Half-Past Dawn (23 page)

The book, used by the Cotis monks, contained pages filled with prayer, but through the simple act of wetting them, a blank page would be revealed, a secret tableau where one’s thoughts and words could be written and concealed as the paper dried. Informally called the Book of Souls, it was nicknamed so because its true heart was only known by its owner.

As the son of the high priest and ruler of Cotis, Suresh was blessed not only with pure blood but also with a mental and physical aptitude that the village had not seen in decades. He was mentored by scholars and holy men, warriors, philosophers, and poets who honed his mind, body, and spirit to form a young man who would one day take the place of his father as the ruler of Cotis.

As life moved on and the student attained enlightenment, then assumed the role of the high spiritual leader of Cotis, his writing
evolved. No longer would it be of just the past but now of the present and the future.

Suresh grew into a powerful young man, strong, intelligent, with a supreme focus that allowed him to absorb his teachings and to excel at every discipline, be it hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, mathematics, spirituality, or philosophy.

But with his sharp, curious mind, Suresh realized that he needed to see the world beyond the confines of his family, their wealth, and the ancient kingdom of Cotis.

Against the entire Tietien council’s demands, Suresh chose to go on a pilgrimage, to see the world beyond their simple ways, beyond their forest home of temples and nature. His father begged him to stay, explaining that he had glimpsed his future and feared for him losing his spirit to the darkness of the outside world. But Suresh explained that if he was one day to rule, then he needed to do so with a global perspective, not one of isolation.

T
HE OPEN-AIR MARKET
was abuzz with life early in the morning on a cloudless day in the small town of Rashivia, just over the Cotis border in India. Sitting at the foot of the Parshia Mountains, the town was middle to lower class, except for the northeast section, where enormous lakeside homes were built for the wealthy who spent their summers away from the chaos of Delhi, Mumbai, and Calcutta. Vendors with pushcarts piled high with produce, dried meats, breads, clothing, spices, orchids, and tools filled the crumbling makeshift sidewalks and alleyways. Small shops with open windows and doors lined the dirt roads. Crowds of people swarmed about; the singsong voices of the merchants hawking their wares filled the air. Suresh walked among the sea of people, feeding off of the energy, feeling the vibrancy of life around him. He marveled at the diversity, at the differences between this part of the world and his home just a short distance away. He reveled in his new freedom, cherishing his escape
from the ritual, from the routine that he now saw had stifled his understanding of the world.

Stepping under the woven tent of a produce merchant, Suresh flipped a coin to the hunched-over old man behind the cart and grabbed an apple. Taking a bite, savoring its sweetness, he looked out across the sea of people to see a young woman racing through the streets, her long, lithe legs seeming to make her float above the unpaved dirt road. Suresh watched as her long black hair drifted behind her, bouncing in rhythm to her every stride. Her face was pure and innocent, like a fresh orchid.

But he was shaken from the moment as he realized that she was on the run. Two men, large and equally fast, were ten strides back and closing. Without thought, Suresh charged from the bazaar, cutting through the aisles and past the merchants out into the open streets. People turned to watch, but their attention was distracted by the competing chaos.

The young woman led her pursuers down the road, kicking up a small dust storm with her long, quick strides. Suresh was ten paces back and closing when the woman cut down an alley bordered by two six-story decaying buildings, the two men right behind her.

Suresh rounded the corner to find that the trail to freedom was suddenly cut short by a high wall covered in razor wire.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the woman leaped onto a Dumpster, launching herself up onto the rusty fire escape that climbed the side of one of the brick buildings. Her hands caught the ladder, and she swung herself in a perfect arc, like an Olympic gymnast, forward, backward, gaining momentum.

But her long legs were her downfall. The first pursuer jumped and caught her by the ankles. She desperately clung, but his two-hundred-pound weight was too much. They both came crashing down to the filth-covered ground, the girl’s head hitting the pavement hard. She rolled around, dazed and confused, as blood began to blossom through her ink-black hair.

The second man grabbed her roughly by the neck, seeming to ignite a new fire within her, and she rolled up her fist and hit him
squarely in the eye, kicking him hard in the stomach as she turned to run. But the first man was there, stumbling to his feet, reaching into his jacket, and pulling a stun gun. She dived to the right to avoid the two metal prongs, but it was too late as they jabbed her in the neck and ended her struggle.

She fell to the ground in a heap as the two men paused, gasping for breath.

They never saw Suresh come up behind them. They never saw the snap kicks and round-house punches that came from his oversized fists. Both were unconscious before they realized they were under attack.

Suresh crouched and examined the woman, checking her pulse, examining the wound on the back of her head that seeped blood.

He turned and flipped open the first man’s jacket to find a holstered Glock pistol and a cell phone strapped to his belt. Suresh rifled through his pockets and pulled out a small amount of cash, keys, and his wallet. The man’s name was Arthur Patel, and his address was fifteen hundred miles south in Mumbai. His ID said he was a special envoy to the Indian government.

He took both men’s guns, popped out the clips, quickly dismantled them, and scattered the pieces. Without knowing the circumstances, he had no intention of hurting these men any further.

T
HE YOUNG WOMAN
sprang up from the bed as if she had just woken from the dead.

Suresh sat in the corner, his hands raised, his eyes passive. “It’s OK.”

The girl stared at him, her dark brown eyes darting around the room. It was small, only the bed she lay on and a single table off to the side for furnishings, with a galley kitchen in the corner opposite Suresh. A kerosene lamp filled the room with an orange dancing glow.

“You’re free to go,” Suresh said as he pointed at the door. “I just brought you here to get you off the streets in case anyone else was looking for you and to give you a chance to recover.”

The girl looked around the room while rubbing her neck and finally noticed the bandage on her head and the ice pack on the pillow.

“Eleven stitches. I made them small. I did need to shave a very small amount of hair, but no one will notice. The ice will help with the swelling.”

“Are you a doctor?” Her voice was soft and innocent.

“No,” Suresh said as he shook his head, “I have had a bit of training.”

“In more than just medicine,” she said. “Those men had training, too.”

Suresh slowly stood, picked up a tray from the lone table in the room, laid it before her, and took his seat back on the floor in the corner.

She looked down at a plate of fresh fruit and a loaf of bread. A lone white orchid lay next to the simple meal. She picked it up and took a long sip of water from a tin cup. “Is this your place?”

“For the moment.” He smiled.

She again looked at the food and at the bag of ice on the bed as she ran her hand over the wound on her head. “Thank you.”

Suresh nodded.

“You haven’t asked me a single question.” She tilted her head in curiosity.

“No,” he said simply.

The moment hung in the air, a connection beginning to grow.

“My name is Nadia,” she said with a hint of a smile.

N
ADIA
D
ESAI HAD
been on the run for almost a month. Men who had been tracking her for the last week finally made their move that morning. Tasked with bringing her home with no limits on their methods, they were to return her to Mumbai to face charges.

She was nineteen, two years Suresh’s junior. She did not speak of her childhood or upbringing beyond saying that it was hard and filled with violence, although her perfect teeth and refined speech indicated that her difficult youth may have been more emotional than physical.

With no plan beyond escape, she had ventured up to the mountain region to start a new life, to find love and adventure. And she did with Suresh. He took her on jungle excursions, taught her camping and how to live off the land. He taught her how to defend herself more effectively and the importance of avoiding aggression and physical confrontation when possible.

It was a week before their first kiss, another month before they made love, and when they did, Suresh knew that he had found a partner to spend his life with.

T
HEIR PASSION WAS
primal, their lovemaking rough yet tender. Their existence was simple, spent in the outdoors, the apartment used for expressing their undying passion, sleep, and showering. They were able to live off money earned from selling their jewelry, including Suresh’s ruby ring and Nadia’s gold necklace, and felt no need for the materialistic aspects of life. The world around them and their own company offered all of the entertainment they needed. Truth be told, though, Nadia indulged her one interest—photography—taking pictures of the vast jungle, of Suresh, of them dining, swimming, holding hands. She photographed them in bed, naked, within each other’s embrace, photographs they shared only with each other.

I
N THE THIRD
week of their relationship, Suresh found the note on his door. Sitting in the café fifteen minutes later, he faced his father.

“You have not returned,” his father said.

“This is my life now,” Suresh said. “You are stuck in the past, you and everyone else. You claim inner vision yet are blind to the world around you.”

“This life will not fulfill you.” His father looked upon him with sad eyes.

“You claim to know my wants and feelings.”

“No, I know your heart because you’re my son.”

“Then know that I have found someone—”

“Does she love you in return?”

Suresh glared at his father. “We have found a deep connection. We were meant to be together. Fate, which you so love to cite, brought us together.”

“Is she committed to you, the way you are committed to her? Does she love you?”

“One hundred times a day, she says it; she has given me her mind, body, and soul.”

“But has she truly given you her heart?” his father paused. “If she has, then I give you my blessing. You are then one with her and her outside world. And you are lost to us.”

And without another word, his father stood and walked out.

I
T WAS IN
the alley, after dark, and Suresh was on his way from the produce market to meet Nadia when four thieves emerged from the shadows. They were quiet, trying to get a jump on him.

The first man stepped in front of him, blocking his way and staring at him. Suresh naively smiled, thinking the man lost, but then he heard the others approaching from behind. His teachers had trained him to sense aggression and imminent attack and to embrace the instinctual release of adrenaline and turn it to his advantage.

Suresh’s senses were immediately heightened. He could hear not only their footsteps upon approach but also their flanking movements and even their breathing.

And as the man on his left rear attacked, Suresh was already in a crouch, ducking beneath the blow, spinning around, sweeping the man’s feet from beneath him. The two others came at him simultaneously. Suresh dove to the left, driving his fist into the tall man’s throat, the shock of the blow sending the man to the ground, grasping his neck. Suresh spun to the right, his left foot pivoting as he right-snap-kicked the second man in the nose, and he quickly followed it up with a single blow to the solar plexus and a kick to the knee, disabling the man.

Suresh turned to see their leader coming at him with a knife, driving it forward, aimed at his heart, but Suresh turned the man’s momentum on him, snatching the man’s knife hand and twisting it back until the knife fell to the ground. Suresh continued the motion, using the man’s own weight to lever his wrist until it snapped. Twisting the man’s arm until the shattered bone acted like an internal knife, he brought the man to the ground.

In less than a minute, the four street thieves lay upon the alley, disabled, wounded, but alive.

S
URESH WALKED INTO
his apartment to find Nadia not home. He lit the kerosene lamp by the window, its orange glow lighting the room. He turned on the stove and placed a pot of oil over the flame, then quickly seasoned the fish and laid out the produce that had all managed to survive his ordeal.

He stepped into the small bathroom, checked the wound to make sure it was minor, cleaned it, and applied a bandage. The adrenaline had quickly left his system. It had been nearly six months since he had tasted its flavor, but his defense and attack skills had returned as if he had practiced them the day before. His mind quickly let it all go, his thoughts returning to Nadia, to her smile, to her eyes that looked into his soul. He was glad she wasn’t with him, relieved that she didn’t bear witness to the violence he could unleash.

As he finished applying the bandage, his heart began to race, and the adrenaline returned as he sensed someone entering the apartment. Not Nadia, not the soft pad of her feet, the smell of her natural scent. It was someone else, trying to remain quiet, invisible.

Suresh turned off the light, crouched low, and peered out through the bathroom door to see an equally tall man standing at the kitchen table, rifling through the few papers that lay there. Dressed in a dark, tailored suit, the man projected an aristocratic air while his eyes scanned the room like a soldier on a mission. Suresh looked around the small bathroom. There was nothing but the box of gauze, a bar of soap, and a washcloth. He reached into his pocket and fisted a handful of coins.