The Lost Puzzler

Suddenly he was confronted by an infidel who stepped from behind a tree and tried to grab him. But he misjudged the power Rafik had accumulated in his mad dash. They collided, and the infidel fell back on the ground with a thump and a cry of surprise and pain. Rafik barely lost speed, but the little he lost was significant. They were almost upon him, and he was getting too tired to keep this pace much longer. It was now or never.

Rafik roughly calculated his position and changed his direction once more, ducking under the arm of a pursuing infidel, his bare feet feeling as if they were hardly touching the ground. He could see his mark now, getting closer, but also the infidels who were running towards him from all directions. He passed the bodies of his friends lying on the ground in neat rows, Eithan among them. It was over, he knew it. One infidel was in a better position and would intercept Rafik before he could reach his target. The others were only an arm’s reach behind him; he heard the sound of their steps hitting the dirt and could almost feel their breath on his back.

There was no power in him anymore; his lungs were on fire, his feet were bleeding, and his body was in agony. In a few heartbeats, Rafik knew, it would be over. The unbelievers would triumph, yet it was something he was still unable to come to terms with. God was with the believers, and the infidels always lost. Always. It was something Rafik had known as a fact from the moment he could comprehend words from sound. Just as he felt himself slow into despair and defeat, his body already accepting the fate his heart was yet rejecting, the infidel who was about to intercept him stumbled on an invisible twig on the ground. An accident? Surely not! It was a miracle.

Rafik’s spirit soared as he skipped over the body of the fallen infidel guard, galloped the last few yards, and wrapped his hands around the tree that was his target, shouting, “Boom!” again and again in ecstatic joy. He heard the infidels curse in defeat and his teammates, the holy warriors, shout in joyful triumph as he raised his hands and proclaimed victory.

When Rafik turned around he saw his teammates jumping up and down, roaring their excitement. Eithan ran forward and hugged his friend, picked him up from the ground, and spun him around in a circle. The infidel team looked disappointed, but many among them held Rafik’s view on God’s attitude towards the believers and were almost visibly relieved to lose.

The boys changed the name of the game often, sometimes to “Pure Blood and Tattooed” or “Guards and Bandits.” The rules were pretty much the same, but when they called the game “Holy Warriors and Infidels” there was always an extra excitement in the game, much more at stake than a simple afternoon’s honour. No matter what the odds, the holy warriors were the blessed sons of the Prophet Reborn. The Infidels had to lose, they had to, even if this time was too close for comfort.

Rafik squirmed and kicked a bit until Eithan finally lowered him down, though he was still full of excitement, and he kept hugging and thumping Rafik’s chest with open palms even as the rest of the boys were calming down. That was typical Eithan; he always became completely engrossed in everything they did but remained a little too enthusiastic for too long. It annoyed Rafik, who found Eithan’s company embarrassing at times, especially around girls. But when one chooses his best friend at the age of three and they swear to each other in blood at the age of seven, one does not break the friendship just because pretty Elriya keeps laughing whenever Eithan behaves like a fool. Nor do you walk away from a friendship because your sworn brother happens to be absolutely awful in any kind of physical game and sport, and you have to coerce your teammates with promises and threats so they pick Eithan for their team.

Rafik pushed his friend gently away before the others began taunting them. With his attention focused on Eithan, Rafik did not notice the two boys who emerged from the bush. One of them was Cnaan, the boy who had swallowed the dirt flung by Rafik. Strictly speaking, when the only rule of taking a combatant out of play was that his back had to touch the ground, Rafik’s move was perfectly legal. Yet Cnaan was not trying to dispute the victory or debate the rules; he just wanted to get even. In his clenched fist, he held a massive ball of leaves and dirt, and he charged Rafik with the zeal of hurt pride and the confidence of someone who outweighs his opponent by a full stone.

Eithan called a warning, but Rafik only managed to turn before he was lifted off the ground for the second time. A heartbeat later the ground claimed him back with a cloud of dust and a blow that took the air out of his lungs. His right hand partially blocked the fall, and he felt the skin scratch and split open on the gravel.

Momentarily dazed, Rafik could only shield his face from the barrage of vicious blows Cnaan was landing on him. He twisted and managed to half-turn on the ground, but Cnaan turned him back with a vicious shove and sat firmly on Rafik’s chest, pinning him down. As his eyes cleared, Rafik’s vision was filled with Cnaan’s heavyset frame. One chubby hand grabbed Rafik’s jaw while another was poised, ready to shove a fistful of revenge into his mouth.

Suddenly Cnaan’s overbearing weight was lifted off Rafik’s chest. Rafik rolled to the left and rose unsteadily to his feet, wiping dirt off his face with his bloodied arm. Cnaan and Eithan were rolling on the ground, kicking, punching and, in Eithan’s case, occasionally biting. That was another trait of the little guy; fearlessness and a blind loyalty to his blood friend. Rafik did not mind that side of Eithan’s personality. The problem was that Cnaan had friends as well—perhaps more followers than friends, but boys ready to join in the fight, especially if Cnaan was winning. They set upon Eithan, and it was Rafik’s turn to come to the rescue. Rafik had friends, too, boys who suffered from Cnaan’s attention from time to time and were waiting for an opportunity for payback. In a few heartbeats, the entire group was brawling.

As the battle commenced, time slowed and the outside world vanished from existence. Rafik flung his limbs in all directions, hitting anyone he did not recognise as a friendly face. As in any battle of grand proportions, alliances were formed and promptly broken as one side lost heart. A few of Cnaan’s entourage fled the fight, bleeding and crying. When Rafik saw the glint of fear in Cnaan’s eyes, he knew he was going to win the day yet again, but victory was snatched away with cruel suddenness as a heavy set of hands clamped around his collar and he was hauled to his feet. Angry words were hurled at him from several grown-ups. He was slapped across his brow, and that was stronger and more humiliating than anything he’d suffered during the fight. The rest of the boys were held by other angry adults.

Rafik held his breath and tried as hard as he could not to cry. At the corner of his eye he caught Cnaan’s frightened stare; like Rafik, he was trapped between two pairs of heavyset arms. A temporary alliance silently formed with that very glance, as a new common enemy was recognised: the grown-ups.

“Why were you fighting? Who started this?”

Rafik did not answer, nor did Cnaan, or Eithan.

“We thought it was a bandit attack; the entire village is up in arms,” said another angry voice to his left. “The signals were fired, men are coming back from the fields, women and children are hiding, what were you thinking? I will tell your father, Rafik, and I hope he’ll put his belt on you.”

Many more grown-ups were now arriving, all of them carrying weapons. Rafik’s heart sunk. It was true; now that the ringing noise in his ears had subsided, the ringing of the alarm bells was clearly audible. They were in trouble—worse, he was in trouble.

“Tell me who started this or …” The hand rose up again and Rafik flinched, knowing the slap was going to hurt and this time he would cry.

“That’s enough, Rachmann.”

The commanding voice of Fahid, Rafik’s older brother, froze the threatening hand as it was poised to strike. Instead, Rafik was released.

The man called Rachmann turned to face Rafik’s brother. “The boy’s mischief frightened the entire village.” He pointed an accusing finger at Rafik. “Is there no discipline in your household?”

“I do not see Rafik standing alone here, do you?” was the calm reply. “And he was not fighting with himself, yet I see your hand raised against only one boy.”

“Well, we all know he is the one full of mischief,” grunted Rachmann, who was many years older than Fahid and disliked being told off by someone who had just come of age.

“Even if what you claim is true, it is not your duty to discipline my brother. Only our father has this right. I assure you he will admonish Rafik for his misdeeds.”

Perhaps it was the assured voice which calmed Rachmann down, or the rifle that was casually slung over Fahid’s shoulder—the same rifle with which Fahid had single-handedly fought off the bandits only two months before and brought honour to the Banishra house. Rachmann grunted something mildly offensive under his breath and stepped aside.

At a gesture from his older sibling, Rafik began walking away from the group, but not before glancing meaningfully at Eithan and Cnaan. If their condition reflected his own, Rafik was a sight to behold. He felt the tickle of blood streaming gently from his hand, and his left cheekbone was already swollen and tender.

The siblings walked in silence for a while until they cleared the trees. Fahid stopped, put a hand on Rafik’s shoulder, and said, “Now, let’s take a look at you, little brother.”

He turned Rafik this way and that, and after a brief inspection he proclaimed, “Goodness, your shirt is torn and you’ve got a nice black eye here. And look at your hand, it’s bleeding all over the place. Mother will kill us both.”

There was definite concern in Fahid’s tone of voice. Rafik shuddered. Their father was a quiet and resolute man who rarely shouted and never hit his children. Their mother, on the other hand, was his fiery opposite, with a mighty forearm and a heavy-duty ladle, which she used to dish out her own painful version of the holy scripts.

Fahid smiled as they continued walking. “So who threw the first punch?”

When he grows up, Rafik wants to be just like his older brother: tall and strong and loyal, known to be a source of quiet strength and courage among the villagers even though he would only reach sixteen springs this year. Yet Fahid was a grown-up now, and one did not snitch to grown-ups, no matter who they were. Rafik shrugged and did not answer, not wishing to lie to his own brother nor betray his friends.

But although Fahid was about to be married soon, he had not forgotten the code of his own youth, and he laughed as he ruffled his younger brother’s short hair. “At least tell me you gave as much as you got.”

Rafik tried to smile but found the cut in his lower lip hurt too much.

“Eithan and I, we were winning.”

Fahid let out a short chuckle. “You are a brave pair, the both of you, fighting those odds.”

And that was the best compliment Rafik had ever gotten.

Pain all but forgotten, he walked on air after his older brother all the way home to be berated by their angry mother.

10

Rafik, would you please repeat what I just said?”

Rafik blinked and his eyes focused on the familiar classroom. Heads were already turned, and Rafik saw malicious smiles spreading across a few faces.

“What …?” was all he managed to utter, and a few boys giggled. From his place on the mat he could see the teacher’s feet, wrapped in cloth sandals. Rafik shook his head slowly; it felt almost too heavy to lift.

“Rafik Banishra,” Master Issak said, slowly punctuating every syllable, as if explaining the obvious, “Son of Sadre, could you please repeat the words of the Prophet Reborn, regarding the infidels?”

Rafik beamed, relieved. That was easy.

“They all burn in Hell, Master Issak,” he answered confidently.

There was a wave of laughter in the room and the teacher had to raise his voice to be heard.

“The exact words of the Prophet Reborn, Rafik, regarding the specific creatures of Satan, if you please?”

On any other day Rafik would have remembered the words of the new holy book, which the Prophet Reborn received from God before the Catastrophe and was filled with prophecies about the demise of the Tarakan infidels. Rafik knew many of the verses by heart—the ones about the unholy and the terrible justice that awaited them were his favourite by far—but not today. His head felt as heavy as stone and his thoughts were lost in a fog.

“Uh …” Rafik tried to buy time. “He … who … falls … into … temptation … will … go to Hell?”

Laughter swept the entire class again and fuelled Master Issak’s indignation.

“Rafik Banishra, on your feet and over here!” he shouted. Rafik rose unsteadily as the class shuffled to clear a path to the front of the room. Seeing another boy punished was much more interesting than reciting verse after holy verse.

Master Issak was dressed in white clothes of purity, but the look in his eyes was as dark as night. Even sitting down, he was taller than Rafik, and three times his width. The teacher shook his head as Rafik approached. When the boy stood two paces away the teacher brandished a short, flexible stick and watched with satisfaction as Rafik shuddered.

“Give me your hand,” he demanded.

Rafik was still for a moment, then he slowly raised his right hand towards the teacher.

Master Issak looked at the hand with disdain; it was full of scabs, red scratches, and bruises.

“What happened to your hand?”

“I fell, Master Issak,” Rafik said, unwilling to snitch about the boys’ argument over the Warrior and Infidels game, which had quickly turned into a scrap. Blushing did not help his lie, and the teacher let out a mirthless laugh before frowning again.

Master Isaak was quite fond of Rafik, who had a superb memory for the verses and was an enthusiastic student of the holy scripts. Perhaps under different circumstances Master Issak would have let the boy off with a stern warning, as he’d done before, when Rafik’s mischievousness had gotten him in trouble. But Rafik’s hopes were dashed when Master Issak took a deep breath filled with righteous rage. He grabbed the boy’s wounded hand and raised his stick. He began reciting the verses, delivering snapping blows with the stick every few words, Rafik wailed in pain with each accented word.

“Hear O the devout sons and daughters of Abraham. The Prophet Reborn, who rose from the days of fire, said; if you let temptation hold, you will fail your God. If you allow vanity and covet what humans must never have, you will fall the long way to all hells, where the impure are punished for their wish to be as powerful as the one God. You … shall … not … attach.”

Master Issak let go of Rafik’s bleeding hand and watched the boy walk unsteadily back to his mat and collapse. Eithan was already there, and the two boys huddled together.

After Rafik’s discipline, it was almost time for midday prayer, and the class needed to walk to the temple in the centre of the village. Master Isaak adjourned the class and stood by the door. As the boys walked up to him one by one, each kissed the book of the Prophet Reborn and bowed his head as the teacher inspected him for signs of the curse. Eithan fixed Master Issak with a defiant stare before bowing his head. Master Issak inspected him, then gave him a slap on the back of his head for good measure. Eithan suffered in silence, then stood by the open door and waited for Rafik, who was shuffling slowly and still holding his wounded hand.

Master Issak gently patted Rafik’s head. “Let it be a lesson to you, boy. You’re a good student, but forgetting the holy words of the Blessed Reborn demands retribution.”

Rafik nodded and pursed his lips. Master Issak noticed that blood still dripped to the floor from his wounded hand. A look of concern passed his eyes.

“You’re excused from prayer today, Rafik,” Master Issak said. “Go straight home. Let Eithan walk you there.”

He turned to Eithan. “You must swear by the Prophet to take him straight home and return immediately to prayer, understood?”

Eithan nodded. “Yes, Master Isaak. I swear by the Prophet Reborn.”

Satisfied, Master Issak turned and walked after the rest of the class without a glance back.

As soon as he was sure Master Isaak was out of earshot Eithan said, “Master Isaak was an ass to hit you like that.”

Rafik leaned heavily on the wooden wall of the class hut, feeling shaky and tired. “All the grown-ups are still angry at us for causing the alarm.”

“Yeah, I heard Cnaan got a good beating from his da. He said he didn’t but did you see the way he was sitti—” Eithan stopped midsentence and caught Rafik before he fell to the ground.

“Prophet. You look bad, blood brother,” Eithan put Rafik’s arm around his shoulder and an arm around his waist. “Come on, let’s go to your ma.”

11

Rafik didn’t remember the next four days of his life. He was feverish or asleep most of the time, and was moved to the barn to reduce the risk of infecting the rest of the household. He did remember being attended to by his mother and his older sister, Nisha, who tried to feed him hot lamb soup, washed him with hard soap, and constantly uttered prayers for his recovery.

A travelling healer came and went, looking like a ghost with his white mask and gloves as he poked and prodded the hallucinating boy. The healer talked to Rafik’s worried parents as Rafik drifted in and out of consciousness. The word infection was repeated several times. His wounded left hand was smeared with foul-smelling salve, which stung and hurt, before being bandaged in cloth. The only other thing Rafik remembered was hearing his mother say, “No, you cannot see him, Eithan, not yet. But he is getting better and soon you can play together again.”

On the fifth day he woke up feeling better. In fact, he sprang out of bed with a strength and vigour that surprised and delighted his mother. He ate all the food she served him—even the boiled cabbage, which he normally hated. Soon he was proclaimed healthy, and he was let out of the barn and promptly directed to a wooden keg filled with scalding hot water, in which he scrubbed off the residue of sickness that clung to his skin, being careful not to wet his still-bandaged hand.

Eithan was already waiting for him outside, and in no time at all Rafik was briefed about the gossip of the last four days. Three travelling merchants had arrived two days before. Eithan had caught and cooked a giant toad the size of a grown-up’s fist. Cnaan was seen talking to Elriya again, and her parents complained to his parents. The village guards investigated some smoke coming from the edge of a field and frightened two vagabonds, who begged for their lives before being released with a warning. Eithan was a very good storyteller who could turn even the most mundane activity into an exciting tale.

Finally, Eithan pointed at the bandaged hand. “When are you taking it off?”

Rafik shrugged. “I have to wait until the healer visits again. It feels all right, though. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Come on, let’s see it. It was really bleeding when you fainted. I carried you all the way to your home.” Eithan puffed his chest out with pride.

“It only happened four streets away.” Rafik tried to hide his embarrassment, especially because he’d insisted on walking unaided only to faint once they’d passed the centre of the village.

“Yeah? You were bleeding all over my shirt. I think you fell on it when you fain—when you fell,” Eithan said, quickly correcting himself when he caught Rafik’s expression. “Come on, let me look at it.”

“Maybe later.”

“Are you scared you’ll see your hand and faint again?”

“No, I didn’t faint because I was scared. It was an infection.”

“Maybe your hand got all twisted from the infection and now it’ll look like a claw.”

“No, it didn’t. It feels all right.”

“So … let’s see it.”

“I’m not supposed to. The healer said—”

“What are you, scared like a girl?”

“Fine, but if I bleed, I’m wiping my hand on your tunic.”

Rafik got up on his feet and quickly began unravelling the bandage. He could see the back of his hand as the strips of stained cloth fell to the ground. The skin there was notably whiter than the rest of his body, but he didn’t realise how different the colour was until it was completely free from the bandage.

“That’s strange,” commented Eithan, stepping closer.

“Maybe it’s the salve. It smelled like cow shit when he put it on me.” Rafik sniffed carefully. It smelled of soap.

“Well, it really healed your hand,” remarked Eithan.

Rafik flexed his hand. “True, there isn’t even a scratch on it.”

His skin was perfect, or at least the back of his hand was. There were still scabs on the tips of his three middle fingers.

“Ugh,” said Eithan, peeking from behind Rafik’s shoulder, “The scabs are really black.”

“It’s because of the salve,” Rafik said quickly. “I bet they’ll peel off.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers with his thumb, but the skin felt soft and whole, and he couldn’t catch a scab edge to leverage a good peel. Annoyed, he brought the injured hand close to his face and began scratching it. It was right then Rafik realised the scabs had shapes. The scab on his forefinger was shaped like a triangle. The scab on his middle finger was shaped like two crescent moons, and the scab on his ring finger was shaped like three tiny balls, one on top of the other, connected by a string. Blood drained from his face.

“What is it?” Eithan asked.

“Nothing,” Rafik closed his hand in a fist so tight his nails bit into his palm.

“No, I saw something.” Eithan moved closer. “Let me see it again.”

“No!” Rafik shouted. “No, get away. It’s the medicine. I shouldn’t have taken the bandages off.”

“But the scabs, they looked like …” Eithan suddenly choked on his words, but Rafik didn’t wait to see his friend’s reaction; he was already running away as fast as his feet could carry him. He burst into the shed and plunged his hand into the still lukewarm water of his bath. Then he pulled his hand out and looked at it again. The marks were still there. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Rafik began scrubbing his fingers with all his might—but every time he checked, the scabs where still there. He searched the shed, whimpering in fear, until he found a sharpening stone, then he began rubbing his fingers until they began to bleed again.

It was Fahid who eventually found him, crying, shivering and holding his bloodied hand in a tight fist.

12

Sadre Banishra’s expression was one of deep concern, barely held in check, as he entered the barn. He turned ashen when he saw the expressions on the faces of his wife and eldest son.

Rafik was standing in the middle of the barn. He shouted, “Papa!” and ran towards him.

Sadre laid a heavy hand on his son’s small head. He looked uncertainly at his wife and older son. Fahid bit his lip and lowered his head. Rafik’s mother slowly shook hers but held his gaze, tears trailing down her face.

“Fahid, go to the house and make sure the other children do not talk to anyone.”

“But father, he said Eithan saw—”

“Just do it!” Sadre snapped.

“Father,” cried Rafik, “I didn’t do it. It’s not my fault. It’s the medicine, right? It’s only very small, look.” He held his hand up to his father’s face.

Sadre gasped and took a step back. “Blessed Prophet,” he mumbled.