Of Dreams and Rust (26 page)

I hold the dying woman's hand as she drifts in and out of consciousness. All around me I can hear the Noor words of lament.
“Bazegovyasi bazebogmikie”
 . . .
“Migovyasi zhabogmikie”
 . . . I hear these phrases over and over again. They are so loud, shouted, screamed, torn from throats until their voices are shredded. It is exhausting to listen to, like sandpaper against my skin.

Itanyai are silent in their grief. To be so loud shames the family, the lost loved one, the memories you shared with him or her. To be so uncontrolled is a weakness of character. At my mother's funeral I stared at her grave while we all sweated under the late-summer sun. My heart had been crushed, but I refused to embarrass my father by crying. I refused to add to his grief by forcing him to comfort me.

We cry in private. We cry alone. We do not burden others with our sorrow. To share that kind of thing is rare. But not for the Noor. They cry together, and none of them are ashamed of tears or runny noses or sobs, even the men.

It makes me feel as if I am wrapped in a transparent, impenetrable veil, watching them from the outside. They can see me, and I can see them, but we will never reach each other, not really.

The problem is that I want to try.

More than anything I want to soothe Melik in his grief, but I would not even know where to start. His loss is so massive, so devastating, that I cannot imagine my presence being helpful. And then there is the reason I am now hiding within this tent, pretending my sleeping patients need me: My greatest fear is that I would make his grief worse. The way he looked at me in the last minutes of Sinan's life . . .

“Wen always has medicine.” How many times has he said that to me? So fondly, so reverently. I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists. I want to go to him, but I fear that is selfish. I will not force him to relive those horrible moments, my helplessness and failure. I am scared to remind him of the fact that Bo was in Dagchocuk because of me. If I stitch those truths together, they amount to one big, horrible indictment—Sinan is dead because of me. I know that is not really true, but what if Melik thinks it is?

The dying young woman's mother comes to the tent with several men, and they carry their daughter-sister-cousin-lover away so that she can die in her home surrounded by those who love her fiercely. Before the tent flap settles over the doorway, Melik pokes his head in. “Wen, can I talk to you?”

I blink at him, hope surging within me. “Of course.” I leave my patients with Aysun and join him in the square. He has changed his bloody tunic and washed his face, but he looks as if he has lived a thousand years in the last few hours. “What can I do?”

He will not meet my eyes. “I need you to talk to the Itanyai prisoners.”

My hope evaporates. “Oh. What would you like me to say?”

He folds his arms over his chest. “I would like you to do what you did in the hills, with the other prisoners. I would like you to convince them that you are a prisoner too, and gather whatever information you can. I need to know what else is coming for us, but they are well trained. Trickery will work better than torture.”

I have not eaten in hours, but this task makes me feel sick. Still, not as sick as I'd feel if these Noor tortured the captured Itanyai. “I will do it.”

Melik nods. “They're in a cottage down the lane.” He walks by my side, and when we are a few houses away from where the prisoners are being held, he hands me some flatbread and a canteen to offer them. “Thank you.” He begins to walk away.

“Melik?” I call, but when he stops and turns to me, I find I have no words. Or rather, I have many, but all seem full of obligation, like an expectation that he would respond in kind.
I hurt for you,
I want to say.
I will do anything for you. I adore you. I love you.
But none of it feels like enough.

“What is it?” he says softly.

“I will do my best,” I say, my voice cracking.

He meets my eyes briefly. “I must complete the funeral preparations for my brother, but I will find you later.” He strides away.

Like a condemned woman, I carry my burdens down the lane. If this is the one thing I can do for him, then I will do it as well as I can. I nod at the rebel guarding the door and slip inside the cottage. Three Itanyai soldiers are lined up in front of the hearth. Their hands and feet are bound. One of them has black smears along his arms and shirt—he must be a fireman from one of the machines, while the others are probably pilots or front gunners. Their eyes widen when they see me. “Sister,” the fireman says. “Where are you from?”

“I came from . . . Vuda,” I say, deciding to hold tight to as much truth as I can. “I was in the train wreck and captured by the rebels. I have been here for a few days, no more than a week.”

The wiry young man at the end of the row looks awestruck. “You are the one! The girl who saved the prisoners in the hills. They returned to the Ring as we were preparing to leave.”

I bow my head. “They were very kind. I am glad to hear they made it back to the Ring.”

“Are they treating you well?” the wiry fellow asks. “Is the Red One here? There are so many stories and rumors.” He raises his eyebrows. This feels like dangerous ground.

“I am alive,” I say. “And they have not abused me. But I was hoping to be rescued.”

The fireman looks ashamed, but the other two, younger and angrier, curse under their breath. The one in the middle, with a broad nose and cheeks thick with red spots, shakes his head. “The canyon was supposed to be clear,” he snarls. “There is obviously a spy in our ranks—they were prepared for us, and they have war machines of their own. I've never seen anything like it.”

Bo is the war machine, and I am the spy, but they do not seem to suspect. “You did not expect an attack at all, even after they ambushed the train?”

They shake their heads. “This attack plan was top secret.”

The wiry fellow grimaces. “We were out of radio range when we were attacked. We did not warn the rest.”

I force myself to smile. “But there are more machines coming? That is good!” My heart thunders with fear.

The soldiers' smiles are tempered. “I wouldn't be too hopeful, sister,” says the fireman. “When they come, they will tear through this village like a paper dragon on First Holiday. There are twenty of them, and the crews' blood will be fired when they see the wreckage in the canyon.”

The spotty soldier nods. “At least they will know what happened. At least they will be ready.”

“We can be grateful for that,” I say, my toes curling within my boots. “Perhaps we can hide when they come. Find cover.”

The wiry soldier looks hopeful. “If you could help us get loose . . . there is an infantry force behind the war machines. They will hunt the survivors in the hills, and when they arrive, we'll know it's safe.”

“Hunt the survivors?” I blurt out.

Spotty bares his teeth. “This will not be like the last uprising. This time we will not show mercy.”

I tear off a hunk of bread and press it to Spotty's mouth. “Eat. You must be hungry.” And I need him to stop talking, because his words make me feel ill. “So,” I say to the others as he chews. “How long do we have until the invasion force arrives?”

The wiry fellow watches my trembling hands tearing the bread. “Fear not, sister,” he says quietly. “Our orders were to destroy this village and lay the path for the others. They are set to arrive in two days. I know it seems like a long time, but—”

“I will cheer their arrival,” I say, “and I will do my best to free you before that time so we can take cover. I believe there are caves within these hills.”

Spotty glances at his wiry friend. “The sooner the better.”

The fireman looks somber as he allows me to feed him bread. “You are very kind,” he mumbles.

I give them each sips of water and leave breathless with information and the hope of saving these prisoners. I know I am betraying their trust, but I will do what I can to preserve their lives. When I emerge from the cottage, I walk for a few steps before running to find Melik. He is in the square with Anni but meets me halfway. I give him all the information I gathered, and he thanks me. “I will inform Commander Kudret,” he says. “It's possible we'll be able to get reinforcements from the north in less than two days.”

“What will happen to these men?”

He stares at the ground. “These soldiers who killed so many of mine?”

“It will be your choice to show mercy.”

His voice is hollow as he says, “I will do what I can for them.”

“Thank you.” My own heart is overflowing with admiration and love for him, but one look tells me he doesn't feel it at all. In fact, I realize that I've hurt him again by asking for such a huge gift right now. Melik is on the other side of this canyon between us, and every rope I grab to throw across falls apart in my hands.

He glances at my face before turning away. “It is time to bury the dead,” he says. He pauses for a moment, a space in which I almost reach for him, almost take his hand, but then Anni raises her arms and beckons to him, and he walks away.

Feeling stupid and toxic, like an infection in a wound, I return to the wedding tent to check on my patients. I soothe myself by doing small and good things—silent acts, seeing as my words always seem to be wrong. I check bandages and help patients find comfortable positions. I hold a cup of cold tea to the lips of a thirsty man and wipe his mouth when he has drunk his fill. I rub the cold hands of another and tuck a blanket around someone else. Most of them are awake, listening to the mourning outside. It seems as though they cannot sleep, that they would rather share the pain with their family and friends than shut it out. One woman, whose ribs Aysun and I had to bind tightly, gives me a weak, pained push toward the tent flap, as if telling me I should go and be a part of the grieving.

I only add to it,
I want to tell her.
I only make it worse.
When all my work is done and I'm unable to invent more, I huddle within the canvas walls, fading with exhaustion while the fires outside burn, while the wailing and weeping continues, until I finally leave to use the pit latrines at the outskirts of the village. The air is laced with sage and lavender and other heady scents, and there is a haze of smoke above the village, trapping the torchlight in a foggy dome.

As I return to the square, the funeral procession is heading for the southern side of Dagchocuk. Sticking close to the cottages, concealed within the almost dark, I follow it until we reach a graveyard, plots marked with piles of rocks from the Western Hills.

There are twelve freshly dug graves, each adjacent to a pile of stones. A thick post has been hammered into the ground at the foot of each plot, and tied to them are the family colors, delicate scraps of sorrow fluttering in the breeze. Melik and his mother kneel in front of the post bedecked with the red cloth embroidered with leaves and black diamonds, saying their final good-byes to Sinan. His body has been washed, and he has been dressed in a simple cream-colored tunic and pants. He is pale and handsome and perfect and young, far too young. Melik holds Anni as she kisses Sinan's freckled cheeks and white eyelids, smoothing his hair, her tears falling on his unblemished brow.

His eyes dry and his face blank, Melik climbs into the grave and carefully lays his brother down. For a moment I cannot see him at all, and my chest squeezes tight as I wonder what he must be thinking, walls of earth close around him. Finally he slowly rises, and Anni helps him climb out, because for once he looks too weak to do something for himself. He grits his teeth as he shovels dirt over his brother. Though all those around him are weeping as Sinan disappears into the ground, Melik is silent. He keeps tipping soil into the grave, smooth and empty. It is so unlike him, so unlike what I expected, as if his soul has dimmed completely. By Itanyai standards his calm is admirable, but for Melik it just seems . . . wrong.

Anni covers her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. Melik outlines the grave with stones, positioning each one with care, and then he pulls his mother into his arms. Whatever he says to her makes her nod and hug him tightly.

When she lets him go, he strides away. Right toward my hiding spot. I press myself against the wall of the nearest cottage as he walks by, looking neither left nor right. He ducks into his mother's home and emerges a few minutes later with a pack, which he slings onto his shoulders as he walks toward the canyon. I stare at his back as he fades into the darkness.

“Why did you not come to the grave site?” Anni asks in a choked voice, making me jump. I have no idea how long she's been standing next to me. “I made sure Aysun remained with the wounded so you could come and stand by Melik's side.”

“I . . . I didn't want to intrude on your grief,” I say.

“So you abandoned Melik to his sorrow instead? He is so lost in it that he cannot cry. He said he cannot even stay here tonight. He was afraid the grief would swallow him.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “I'm afraid it still might.”

I turn to her, this strong woman laid low by what she has lost. Her rust-colored hair is in a single gray-streaked braid down her back, but several strands have come loose and hang around her face. She looks twenty years older than she did this morning. “I did not abandon him, Anni. I am here. I have been here. If he asks me for something, I will offer it—”

She tilts her head, her brow creased with puzzlement. “Should he have had to ask you for comfort? Why wouldn't you give that to him freely?”

Tears start in my eyes. “I don't know how!” I throw my arms up. “I don't want to hurt him, but I seem to, no matter what I do. And Melik, he usually says what is in his heart—”

“His heart is shattered, Wen,” says Anni. “It is in ruins. There are no words for that.”