Missing Soluch (32 page)

Ignoring their concerns, Salar Abdullah and his partners expected the pump to arrive from the town any day now. Mirza Hassan himself had spread the word that he’d gone to the capitol recently and settled the business of the pump and that nothing would stand in its way. Today, the tractor had gone out to Mirza Hassan and Agha Malik’s lands to plough the earth there. The lands that had previously been readied for dry farming and ploughed in a way to collect rainwater no doubt would be ploughed in a different way from today on.

Abbas thought, “That clever bastard Abrau really knew what he was doing when he jumped onto the tractor’s running board! One day, I might find that he’s even forgotten his own brother’s name!”

Deep in his heart, Abbas didn’t like Abrau. He felt like an abandoned fellow traveler, as if Abrau had gone and just left him behind. A dull and dust-covered grudge pierced at Abbas’ heart. Just thinking about it made him grind his teeth.

“That son of a bitch! Like a clever dog nuzzling at his owner’s stirrups, he’s really got himself a nice little situation. But we’ll see what happens!”

The lack of sleep from the previous night began to affect Abbas. Under the hot sun, his body began to go numb and his eyelids settled into the soft sands of sleep. The quiet of the fields and the wild lands settled like a weight upon his eyelids. Sleep overtook him. Then, all of a sudden, his body covered in sweat, he lifted his head from his sack and opened his eyes wide—the cry of one of the camels had filled the air. The dark camel had once again attacked the old mare. He had brought her to her knees and was sinking his teeth into her throat just beneath her jaw. The cries of the old mare took different shades, as if she were crying an old woman’s lamentation. She waved her head to and fro, and then began to scrape and hit her head against the earth. She cried out in pain, but the dark male would not let go of her throat, as if he was set on her destruction. Abbas had to do something. If the old mare were injured, it would be his responsibility. Of course, even if Abbas couldn’t be expected to compensate the Sardar for a lost camel, he would never find work again. They send a man out with the camels for a reason; and they expect you to be just that, a man!

Abbas grabbed his stick and leapt up. He reached the camels quickly. Their necks were bent into each other; the old mare was beginning to lose her breath. Abbas began beating the dark male on the neck, raining blows on him. He grasped the stick with both hands, unconcerned with where he was hitting him, on his head or nose or neck. He beat him, and with each blow his anger rose. He beat him and swore with each blow,
cursing the camel and its owner, cursing him and the earth and the sky above.

Even with the most cold-hearted of people, when they are drawn to hit a beast in a moment of rage, there is still a sensation of pity that twinges in their heart. So usually a moment of realization will compel them to step back from their own wild violence. One sees villagers and camel herders or shepherds who, just after they have beaten an animal with a chain or stick or even rake or shovel, will begin to talk to the animal. They may shout at it, if only to give a reason or justification to the donkey or cow or camel for why they were drawn to lose control and take up violence, saying, “How else can I get it into your head, you beast?”

But in this case, the unequal clash between the old mare and the black camel had closed the door of pity in Abbas’ heart. Abbas only knew that the black camel would have to be brought into line by force. So it was that he kept beating him with abandon, landing blow after blow upon his face and temple, like a rain of hail upon a black stone. Eventually the black stone cracked: the dark camel let go of the old mare’s neck, bellowing in anger, and turned his gaze to Abbas. The old mare drew herself to one side on her knees and lay on her side. Now Abbas had to draw the dark male away from the old mare. But the wild look in the camel’s eyes had frozen Abbas to his spot. The camel’s mouth was frothing and its eyes were fixed onto Abbas’ eyes.

Abbas was taken with fear. But he couldn’t back down. One can never give ground to an animal. You can never show fear or it will attack you, throw itself on you, destroy you. He had to gather his wits!

Abbas shook his stick once. He did it again. The camel was supposed to lower its head and walk away. This was what Abbas had hoped. But the camel stayed put, and even began to advance on him. It picked up speed. Abbas backed up, and kept moving back. It was all he could do. He’d heard that one should never show one’s back to a threatening camel. But this advice didn’t work in the open desert. He recalled hearing how Yargholi met his end. On the road between Damghan and Rey, a crazed camel attacked him and had ripped his arm clean off, right inside the Damghan caravanserai. He was about to be crushed beneath the camel’s hooves, but just as it was about to smash his bones, the other herders rushed in and pulled him out from under the beast.

But now? Where were the other herders? Their absence here could well be filled by death. It was death that was now approaching Abbas with long steps, in the form of the large black camel. He could no longer keep backing up while keeping his eyes on the animal. It was impossible to not turn his back on it. It was impossible. Impossible. He had to do something. He was at war. He roused himself and prepared for war. Face-to-face, he lay one blow on the camel’s neck. The animal reared and cried out. Abbas attacked again, parrying then backing off. The camel then came at the boy, full of anger. Abbas recalled the old saying “A camel is late to grow angry, but woe to him who conjures anger in a camel!” Putting out the lake of fire that is its anger is no easy task. It will only burn itself out in a torrent of hatred. Its anger is like a thunderstorm raining daggers. Only the desert itself can absorb such a thunderstorm; but a single man, never. Escape. Now all he could do was run. He had to find a way to escape somehow. He needed an able body and
quick feet. Be like the antelopes, Abbas! Run, run so fast as to leave even the wind behind. You’ll have to run along with the wind, quick and lightly, because the gallop of a camel itself has the speed of the wind in it. Because it’s death that is pawing at your back, now. And it’s you who are running in the shadow of death; if only you had four feet instead of two!

Abbas wished he were closer to the ruins of Shahmir’s old mill.

As he ran, he could feel the muzzle of the camel on his shoulder, as the giant shadow of the animal danced along his feet, rushing along the surface of the earth. Thirst. The moist breath of the camel was like the breath of a serpent that tickled the back of Abbas’ neck, hotter than the heat of any desert wind. His shoulder and neck were wet with spit from the camel’s mouth, but Abbas’ own sweat prohibited him from being able to sense it. There was only a single step between him and death. A single breath. But death, when it nears you, puts its body upon yours without your feeling it. That is the moment when life dangles along the border of two opposing forces. That is the moment when weakness overpowers, after the climax of a struggle. It’s the possibility of death that is so terrifying, not its actuality. And Abbas was already at the heart of death, and the intensity of fear had already drawn him to the climax of the struggle against it. He was now numb, and that fear that most often results in one’s surrender was put out from Abbas’ mind. There was no chance for him to even think, no chance for the kind of thinking that often leads one to surrender to the onset of death. For this reason, he could not even consider this possibility. Even to think, one needs a proper time and place. But Abbas could only run and run. This action was all that his body
and soul would accept for him, and toward this end he deployed every ounce of power stored within his muscles and bones. His feet carried him on. The wind blew across an empty field, full of sunlight. Terror. Twigs and dried brambles. Winding shadows, the way of death in the approach of the camel. How unjust it is! A crazed beast grabs at the body of a man and knocks him with one hoof. The man falls. He tries to raise himself in vain, hoping against hope. But escape is impossible. His hope is in vain! The camel throws himself upon the man, dragging him beneath his chest. Just so he’s positioned directly beneath the bow of the animal’s chest. Then it crushes him, in such a way that as the sound of the man’s breaking bones are heard, and as he cries out from the pain of his pulverized limbs, and as the crazed animal cries out as well, he dies.

This was what Abbas was facing, what he could be facing at any moment. His destiny. Oh no! The camel grabbed at his shoulder. He shook his body in defense, but the camel’s teeth continued gripping his shirt and jacket. The flag of death was rising. Abbas sent the last of his strength to his knees, but it was already too late. The crazed animal was already like a tent above him. Now he grabbed at Abbas’ head. The crazed scream of a human echoed across the fields. The camel was about to lift him and to throw him to the earth when Abbas pulled his head from its jaws and fell to his knees. Now the camel’s hooves were upon him. Abbas slid and rolled like a snake on the ground. The camel dropped to its knees to try to grab him again in its jaws. This was Abbas’ last chance. He raised himself to his knees and drew his knife from his waistband. There was no other choice so as to end the battle. But to slaughter a crazed camel is not something any man can do on his own.
Even the oldest and weakest camel of a herd needs to be tied down, and it takes six men with six lengths of rope around its limbs and body for the seventh to be able to slit the animal’s throat at the jugular. And this itself isn’t the end of the story. Even at this point the animal, in the throes of pain with its throat cut, can tear off the ropes holding it down and crush the men who are near to it. So what hope could there be for a single boy with no assistance and no rope to tie down the crazed animal to be able to defend himself with a single knife? To be able to slay the animal on the spot? To be able to kill it quickly and escape the death throes of the dying animal? Even if this camel is already struck by madness?

Abbas knew that he would have to thrust the knife directly into the jugular, just at the base of the animal’s chest. He would have to do it without hesitation, and plunge the knife in to its handle. But this usually is done with the camel in your control, not the other way around. But then this was a battle, not the slaughter of a farm animal. Customs and traditions were irrelevant and were replaced by instinct and emotion. Mergan’s son, his eyes swimming in sweat, with the sound of the sun beating in his head, began to stab at the animal hopelessly. He stabbed at its face, eyes, neck, and chest. The blade glinted in the crimson sun. His sleeve and shoulders and face were covered in blood. His nose, forehead, and eyes bloody. Drops of blood in the dusty sunlight. Streaks stained the earth, streaks on the dust, red reflections. The sunlight, the dirt, and the sand were purple and violet and yellow. The colors swirled together and yet also separated, pulled away from one another. Were not the earth and sky crimson from before? Breaths of air, breaths of wind blew. Wind, such a wind! A deed in one stroke, a battle
in one blow. Beneath the camel’s neck. The jugular. A clean stab, directly in the hollow of the camel’s neck.

He pulled out the knife. Blood poured, a river of it. But things were worse now. The camel was a thousand times more enraged. It was now also a matter of life and death for the animal. And so if death was about to take it, was it going to just sit and wait for it? But just then it seemed about to do just that by lowering its head before Abbas.

Could it be that this river of blood had finished the camel, broken it?

* * *

The camel suddenly reared itself again and threw Abbas to one side, twisting upon itself with a cry of fury. Its mouth now foamed blood, as it renewed its attack. Abbas collected his wits, but his strength gave way. His only hope was the well—it was his last chance. The old, dry, salt-water well. He dragged his body toward it. Exhausted, spent, and in pain, helpless and hopeless, he had one thought in his mind: in only a moment he could well be dead. The camel also gathered its own strength, like a viper, to pour the last cup of death into Abbas’ veins. It leapt toward him, but just before it reached him, Abbas threw his body into the dry well.

With a flutter of birds escaping as he fell, Abbas felt something hit his head and he was unconscious.

When did Abbas awake? It was night … How late was it? Abbas couldn’t tell.

Above his head, he only saw a small patch of the sky. A tight, circular field of sky dotted with white stars. Bits of constellations
shone, the Big Dipper. How the stars twinkled! They seemed to be panting, almost as if they were thirsty. Abbas’ tongue was dry, as was his throat and entire mouth. He licked his lips with his dry tongue, and it felt as if it were a lump of sod. There was no moisture, so also his lips were dry. Even the stars seemed to be panting, panting from thirst!

Abbas moved his body. His entire body cried out in pain. The pain wasn’t just in one limb; it coursed through the whole of his body. His hand was still grasping the handle of the knife. Conscious or unconscious, the imperative to defend himself had kept his grip on the knife throughout. He slowly lifted his hand from the powdery floor of the well. It was as dark as a grave, and nothing was visible. But he could feel that something was caked onto his hands, dried on them. He brought his hand to his nostrils and smelled it. Blood. His own blood, the blood of the camel. But where was he injured? It felt as if part of his shoulder had been torn. He felt at his legs and sensed that a part of the heel of one foot was gone. Where else? He couldn’t recall what had happened very clearly. Only pain filled his mind. Pain where the camel’s hooves had struck him, where he had been thrown against the earth, all over his back, his waist, his shoulders. His legs, his head. Pain all over. Exhaustion. Being pummeled. Thrown against the ground, rolling beneath the hooves of the camel. Struggle, a hopeless struggle for life and limb. Blows. Muscles beaten with blows. His joints felt as if they had been pulled apart. He felt as if it was impossible to even move.