"You dress strangely" The Teacher waved a hand at him. "I do not pretend to know western fashion, but this seems. . .odd? Archaic perhaps?"
"It is an historical costume, a hobby of mine. Not much else survived the crash." A reasonable explanation, mostly true. No way he'd explain all of it. "Now Teacher, " for the first time he used the title of his thoughts "Just what is it about this damned horse?" He pointed at it. " I see the way you look at it, and speak of it. You came looking for it, not me." To his surprise the Black stepped forward, as if sensing the turn of conversation.
"Ahh." A smile lifted the beard. "The war horse sides its warrior." The Chief looked down, embarressed to be called, again, a title he did not feel deserved. "The old man you saved, he told me of this horse. With the bodies gone, the other horse, the roan destroyed, it could be evidence of the shooting, even should you be gone. It is a distinctive animal." The teacher spread his hands "You seem a well read man. Do you know the story of Alexander and Beaucephelas?" The Chief nodded. "A legend, but based in fact. The Macedonians, root stock of Alexanders armys, were great warriors. As well they were great horsemen, and breeders of horses. A 1000 years they bred horses, War Horses, to carry armored men to the sound of battle. Horses such as this." He indicated the Black. "When Alexander granted his men lands, their horses remained with them. Such a horse eventualy comes to choose his warrior, and will ill serve another. I suspect the man who rode this horse before you found him an unruly mount."
The memory flashed unbidden, the Black charging, reins slack, rider gripping the saddle with both hands just before the bullet hit. . .
The teacher had continued "Like my people, the breed dilutes, the blood thins. We are no longer warriors, but farmers, shepards, our horses small, simple draft animals. But once in a very great while, the old blood rises, comes forth, and a horse such as this is created. A Horse of Alexander, we call them. A horse of war, seeking a warrior to carry to the clash of arms. Oh they will do other duties, pull the plows and carts of our people, But always they look for that one they were meant to bear. This one has found his."
The Chief looked up, seeing his reflection in the great dark eye. Spoke more to the horse than to the man. "I'm no warrior."
"He thinks so. And he is a better judge than I." The Teacher stood. "That is the story, I tell it well do I not? Believe what you will. I return to the village with much to do. I would have you remain here. Not long after sunrise I will return, wearing a red shirt so you will have an easy target." He picked up his lantern and walked into the darkness.
-Shiraz, Southwestern Iran-
The desk appeared to be teakwood, topped with gold inlayed italien marble. Rather ostentatious for a Man of God, the Colonel thought. The Colonel also thought descretion was the better part of survival, and kept his thoughts to himself. Atop the desk were but two objects: a leather bound, gilt edged copy of the Koran, and a fired 9mm case. Across the desk sat the Iman. Gaunt, white bearded, cold eyed, rotating a gold Cross pen thru long fingers. The pen stopped, pointing at the empty cartridge. "My compliments on the Luetenants report, Colonel. Your thoughts?"
"He is a good officer. He found what there was to find. He speculates on what may have happened, but draws no conclusions. That is for us to do." The Colonel hid his irritation. The damned Lt. should not have speculated at all. Probably thought it was what the Imam wanted to hear. In that he was probably correct.
"What would you do now, Colonel?"
"Sir, I can have an infantry company into that area in 48 hours. Along with a helicopter to scout. We will find them, or their remains, and can then proceed. . ." He stopped at the Imans raised hand.
"An effective military operation Colonel. But I think something else may be needed here." The Iman stood, turned his back to the Colonel to stare out a window. "You are aware of the situation in Teheran?"
"Sir, I have heard. . ."
"I know what you have heard. It is far worse than that. Apostates fill the streets, while our leaders cower in their offices, waiting for revolution to sweep them away. The sword of Allah cries for blood, but they have not the courage to draw it! So they will fall, and power will pass to apostates, pagans, infidels, aithests! Even royalists proclaim themselves openly, crying for the restoration of the Peacock throne! And the Americans sit on their ships and laugh! It WILL happen Colonel. But Praise Allah not here!
He wheeled, pointing a boney finger at the Colonel. " I have told them to act, and they will not listen! They banish me here instead. So much the better!" The Iman folded his arms. "As the prophets went into the desert to purify themselves, so I have come here. Here will I create an enclave. Here will the pure come, the soldiers of Allah, to create an army to reclaim the land. Here will the Caliphate begin again." The Colonel nodded, thinking of his Swiss bank account number. The south of France would be an excellent place to retire. The old fool was still ranting. "Long have I detested this pagan nest in our midst. Teheran would do nothing, for fear of the West, of losing their dollars. I have no more fear of Teheran, and you have given me reason to act! I will make an example of these pagans, cleanse their filth from our land."
The Iman took his seat. "Maintain your men in readiness, but look to the north. I will use others better suited for this task. Have the Kuh-e-Bari camp commander report to me."
THAT got the Colonels attention "The Afgan Arabs! They are no soldiers! They are butchers, terrorists!" The Colonel pulled himself back, fearing to have said too much allready. "Sir, they will draw too much attention, when discretion is needed to give time to build our forces."
"They are what is needed. But you speak well Colonel." The Colonel inwardly relaxed. "I will instruct them to minimize, if possible, the blood shed. Destroy their homes, drive them to the sea. It will be enough." A pause for breath. "For now."
The Teacher had returned, wearing the promised red shirt. With him came another, a large, bullet headed, smiling young man, of a type found bending horse shoes with bare hands in country fairs across the world. "This is, well, we are agreed names are not important. He will take you to the coast, to a cousin with a Dhow. He knows enough english to get by, and hopes for you to teach him more." He brought clothes as well, baggy trousers, coarse shirt, vest and head wrap universal to these lands. A small donkey completed the party.
They had packed the latter in sad silence. There was no place for the Black on the trail to the coast, nor on the dhow. Nor in his life, truthfully. The one thing he would miss from this episode, that magnificent horse. It would remain with its people.
He missed it still, 3 days walk down the trail. They had set an easy, rambling pace, the massive young man in no hurry, the donkey stolid, pokey. At night they chewed dried meat and dates around a low fire, learning each others language. Bullet head had no interest in mountians, farms or religion. The first night out he had shyly produced from his pack a much turned copy of "Surf Illustrated"! God knows where he'd gotten it. He wanted to know about California, palm trees, and yes, those were real women. . .
Third night out, meal finished, they sat pouring over their textbook. "Hal-ter top. Halter top. You say it." "Halll-terrr. . ." Bullet head suddenly turned, looking east. Now he heard it, a rattle of hooves, a horse at a fast canter. Bullet Head hurridly stuffed the magazine into a sack, then went to the donkey, where the carbine the Chief had taught him to shoot lay hid in a blanket roll. The Chief slid back from the fire, into the dark, his hand in his pack resting on the butt of the Colt.
The hooves neared, slowed to a thudding trot. Familiar sound. "Son of a bitch!" The Black stepped into the firelight, sides glistening with sweat, breath steaming in the cool air. No rider, but saddled and bridled, the saddle old, worn, one he'd not seen before.
He went to it, catching up the reins. Tired as it had to be, it held its head up, looking down on him. It seemed, angry. "Look! Look here!" Bullet Head had come up, was pointing at the left rear hip. An ugly red crease ran horizontaly across the hip. He traced it, maybe 6 inchs, to an exit wound. From there another 6 or 8 inches, to a puckered entrance hole. Looked to be 30 caliber, 7.62. Hit, ran under the skin, emerged to burn the crease. Painful, but not immobilizing. Angry himself now, he carefully looked the Black over. A notch in the right ear. Nothing else, thank God.
Someone had shot his Black. With a Kalishnikov he'd bet. Why? God damn you, you know why. The Black trembled, wanting to go, to run. Back. No, no, you need rest and grain. He stripped the tack, began rubbing the horse down with his sleeping blanket. Bullet Head filled a nosebag with grain, then began packing the donkey as the Chief walked and watered the great horse. The wounds were washed and greased. 2 hours of waiting, preparing.
He rode all that night. Bullet Head and the donkey left far behind. At the canter, slow gallop, 10 minutes an hour walking alongside, easing his mount. Beneath him the Black somehow radiated anger, accusation, no longer the friendly companion of earlier days. How do you apologize to a horse? Explain leaving it to face an enemy alone. Now where would it carry him, to what future did they ride? No future at all. That much was certian when he'd let the Black head east, away from the coast. Only a present of fire and death, on a path marked by a Kalishnikov bullets bloody trail. He smiled in the dim light of an old moon. Such dramatic thoughts.
The Black ate distance at a rate he'd hardly find credible. 8 hours found them topping a rise, looking down into the valley he'd left on foot nearly 4 days ago. To the east the first traces of dawn were beginning to chase the stars. He could not make out the village, but the place felt different. The Black pulled at the bit, wanting to go. He let it. What ever had happened here, had moved on.
15 minutes later he reined up in the center of the village. Sadness became anger, turning to rage. So little wood here, the houses had been made of stone, carefully cut and piled. All gone, blown apart. He could still smell the faint ammonia stench of explosives. Perhaps thats what made his eyes tear. "Ahh" He wheeled, Colt hammer clicking back. From behind a tumbled stone wall the Teacher emerged. Dirty, face bruised. "I suspected you would return, if the horse survived. I am glad of that." The old man limped forward, laying a hand, then his forehead to the Blacks neck. The Chief holstered the Colt, dismounted. "What happened?"
The Teacher shook his head, still resting on the Blacks neck. "I should say, I am glad the horse survived." He pushed away from the horse to face the Chief. "You should not have come back."
"He didn't give me any choice." He looked up at the great head with its angry eyes. "I'm startin' to think he mighta killed me if I didn't." He took the Teacher by the arm, leading him to a boulder to sit. "Now old man, my name is Lucian Tippecanoe Meyer. Most folks call me Tip. What happened here?"
"So now we have names? Would you know mine?" Tip shook his head. "I would'nt risk that yet"
The teacher glared thru narrowed eyes. "You are too dramatic for one your age. You think only to be remembered? I think you underestimate yourself. As well I think you have no buisness being here!"
" I reckon you've done enough thinkin'. Tell me what happened."
The Teacher stood. "We will walk, and I will tell the story."
"Walk where?"
A grim smile. "I must thank you. Your hiding place is now ours."
Tip jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Git on the horse."
"I am no Invalid!"
"GIT on the DAMN horse!"
For a second they matched stares, then the old man shrugged, and limped to the Black. Tip gave him a hand up. The Teacher ran his hand thru the mane. "He is angry."
"Reckon you'ld be too if you'ld been shot in the butt."
The grey head shook. "Americans"
Tip took the reins, leading the horse east. "Your story."
"Yes, well. There were 8 of them. They came from the East, on foot, heavily armed. They dressed like cinema bandits, festooned with bullets and grenades. 3 pack animals, at least one carrying explosives. They walked into the village and shot the first man they saw." A hand fisted on the pommel. "It was old Reza, the man you defended at the bridge."
Tips oath was long, heartfelt, descriptive as only a sailor can make it.
"Yes, I quite agree. They herded us into the street, to one end of the village. Then began blowing up our homes. Their leader lectured us on our sins, telling us it was the mercy of Allah that we would live to move on." An angry pause. "With but a few examples to hurry us on our way."
"Examples."
"Reza was one. For another they pulled a woman from our midst, to pleasure themselves. Her husband charged them, and was shot. They cut her throat after."
"GODDAMMIT!" The Black sidestepped at the bellow.
"It does no good." There was a tremor in the voice. "They stayed one night, leaving late yesterday as they came, with the warning to be gone lest they return." Now came a grim smile. "But they did not leave unmarked." He pressed his hand to the Blacks neck. "They found this one, saddled and bridled him to take. When they opened his stall, he crushed the skull of the man before him, then galloped to the west. They fired weapons at him, with no effect."
Tip smiled at the minds image. "Will you go?"
"I do not know. Our flocks, our fields are still here. Our little group is devided. Some would leave, some would hide in the hills. Our ancestors have done so in the past. Yet such casual cruelty is new to us."
"They were not soldiers?"
"No. But we have heard of such men. They are called "Afgan Arabs", from a camp north of the Kuh-e-Bari mountian."
Tip stopped, jerking the Black to a halt. "Afgan Arabs" was a well used code phrase in military intelligence. It meant terrorists, trained in the Al-Quieda camps of Afganistan, until driven from that land. And that camp was known. He faced the Teacher. "You're sure of this?" The old man nodded. "Did any of them mention "The Base", or "The Source?"
The Teacher cocked his head, wide eyed. "Yes! Their leader did say that "The Source" would know if we did not leave."
Tip turned, began the walk to the east once more. "You have said I have no buisness here, Teacher. You have said it's not my fight. You're wrong. It's not your fight." A teeth grinding pause. "Its my war."
The Teacher made to speak, but remained silent. The grim visage of the younger man made it clear his words would be wasted. They walked on. Their entry into the draw was marked by a sentry atop the rimrock, who ran back and signaled down into the glory hole. Emerging from the fissure in the morning twilight they found themselves facing a small crowd of villagers.
Tips eyes swept the faces before him. The men sullen, women sad, sleepy children bewildered, yet curious. They stared at him, silent. Disappointed. This was no broad shouldered warrior fit for their great horse. A little taller than most, slope shouldered, salt and pepper hair, crows feet under crooked brows. Too common, a tired middle aged man. And for this too common man their homes had been destroyed, friends killed? They don't think I'm worth it, he thought. Hell, I don't think I'm worth it.
He was tired. Anger and adrenline had carried him this far, but now his strength faded with the night. He helped the Teacher down, then leaned against the Black. Started to tug at the cinch when the old mans hand fell on his arm. "Go, sleep, we will see to the horse."
Pulling the blanket roll from behind the saddle, he walked to the familiar rock shelf. Shrugged off the pack, rolled out the blanket, stretched out, head pillowed on the pack, and slept.
It was late afternoon when he woke. He sat up, eyes still closed, back stiff. Swinging his legs off the shelf, he rubbed his face in his hands, elbows on knees, then looked out between his fingers. Before him stood 2 small children, staring. A girl and boy, 3 and 5 respectivly, he'd guess. American military men since the revolution have always reacted the same in these situations. Tip looked about and saw his gear had been piled by his pack. He pulled the haversack from the pile, dug through it and came up with 2 Tootsie Rolls from an MRE. One for you, one for you. Candy in hand the children dashed across the hole to a woman stirring a pot over a small fire. She in turn snatched the candy from them, examining it carefully, before lifting her eyes to him. Tip did his best to look harmless. She stared for a moment, then smiled, a sad, lovely thing, and gave the children their treats.
Tip stood, stretching. Seeing him, the teacher hurried over. "Ah, you awake. There has been much talk while you slept, and I fear. . ." Tip held up a hand. "Sir, tell them I'll be gone by sunset."
"You must not blame yourself."
"Sir, I do blame myself. But there are others I blame more." Over the mans shoulder Tip saw the Black, well rested now, head up, still proud, still angry. "Sir, I need to change my outfit. Would your folks mind saddling the horse?"
"Some of the men would do it just to hasten your leaving."
Tip smiled. "It'll do." He shouldered his pack and walked to the back of the hole, to a partially secluded alcove, stopping to dip a cup of water from the seep. 20 minutes or so later he emerged, aware of the stares at his change of appearance.
He'd shaved, that had taken most of the time. Back in his boots, red striped sky blue mounted trousers. He now wore an M1859 Mounted Artillery Shell jacket: a short waist coat, dark blue, with nearly 20 feet of red tape edging, and 20 polished brass buttons. A black campaign hat with a red worsted wool tasselled cord. The usual red neckerchief. Sabre belt, holster and sheath. His "Dress" uniform.
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Topic: Anachronisem (Solo) (Read 28504 times)