifle the other guard has left and walks towards the children. If he has any suspicions, they aren’t strong enough to worry him. After all, their hands are bound, he has the firearm, he is in control.

  Rasheed is looking up at him with imploring eyes as he approaches. Munia, her back to him, squats between him and the young boy. He drops to his knees, puts his left hand on her shoulder, pulls her round to face him. His right hand is still holding the stock of the hunting rifle. There’s a slight smile on his lips. What’s wrong, monkey? he begins. He’s turned her round now and looking down at her face for the first time is momentarily confused to see that she, too, is smiling broadly. But before he has time to appreciate that something is amiss, she has spun round fully.

  There’s a blurred movement as her arm arcs up towards his midriff. He feels a blow to his chest, a moment of irritation bordering on anger. The thought flashes through his mind that he will punish this girl for hitting him, and then he looks down and sees the handle of a knife sticking out from above his belly, angled upwards, entering just below the bottom of his ribcage. It takes a few moments for him to grasp what has happened, for uncertainty to turn into terror.

  God have mercy on me, what have you done, you daughter of a whore? he screams. He realises he’s dropped his rifle, that the young boy is scrabbling forward to grab the weapon. It comes to him only now that the children’s hands are no longer tied. Too late. He clasps his hands over the handle of the knife. Instinct forces him to pull the blade out. As the flow of blood immediately increases, he regrets his hasty action.

  Bitch! he screams. Whore! He reaches out for the girl, still strong enough to react with violence. He makes a grab for her throat but she ducks and he flails. She’s still sitting on the ground, an easy target, he thinks, as he snatches at her a second time. But he hasn’t seen that the boy has risen to his feet, is swinging the butt of the rifle. There’s a loud crack as it makes contact with his knees. He tumbles down onto the ground, his front now soaked with blood. A gradual wave of sleepiness is creeping over him as shock and blood loss set in. His anger has dissipated as quickly as it appeared. He feels calm, almost radiant.

  Hey, what’s going on?!

  Rasheed, who has been watching Hossein with grim satisfaction, spins round. The other guard has heard his colleague’s cries. Emerging from behind the termite mound, he is hastily buckling his belt as he runs towards them.

  Rasheed is frozen with fear. He is aware that he’s holding the hunting rifle but seems powerless to act. The guard is closing in fast. Munia’s still on the ground. Greg has frozen, aware of some critical drama unfolding, unable to see or understand. As the guard passes the spot where he had been playing cards earlier, he registers that the second firearm, an assault rifle, is still there lying on the ground next to the discarded cards. He stops in mid-pace and bends to retrieve the weapon.

  Rasheed hesitates for one long second. Then he acts. He hoists the hunting rifle, slides the safety catch off and raises the gun. The soldier has collected his weapon and lifts it into place with a fluid efficiency born out of experience. They point and aim together. There is a single retort, shockingly loud to Rasheed’s ears. He has closed his eyes and when he opens them, he sees the guard lying in the dust.

  For five seconds, nobody moves. Hossein stirs and groans. Munia gets to her feet. She takes the hunting rifle from Rasheed, goes over to the stricken soldier and bends to check that he is no longer a threat. Then she rummages in his pockets for spare bullets, pocketing a handful.

  Come on, she says. There’s no time. The others may come back any moment.

  As if on cue, they hear in the distance the low hum of an engine.

  The horses, says Munia.

  The two children take a few steps towards the animals, then remember their travelling companion. He’s still sitting in exactly the same position, seemingly oblivious to the bloody incident that has taken place. Rasheed retrieves the knife from Hossein and squats down in front of the white man. The young boy removes the blindfold and cuts his bonds. Greg is momentarily dazzled by the blinding light. His wrists are rubbed raw, his hands bluish from cut-off circulation.

  Come, Greg, he says, his gentle tone failing to conceal the sense of urgency that he feels. We must go now.

  What the fuck...? Greg responds, surveying the corpses in front of him, the pools of blood and severed ropes. Despite his disorientation, he is quick to understand what has occurred. He has recognised the panic in Rasheed’s voice.

  Munia knows she needs to prepare the horses. Before she sets to work, however, she returns to Hossein and kneels down next to his prone figure. He’s moaning gently, his eyes closed. She shakes him, slaps his face. Her earlier desire to enjoy a drawn-out revenge has given way to an anxious wish to escape, to protect her brother.

  Hey, Hossein, Hossein, wake up! She slaps him again and he stirs. His eyes flutter open. Tell me, where is the nearest camp? Where’s the nearest camp for displaced people? Since the shoot-out, her mind has been racing. Her first instinct, to retrace their steps to Husham’s village and search for their mother, has been quashed by the realisation that she could not find her way back. She remembers her mother’s last words to her, that her priority must be to save her younger brother. Water, he answers, his voice a weak croak.

  Answer me first, then I’ll give you water.

  The soldier closes his eyes. For a moment, she fears he is slipping away. Then he swallows, opens his eyes again, and with great effort manages a faint whisper.

  North, about thirty kilometres, he mutters. Beyond the hills. He adds something else that she cannot catch, the name of the camp, she guesses.

  She turns to Greg, about to say something to him, then decides that it will take too long. Instead, she squats down and dips a hand into his pockets. He flinches at the unexpected gesture but allows her to fish around. She brings out the compass she has seen him play with, knows he has explained to Rasheed. She passes it to her brother.

  You understand this thing. You wi
ll be our guide. You heard the soldier. We must head north.

  While Rasheed studies the compass, Munia gets busy with the horses. She releases all but three of the beasts and climbs up on her chosen ride, the rifle slung over her shoulder.

  Be quick, Greg, she shouts breathlessly. Get on. She gestures to the horse, the largest of the remaining three.

  What? he says in panic. A childhood fear of horses has carried through to adulthood and he shakes his head, the phobia compounded by his dazed state of mind. I’m not getting up on that. I can’t. I don’t know how.

  Munia watches him, understands nothing of his words but reads the refusal in his tone. There’s no time to argue.

  Little brother, she calls to Rasheed. Greg cannot ride alone. You will ride with him. Hurry.

  As always, Rasheed obeys. He drops the reins of the horse, leads Greg over to the imposing animal and signals that the two of them will ride together. He beckons to Greg to slide his left foot into the rudimentary stirrup and to haul himself up into the saddle. Greg looks mutinous, but the whine of the approaching engine cuts through the silence and Rasheed gestures to him, mimes the returning vehicle, the angry soldiers, draws a finger across his throat. The message is all too clear.

  Sweet Jesus, Greg says. He lifts his foot into the stirrup and pulls himself into the saddle. Rasheed holds the bridle steady, then yanks himself up in front of Greg. He picks up the reins, kicks the horse into motion, then steers it out of the clearing. Checking the compass, he adjusts the horse’s direction and looks round to check that his sister is following. In the distance the low drone of the motor engine grows in volume. He flicks the reins to urge the horse into a trot, kicks again to move into a canter.

  ***

  The sudden transformation from confinement to escape has a salutary effect on Greg’s mind. The disequilibrium brought about by his head trauma is clearing. He feels as if jolted out of a cloying dream, less reverie than hallucination. Physically, he knows some serious damage has been done. The side of his face is painful, his head pounding. He tries to remember whether there has ever been a time since the crash when he has not experienced this all-consuming hammering.