I Saw the Fire — A Novel — Excerpt №2
The following is the second in a series of three excerpts from Sebastian Wolfe’s upcoming novel I Saw the Fire, due for release on Kindle and paperback in early July, 2017. The first and third excerpts can be found here and here, respectively.
Set in a distant, war-torn, third world country, I Saw the Fire is a story told by three young men — Battle 2–6, Immortal 1, and the Foreigner — navigating the moral ambiguity of warfare during a single morning of battle between a modern occupying force and a fierce tribal resistance. Throughout, their narratives intertwine, illustrating how the interconnectivity of humankind transcends the fog of war. Ultimately, despite the clashing causes for which they fight, each is finally able to come to terms with his role in life as a result of the others’ influence.
CHAPTER TWO — The Foreigner
A din of smoke ebbs and flows, suspended in the air, as the smell of hashish permeates every corner of the room. A solitary light bulb, powered by the generator outside, hangs over the gathering, casting a yellow tint over its surroundings. I watch as the men sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor around a feast of lamb and rice and fruits, laughing and speaking jauntily as they devour their meal. They are a cantankerous bunch, mostly dressed in robes of various dim hues, their heads adorned with traditional wool and fur hats of one form or another. They sit barefoot; their dirty, calloused feet jut out from underneath them, adding to the curious yet familiar aroma that already fills the room.
The village elder sits at the head of the group. He wears a large headdress wrapped around his scalp like a turban, and though his hair and eyebrows are white as clouds, his beard is a brilliant red, the dye being indicative of the rank he holds above all others in the room. Deep wrinkles sculpt his face like crevasses, adding character to a steely-eyed gaze that dissuades many from meeting it. Naim is his name, and his will holds power over all those who inhabit our homestead. To his right sits a man I cannot recall having seen before. He stands out in his black cargo pants and dark blue buttoned-down shirt, his countenance at ease. His beard is thick but trimmed, and his face looks foreign. So does yours, I am reminded. Seeing Naim’s hand resting on his shoulder, I gather that he may be from a different tribe, but he is held in high esteem. The pair laugh loudly as they sit hunched over toward one another, and the mystery man’s gold tooth shines brightly in the meager light of the room. Behind them, an AK-47 assault rifle rests on two wooden hooks mounted on the wall. I imagine the many battles it has seen, and those it has yet to see.
My older brother, Iskander, sits among the guests. This is his first time attending one of these gatherings as a result of his recent promotion. The pakol cap he wears does little to hide his blond hair, contrasting him against the rest of his darker-toned peers. He sits leaning forward over a medley of roasted lamb and rice, engaged in an excited discussion with the men sitting across from him. His long, golden beard dances in the light and his fierce green eyes dart back and forth between his onlookers, who are clearly absorbed in the point he is making. Thus far, he has avoided making eye contact with me, and I wonder if it is because of my reputation in this community, or the embarrassing nature of what may lie ahead this evening. For what it’s worth, I try to empathize. He has always been a caring older brother, and I cannot fault him for focusing on his peers tonight.
Off in the shaded corner, beyond the village elder, one of my friends dutifully plays the tamboor, a local instrument that has regaled our people for as long as I can fathom. The music, though serene, brings back painful memories — memories of a shame that I would prefer to leave in my wake. If only… The musician’s eyes remain focused on his task, lest he attract the attention of one of the feasting men. I envy him. At least he is gainfully employed. Holding my pot of tea, I make every effort to blend into the mud-brick wall behind me, hoping, as I have done many times before, for this evening to end quickly. Though my eyes are fixed on the carpet beneath my sandals, my ears remain attuned to the gathering that unfolds in front of me, listening carefully for the cues that indicate which course this evening will take.
“Brothers!” bellows Naim above the overlapping layers of eager dialogue. “Brothers, I ask for your attention.”
With Naim’s second petition, the vocal exchanges and laughter come to a sudden halt, as does the music. Only the subtle clink of a china cup on its saucer perforates the palpable silence that has now taken hold. All heads are turned toward Naim, who sits cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. His mystery guest is leaning on his side, resting his weight on his hand. He surveys the gathering confidently, then catches my eye, smiling with his gold tooth to bear. I look down and away. Please God, no… I’ve seen this look before.
“Warriors of our great and beneficent God, it is my distinct pleasure tonight to host the latest meeting of our rebel council.”
“Praise God!” yells one of the guests. Others echo in suit.
“Tonight we have not one, but two causes to celebrate,” resumes the elder. “The first is to honor the newest member of our council, Iskander al Roosi.”
The room erupts in congratulatory shouts and songs of praise. I look over to my brother to seem him laughing as his companions slap his back, tousle his hair, and throw his hat in the air. They all seem genuinely happy to have him amongst them. I am proud to see this. My brother has come far, indeed.
“Iskander…” The elder waits for the clamor to calm down. “Iskander, you have proven yourself time and time again in our fight against the imperialist occupiers. You have sent many to face their purveyors in hell and you have proven to be a master not only of your craft but also in leading your men. For this, we all here commend you, and promote you to council member.”
“To Iskander!” shouts another.
The men all raise their glasses and toast their newest member.
“In recognition,” the host resumes, “of your new role and your fearlessness in leading members of our rebel force against the evil imperialists, I am appointing you to commander of the cannon group.”
A few men gasp, then silence overtakes the room. My brother is wide-eyed, staring intently at the elder. This is a significant act. Only the elite have the privilege of leading the rebels’ most lethal weapon.
“Recently, we lost one of our brothers in arms to the enemy,” Naim says solemnly. “Our beloved Nizbullah,” Many of the guests nod silently in recognition. “He died a great man, leading the cannon group, and I cannot think of a better replacement than our brother in arms, Iskander.”
“So be it! Thanks be to the lord!” proclaims a guest.
The others raise their glasses.
“God bless Nizbullah!” yells another.
The men all sing praises of their lost brother, then cheer on Iskander’s appointment as the new commander of the resistance’s most significant answer to the occupying force. I have only seen this instrument of war from afar, but am told that the cannon group tears through the enemy’s defenses easily, rendering their machines irreparable and terrorizing their foot soldiers. Though I am no veteran, nor do I want to be, I have seen enough to recognize the ingenuity of the rebels and their resistance to the imperial occupiers. They have answered every advancement brought to the battlefield. And so far, after years of war, since I was a young child, this homestead has remained our own, free of whatever evils Naim has told us they are trying to impose on our people.
The celebrating rebel council members soon calm down and reacquire their seats on the ornately decorated carpet. It has seen many meetings like this one and its traditional designs are beginning to fade with wear. I helped mother make one just like it for our home years ago. The amount of labor that goes into making each one, while retaining the symmetry of the designs and the vibrance of colors, is painstaking. I remember spending many an evening weaving textile with my mother while my father and Iskander worked the poppy fields.
“My brothers, now we must move on to the second order of tonight’s business.” The room goes silent again. “As I am sure you have noticed, we have a foreigner in our midst.”
Blood rushes to my face. Naim turns to look at the stranger sitting on his right. Ah. I am relieved. The other foreigner.
“Brother Abdul Rahman is originally of the Berber tribe from the distant mountain ranges to the north, but today he visits us from the imperialist’s base in the neighboring village of Tundarreh. He is stationed there with the illegitimate puppet government’s army.”
A few men grunt in acknowledgment. Others whisper obscenities under their breath. Most just stare at the mysterious guest intently. The stranger looks on, unfazed, as if his attendance were to be vindicated at any moment.
“I am sure you are all wondering what a member of the disgusting, traitorous puppet army is doing amongst our ranks. But before you jump to any conclusions, I assure you, he is anything but.”
Naim pauses, letting the words hang in the air for the moment as he looks over the rebel leaders. For as long as I have known him, he has always been one for the dramatics. He enjoys the power he wields, and the mystery he uses to wield it. I look over at my brother. On his face is written the hunger we all feel for an explanation.
“Rahman is one of us. His father and brother both serve in the resistance in the northern mountains and have been fighting the occupiers for years. Rahman joined the traitors’ forces in order to inform on their diabolical plans to assist the imperialists, and thwart them before they can even carry them out. And he is here, tonight, to do just that.” The village elder smiles, and then turns again to the stranger. “Brother Rahman, please tell my fellow freedom fighters the good news you’ve come to bear.”
Rahman nods respectfully, then turns toward the group. We are all wide-eyed with anticipation. My musician friend hunches over his instrument, his mouth unwittingly agape.
“Friends, esteemed colleagues, brothers in God,” begins Rahman. His voice has a nasal, accented quality, evidencing that ours is not his native tongue. “I come to you with news of an impending assault by the cowardly occupation. At this very moment, they and the members of the traitor army are readying themselves to prey on the peaceful town of Wado Ila.”
He pauses, taking a drag from the communal hashish pipe, then passes it to Naim.
“I and my soldiers are to be attached to the occupier force that will conduct this assault. We are to load helicopters tomorrow morning at the base in Tundarreh, then, after a short flight, land in a field west of Wado Ila. From there we will separate into several elements and push forcefully through the town.”
Rahman pauses, leaving the floor open for any questions. My feet are beginning to hurt. I remain standing, periodically shifting my weight from one to the other.
“What is your mission?” asks my brother.
Several men nod in agreement with his inquiry. Naim turns to Rahman and cocks his head to the side, conveying curiosity, though I assume he already knows the answer.
“The occupation forces plan to search the area and destroy everything you are hiding there, and any of you standing in their way.”
The council members exchange knowing glances. Iskander leans over to the man to his left and whispers something inaudible.
“Believe me, they know where these hiding places are, my friends. They know where you are stashing many of your weapons and explosives and they are going to detonate all of them. They believe the village to be mostly abandoned, and they plan to canvas the area in full force.”
“How can you be so sure?” challenges the man across from Iskander.
“Because I’ve seen the map displaying the mission details. And I have a copy on me now.” Rahman reaches into a cargo pocket and hands a folded piece of paper to Naim. “On the map you will find not only where they suspect you are hiding materials, but also what routes the occupying forces will use during their offensive. The occupation has a habit of not briefing us the entire plan before the operation begins, but since there has been a push lately to put us in charge of the operations, I was able to elicit more details than usual. What I have may be incomplete, but is still enough to get you started.”
“How many soldiers make up the assault force?” asks a rebel leader sitting near Rahman.
“Around 90, total. Two platoons, plus attachments from the puppet government’s army, including myself. One platoon will search the northern part of the village, the other will search the southern half. I and my soldiers will be attached to the second platoon. There will also be support from their flying machines.”
“Aren’t you afraid to be caught in the crossfire?” inquires another.
“No,” he chuckles. “My treacherous compatriots are not known for their bravery. The occupiers think they are stupid and unreliable. And they are right to believe so. I plan to play the part. And then, when the time is right, and if God wills it, I’ll find a way to sneak off.”
Some council members nod silently. Others whisper under their breaths to one another. Rahman scans the room, awaiting another question.
“Have the occupiers made any mention of the cannon?” Iskander’s inquiry cuts through the rumblings like a sharpened saber.
The room falls silent, yet again. The teapot I’m holding is starting to become heavy. I cradle it in one arm.
Rahman takes a deep breath as he looks toward Iskander. “Yes, they are told to be constantly on the lookout for one, but they do not know whether there is one in Wado Ila, or anywhere else for that matter.”
My brother takes a deep breath in turn, and then moves his head up and down in pensive acknowledgement.
“It seems as though we have an opportunity to deal a serious blow to the imperialists,” suggests Naim in a mischievous tone.
A council member sporting a scar on his face and an eye patch raises his fist in the air. “We will drive them out,” he snarls, his voice loaded with contempt, “just like we drove out the last evil empire. With their tails between their legs!”
“Hear! Hear!” clamor the guests. I can’t help but think of my father. Once, long before I was born, he had been a soldier of that forsaken empire.
The men’s dialogue now devolves into a sea of terms I do not understand. They seem to be planning, from what I can ascertain, the next day’s surprise attack on an unsuspecting enemy. I and my fellow servants clear the floor of what is left of the feast, making room for Naim to unfold the map. The rebel leaders gather around it, pointing to various areas and arguing about placement of one form of weapon or another. Iskander is fully vested in the discussion, his promotion having become all the more timely given the developments of this evening.
I resume my position with my pot of tea and await further instructions from Naim, whose beck and call I have answered on many occasions like this one. Rahman, hunched over the map with the rest of the resistance fighters, occasionally looks back over his shoulder to leer in my direction. His gold tooth makes the expression look all the more menacing. I avoid his gaze, choosing to look over at my musician friend who has resumed playing a traditional tune, or the solitary lightbulb that reigns over this room. Its filament radiates brightly, and as it blurs out of focus, the residual smell of lamb skewered over an open flame tickles my nostrils. It reminds me of the time my brother and I helped my father prepare a sheep for a family feast.
I remember watching with angst as he hung the sheep from a branch by its hind legs, then offered me the knife with which to slit its throat. Horrified, I looked at the knife, then looked down in embarrassment. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But Iskander eagerly took the knife from him.
“Another time, my son,” said my father, gently patting me on the head as I watched the blood gushing from the animal’s throat.
I remember vacantly watching the dark red blood as it spread from a pool in the dirt along the paths of least resistance.
“One day you must learn to kill, little one,” he told me. “You must kill in order to live.”
Had he been right? It’s been years since then, but I miss him, still. I look to Iskander, now in the full throes of planning with his contemporaries. A true heir to his father.
I yearn for this night to end, to be alone with the stars that light up the sky, free to think peaceful thoughts, to wonder, to imagine, to wish myself away from here. I yearn to avoid the shameful nature of my role in this hierarchy of needs and desires. No matter how often I must enact that role, I cannot grow accustomed to it. I hope earnestly for a night of freedom. But as the infinite stars above dot the night sky, so do tonight’s possibilities remain numerous. For these men are excitable, never hesitating to celebrate one cause or another.
“Alright!” Naim announces. “It looks as though we have fully planned our trap. All that remains is to put it into place.”
The men gradually regain their seats while the map remains unfolded.
Naim raises a glass in hand, beckoning his council’s attention. His ruby beard shimmers in the embrace of our solitary lightbulb.
“Lend me your ears once more, my brothers. The only thing I have ever found that we have in common with the enemy is that we love death as much as they love life. And thanks to Rahman, we have come upon another chance to remind them of this. Once more, we can punish them for desecrating our land, for murdering our sons and daughters, for endorsing this so-called ‘government’ that only preaches heresy while plundering our wealth. We are all gathered here, my brothers, because we have volunteered to fight for what is right. We are defenders of the one, true faith, protectors of our rightful land, followers of a tradition that stretches far across the vast sands of time. This cannot change. Sooner or later, the occupiers will learn. In the meantime, we will happily teach them.”
Naim pauses. The council members nod their heads up and down in affirmation, their faces exuding surprisingly fierce determination despite the narcotic effects of opium and hashish. Swirls of smoke traverse the air above their heads.
“We who are about to die praise God,” toasts Rahman.
“God is great!” the guests shout in unison.
“God is great,” repeats Naim, then swallows his drink.
The elder looks to me and the other servers, then back to the gathering. “As much as we would all love to see these young boys dance,” he says, gesturing in my direction, “I believe that we no longer have time for this or any other form of recreation tonight.”
The council members all nod in acknowledgment, although some, including Rahman, look disappointed. For a moment, I am relieved. Though I quickly begin to dread the thought of another night of anticipation
As if he’d heard my thoughts, Naim continues, “But fear not, men. Look forward to tomorrow! These handsome boys will be all the more delectable once we have tasted the sweet nectar of victory.”
I look toward Iskander. Unlike his peers, his eyes do not gleam with anticipation. Instead, he looks down at the ground and bites his lip, casually twirling his empty cup of tea with his hand. Is he embarrassed? I wonder. What a stupid question, I reproach myself. He must be. My head begins to ache. The shame that I must bear sets my mind ablaze with memories of shouts, roguish laughs, physical subjugation, and violation. I am reminded of my powerlessness, the whimsical nature of my fate at the hands of these ravenous hounds of war. Though my brother sits only a few meters away from me, it feels as though we are worlds apart. There he stands on the precipice of glory, and here I am, a piece of meat, casually used to quench vitriolic desire. How did we come to be this far apart? My only respite is that despite the distance, my brother has always reached across the widening gap that lies between our journeys through life. And perhaps, as his status grows, he will one day be able to put an end to the status to which I have been relegated. Or perhaps the widening gap will finally put me out of reach. In either case, I know any effort to leave on my part will summarily result in my death.
As the council members take their leave, I and my fellow entertainers clean up what’s left of the foregone feast. Naim and Rahman remain seated next to each other, cross-legged, whispering. The visitor throws the occasional glance in my direction, which I subtly pretend not to notice. My peers and I make our way into the kitchen and begin to clean the dishes with what is left from our run to the well this morning.
“Looks like we’ll have to get some more water,” says another one of the boys.
“I’ll do it,” I blurt out, looking for any excuse to get away from the leering visitor.
I make my escape from the elder’s residence and begin trudging toward the village square. In addition to the water bucket, I tow some leftover bones, wagering that some of the neighborhood’s stray dogs will come begging for food. They know me well by now.
As I saunter forth, I notice a crescent moon shining brightly overhead, drowning out its neighboring stars. Its white light radiates across the quiet landscape, silhouetting the grand profiles of the two jagged mountains that border our river to the south. The mud-brown hue of our humble village looks gray, if not silver in this light. There is something that I love about the peaceful nature of a moonlit night. In its solitude, I can usually admire the beauty of my surroundings without fear of being distracted, though I have managed to find some daytime hiding spots as well.
I reach the square and make my way over to the well at its center. As predicted, a couple familiar strays rise from the shadows and trot toward me. Their pelts shine in the moonlight; their tongues hang loosely from their mouths. Having reached me, the twosome immediately begin to smell the bag of bones I have brought with me, eagerly awaiting whatever prize I will award them. I pet each one, then toss the bones for them to chase. As they leap away, I notice their rib cages rippling underneath their taut hides. Poor things… Neglect has an inevitable outcome. I wish I could do more.
I latch my water bucket to the rope and begin to lower it down into the well. A distant plop! echoes through the well when it hits the water. And as I begin to pull back on the rope, I hear the sounds of measured footsteps behind me.
“I’ve been looking for you,” says an ominous, accented voice. The visitor!
My hands burn when I momentarily let go of the rope. I wince in pain as I regain my grip, making every effort to remain calm and unassuming. Water splashes deep within the well.
“How can I help you, sir?” I gulp, slowly turning my head in his direction.
“Oh, I think you know…” Rahman exhales. He stands tall, only a few meters away now, his chin tucked. He’s a bigger man than I thought. His breathing is heavy as his hands hover at his sides. Predatory eyes shine brightly in the silver moonlight.
I stare back in silence, unsure of what to reply, fearing the violence that will ensue regardless.
“You’re very handsome, you know that?”
My eyes widen. I bite my lip. My mind is frozen. It seems my fright has blocked any development of an escape plan.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I manage to opine.
“Yes you do,” he replies, his tone feigning affection. “The blond hair, the blue eyes, the soft skin…. Electrifying.”
Slowly, he advances toward me.
“I’ve been admiring you all night,” he breathes. A chill runs down my spine.
I am suddenly reminded that the bucket has reached the lip of the well at this point. I pick it up and sit it on the rocky surface.
“Naim tells me the foreign boy in this town satisfies like no other,” he says. “And I don’t think I can pass that up on a night before battle.”
My back now against the well, Rahman stands over me, his chest heaving with the anticipation of an event I have come to dread. Say something! Urges what little self-worth I have left. Don’t just stand here and take it. Say something! I struggle to look him in the eye. He rests one hand on the well, then leans toward me, his broad shoulders towering over my meager frame.
“Tell me, blue eyes. Have you ever tasted a man from the northern mountains?”
“I should probably get back to the kitchen, sir,” I manage to utter. “We still have work to — ”
“Don’t worry about that,” he cuts me off, pushing the bucket back down the well. It tumbles down before crashing into the water, the sounds thereof echoing off the inner walls as if from a hollow instrument. “Now,” he continues, running his thumb over my chin. “How about we get further acquainted?”
Abruptly, the village elder’s guest seizes my shoulders and spins me around so that I face the well. My heart races as my mind desperately searches for the strength to confront him, but I find myself slowly slipping into resignation. It has almost become muscle memory at this point. He is too strong. All too often, I have been here before.
“No…” I plead, my voice becoming faint. “Please God, no. Not again.”
He ignores me, bending me over the well’s stone wall. His hand runs up the back of my neck. Fingers clutch at my hair, pulling my head back. It’s no use. This is all I’m good for. I feel my eyes swelling up with tears. I am muted.
He brings his mouth close to my ear, I feel the warm air from his lungs lapping at my skin. “You’ll like this, I promise. We mountain men are of a different breed,” he whispers, panting. “Just like you.”
He chuckles, one hand holding me down while the other lifts my robe, searching for my trousers underneath. I open my eyes to the starry night, the crescent moon stands out amongst its effervescent peers. God have mercy, I pray. Please make this end.
“Just take it, blue eyes,” mutters Rahman, yanking my pants down. “Enjoy this for a little while, and then we’ll have you finish me off.”
“Brother Rahman!” a familiar voice bellows from nearby, tearing through the evening’s tension like a sickle through a crop.
Rahman’s hands rest on my lower back, frozen in place. I crane my neck, struggling to see who is behind us, and manage to distinguish a dark figure in the periphery.
“I ask that you stop,” the voice adds assertively. Iskander! My brother has emerged as my protector once again.
Rahman pushes his weight off of me and turns toward my brother. “Why?” he demands.
“Because that is my brother,” Iskander replies crisply.
“This boy is Naim’s property,” retorts Rahman. “What difference does it make whose brother he is?”
I hesitantly pull up my trousers, then slowly turn away from the well.
“Brother Rahman,” my brother begins. His voice is cordial, yet firm. “You have brought good news and are a guest in our village. As such, you are welcome to make yourself at home.” Iskander begins to step toward Rahman. “But despite whatever you may have heard, my brother is not available for the services you seek. He is just a simple servant, and nothing more.”
“But — ”
“I’d be happy,” my brother interjects, “to discuss this with Naim in person, if you like.”
Rahman slumps his shoulders, seeing little value in putting up a fight.
“That will not be necessary, Brother Iskander,” he says dubiously. “I wish you luck tomorrow in battle.” His words are a shell, empty of any genuine sentiment.
The mountain man turns to leer at me once more. ‘I’ll be back,’ he mouths silently, then walks off. My muscles seize, I bite my lip in fear. Something assures me that he will. Iskander’s eyes meet mine, then dart away in shame.
“Thank you, Iskander,” I murmur. “I’m sorry, I…” I’m unsure of how to apologize. My words hang in the air, their aimlessness is a pantomime of my own. It seems as though we have been at this juncture all too often. Again, my brother has become a reluctant savior, and I, a hapless rescue.
The silence between us is deafening.
“Why… why did you lie to him?” I manage to ask. He has saved me from this type of humiliation before, but never at the risk of vexing an esteemed guest of Naim. Guests of the village elder are traditionally welcome to whatever indulgence they like.
“Go home, brother,” Iskander says, shaking his head. “Just go home.”
“I…” Words struggle to come out. Enough. I’ll talk to him another time.
I hang my head, then turn away, slowly disappearing into the darkened maze of mud-brick qalat compounds that make up our village.
