The Lost Puzzler

“Papa, I … I didn’t … look … it’s so small … if I put the bandage back, maybe …”

Ignoring the boy’s words, Rafik’s father gripped his son’s arm and inspected it, before pushing it away and checking his other arm. He then grabbed Rafik’s head with both hands and searched the boy’s face, neck, and shaved head, even behind the ears, until he was satisfied there were no other tattoos.

“Take your clothes off,” Sadre ordered. When Rafik hesitated, he lunged and tore them off his son’s body in several violent movements.

“Sadre—” Rafik’s mother took a step closer, trying to calm her husband.

But Rafik’s father turned his head towards her and hissed, “Everything is lost, everything, unless we do something quickly.”

Rafik trembled from fear and the sudden cold as his father looked over his back, armpits, buttocks, genitals, and feet—he even checked between the toes. He found no other tattoos except for the three on Rafik’s fingertips.

Sadre glanced at the corner of the barn where the tools were kept and then looked at his wife, who must have realised immediately what her husband was planning to do.

“No,” she said in horror. “He is your son.”

“He is our son,” Sadre said, his voice hard. He got up and grabbed Rafik’s wrist. “And we have no choice. We do this for his sake, and for the sake of our family.”

“What are you going to do, Papa?” asked Rafik, his voice rising with fear.

Sadre kept a firm hold of his naked son. “You must be brave, my boy. You must understand and pray to God and the Prophet Reborn, and you must forgive—” His voice cracked, and he turned and led Rafik to the chopping block.

Rafik saw his mother hand the heavy axe to his father while saying, “It’s for your own good.”

Rafik began to pull back with all his might, screaming, “No, no, please no, Mama, please don’t!” But his struggle didn’t slow his father down. Not even when he dropped to the floor.

His mother was already tearing the hem off her long dress, preparing bandages while his father opened the latch of the small oven and thrust the axe’s blade into the flames. They waited, watching the metal turn red-hot. Rafik’s soft whimpering punctuated the silence.

Sadre, still holding Rafik firmly, finally beckoned to his wife, and she bent down and brought the gleaming hot ax. This brought a new wave of panicked wails from Rafik, and although his wrist was pinned to the chopping block, he managed to curl his fingers into a tight fist.

Sadre watched the axe in his hand for a long moment, steadying his breath before slowly turning his attention back to his son. “Rafik,” he said softly, “I need to chop the tops of your fingers off. Please son, I need you to be brave.”

“No, Papa, please, no! I’ll be good, I promise!”

Sadre grabbed his son’s chin and forced him to look into his eyes. “You are cursed, marked.” The softness was gone from his voice as he spat the words into Rafik’s face. “This is an abomination, do you understand? If it is discovered, we are all finished. Your brother’s wedding will be called off, your sisters will never marry, we will need to leave this village, and you will be killed. They will hang you and leave your body to rot. Now stop crying and repent for whatever God and his Prophet Reborn have punished you for, and if you do not help me and be still, I swear by the Prophet Reborn that I will chop off your entire hand.”

It was that last threat which somehow calmed Rafik’s hysteria. Losing the tips of your fingers was not as bad as losing your hand. He slowly uncurled his fingers and turned his head away. His father suddenly bent down and kissed the top of his head.

“You are brave, my Rafik,” he whispered, “and you must remember, this was an accident.”

Rafik felt his mother’s arms around him, channelling warmth and love even as she pinned him down. He didn’t want to see what was going to happen, but after what seemed like an eternity he turned his head towards his father. It was exactly at that moment that Sadre must have gathered the courage to bring the axe down on his son’s outstretched fingers. There was a flash of pain which completely blinded Rafik, the sound of searing flesh, and an awful smell. Rafik shrieked and then collapsed on the ground as his mother rushed to cover the smoking hand with cloth. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was his father throwing the three digits into the flames, then collapsing to his knees and throwing up.

13

The voices woke Rafik up.

“How is he?” a man asked.

“He’s better today, thank the Prophet Reborn,” the familiar voice of Rafik’s father answered, “the fever is gone. He drank some water this morning and fell asleep again.”

“Thank the one God and the Blessed Reborn. What a horrible accident, and just after he got healthy. God saves us and protects us from harm.”

Rafik stood up unsteadily. His knees were weak and trembling and his mouth dry.

“Is this what all the people are saying? That it was an accident?” Rafik’s father lowered his voice.

“What else would they say? That is what you wrote in the message when you asked me to come. I traveled here, although I am no healer, so I do not know what help I could be. But Sadre, I only had to walk into the village to hear that you did not let the previous healer return or even let that pompous fool Isaak sit and pray at his bed. People are worried. They think that maybe Rafik has caught some kind of disease. What’s going on?”

“It was no accident.”

“What happened?”

“I chopped his fingers off, Simon. I took off my own son’s fingers with my ax, and my beloved wife held him down so I could do so.”

Simon was Rafik’s uncle. He lived in another village and rarely came to visit.

“Are you mad? Tell me you are jesting.”

“I am not jesting. Laughter will not touch my lips for the rest of my life.”

“But why?”

“He was marked, Simon. He had it, the curse, on his fingers.”

“No!” Simon gasped.

“They appeared on his fingertips after he fell and bled, after the sickness.”

“God save us.”

“I searched him, he did not have marks anywhere else on his body, so I … I had to … you should have heard him, Simon, my brave boy, he even stretched out his fingers for me … my little boy, why is God punishing me so?”

“Calm yourself. How is Fahtna taking it?”

“Badly. She’s putting on a brave face for the kids, but she cries every night and blames herself.”

Rafik leaned on the doorframe but his father and uncle, sitting at the kitchen table, did not notice him.

“What about Fahid?” Simon asked in a quieter tone

“He volunteered for extra guard duty. I don’t think he wants to be here, with him.”

“He has plenty to worry about.”

“I know. If word of this gets out … the wedding … everything I worked for my entire life … my girls. Why is this happening to me? I’m a good man. I pray each day, even in the fields. I pray to the Prophet Reborn to keep us all safe and healthy.”

“I don’t know, brother. Does anyone else know about this?”

“I don’t think so, but he shouted the name of his friend, Eithan, a few times in his dreams. These boys are inseparable, and Eithan brought Rafik home when he got sick the first time, and then sat by our door for four days until I had to chase him away. This time Eithan hasn’t tried to visit even once.”

“You think this Eithan knows?”

“Maybe, but if he saw the marks he hasn’t told anyone yet. They would have been on my doorstep if he had.”

Simon, Rafik’s uncle, scratched his shaved head. “I hesitate to ask, but are there many cases of the curse in your village?”

“No. The last one was two months before I moved here and married Fahtna. She told me they hanged the boy, left his body to rot for three days, then burned his family’s house and slaughtered all the livestock. That’s the only one I know of, and it happened more than fifteen years ago. But now that I think about it, there were also two girls who went to the fields and disappeared. We looked for them for weeks but found nothing, not a trace of them. I think they ran away, maybe they were marked, too …”

After a long pause Simon said hesitantly, “The situation is grim, may the Prophet Reborn protect us. I don’t know how I can help you.”

“I need you to take Rafik away.”

“What? Are you asking me to bring Rafik into my household?”

“No, of course not. I’m asking you to help me send him far away from here.”

“But why? You said you chopped the fingers off. People will believe it was an accident. If you send him away, surely they’ll suspect.”

“I have to, Simon. I have to send him away as soon as he’s able to walk.”

“What are you are not telling me?”

It was in that moment that Sadre noticed Rafik leaning against the doorframe.

“Papa …”

Simon got up from his chair so quickly that it fell backwards to the floor with a clatter.

“You’re awake! Say hello to your uncle Simon. You last met him two years ago at the spring festival.”

Rafik nodded slowly. “Hello, Uncle.”

“Prophet’s blessings on your head, Rafik,” Uncle Simon answered nervously.

“Show Uncle Simon your hands,” Sadre said. “Go on, don’t be afraid.”

Rafik held out his right hand and Simon gasped, swore, then uttered a quick prayer of forgiveness to the Prophet Reborn.

Rafik’s hand was whole. His fingers were all there, fleshy pink and perfect, without a mark on them save the same black tattoos, which now spread across half of his three middle fingers.

14

A whistle and a snap from a leather whip marked the beginning of their journey as their cart rocked back and forth on the muddy road out of the village. Rafik was wedged tightly between his uncle Simon and his older brother, Fahid, with his hand wrapped in bandages and once again hidden inside his tunic. People stared and waved as the small cart picked up its pace and exited the village’s main gate. Two guards gestured to Fahid, who told Simon not to stop. One of the guards stepped aside only at the last moment, swearing. Fahid turned around and shouted a halfhearted apology as their pony went into a trot.

They were headed in the direction of Simon’s village, less than a day’s ride away, but it was a ruse. Shortly into their journey they would turn and head onto a narrow road that crossed the village and the fields. Rafik knew the area well; he had staged many glorious battles between warriors and infidels with Eithan on these very hills. Now he reckoned he would have to play on the infidel team, not that anyone would play with him anymore.

Rafik blinked away tears. His uncle said they were going to find a man who would know how to cure him. He clung to this hope with all his will. It would all be a great adventure and soon he would come back home, cured. Besides, he did not feel like an infidel; he still believed in God and the Prophet Reborn. He still prayed devoutly every morning. He didn’t feel the need to attach anything to his body like the infidels did, or to maim and kill innocents. He concluded this was all some kind of misunderstanding. Clearly the Prophet Reborn was testing him in some way, the way the Prophet himself was tested. Rafik swore to himself that he would pass this test and remain pious and true to the faith no matter what happened.

“When are we going to stop and pray?” he asked, but received no reply.

When Rafik asked again, Fahid muttered something noncommittal just as a barrage of rocks rained down on their cart. Most of the stones fell short but one stung Rafik’s back. The pony almost bolted in panic and Uncle Simon swore loudly. Fahid jumped off, leaving enough space for Rafik to turn around and see their attackers. There were nine boys spread across the hill, and Rafik knew them all. Half of them ran up the hill when they saw Fahid but a few stayed and picked up more rocks.

Normally Fahid had tolerance for pranks, but this was not a normal day. He cocked his gun and shot once over the boys’ heads, causing them to drop the rocks they were holding and scurry away in panic. The cart jerked violently as the pony tried to bolt again.

“Why in the Reborn’s name did you do that?” Simon bellowed. “They must have heard that shot in the village. Now we must hurry. Seriously, to waste good ammunition on such things …”

Rafik was once again wedged between the two nervous men. He did not watch the road ahead, or pay attention to his red-faced brother. He was still looking behind him at Eithan, who was the only boy who did not run away after the shot was fired. They were close enough to recognise each other but too far away to meet each other’s eyes. With a shout of rage, Eithan suddenly flung the stone he was holding at their cart. It fell short, rolling on the road until it came to a stop. Then Eithan turned and ran up the hill.

15

I shook my head in disbelief, even though I knew that Vincha was telling the truth. I had met too many liars on my journey, and I knew the difference. “I’m surprised they didn’t kill him outright,” I said.

“No, they just chopped his fingers off.” Vincha’s voice was venomous.

“You can’t beat fatherly love,” Galinak remarked from behind me. When I glanced back at him, he was shaking his head. “Rustfuckers.”

Vincha shrugged. “Some people get all messed up and do all kinds of shit when they first find out they’re marked. The worst is what they do to themselves. I knew a girl who plucked her own eyes out.” She levelled a meaningful gaze at me.

“Yes, it’s true these things happen, especially in rural areas,” I said, “and most of the time the severed or maimed part does not heal itself or grow back, although this isn’t the first time I’ve heard of such a thing.”

I felt their attention on me almost as a physical sensation and added, “But I’ve never heard of it happening to an adult. Most likely the regeneration can only happen during adolescence.”

Vincha nodded and stroked her cropped hair. Galinak broke the awkward silence.

“Are you going to finish the eel?” he pointed at both our plates. “They get poisonous once they’re cold, and it would be a shame to throw good food away.”

Without a word both of us handed our plates to Galinak.

“I guess we all have similar stories, every one of the tattooed,” said Vincha softly.

I turned back to her and nodded. “For me it wasn’t so bad,” I said, feeling I should strengthen the bond I was slowly establishing with Vincha, in order to encourage her to continue with her story. “I was … I am from a well-off family, and Wilderners aside, the purges were already tapering off when my marks emerged. My family protected me.” I looked straight at Vincha, thinking, The way you protect your own, but she didn’t catch my eye.

“My mother tried to kill me when I was born,” said Galinak suddenly, “but I think she was just on a bad Skint trip or something. Both of my parents were marked, so their fear was that I would be born, you know, a naturalist.”

This time I wasn’t sure whether he was bluffing or not, so I just shrugged and focussed my attention back to Vincha. “So the boy ends up here, and …?”

“Hold your trigger, soldier,” she said with a smirk. “You paid well and good to hear the story, so I’ll tell it to you as it was told to me. When you reach my age, you learn to appreciate the slow things. Like Galinak over there.”

Galinak grunted something rude under his breath and busied himself picking eel skin from between his teeth.

“When I came back from the Valley, I went cold natural,” continued Vincha, “unplugged, vegan, call it whatever you like. As soon as I got over the craving sickness I went to the boy’s village, to see what happened to his family. Even though I was without any augs, they shot at me. If you think they’ll get used to us in time you’re wrong, Twinkle Eyes. It’s the same in all the outlying villages: some towns are dangerous, no matter what religion they follow. Makes me wonder how many of us got butchered out there just for having been marked.”

“And how many died for having a simple skin rash.” I nodded, trying to nudge her back to the story.

“And for a bunch of zealous religious freaks preaching the Prophet Reborn and trying to go back to the pure old ways, they sure packed some nice, modern weapons, if you get my drift. They don’t mind that part at all, never did. Anyway, I didn’t give up and finally caught up with this Eithan fella. He wasn’t very cooperative at first, downright hostile, to be honest, but”—her eyes glinted mischievously—“I have ways of endearing myself to young men, with or without augs.”

“You broke his ribs, didn’t ya?” said Galinak, smacking his fist to his palm for effect.

Vincha shrugged, but her smile broadened. “I made him talk, shall we say, in various pitches of voice, and in the end he told me what I wanted to know. Even with the boy gone, the gossip was too much. Fahid’s wedding was called off a half a year after Rafik left, the village spat the Banishras out.” She spat on the floor to emphasise the point. “Bunch of backwater rust arses.”

“Did Eithan ask about his friend’s fate?” I asked.

“Not in the beginning, but before I left he asked me if I knew how Rafik was faring. I told him the truth. Eithan just shook his head and said, ‘No, he is alive, I would know if he was dead.’ I thought it was an odd statement, but I couldn’t stay long enough to talk to him further since there was already a manhunt after me. I thought if I lingered any longer I might overstay my welcome.”

“I would have stayed.” Galinak’s smile was full of eel and bad intentions.

“And that’s why your skull is fractured in so many places. Half of your brain leaks away in those rare moments when you shower, dear.”

They began exchanging insults again, like bored children in the back of a cart.

“Vincha. The story!” I snapped. “Tell it your way, but tell it, rust.”

That, for some reason, stopped their bickering. They glared at me for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“You know, you’re cute when you’re angry, Twinkle Eyes.” Vincha reached over and ran her fingers softly down my cheek. “Don’t worry, little cub,” she purred, seeing me blush. “I don’t think you have the strength or the stamina, to be honest.” Galinak chortled in amusement.

They went back to their bickering and I watched the two lethal warriors trade insults like misbehaved children until I could bear it no more. My palm hit the wooden table and got their attention. I felt like an admonishing parent when I bellowed “Can you please tell me what happened to Rafik?”

I guess I said the magic word, because finally she did.

16

It took ten days to reach Newport, nicknamed Trucker’s Heaven, a city Rafik had heard of but never truly believed he would ever visit. Under any other circumstances Rafik would have been ecstatic at the prospect of travelling so far, but when they caught their first glimpse of Newport he felt only anxiety. They were tired, dirty, and aching from the tough ride, and the rationing of supplies meant Rafik always felt either hungry or thirsty or both. With each passing mile the prospect of ever making it back home seemed more and more like wishful thinking.

On the second and third nights of their journey they stopped and bartered for supplies in two small hamlets. Rafik was ushered into a barn and was not allowed to go outside or speak to anyone, and as soon as the sun was up they moved on. The rest of the nights, they roughed it in the wilderness, pitching a makeshift tent off the road. To save time, they did not try to catch game or even cook on an open fire for fear of bandits. For obvious reasons, they did not purchase supplies in the village for a long journey; they had only taken whatever they could from Rafik’s home. As a result, for several days their rations consisted of stale bread, smoked sausages, and hard cheese, which stank so badly Rafik gagged with each bite he took.

He suffered from hundreds of itching ant bites, and he spent the travel time wishing for a long hot bath and a soft cushion to rest his aching backside on. Worst of all was the terrible itch he felt in his bandaged hand, but his brother strictly forbade him from unwrapping the linen and even cuffed him over the head when he caught Rafik trying.

When they were younger, the two brothers used to play pretend games where they travelled together, defeated enemies, and discovered new lands. But it was obvious that Fahid was not enjoying the reality of this particular adventure. He never let go of his gun, obsessively cleaning it or counting and recounting his bullets. Worse, he did not join Simon and Rafik in prayer, excusing himself with the need to take care of the pony when it was obvious he easily could have tied it to a tree and joined them.

Simon and Fahid took turns guarding their little camp at night. The lack of proper sleep made them tired and irritable during the day, yet they flatly refused to share their burden with Rafik. Every time they exchanged words or even glances, Rafik could feel the resentment in his brother’s eyes. It was not the trip Rafik had imagined when he’d daydreamed about exploring beyond the village’s fields.

On the seventh day they met two woodcutters who traded a crude but sharp hand ax for a leather pouch and a cloth tunic, and agreed to share food around a tiny bonfire. They were a father and son, both unbelievably strong and incredibly drunk but otherwise friendly and knowledgeable about the way of the land. The son had a wooden flute and knew a few tunes, many of which Rafik had never heard before, but mainly the pair chose to entertain them with stories of the skirmishes and close calls they’d had with a savage local gang of bandits who robbed and murdered their victims, then made clothes from their skin and goblets from their hollowed skulls. That night, Rafik had trouble falling asleep.

On the eighth day they reached what the woodcutters called the Smooth Road, which used to connect Newport with another city that was now gone and forgotten. The Smooth Road was wider than anything Rafik had ever seen but nothing like its name implied. Its hard surface was so full of potholes that Rafik could not fathom why it was called smooth at all. From there on traffic became more frequent, even though they were approaching Newport from the forest side, which was supposed to be relatively untravelled. Every so often, four- and six-wheeled trucks passed them noisily, throwing dirt and raising dust and scaring their tired, old pony. A few truckers honked their horns or waved from their high seats, but most ignored them completely, leaving them wheezing amid black exhaust fumes and dust. None of the truckers stopped to trade, rightly assuming that so close to Newport, the three had nothing left to barter with.

The dust and pollution that lay over the valley were so thick it took Rafik a while to notice Newport sprawled in the valley below them. It was the biggest thing he had ever seen in his entire life. It seemed as if the thousands of buildings were part of a single mythical creature, a hundred times larger than his own village.

Newport had no protective walls. Instead, many roads led into its centre, like the tentacles of a giant beast. Simon explained as a matter of warning that everyone was welcome in Newport as long as you had coin to spend and weapons to protect your wares. Newport was a den of criminals, but the supplies and weapons it sold were crucial to the survival of Rafik’s village and the other communities of the west.

As the made their way to the city, they caught a glimpse of the shimmering Tarakan highway. Simon explained that this was a road built by the Tarakan infidels to connect their nefarious cities. Only a few of these roads survived the Catastrophe intact. Rafik heard his father once comment that the Tarakan infidels’ cities were so large they filled the horizon, reached the stars above, and were filled to the brim with the most hideous and unimaginable sins. He didn’t really believe such a thing could exist until he saw Newport.