The Devil Is a Black Dog (5 page)

Abdul Muhyi, still visibly spooked, took the imam’s suggestion. We all parted ways to sleep.

The next morning I found Abdelkarim downstairs in the mosque. Abdul Muhyi was nowhere in sight. I washed in the well, then went into the prayer room, where breakfast was waiting. Abdelkarim’s wife had baked bread, which was steaming in a basket. We ate it along with yogurt and cucumbers. I asked him about Abdul Muhyi.

“I sent the boy home,” said Abdelkarim, as he tore into the bread.

“The kid was scared to death.”

“I convinced him that his mind was playing tricks on him. The last thing we need are rumors about the devil. We’ve trouble enough.”

“How did you convince him?”

“I told him that it was obvious to me that he hadn’t seen the devil.”

“And that was enough?”

“No. I also gave him my rifle.”

“Why?”

“Because divine help was also needed. I thought I’d give him the gun and bless the ammunition. Now no more trouble will come of it.”

“You convinced him your rifle can stop the devil?”

“It can stop this one. Mausers are good guns.”

Abdelkarim poured us tea.

“Are you going to try to write an article today?” he asked.

“No. My laptop ran out of power.”

“I’ll plug in the generator.”

“Don’t waste the energy. Even if I write an article, I can’t send it. The network is down.”

“In that case, would you like to come with me to see the tomb in the hills? I need to get to the bottom of this before gossip starts. With two of us, it will go quicker.”

“Of course,” I answered, and went to wash my face. The water from the well was cold and left dark green stains on my shirt.

We traveled on Abdelkarim’s beat-up Triumph 21. The paint was worn on the body but the seats were comfortable, because the imam was careful to keep them well oiled. It was a good little motorcycle and more than fifty years old. As opposed to modern Chinese trash, this one could withstand the climate, the night’s frost and day’s heat. He kept it stored under rough horse-blankets in the courtyard; it was well maintained, and he beamed with obvious pride when it roared to life that morning.

Abdelkarim drove, his robe blowing into my face when it caught the wind. We glided along, past the red hills; the black openings of the small caves looking like the gaping mouths of corpses. Red dust carried by the wind stuck to our sweaty clothing, leaving rust-colored streaks.

For about half an hour we wound our way down the serpentine dirt road that led to the caves where the tomb was. Since the town graveyard had filled up, the Saada people began to bury their dead in the hills.

Abdelkarim slowed down and came to a halt. The opening of the cave Abdul Muhyi had spoken about was in a hill above the road. We got off the bike and began to climb.

“Do the dogs normally raid the dead?” I asked as we hiked up the incline.

“More and more often. There are a lot of stray dogs. They go after the town’s trash as well. But at the beginning of the war, there was simply nothing to eat in the town, so they came out to the hills to hunt. It seems they have also begun to mate with the jackals.”

“I didn’t think that was possible.”

“A jackal is a dog as well, though we can say the stray dogs are more dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because jackals are still afraid of men, but dogs are not.”

“What did Abdul Muhyi mean when he said the dog was drinking blood?”

“I believe it is just as he said. There is no natural water source, but where there are wells, there are also people. Any dog that dares to get near the drinking water is certain to be shot by the shepherds.”

“That’s why they drink blood?”

“That’s why.”

“So they don’t die from thirst?”

“Indeed. Blood is a kind of water.”

The cave’s entrance was almost seven feet high; we both fit through comfortably. As Abdelkarim went ahead, I saw his hand poised on his robe. Over one of our dinners together he told me that he had been a soldier, and I knew that unlike the knives of people in the capital, the knife on his belt wasn’t for decoration. It wasn’t an especially ornamented dagger; the hilt of a red copper blade protruded from its simple leather sheath. The imam turned and took a gas lantern from the cave’s wall. He looked for matches in his pocket to light it with. The pungent smell of congealed blood filled the cave and mixed with that of the gas.

Sand grated under the soles of our shoes as we went. Deep in the cave, spaces had been dug into the walls. They’d lay the dead there, and let the hot, dry air take care of the rest. The only problem was the linen sewed around the bodies. Since the offensive broke out, no new material had arrived in the hills, so what was left they used sparingly.

“What exactly are we going to do here?” I asked.

“It’s certain that pieces of the bodies have been strewn about. We are going to put them back in the their rightful places.”

“Out of respect?”

“Yes. And I don’t want people to start gossiping. In this area they are terribly superstitious. All we need is talk flying around about the devil.”

The light from the gas lamp flickered against the wall as we traveled farther into the cave. Soon we could make out the contours of the chamber where the burial places had been dug. We found the first corpse on the ground before us, upended on its side. The linen, brown with dried blood, was torn half away. Abdelkarim got on his knees by the body and placed the lamp on the sand. I stepped closer. The man’s throat had been ripped open, his innards were missing, and his face was chewed to pieces. It was an ugly sight, one I didn’t want to look at for long.

At least there aren’t any flies
, I thought, kneeling down next to Abdelkarim. I’ve always had difficulty stomaching corpses that were swarming with vermin.

“It was really a big dog,” said the imam, pointing to the prints in the dirt by the body. They were as big as an adult fist. The animal must have been two hundred pounds at least. “It fed here. It fed on the flesh, and the rest was just for play.”

“What makes you think so?”

“There are lots of prints here. I bet if you look over the bodies, you’ll see that it just tore up the linen. This is big trouble.”

“Why?”

“Because it got a taste of human flesh. It needs to be shot, because now it knows God created man full of nutrients, something we forget from time to time.”

“Will the shepherds shoot it?”

“Yes. That is how it will be,” said Abdelkarim, who then, from a pocket in his robe, extracted a stapler. He wrapped the linen around the man again and stapled it together. The snapping sound echoed throughout the chamber.

“Later, if the convoys return, we can rebury them with more respect. The Shura will designate a place in the city for a new cemetery; this is something we have already discussed. Now come on and let’s get hold of him.”

The body was stiff and easily lifted into the chamber.

We found four more bodies lying on the ground, and we moved each one. While we were carrying the last one, I felt something under my foot. I looked down and saw a 9 mm shell casing. After we put the body in its place, I picked the object from the sand.

“You know, I’m thinking about how Abdul Muhyi said he couldn’t take out the dog with a bullet,” I said, showing Abdelkarim what I’d come across. We gathered all the spent casings we could find.

“An animal of this size can’t be taken out with pistol ammo,” he said decisively.

I suddenly had a bad feeling, knowing that we didn’t have a single firearm between us.

Abdelkarim again stooped over and began to count; and then, with long strides, walked over to the cave wall.

“Poor Abdul Muhyi never was the best shot in town,” he said and pointed out the chip marks left by the bullets in the stone. The goatherd couldn’t even hit a dog. We shared a smile and got ready to head home.

The sun was setting when we arrived back in town, and dark fell soon thereafter. The bike turned onto the road that led to the mosque. In front of the iron gate stood a crowd. They parted so we could enter. The women wailed loudly, and the men stood in a circle around where the boy’s mutilated body lay. The shepherd had died clutching the imam’s rifle.

With fingers numb from the cold I slowly buttoned up my jellabiya. Beyond the window the light of the torches flickered. It was already cold enough to see my breath in the room. The hills cast shadows over the courtyard. Down there the men were talking, though their words were distorted beyond comprehension from the wind. My face burned from shaving. I gazed into the bowl of water on my bed for a moment, and then took off my leather jacket and shirt.

Abdelkarim insisted that I take part in the assembly of men in the mosque, and he’d loaned me his festive jellabiya for the occasion, the one he had purchased for his pilgrimage to Mecca. It was worth more than my camera and equipment combined.

“For my greatly esteemed guest,” he’d said, when he laid the robe in my hands. I was slowly getting used to how on certain occasions I couldn’t show up in my Western clothing. Abdelkarim’s
friendship had greatly improved the town’s esteem of me; I got fewer suspicious looks, and even the mujahideen mumbled “Peace be upon you,” if we happened to meet at the market.

I didn’t want to be late. Abdelkarim had calmed the terrorstricken crowd, and invited them to an assembly so they could discuss the case of the wild animal that was hunting among the hills. The men were already gathering. I fastened my belt, adjusted the
jambia
, the traditional dagger, and began down the stairs. By the time I got to the courtyard, everybody had already gone into the mosque. Only the clatter of the rifles that were hung on wall hooks could be heard in the wind. Abdelkarim didn’t allow firearms in the mosque. I quickened my pace and took off my shoes. Inside sat about seventy men, loudly arguing. Abdelkarim waved me over.

I sat next to my host and quietly observed as some men squabbled, while others took to examining the corpse. They all agreed that whatever animal had done this to the shepherd needed to be hunted down. The town butcher, a mustached, potbellied man named Badr al-Din, shouted loudly that they should start for the hills at once, because “every lost hour is a waste.” Many approved of his plan, though others thought it was a trap. A heated argument arose, with urgent gesticulations followed by many threats: exactly how Arabs typically argue. Abdelkarim strained to keep the tenor calm.

The ruckus lasted until Khaldun, a fifty-year-old, one-eyed mujahid, stood up. He wore a gray jellabiya and a long black scarf around his neck. His beard fell the length of his chest and his one good eye shined white with light. The old man had fought in the battle for Marjah, on the Afghani Taliban side. There he had lost his eye in a rocket attack; at least that’s what he told Abdelkarim. They were old adversaries, because he believed my host was too lenient in questions of faith. He didn’t go to Friday prayers in the
mosque, preferring to pray at home, with the followers he came across in the town. He only attended the assemblies.

The old mujahid waited quietly for a few moments, casting his gaze over the others until they fell silent.

“Is it not possible that because of our guilt God has punished us?” he asked those gathered, his voice rising.

A shadow of worry passed over Abdelkarim’s face. The room had gone totally quiet.

“We need to think about why he is punishing us with such a grave blow,” the old man put forth.

“My respected Khaldun,” said Abdelkarim, his voice stiffer than usual, “I note your concern, but the signs are unequivocal. A wild animal is hunting in the hills. Because it is night, and its tracks will be hard to follow, I suggest we set a trap tomorrow.”

Many of the men voiced their approval.

Khaldun’s face tightened, but he sat back down without another word. Badr al-Din offered to hunt down the beast himself, along with his boy. The produce seller, Safiy-Allah, also volunteered.

Finally, they decided that at dawn, after the Fajr prayer, the small party would leave for the hills.

I turned toward Abdelkarim and asked if I could go with the hunters. I wanted to see the hills again, and the desolate countryside. My host nodded, and said loudly, “Our foreign brother is volunteering to help with the wild animal’s killing.”

His announcement wasn’t greeted with undivided enthusiasm. I saw old Khaldun shake his head disapprovingly, and look at me with spite. He hated everything and everybody from the West. To him, I was vice on two feet.

Badr al-Din decided the question. “Every bit of help is useful, from wherever it arrives. We agree to wait for our foreign brother in front of the mosque tomorrow morning,” he said and, moreover, he appeared convinced that they really did need my help. The assembly, as always, ended with communal prayer.

I couldn’t sleep from excitement, and by daybreak I was in the prayer room, ready to go. Abdelkarim and I repeated the Fajr prayer, and then went out to the front of the mosque. The street was empty. We stood shivering wordlessly next to each other, until finally Badr al-Din and his group appeared on the main road. They wore rough baize jackets and scarves tied around their heads. Safiy-Allah led a mule loaded up with gear. They greeted us with a “Peace be upon you.” Abdelkarim handed me a shoulder bag. His wife had packed me some salted goat meat, onion, and bread. Off we went.

It was cold, and we had already reached the hills by the time the sun appeared. We didn’t speak much along the way. Badr al-Din asked if I wanted a gun. When I said yes, he handed me an old World War I rifle. I thanked him and rested its rust-covered barrel on my shoulder.

After a three-hour walk we arrived at where Abdul Muhyi’s body had been found. Animals were grazing there on the grasses that grew between the cliffs. The boy’s blood had already dried in the sun; only the carcass of a goat with its throat torn out marked where the shepherd had been attacked.

Badr al-Din examined the tracks for some time. They ran north and turned off the dirt path. We followed them under the fiery, mercilessly hot sun. Sweat flowed into my eyes, and my shirt stuck to my skin. Safiy-Allah’s teenage son gave me his scarf to tie around my head.