S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (50 page)

She looks like a dark angel avenging a sin I have never committed. So be it. Let this be done.

Tarasov raises his head and looks into the woman’s dark eyes, preparing to die with her scornful face as the last thing he sees. The woman’s breast rises as she draws breath before unleashing a scream. But it is just two words that leave her lips.

 
    
“Zendeh bogzaaridash!”

The crowd suddenly falls silent.

Tarasov has already prepared his mind for the pain of the first strike when the woman drops her stone to the ground. An astonished murmur spreads throughout the crowd like a wave. The women behind her look at each other. She looks up to the Colonel and shouts out again.

“Man behesh tarahhom kardam!”

Her wrinkled face radiates confidence and pride as she waits for the Colonel to respond. From the corner of his eye, Tarasov sees him rising from his seat. The eyes of the Colonel and the woman lock, as if wrestling in a contest of willpower.

After a long minute, the Colonel nods. In reply, the woman bows her head in a sign of respect, covers her face with her scarf and turns around. She leaves the Pit with slow and dignified steps, ignoring the crowd that now erupts with disappointment.

The two guards hurry to the pole and untie him before dragging him out of the Pit.

“Don’t be too happy,” Polak tells him, “I would sooner die than face what the Beghum has in mind for you.”

Realizing he might yet live, Tarasov’s stomach lurches seconds after the wave of relief hit him and, unable to control his mind and body, he retches as the wooden gate slams closed behind them.

After giving him some time to recover, the ‘brothers’ pour water on his face to clean him up before taking him to a mud house nestled on the hillside. It is bigger than the others and clay pots stand along the walls with colorful herbs planted inside.

Stepping through the wooden door decorated with a jackal’s skull bearing strange, painted symbols, Tarasov detects a refreshing herbal scent, an odor so pure and sweet that it brings tears to his eyes. The two guards remain outside.

“Good luck, Spetsnaz!” Hillbilly whispers, while Polak remains silent and crosses himself.

With his mind full of doubts about what is in store for him, Tarasov enters the house.

With the Beghum, 12:37:29 AFT

Rubbing his chafed wrists, he wanders further inside and finds himself in a cool, tidy room smelling of herbs, spice and other exotic, but not unpleasant aromas that linger in the air. The earthen floor is covered by tribal carpets. Smaller rugs adorn the white walls among shelves holding a disorderly host of pots, jars and jugs. On another shelf, strange-looking containers are arranged with a few tools among them, their purpose remaining a mystery to the major, except for a copper mortar and pestle.

Facing him is the woman who saved him from the Pit. She sits on a bench beside the hearth, with a girl sitting at her feet. Tarasov recognizes her as the girl who tended to the Colonel’s wound. He wipes the tears and dust from his eyes so he can see her better. From under the scarf covering her hair and the tattoo resembling a gently undulating line on her forehead, a pair of dark green eyes study him curiously. Tarasov guesses that she could be around twenty years old. He can’t help himself shudder again, like he had the first time he saw her scarred face, though now it was for a different reason.

Her eyes…stunning, but old beyond her years.

She is wearing a long, blue gown and a leather belt which holds a long, curved knife. Its scabbard and grip are adorned with precious stones. As she sits there with her legs crossed, her gown permits view of her bare feet and ankles that are encircled by delicate golden bangles.

Tarasov looks at the bare skin as if mesmerized, and finds it hard to turn his eyes elsewhere. The girl feels his stare. After a long minute, making a face that has embarrassment and nonchalance equally written upon it, she covers her feet with the gown.

“Dokhtram tarjomeh mikond”
, the elderly women says,
“chun man englisi sohbt nemikonam
.”

“Beghum not speak English. I will translate,” the girl tells him in slightly broken English, but her voice, surprisingly deep and sultry, causes Tarasov to ignore her mistakes.

 
“My English is not perfect either,” he rasps, his throat dry and sore from inhaled dust and retching.

“Your knees are trembling. Sit down,” the girl says. Tarasov gladly complies. “Warriors brought you here because we have tradition. If one woman says not to kill the man in Pit, he stays alive.”

“I am… very grateful.”

“First you drink our water.” The older woman passes an earthenware jug to Tarasov, and he greedily gulps down the cool, pure water inside. “Now you are guest of Beghum Madar. She wants speaking to you.”

The woman looks at Tarasov and starts talking in a language he cannot fathom. Now, without rage distorting her features, it appears to him that she isn’t an elderly crone at all. Indeed, she can only just be beyond the years when her face would still have retained some of the attractiveness of her youth, and Tarasov becomes aware of a slight similarity between the two women. While she speaks, the younger woman keeps her eyes on the major. Her gaze discomforts him. There is a quality to it that he can’t stand for too long.

“
Daastaani toolani va ghamgin ra bayad be to begooyam…”

“It is long and sad story,” the girl translates. “Beghum Madar is from village where everything began. She survived and knows what happened. She wants to save our leader’s soul.”

Beghum Madar continues. Slowly, her voice becomes more forceful, as if gripped by powerful emotions, while at other times she falls silent, giving the impression that she is telling a story that is hard for her to bear. After a few minutes, the girl speaks up again in an almost humble voice, as if she reinstates words of immense importance.

“Colonel not permitting to talk about our village. But she knows what killed our people. It is still there. Beghum Madar wants you to find it. Colonel is not letting warriors to go there, but you can. She will tell you where it is. You will find it and bring it to him. This is price of your life.”

“If so, that warrior should have left my friend alive. He was innocent, and could have helped me find that thing!”

“Scavengers are not innocent,” she replies without bothering to translate his words to the Beghum. “They are not warriors.”

“The hell they aren’t –” Tarasov begins.

“Quiet!” the girl commands. “You speak bad words. Your friend was a weak man.” Her angry eyes pierce into Tarasov’s but he withstands her look.

“Squirrel was as good as any of your… warriors!”

“Our warriors fight for honor, not money and loot like scavengers.” The girl’s voice softens as she turns her eyes away. Tarasov doesn’t answer back. Inside his heart, he admits to himself that the girl has a point.

“You also not fight for such things, soldier. You fight for something else. When Beghum Madar was looking to your face, she saw shadow of death in your eyes.”

Tarasov frowns. “Please… what is your name?”

“You need not know my name.”

“Whoever you are, I beg you: tell Beghum Madar that I am just a soldier from a land far away, trying to find some lost people.”

She translates his words. While answering, the Bhegum looks at Tarasov with eyes that seem able to penetrate into his soul.

“You were an ordinary soldier once perhaps,” the girl translates, “but what you have seen has changed you. Not here. Long before you came to our land you met death. Beghum Madar sees that you cannot breathe the air of peace. You came from a place that signed… no,
marked
you with love of danger. This is why you can find our leader’s… medicine.” Uncertain if she has used the right word, the girl exchanges a few quick sentences with Beghum Madar. “It is something he has to see. It will give him peace.”

“What exactly do I need to find?”

“You will find it close to
Shibar
Pass.
Turn south from road and look for village in the valley. Beghum Madar says, you will find a big car with white color on a hill.”

“Your men took everything from me. How am I supposed to do this?”

“I told you: you are now guest of Beghum Madar. Before you leave, everything will be given back to you. But until then you must stay in this house and not go outside. Now rest. Beghum Madar is tired, too. She wants you to leave.”

“But… how can I leave when I must stay here?”

She translates his words.

“Marde shayesteyee baraye to khahad bood.”
Beghum Madar replies directly to her, not Tarasov who looks from one woman to the other without a clue. Her voice is hard and commanding.
“Be harhaal hich marde dighari to ra nemikhahad!”

The young woman blushes and covers her scar in shame.

“Be entekhab man etemad kon, dokhtra.”

Beghum Madar’s last words must have been comforting, because when the young woman looks at Tarasov again, the coldness vanishes from her green eyes. She looks him up and down with a mixture of anticipation and hesitation.

“Beghum Madar… my mother says you have blood of true warrior,” she murmurs, “and you will stay in my room… because tonight you will make me mother of a warrior.”

This is not happening to me.

The girl leads him into a small room furnished only by a thick, woolen mat. Rays of sunlight lance inside through splits in the crude shutters that cover the arched window and reflect off of dust motes as they perform their slow, swirling dance. An opening in the wall, covered by a colorful curtain, leads to a smaller chamber.

“Rest here for now,” she says. “You will need your strength.” She gives him a cotton towel and a piece of soap. To Tarasov, in his grimy condition, they smell pure like heaven. “Behind curtain, there is a room with more water to wash yourself. Beghum Madar will bring you food. I come later.”

She shuts the door, and the major hears a heavy lock being engaged. He feels as if he is a prisoner once more.

5 October 2014, 23:42:58 AFT

Dark rain pours down. It would be filthy weather to be out in, but Tarasov is resting his head on the desk in the command room, feeing such an exhaustion that he had never experienced before. He wonders why the view outside doesn’t resemble the Cordon. The lush vegetation has disappeared and the barren hills are full of crevasses from which herds of small mutants stream like ants.

I am back in the Zone.
My
Zone.

The thought brings him some relief, though he shudders; it is cold in the command room. Through the rain, the drab apartment blocks of
Kiev
loom beyond the hills.

I am home.

But the watch rosters and maps are gone from the wall, a ragged carpet hangs there instead. Memories from the New Zone flash into his mind.

I want to be back there. The old Zone has let me down. It is not my Zone anymore and I don’t belong there. I want the New Zone. I want its rage, its darkness, its mysteries.

The light goes out and the window’s frame blurs, slowly narrowing and assuming an arched shape. He hears a female voice from above.