Aliyyah

by Chris Dolan

  “I will be sad. Sadder, I think, than perhaps I have learned how to be, when you leave.”

  He thought then she might get up and leave. But she picked up her book, and looked for a particular passage. When she’d found it she read out loud, though what meaning she intended for him, if any, in the story she chose, he could not tell.

  “‘Once, there was a princess, the Protectress, a custodian of the gates of Paradise, we may glimpse her nightly, in her chariot, a star shooting across the heavens.’”

  He was thinking of her stories later that night as he sat down to dine with Ma’ahaba. He asked again, “Why does Aliyyah never eat with us?” But before she could answer Duban appeared at the door, looking troubled.

  “Thomas. Will you come with me? There is something I need to show to you.”

  Haldane left his food untouched and followed as the old man bustled out into the hallway. He followed several steps behind until they arrived at the steps that led up to his room.

  “You have passed these portraits on the wall several times every day since you came to us. Have you ever wondered about them?”

  “I’ve noticed them.”

  “And what exactly have you noticed about them?”

  “The men must all be related, though it’s clear they lived at different times. Your family I assume?”

  “Yes. Anything more?”

  “I’m no expert but I think the artists weren’t very good.”

  “On the contrary the portraits are splendid! Perfect.”

  “I know nothing about painting but they look to me as though they’re painted by the same hand. But that can’t possibly be the case. Unless, I wondered, if they were done by the one man, based on photographs or earlier portraits?”

  “The similarity. Well done. In almost every detail. But look closer and you will see the brushstrokes are different. The canvases too. And the age of the paint. No, they were each created in their own time with the subject sitting before them, by different painters. Over a century of portraits and yet it is almost as if the same man has been painted over and over by the same hand.”

  “I wonder if all these official portraits are the same everywhere. I’ve seen the likes of them in barracks and headquarters and fancy buildings all over the world.”

  But Duban wasn’t listening. He crooked his finger. “Come. Follow.”

  Duban retraced his steps, down the corridor that led eventually back towards the dining room, past the library, then opened a door that Haldane had not noted before. It led into another narrow corridor and the soldier knew that this must be the passage that connected the newer part of the buildings to the older. Indeed a few paces more and they arrived at the bottom of the grand staircase that Haldane had climbed following the sound of Aliyyah’s voice.

  As they ascended they stopped momentarily at each portrait, Duban not needing to say anything to drive his point home – the paintings here felt like more copies, excepting little details of dress and background, of those they had been talking about a moment ago.

  At the top of the stairs, Duban said: “You think the artist is not good because he has failed to capture the spirit of the man, the life. That they are somehow dead in the frame. Dead before their time. But how can so many artists over so many decades share the same deficiency in their craft? The answer can only be because they did not fail. They captured each of these men perfectly. My family, Thomas, suffer from an affliction. And have for generations immemorial. Look harder at this last one,” Duban pointed to a picture before them in the upper hall. “His eyes, like the rest, are dull, and lifeless. But not dead. See how he stares back at us, blank and brutal. There’s a cruelty… No, that is not the right word. Vacuums, his eyes are vacuums. Cold. Heartless. Indifferent. Violently indifferent.”

  Whether it was under the spell of the old man’s passion, Haldane could see what he meant. The man in the portrait did truly appear fearsome now. Though in all honesty the thought had not occurred to him before.

  “All these portraits were made after my kinsmen had left this house and gone out into the world. While they were here, when they were younger men, they were, by all accounts, optimistic and cheerful. And they were all different, had their own ways of being, of speaking, their own enthusiasms. Eventually, as you see, they all became the same. Empty.”

  “I don’t see how –”

  “Whilst they were young and safe in this house, and close to our ancient laws and devotions, they were complete. But this is a military family. The moment they left, as it was their duty and their fate so to do, it was to fight wars. And each of them succumbed, quickly, to cynicism and indifference. Succumbed to the world.”

  “Duban, everyone knows that war is a vile thing. But not all soldiers lose their souls.”

  “It is you who use the word, not I. Come!”

  Off he scurried again, and Haldane followed, feeling irritation rise in his breast. Another door opened to a room the same size and proportions as the great chamber downstairs. But here there were no lamps or carved cabinets, rugs or embroideries, none of the colour and warmth of the corresponding room below. This room was practically empty, save for a series of framed pictures on each of the four walls.

  Approaching the nearest one, Haldane saw that it was not a painting but a photograph. A street scene. All women, some of them covered, others not. A pleasant, almost joyful snapshot of what looked like a perfectly ordinary day in a town somewhere, presumably not far from here. He moved to the next photograph and it was not dissimilar. This time it was a city and there were men and women going about their business. Again, lively and likeable but not depicting, as far as Haldane could see, any particular event. Just life. There were several more in the same vein, snapshots of normality. They had a nostalgic effect on the soldier, making him long for noise and bustle and people and movement. The photographs, in contrast to the portraits, marked time and the passing of years: from what Haldane thought might be daguerreotypes through black and white to digital images. In the earliest ones there were no motor vehicles, while in the most recent the roads were hectic with cars and buses. Fashions changed, particularly among the women, and in shop signs and cafes. And yet. There was something frozen about all the images. Despite all the changes and commotion they felt lifeless. As though the photographers lacked the same skills as the artists: the skill to animate the image. These visual records looked like fictions.

  Duban touched his shoulder. “Look closer.” The old man took him by the arm back to the first. He waited a moment then pointed to the top corner. There, almost indistinct, was a woman walking away from the scene, her back to us. “See how her head hangs low, her shoulders hunched?” All Haldane could see was a woman walking away, and if her shoulders were slumped it was probably due to the bag of messages she was carrying. At the next street scene Duban pointed out another women. This time nearer the front but to one side. Her hair was covered and she was veiled, revealing only the eyes. “But look at her eyes, Thomas! How bitter she looks. Don’t you see?”

  “I suppose. But she might just as well be surprised by the photographer, or thinking about something else.”

  “She is looking right at the photographer. At us, and she is pained.”

  At each photo Duban pointed out another woman. Each one of them alone, detached from the people around her and either turning her back on the camera, or like the second woman, staring at it. Duban always chose one of the older women, sometimes in a group surrounded by younger ones, laughing or chatting.

  “We know these women, Thomas. They are of this house. I can name each of them.”

  “Even the woman in the distance with her back turned towards us?”

  “You know so little about us, my dear friend, and there is not nearly enough time to explain. So I ask you to have faith in me, in what I know. When the men of this family go out into the world they become dogs of war. When the women leave they decline, they age before their time and they encounter only odium and disillusion.” />
  Haldane looked quickly at each of the pictures in turn, then stepped back from Duban. “Sir. You’ve been very kind to me. You probably even saved my life. And I have, until now, found your conversation interesting, sometimes wise. But now I know what I’ve suspected. You are, Duban, quite mad.” The soldier strode towards the door. “At least I hope this is lunacy talking and not something more calculated.”

  Running down the stairs he heard Duban calling weakly after him. “Thomas. I beg of you. Do not take Aliyyah away from this house. You do not know what you do.”

  Haldane returned to the dining room where Ma’ahaba still sat, an untouched plate of food before her while she worked on an embroidery.

  “Is that why you stay here?!” Ma’ahaba raised her eyebrows at Haldane’s question, almost shouted at her. “Because of that old wives’ tale?”

  Ma’ahaba smiled. “That we all become monsters and strumpets if we leave this place? Who knows – perhaps it’s true.”

  “It’s ridiculous. You mustn’t let him peddle that nonsense.”

  “Perhaps we all go to the dogs when we leave our homes. Old Duban might have a point.”

  Duban himself entered just as she said it. Haldane had never seen the old man so ill-tempered before. The eyes that usually radiated goodwill now glowered and his lips were taut. But his voice was calm.

  “It is more than that. You know it is. I have no doubt that most of us poor mortals are cursed one way or another, but this house has its own particular blemish and has had for generations.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Ma’ahaba.”

  “You’re giving me instructions now, Captain?” Ma’ahaba, amused, returned his stare. “From what I hear of your nocturnal ramblings, I wonder if your father – or for that matter, your mother, whom you never mention – might not say that you share the curse of this house?”

  Haldane laughed dourly. “Oh is that all you mean? That we grow up and become different from our parents’ expectations? In that case, Duban, you are quite right. No child should ever leave his house.”

  “I cannot speak of others. I only know our circumstances here.” The burn of irritation was dying in his eyes. “Let us talk no more of this. I simply ask you, as a friend and a guest – leave Aliyyah alone.”

  With that he exited, closing the door carefully behind him. Ma’ahaba returned to her embroidery.

  The soldier saw that there was a bottle of wine on the table, already open, and one glass beside it. He poured, half filling the glass, and sat at the table. The wine tasted strong on his lips. Nothing like the soothing wine he had had at his first meal. This wine was earthy, meatier. He closed his eyes.

  “Turn the other cheek.”

  He heard his father’s words as clearly as he had heard Duban speak a moment before, and had to squeeze his eyes tight shut to keep himself from looking around. They were the words his father had said when he’d told him of his decision to join the army. Parent and child, both men now, had argued long and bitterly.

  “So we turn our cheeks and pay others to protect us? Wasn’t it the son of your God who went out into the world?” Haldane grimaced at the memory of his brittle fury. “You seem quite keen on disobedient sons. Isn’t the lesson that we should go out into the world, not hide away in a country manse mouthing pieties?”

  Haldane tried to stop the memory flooding through him, but could not. “Hell is here,” he told his father. “Heaven is here – in the world.” Where was his own father’s understanding and forgiveness! “You know what I think? If there really was such a being as your God then logically he’d redeem the Devil himself.” Storming out, never to talk to his father properly again, he barked, “He wouldn’t resurrect the dead, he’d revive the living!”

  At last Haldane managed to shake himself out of the memory and the same old argument spinning around relentlessly in his head.

  “Please tell me, Ma’ahaba, you do not believe this rubbish about curses?”

  She kept her eyes on her embroidery for a moment or two before speaking. “I don’t know. I have lived happily beyond this house, but then I am not, strictly speaking of this lineage,” she sighed. “Curses and blessings. I am never sure that we little mortals are worthy of such great things. Like heaven and hell – they seem… out of proportion to me. Our puny exploits on Earth hardly deserve so much, don’t you think, Captain?”

  When he didn’t answer, she went back to her needlework. “But I believe in dreams.”

  “These aren’t dreams, Ma’ahaba. They’re crazy theories and he makes everything he sees fit them!”

  “I like to make things, Captain. Like this here. Each time I start on a new piece I want it to be what I see in my mind’s eye. In my dreams.”

  Haldane was up out of his seat, pacing. “Of course it never happens,” she continued. “It’s not just that it’s not as good as I had hoped, it’s also different. Something other than what I had set out to make. There’s a kind of destruction in everything we try to create. But that shouldn’t keep us from the attempt.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not quite following. I should sit. Calm down.” And Haldane sat again at the table but could not stop his right foot from tapping the floor while his injured left ached.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m only saying dreams make you do things that will never be what you dreamt. But we need to do something with them. Otherwise they may stop visiting us. And that would be death.”

  The night before the crash they had been talking and drinking, Simon Kane, Michael Samson and Thomas Haldane. The Thunder Boys they called themselves. But soon their banter had turned to argument. The morning of the reconnaissance mission, however, like the good soldiers they were, all disputes and insults had been forgotten.

  It was a fine morning, and as Michael propelled them up off the ground their spirits were as airy as the vast bright sky. They were to penetrate new territory, valleys behind the northern mountain range. A simple check. There had been no reports of insurgents there. It was simply a belt and braces job, checking out the lie of the land. Even if they were to spot enemy presence their job was not to fight, but to bring home the data, chart positions, estimate numbers of men and guns, turn around, come home. Simon the gunner was there only as a precaution.

  Tom Haldane, the youngest of the three, being the recon man, was leader of the mission. All went well until dipping over the sheer face of a highland crag, whooping as they roller-coasted down, Haldane spotted a lone figure.

  What could he be doing there? The man was just walking – until he was startled by the sound then the sight of the helicopter above him. He was as astonished as they were. He must be, Haldane figured, thirty or more miles from any settlement or water source. Where was he going? They had identified no camps, no guerrilla base, no village. So far as they could see, several hundred feet above him, he was unarmed. Unburdened in any way.

  Mick Samson turned his gun in the lone man’s direction and made the noises of it firing, like a child playing. Simon Kane told him to stop it. Samson upped the ante and said he was going to fire for real. He swivelled the MC60 and put his eye to the front sight. Simon Kane, sitting in front of him, pushed back and flailed an arm out to knock him off balance. “I’m not going to kill the fucker!” Samson yelled, “Just scare him spitless.”

  Haldane couldn’t sleep. He sat at the radio, running through stations, changing wavelength bands trying to find Extremely Low Frequency. But he wasn’t really concentrating on it, instead letting the memory of that morning fill his mind. But it stopped there. Mick and Simon yelling at each other, arms thrashing. Then that sound. Small and inconsequential. Had Simon fired? Then the grinding noise. Then the spinning, like the helicopter had gone cockeyed, the cabin rotating and the rotor blades static. Then the feeling of being grabbed and pulled out of the sky. Then the blackness. Though this time, as he relived the plunge, there was a moment of light. The frenzied rocking of the machine must have tilted him in such a way that he caught sunlight, and he saw they
were plummeting down, directly towards the man on the ground, still frozen in awe.

  “… until dipping over the sheer face of a highland crag, whooping as they roller-coasted down, Haldane spotted a lone figure.”

  He walked away from the radio, still humming to itself in the dark, and stood by the window. He could just see the outline of the fruit on the tree, its redness stolen by night. Had he read somewhere that colours do not exist? They’re a trick of the light. We make them up in our heads. That red fruit was not red at all, it was no-colour.

  The man below them. It could only have been the man that saved his life. Was he also the same man who was talking happily in the campfire light and laughing with Ma’ahaba?

  He did not go down for breakfast the next day nor did he seek out Aliyyah. He stood by his post, determined to make contact with his base, with his old, his true, life. Being in this house was driving him mad. The memories, the nightmares, the heat and the silence. Then there was the pain that extended from the back of his head down into his left leg. He should get that seen to soon, by a proper doctor. But that pain was nothing compared to the agony of not being with Aliyyah. Even when he was with her she caused him a kind of aching. The welcome pain you get when you swill alcohol around a toothache. Her absence was original pain.

  As the day wore on, he read from cover to cover the old radio books that Duban had given him. He took them out to where he had now stationed the radio permanently, beside the fence. There, the charger could direct the solar energy directly into the batteries. He had tried so many configurations already, but he was sure he was making some headway, keeping a mental note of those combinations that either lost signal entirely or tuned him in to what sounded like normal FM or medium wave, albeit very distant stations. There were only so many possible combinations. He spent hours now, and found that a combination of a channel 9 setting, tuned to 57.975 MHz, placing the aerial so that as much of the length of it as possible touched the metal stake, and switching to an S/RF setting, the white noise changed – and changed to a tone, a pitch, that he recognised. Underneath it there were voices. Intermittent, barely audible. Only the odd word discernible. But words in his own language. Not an announcer, but conversation, an exchange of messages, communiqués. If there was some kind of encryption – which had worried him – he had either accidentally unencrypted it, or the setting had remained since the morning of the crash. Whatever, he was convinced he was connected to, if not his own base, then a British Army presence somewhere in the region.