The Lost Puzzler

“Where are my brother and my uncle?” Rafik asked, his heart filled with dread.

“They went out to shop for stuff, they’ll be back soon,” the man said, but something in his eyes told Rafik he was lying.

“I want to see them.” Rafik jumped up and started to put on his clothes. He had to stop himself from bursting into tears. He remembered pleading with his brother to take him home with them, but Fahid kept promising they would come back for him when he was cured. But there was no cure. That was what Khan had said. Rafik didn’t remember who gave him the cup of sweetened goat milk, but his last memory was quenching his thirst with it. Now his uncle and brother were gone.

He had to run after them; they had to take him home. There was no cure, so there was no need for him to stay here with the man who puffed smoke from his mouth and drank cursed water and threatened his brother with a pistol. He would keep his hand in his pocket the whole time, he would never bring it out, he’d promise them. Perhaps his father could chop his fingers off again—maybe they wouldn’t grow back this time.

“You’re supposed to wait here,” the guard said. “Khan will be here soon.”

Rafik bolted towards the door.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The guard moved to intercept him with catlike speed, and he caught Rafik’s arm. But he underestimated Rafik, who was fed by the sheer terror of abandonment. The boy lashed out with all his might at the guard’s groin. The man swore in a surprised, tightly choked voice and folded over, releasing his grip on Rafik as he toppled over onto the stool behind him.

Rafik made it through the door and down a short corridor when Khan appeared in front of him, grabbed him with both hands, and dragged him kicking and screaming back to the room. The guard was still there and was not looking happy, but Khan didn’t pay him any attention. He plonked Rafik firmly on a stool, pulled over a second one using his leg, and sat himself down, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Look at me, boy,” he demanded.

“I want my brother, I want my uncle,” Rafik wailed.

Khan grabbed Rafik’s chin roughly, “I said look at me. Now tell me, how old are you?” Khan’s eyes were almost night-dark and his breath stank.

“I’m twelve.” Rafik’s voice trembled, “Where are—”

Khan leaned forward and dug bony fingers into Rafik’s cheeks. “Shut up and listen,” he said. “When I was your age I killed my old man. Do you believe me? I see in your eyes that you do. Good, now pay attention: I’m a bad guy, I am the bad guy, do you understand what I’m saying? I’m the kind of man your mummy warned you about, and the good news is that I’m on your side. I’m protecting you now, because I owe your father a favour and I promised your idiot brother that I’d take care of you.” Khan released his grip and sat up, still looking at him intently. “Now, as I said, I’m a nasty, bad man, and I won’t think twice about breaking my word, so don’t do anything that will convince me not to be on your side, like trying to run away, do you understand? And stop crying. I have no use for tears.”

“But where are my—”

“They’re gone. They left you here with me and ran back to the backwards village you were unlucky enough to be born in. They left you because—and listen to me well and stop crying, because this is important—they left you because they do not want you anymore. Because if they brought you back home you would be hanged and quartered and burned, and so would they. They abandoned you here with me, and now I need to take care of you. From this day on I am your father, and your mother, and uncle and brother and whatever other extended family you might be stupid enough to miss, Rafik. Those fools are so backwards they do not realise what a blessing you are. You may not believe it now, but one day you will look at this as the happiest moment of your life. You can never go back to your village, ever. I can see you don’t want to believe me, and perhaps you are already thinking about running back to the mud huts and the bearded fanatics there. But I’m going to stop you, not only because you wouldn’t last two strides in this town before a big, fat trucker turned you into his love doll, but because when I find you—and have no doubt that I will find you—I will make you beg for the trucker. Understood?”

Rafik did not know what a love doll was, or what a fat trucker would do to him, but he understood the threatening tone clearly. He nodded, too afraid to speak, but Khan seemed satisfied.

“On the bright side, if we play our cards right, you and I are going to be rich and live a nice, comfortable life. Do as I say, and I’m going to take care of you, understand? Nod if you can’t talk. Good. Now do you want some food? You need some food in you. Martinn here will bring you some food, and you will eat it all and you will not leave this room unless I give you permission to do so, are we clear?”

“I want to go to the bathroom, and I want to wash,” Rafik said suddenly, realising how many days it had been since his skin last felt fresh water.

“The shit shed is outside. Martinn will take you there. Be careful not to fall in. I’ll bring up a basin and some soap. If you’re good I’ll take you to the bathhouse in a couple of days.”

Rafik was taken to the shed outside, which was a hole in the ground boxed in by thin wooden planks. It was there that he discovered what had been left in the inside pocket of his tunic. It was the knife his brother had taken as a trophy from one of the bandits he’d killed. The sharp blade sprang in and out of its sheath with the pressing of a button. Rafik always envied Fahid for owning such a blade. He’d even stolen it once and played with it all afternoon, earning a hiding from his brother when he was discovered. Now he held the weapon in his hand and knew he would never see Fahid again.

But with this realisation, a certain calmness washed over him. This was the will of the Prophet Reborn. He was on an adventure, and in his hand he held a knife. When he came out of the shack the knife was hidden again.

Martinn gave Rafik permission to go and wash his hands and face in the basin rooms. Rafik opened one of the doors only to find the biggest man he ever saw, with a woman half his size crushed between him and the wall, her legs wrapped around the man’s mighty waist. They were doing something Rafik had only ever heard about in whispers. He did not see much because the woman, in a feat of impressive flexibility, leaned over and slammed the door in his face, muttering, “See something you want, boy?”

Rafik completely forgot about washing himself as he ran back to his room, knelt down on his knees on the sticky floor, clasped his hands before him, closed his eyes, and prayed to the Prophet Reborn with all his might.

18

Rafik was not a stranger to routine. His life in the village was defined by a tight schedule made up of daily chores, prayers, school, housework, and designated playtime. His new life meant a new routine, filled with chores and errands from before sunrise until way after sundown. There was no playtime, nor did he have anyone to play with. The only part of his old life he stuck to with vigilance was his regimen of daily prayers.

After a while he lost count of the days. Khan came and went, sometimes for hours and sometimes for days, promising Rafik he was “looking for a good contact.” He didn’t come through with the promise to take Rafik to the bathhouse but Rafik managed with what he had; a bucket and lukewarm water.

Eventually even Martinn got bored guarding the boy and let him have the freedom of the place. Half a day later Rafik was already serving cursed water to customers, cleaning tables, and even collecting coins for Dominique, the heavyset woman who kept the rowdy truckers in order with a sharp word and occasionally a hearty slap. She was the fattest lady he had ever seen, but she displayed the pink flesh of her middle for all to see without shame. From the first moment they met, Dominique took a shine to Rafik and, despite working him constantly, she made sure he ate, sent him to sleep early, even washed and dried his clothes, and made sure he changed the bandages on his hand every day. After Rafik complained about the bandages, Dominique knitted a colourful glove to cover his tattooed hand, and made sure the boy wore it at all times. Rafik believed she was married to Khan, because she shared his bed at night and they fought constantly.

Truckers were a rough bunch, but mostly they treated Rafik well, calling him a “mutt” and “pup” and sometimes giving him what Dominique called “a lousy tip” in order to impress their women. Very soon he discovered the basement, where rows of wooden barrels were stacked. “This is how we make the drink we sell upstairs,” Dominique answered when he asked what they were.

“It’s an art form, kid, and I’m the artist. Make it the wrong way and people will go blind or die. Make it the right way and they will part with all their metal to get their hands on my products. And I ain’t talking about these.” She hefted at her huge breasts with both hands and laughed when Rafik blushed purple.

Rafik had the sense not to point out that Dominique herself was drinking at least as much as the customers. She was nice to him, for the most part, when she wasn’t shouting or cursing or cuffing him over the head. She was as close to his mother as he could get, so he kept quiet and tried to be as helpful as possible.

Mornings were the hardest. He missed home terribly, and many times he thought of running, yet he dared not, remembering Khan’s words. He would not last long alone in the city, and even if he somehow made it back, in his heart he knew what it would mean: his dad, the ax, the stones … he was cursed, he had been sent away by his own family and shunned by his friends. They did not want him anymore. When he thought about that, tears would fill his eyes, and he would find a dark corner and choke his misery into his stained sleeves.

His dreams on the other hand, were a sharp contrast to his harsh reality. They were filled with images of twinkling, ever-changing symbols. He was now able to hold a dozen of them at once, still a fraction of the control he knew he needed to see the hidden patterns. Even when awake, Rafik was seeing symbols and patterns everywhere he turned; they were in the circles of the wheels on the trucks he saw through the window, in the different types of cups in the area downstairs called the bar, and even in the shapes of buttons sewed onto the clothes the truckers wore. He looked at everything differently, watching shapes, categorizing them, lining them up in his mind, joining them together, manipulating them, and exploring possibilities. He didn’t know why he was doing it, but it soothed him and kept his tears at bay, most of the time.

After what seemed to Rafik like an eternity, but was probably only a month, he was ordered to put on fresh clothes, and taken on a trip around Newport by Khan and Martinn. It was an even more fascinating place the second time around, because now he saw shapes and patterns everywhere he looked. Many parts of the city were in ruins, but some buildings were so high they had more stories than Rafik could count. When they climbed over hills made of broken stones, Martinn hoisted Rafik on his shoulders, the way Rafik’s father used to do when he was back home. It made him happy and sad at the same time, and Rafik was glad when they reached the top of the hill and Martinn let him down. Soon, they passed a large metal tower, which dwarfed the guard tower in his village ten times over. Engraved on one side of the tower was a symbol that was exactly like one that Rafik remembered from his dreams; five circles intertwined, with three dots in the centre. It was the first time he saw such a symbol while he was awake, and the realisation filled him with excitement.

“What is that?” he pointed. “That symbol over there?”

“This?” Khan said, squinting. “I don’t know what it means; it’s a symbol in the Tarakan language.”

“What is Tarakan?” Rafik asked. He kept hearing this word. Even the music in the bar was coming out of a small, yet surprisingly loud, Tarakan device.

“You mean you don’t know about the Tarkanians?” Khan looked genuinely surprised.

“Arse rusts, that’s what they were,” muttered Martinn, but Khan ignored him. “They were an evil race who used to live here but now they’re gone.”

“What happened to them?”

“Dead,” Martinn replied, “and good riddance.” He spat on the ground in the direction of the tower.

“We had a war with them,” said Khan, “and before they lost, they caused the Catastrophe.”

“Why did we fight them?”

“Because the Tarkanians enslaved humans, made us do all their work.”

“Like Dominique makes me do stuff?” asked Rafik, sensing the comment would be funny. It worked—both men laughed, and Khan ruffled Rafik’s growing hair. “The woman asks nicely, my boy. You are just wise enough to obey all her requests. I should learn from you. But no, the rumors were that the Tarkanians used the human slaves’ bodies for their weird experiments and even food.”

Rafik shuddered.

Martinn was still chuckling when he said, “Well, the Tarkanians are gone now, and we are free.”

“But they left us a legacy,” continued Khan, as they began climbing another rubble hill. He pointed at the remains of the buildings around them, “Their architecture, their cities, buildings, and roads, but most important: the remains of their technology, Tarakan devices that still work even though we have no idea how. Of course,” he said, patting Rafik lightly on the shoulder, “they also left us people like you.”

“Like me? What do you mean? I’m not a Tarkanian,” he said.

“We are going to find out what you are soon enough,” Khan answered, just as Martinn announced, “We’re here.”

They were on top of an enormous hill made of rubble, or perhaps it was a ruined tower, Rafik couldn’t tell. There was a large, redbrick building before them. Although it was not tall by Newport standards, it was still taller and wider than anything in Rafik’s village. They were standing high enough to be on the same level as the top floor. It was an exhilarating height.

Even from far away the sound emanating from inside the building was loud. There were harsh and fast drumbeats repeated again and again in a simple pattern, and from somewhere inside came the distinct sound of a brawl in full swing. Rafik noticed there were many cracks in the walls and none of the windows had glass.

The two men checked their pistols and looked at each other.

Khan turned to Rafik and looked him straight in the eye. “This guy we’re going to see, Jakov, he had an … accident.” He stalled, looking for words, then said with a shrug, “Some parts of his body are replaced by metal, okay? Don’t be scared, I just want him to have a look at you.”

Rafik nodded. Compared to being told you might be a member of an evil race who caused the destruction of the world, seeing a man made of metal sounded like a blessed distraction.

“You’re to call me Uncle, okay? You understand me? Do exactly what I tell you and nothing else. If I tell you to run, run; if I tell you to dive to the floor, you do just that, yes?”

Rafik nodded again.

“Good. Now let’s go.”

They made their way in silence down the hill of rubble towards the building.

More than a dozen men and a few women were sitting idly outside. With their weapons and wild, unkempt look, they reminded Rafik of the bandits who had attacked his village the previous spring, though they were a bit better dressed, mostly in leather or sheepskin, and equipped with guns instead of the rusty swords and wooden clubs. All were smoking or drinking, but they stopped what they were doing when they saw Khan, Rafik, and Martinn approach.

Rafik’s attention was immediately drawn to the strange bicycles. In his village there were only two bicycles, one for the village elder and one used by the messenger, and they were much, much smaller than the ones he saw now. There were at least ten of these great bicycles standing in a neat row. Some were making a strange humming noise all by themselves. Reluctantly Rafik followed Khan and Martinn away from the great bicycles, but when they turned the corner he was glad he did.

They saw two men in a clearing, each riding on a great bicycle, which somehow moved without any pedals. Both men held very large poles in one hand and maneouvered the great bicycles with the other. They were surrounded by large piles of stacked tires and a cheering crowd of spectators. The riders circled around a few times, then suddenly charged, levelling the poles down and passing each other at blinding speed. There was a large crack as the poles clashed, but the riders passed each other without anyone being hurt.

The crowd whooped, and even Khan grinned and said, “A fiver on the red-bearded fellow.”

Martinn cocked his head, then nodded. “Done.”

The men rode two more passes and cracked poles but didn’t manage to hit one another. The red-bearded rider’s pole snapped and was quickly replaced before the final pass, which left the other rider writhing in pain in a cloud of dust, as his vehicle skidded on the ground until it crashed into a pile of tires. The crowd cheered, and the red-bearded rider raised his pole in a victory salute. Martinn cursed under his breath, and Khan laughed.

They resumed walking, but after only a few dozen paces their way was blocked by four men and a woman, all brandishing weapons. The noise around them was deafening, and Rafik covered his ears with his hands and stopped paying attention to what was being said. Soon they were led inside. They walked through the lower level, filled with sprawling bodies engaged in all kinds of activities. Four guys were in the midst of a bloody fight, but no one tried to stop them. Rafik was drawn to the patterns on the side of their high boots. Martinn put a protective hand on Rafik’s shoulder and drew him close. Soon they were climbing up, walking over hazardous looking wooden boards placed over the gaps where stairs had once been. Rafik counted the stairs between the holes and tried to find a pattern; it was a nice little game that occupied his mind all the way to the top floor. The music was not as loud as downstairs but still loud enough to be uncomfortable.

There were more people standing around a large open area, holding, checking, cleaning, comparing, or just playing with all kinds of weaponry. Khan, Martinn and Rafik walked past them towards a doorway at the far end of the floor, this one with an actual door in its frame. Two guards stood there, holding even larger guns and wearing more metal than anyone else. They wore distinctive black cloaks. One of the guards stepped forward.

“Tell Jakov that Khan Carr is here to see him, with the boy.”

The guard nodded silently and kept watch as the other guard opened the door and stuck his head inside. After a brief, awkward pause, one guard said, “You and the boy go in, leave your weapons with your friend here.”

Khan gave his pistol to Martinn without argument, but the guard who talked to them insisted on a search and found another pistol hidden in one of Khan’s boots and a knife in the other. Khan apologized profusely, claiming he had forgotten all about “those little toys.” The guard didn’t look convinced, but he let them in. He didn’t search Rafik—which was a blessing, because Rafik didn’t want to give up his brother’s knife to anyone. He snuck his hand in his pocket and gripped it hard. He did this every time he was afraid, which was often.

They walked into the next room where another pair of identically clad guards stood. The man called Jakov was sitting between them. Just looking at him made Rafik grip Fahid’s knife even tighter than he had before. Master Issak’s stern voice rang in his ears, joined by the voices of his father, brother, Eithan, and eventually his entire village, repeated again and again, in sermons, lessons, and prayers, warning Rafik from the greatest sin of all: You shall not attach.

If it was not for Khan’s grip on the back of Rafik’s neck he surely would have tried to run away. The entire left side of Jakov’s face was hidden behind a grim-looking metal mask, with a protruding metallic eyepiece where his eye should have been. He wore a hood, which covered his head, and a plate of chest armour. Instead of a human left arm he had a metallic arm with seven fingers and two thumbs. The hand was picking and prodding at several weapons and other objects which were spread on the large table in front of him, and it kept going even when Jakov looked up at Khan and Rafik.

The room was large but filled with crates, barrels, and weapons to the point that there was not a lot of room to manoeuvre.

For some reason, the music from downstairs was louder in this room, and the floor was humming and shaking with the beat under Rafik’s soft sandals.

“Ah, Khan,” said Jakov in a raspy, metallic voice. Only the parts of his lips which were flesh twisted and moved as he spoke. “You came with the boy.” He didn’t offer them a seat, and all the while his metallic hand kept working on a pistol on the table.

“Hello again.” Khan’s smile was thin and brief. “Glad to see things are still well oiled.” When Jakov did not reply, Khan turned to Rafik. “Show him your hand, nephew.”

Rafik obliged. He released his grip on the knife inside his pocket as Khan propelled him forward until he stood so close to the man called Jakov that he could hear the soft whine of metal from his metallic arm. Hesitantly, Rafik pulled his hand out of his pocket and peeled Dominique’s glove off with his other hand. Jakov leaned forward and took Rafik’s hand in his, studying his fingers intently. After a while his metal hand stopped moving.

“Radja,” he said softly, not lifting his eyes from Rafik’s hand, “I can’t hear myself think. Please ask our hosts again to quiet their damn noise, and make sure you are polite about it.” Rafik heard heavy footsteps behind him and the opening and shutting of the door. Jakov released Rafik’s hand and patted his head in what was obviously an unfamiliar gesture, then leaned back and nodded at Khan.

The metal arm disappeared briefly under the table and came up holding a bottle, A moment later, two small glasses appeared as well. “This is a rare one,” Jakov said as his hand manoeuvred and poured. “Pre-Catastrophe. You would not believe how much metal I spent on only two crates, but it was worth it.” The liquid settled in the small glass and Khan accepted it. The part of Jakov’s face that was made of flesh twisted into a smile as he lifted his own glass. “Freedom, Metal,” he announced, and then there was the sound of a shot, followed by a woman’s shriek, which caused Khan to spill half his drink and swear. A series of shots followed, after which the music stopped abruptly.

“Much better,” commented Jakov and with a quick toss, drained his glass through the corner of his mouth. Khan hastily followed suit with what was left in his own glass. Jakov poured them another round.

When the liquid was gulped and the glasses knocked resolutely down on the table Khan asked, “So, is my nephew here the real deal?”

“We shall see shortly,” said Jakov. Again, his metal hand dove under the table and brought up a metal box, roughly the size of a hand. There were three holes on the side of the box, each roughly the size of a finger. Rafik was ordered to stand closer to Jakov, who turned his seat so he could face Rafik. His metal hand gripped the boy’s shoulder as he brought himself even closer.

“Now, young man, I want you to put your fingers here, here, and here.”

With every here Jakov’s human finger poined at a different hole and the metallic hand squeezed Rafik’s shoulder lightly, with just enough pressure to cause discomfort, silently promising crushing pain if the boy did not comply.

Heart thumping in terror, Rafik placed his fingers where he was shown. The metallic hand released its grip on his shoulder. “Good, now sit down over here and relax,” Jakov said. A guard slid a comfortable-looking chair over and guided Rafik with a gentle push to sit in it. Rafik tried to pull his fingers out of the box, but found that it was impossible. The metal grip on his shoulder was back. Jakov was standing too close for comfort.