Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series) (5 page)

Growing up, the women’s lib movement had been a big political hot button topic, but Mark had been just a kid and it was irrelevant to his life. He played baseball, rode bikes and teased girls in his neighborhood by chasing them with worms or nasty bugs he found in the corn.  When he was old enough to ditch the worms and just chase them figuratively, equal rights for women meant he didn’t have to open doors for them—except his parents had drilled the courtesy into him practically from the crib—so he was left confused as to what he was supposed to do.  Hold doors? Pay for dates? He usually went with his instincts, which meant following his father’s example.

Even when he went to college, women’s lib for him was more about liberating a girl from her clothes than in any political movement.

  Mark discovered even if Mo didn’t follow up finishing the book, he knew this trip would change the way he thought of women for the rest of his life. At least it wouldn’t be a waste in that regard. Instead of erasing his frustration, the prospect of not being able to show the world what was going on set off a slow, simmering anger.

Mid-afternoon the city slowed down as people retreated from the heat and Mark did the same, sitting in the shade of a building as he bit into a plum he had bought from a vendor. The juice squirted in his mouth, and he had to admit that the fruit in this country tasted better than any he could remember.  It could have been because he hadn’t eaten any junk food for several weeks and his tastes were changing, or maybe because the fruit assuaged his thirst as well.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stopping when a small boy approached him. The boy’s clothes hung in tatters and his feet were bare. The child sank onto his haunches and smiled at him, showing a gap-toothed grin. Mark returned the smile, pegging his age at about seven given the lack of teeth. Taking a last bite of the plum, Mark set it beside him, noticing the boy’s eyes glued to the pit. He reached into his pocket and produced the other two plums and bag of almonds he had purchased.

He offered them to the boy. “Are you hungry?”

 The boy’s dark eyes shot to Mark’s at the words and Mark knew he’d given away his foreigner status. Would that scare the boy away? Apparently it didn’t, because it didn’t take much prodding before the boy accepted the gifts. He sat beside Mark and dug into the food, which surprised Mark until he noticed the boy’s anxious glances down the street. A group of ragged boys were coming their way. The group shouted something at the boy, who shouted back and took another huge bite of the plum, making Mark worry that he’d choke on the fruit.

Although he couldn’t understand what the boys were saying to each other, he understood the tone and body language. The biggest boy in the group was demanding the food and the little one beside Mark was trying to consume as much of it as he could before having to give up his prize. Always one to root for the underdog, Mark stood and glared at the boys. He felt like a big bully as he towered over them, but on the other hand, they would certainly understand the concept, as they bullied the younger boy. They backed off, turning to head back the way they had come, but not before shouting something at the little boy. Mark hoped he hadn’t made anything worse for the kid, but a glance down showed the boy had already dismissed the group from his mind while he fished in the bag of almonds.

With nothing else pressing to do, Mark decided to stick around and guard the boy until he was done eating, but when the child finished, he stood and tugged on Mark’s sleeve and pointed down the opposite direction from where the other boys had gone.

 “What? You want me to go that way?” Mark asked, pointing down the road.

The boy smiled and yanked on Mark’s arm again, until laughing, Mark went along with him. “Fine. I’ve got nothing to do today. Show me your city.”

Their first stop was the market and Mark bought some more fruit and nuts for the boy, along with a kabob of lamb and vegetables for each of them. They ate as they walked, with the boy keeping up a running commentary that Mark didn’t understand.

Before he knew it, he was on the outskirts of the city and the ruins of a citadel stood before them. Mark uncapped his camera and took photos of it. The sun was on its downward trek in the western sky and lit the citadel with a soft light. Snapping away, Mark stopped to thank the boy but he was gone. He missed the chatter, but was glad he’d been able to at least give the kid a decent meal.

After taking a dozen photographs from several different angles, Mark decided to head back to his hotel. He didn’t want to be caught outside its safety after dark. He’d learned that much while he was here. Mo had warned him that the Taliban ruled most of the country and people out after dark were at risk. It still puzzled Mark that Mo appeared to have accomplished very little in regards to the book, and his sudden detour to a village with his cousins confused him. Why did they need his presence now? Mo had lived in the States most of his life and his cousins had managed without him all that time, but Mark guessed it wasn’t any of his business. The whole trip had turned out much differently that he had expected. Why hadn’t Mo spoken to anyone who wasn’t a relative? At least, it seemed that way to Mark. Everyone they had met had been a cousin or an uncle or a close neighbor of one of them. Maybe Mo had spoken to them in Pashto and Mark just hadn’t been aware, or when he hadn’t been around, but if so, it seemed like Mo was relying on his memory as Mark hadn’t seen any sign of a tape recorder. He was no expert writing a book, but he thought that it involved copious note-taking.

Sweat ran in rivulets down his back as he finished the last of the water he had brought with him. Thirst pushed thoughts of Mo from his mind and he focused on finding a drink. He started to pass a bazaar but with his water gone, he hoped that he would be able to find a refill there even though he’d learned the bazaars sold goods and not food.

At first, he didn’t really pay attention to the goods on display, but after he found someone who showed him a well, Mark filled the bottle and then strolled along the stalls, sipping the water. One stall displayed a beautiful rug. He wasn’t much of a decorator, but the artist in him appreciated the colors and patterns of the wool. The next stall had gorgeous scarves and he thought of his mother. She would love one and he figured he should get some kind of souvenir from his time here. He picked out one and paid for it, then realized he’d better get his dad something too.

He spotted a vendor with intricately carved wooden crafts. Perfect. His dad’s hobby was working with wood. After looking over the selection, he chose a basket that collapsed. Not only was it very cool, he imagined his dad would find a use for the basket in his woodshed behind the house. It could hold nuts and screws or something. Satisfied with his purchases, he headed back to the road, but he passed a stall with a table full of old cameras. He could no more pass it by than a woman could pass a chocolate fountain.

Most of the cameras were relics and he picked up one, turning it over in his hands, smiling. His grandfather had owned one like it. He set it down, and scanned the rest. A few were only a decade or so out of date, but they were cheap models that he barely glanced at. He could find one of those in any thrift shop in the States. He saw a few models that he was pretty sure were Russian made and when he examined the back of one, the Cyrillic writing confirmed it. The camera was in good shape and he debated buying it. It had a big red ‘50’ stamped on the top and he wondered what that meant. While he pondered its significance, his eyes wandered over the other cameras and caught on one. It didn’t look very different from the Russian one, but the body had more metal and less plastic. He set the Russian camera down, the puzzle of the ‘50’ forgotten. The air around the other camera seemed to shimmer. He cast a look over his shoulder at the setting sun. The rays must be hitting the table just right.

He picked up the camera and felt a jolt race up his arms and he lost  his grip for a second, dropping it like a hot potato as he staggered back a few steps. Luckily, the camera only fell a few inches onto the table. He wiped his palms on his thighs. The vendor had started putting cameras away for the night and when he reached for the one Mark had dropped, a flash of irrational panic shot through him at the thought of losing it. He grabbed it before the vendor could. This time, there was no jolt, but there was…something. Like a thrum of energy. He could feel it run up his arms and wash over him.

It wasn’t painful, but reminded him of one time when he was out in an electrical storm and the hair on his arms had stood on end just before lightening had struck a tree not more than a hundred feet from him. At the time, the lightning strike had terrified him, but later, he recalled the incredible energy that had enveloped him just before the bolt. It had been like being injected with a dozen cups of coffee, only that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a jittery feeling. It was as if someone had taken his nervous excitement from taking his first driver’s exam or first kiss and mixed it with the burst of excitement he felt on Christmas mornings when he was still a kid and Santa was still very real.

He was at once filled with both confusion and assurance. His confusion came from not knowing the cause of the energy, but he was sure he had to have the camera. His gaze shot to the sky, certain he’d find a dark storm cloud above, but there was only a deepening blue sky that brightened to a brilliant orange in the west. The vendor didn’t seem to notice anything amiss and had merely shrugged at Mark and put away a different camera.

Mark lifted the camera and tried to pantomime taking a photograph, asking, “Where did you get this? Does this work?”

Another shrug.

“Does that mean you don’t know, or you just don’t know what I’m asking?”

The vendor smiled and shook his head.

Mark decided it didn’t matter if it worked. He had to have it. He rationalized that it would look great on a shelf in his studio if nothing else. He pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

At the sight of the wallet, the man knew exactly what Mark was asking and named his price. It was more than Mark expected, but he guessed he hadn’t hid his eagerness very well. He was sure he could have haggled and bartered the price down, but he didn’t want to take the time. After handing over the cash, he took the camera, surprised at the sense of calmness that washed over him once it was in his hands.

The next morning, he woke up early, eager to use the camera. He opened the back, searching for a source of the energy, but it appeared like any other camera. Disappointment swept through him, but then he felt silly. What had he expected? A tiny nuclear power plant churning inside? Despite the benign appearing interior, it was a very cool looking camera. He still felt the energy, but put it down to something he ate or maybe a virus he must have picked up. For all he knew, there were little parasites swimming in his blood right now. The thought made him shudder and drop the camera on the bed.

The energy stopped like someone had thrown a switch. If he had parasites, wouldn’t they keep swimming or whatever they did until he either died or got rid of them? He reached out a finger and touched the camera. A sizzle of energy zoomed up his arm. He grinned. Parasites couldn’t do that.

He wanted to use the camera, and while he hadn’t found a nuclear power plant inside of it; he had found a lot of dust and sand. It was almost as if the thing had been buried in sand at one point, but luckily, the lens still retained its cap and he didn’t detect any significant scratches. As much as he wanted to use it, he didn’t want to ruin it, so he resigned himself to waiting until he was back in Chicago and could get it professionally cleaned.

With a sigh, he wrapped his softest t-shirt around it and packed it in his suitcase. He didn’t have an extra camera bag and hoped it would be okay. Looking at it, he guessed it had to be about sixty years old and figured if it had made it this long in such good condition it should weather the trip to Chicago okay if he had it surrounded by his clothes.

His hotel had a shared bathroom with others on his floor, so he took his towel, washcloth and a clean t-shirt and boxers and tried to clean up the best he could in the tiny bathroom. Hopefully none of the other guests would need to use the facilities while he was busy.