Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1) (23 page)

Mahmet stood up and wrenched her around, flipping her body so her back slammed on the desk.

"I submit nothing," Darya seethed through clenched teeth.

"You submit to me."

The sun began to set in the distance, leaving the penthouse dark and warm. Mahmet's drooping jowls shone with sweat in the twilight. Pain shot through Darya when Mahmet slapped her, but she did not cry out. Her mind stilled as a plan solidified. She took advantage of the space between them and kicked him in the groin before reaching into the drawer.

"You stupid bitch," he seethed. Once the tears in his eyes subsided, he back-handed her, throwing her body back against the desk. Her face throbbed when the impact of the blow registered, but she kept her hands clenched to her chest.

When she sat up, the mayor sought her eyes, failing to notice the glimmer of the falling sun reflecting off the metal scissors. Darya tensed and struck true in the center of his left eye.

Mahmet screamed as she pushed the scissors through his orb, letting the viscous fluid explode across her face. His shock propelled him sideways, flailing like an animal. Instinct had not given him the sense to defend himself and Darya followed, thrusting the scissors deeper until the tip pierced the back of his eye and slipped into the soft tissue of his brain.

Mayor Mahmet Yilmaz slumped to the floor, his eye oozing blood and ocular fluid. He laid spasming on the ground in the final animalistic movements of his life.

Darya mounted his flabby torso, screams of pain and anger filling the air. She wrenched the scissors from his face, falling off-center with the effort. An ululation broke from her as she brought the scissors down to his throat and chest again and again.

"I submit to nothing," she spat, breathless, staring at the bloody remains of her uncle lying beneath her.

Heart frozen, she stood and walked to the desk on shaking legs. She picked up her phone and dialed the one person she knew she could trust. The only family she'd ever really had.

"Isik, I need you," was all she said before her heart thawed and she collapsed under the horror of what she had done.

Part V

"As for those who believe and do right actions, the All-Merciful will bestow His love on them."

Surah Maryam, 96

Imam Al-Bashir's pace was brisk. Motion-sensing lights glowed as he traveled with the young girl and the old man through the tunnels. His loose-fitting pants hung down to his shoes and dragged along the dirty ground, although the rest of him was immaculately kept. With modest clothing and a trimmed but full beard, Imam Al-Bashir was the picture of the devoted Ulama.

Maryam struggled to keep up with him; the ground was uneven and rocky, and her clothes weighed heavily from her frame. The water squished under her toes in the shoes she wore, the dampness of her clothes contrasting with the arid change in the air. The humidity had dissipated and now the familiar taste of heat and sand filled her senses. Her nerves were frayed, but she was recovering. Having the Imam there to lead the way gave her a tremendous sense of relief.

Behind her, Hasad's breathing was labored and raspy, making the nurse in her worry about the old man's ability to maintain the Imam's pace. Maryam knew Hasad was proud. He'd rather wheeze than have her ask to slow down on his account, and as long as he didn't seem to be in pain or dizzy she wasn't worried about his heart. So she kept her head down and her eyes on the feet of the man leading them back to civilization.

When the path began to even out the Imam slowed. Hasad stumbled at the back of the group at the change in the terrain, but he regained his footing quickly. The exertion shone on his forehead, but his eyes were as critical as always.

"Imam?" Maryam ventured.

The man cocked his head in her direction and nodded without breaking stride. The dim light was brighter now. In the distance she could see a warm glow reaching along the pocked walls of the tunnel.

"Where are we?"

"The ancient catacombs of the Tigris," he replied.

"Bunk," Hasad spat. "The tombs are on the other side of the city."

Imam Al-Bashir stopped his forward press and turned to face the unlikely crusaders following him. "How exactly did you get down here?"

"First, tell us where the hell we are," Hasad demanded, earning a grimace from Maryam.

"I'm sorry," she began but the Imam laughed.

"I have told you. You're in the catacombs of the Tigris River. Not the River as you know it now, not the river as it flowed when Hasankeyf was still resplendent. This," the Imam gestured with one hand to the walls around them, "was once the underground river that flowed so long ago we can't calculate."

"How is it here? I've never heard of it," Maryam inquired, looking at the Imam's dark eyes in the warmth of the lights mounting on the cave walls.

He smiled, showing white teeth beneath his tidy mustache.

"Let's go to your friend. I assume that's why you're here. Then you can tell me who you are."

"Our friend?"

"Yes, a man came this way earlier, covered in sand. He sent me to find you, he said you would be here, and you are! Ya Allah, I've never seen anyone come through here, and now three in one day."

"Recai!" Maryam exclaimed, turning to Hasad.

"He's not dead then."

"No, not at all, he's upstairs, praying. Come, let's get above ground."

"And then you'll tell us how there's an entire system of tunnels down here no one's ever heard of," Hasad insisted.

"Yes, I'll tell you that as well."

Imam Al-Bashir led them farther along in the system of caves and tunnels. The stone changed from damp to dry until the walls themselves ached for water as much as the lost pair following behind the Imam. Each turn revealed something new; the color of the clay walls, the taste of heat. Their feet no longer sloshed through puddles but dragged sand along as they shuffled to keep up.

Maryam counted the changes up and filed them away. Later, when she was in her own home, she could think about what she had seen and heard. Now her focus was on the straight back of the Imam.

Soon the walls began to resemble the earthen structures of the ancient city that stood here generations before Elih was born. Maryam had visited the Tombs of the Tigris when she first moved to the city. Tourism was for tourists, but the sites were exciting nonetheless. The city sat low in the riverbed of the diverted river, filled with vendors selling everything from pets to spices to tailored men's suits.

The bustling marketplace was the only part of Elih that felt like home to her. The small town she grew up in was filled with colorful cloths and food sold from stands and right out of kitchen windows. Living near the sea meant there were always tourists willing to spend money—Americans curious about Turkey, but not willing to venture into the wild inland cities. Her brothers had made their living guiding tours and selling things they gathered from smaller, poorer villages.

It wasn't so long ago that all of Elih had smelled of rose soap and saffron, but that ended when the RTK came into power. Now the only remaining glimpse of the Turkey she had grown up in resided in the ruins of Hasankeyf.

The Imam stopped in front of a sharp-turning passageway leading away from the main tunnel.

"Here, this is how we get to the mosque."

Hasad straightened and coughed before looking at Maryam uncomfortably.

"Imam, my friend, he is a Jew. Is he welcome as well?"

Imam Al-Bashir stared at her for a moment, his eyes dark and impenetrable, before turning to face Hasad.

"We are all sons of Ibrahim here."

He bowed with a kind smile to the dirty man who simply panted for breath then nodded his bow in return.

While the unlikely trio made their trek through the city's underbelly, Darya stood by the door to her penthouse with the dripping scissors still in her hand. She kept vigil over her uncle's body, which lay belly up on her office rug like a whale come to shore to die.

The sound of a key sliding into the lock of the front door screamed within her head, the deafening click threatening to break her sanity. The knob turned slowly and a knot tightened inside her chest, pulling her insides together into a claustrophobic vice. Her heart ached with pressure, desperate to flee the hold her hatred had on it.

"Darya?" Isik called in a loud whisper before opening the door farther. "Darya, Sister, it's me."

Isik stepped through the front door into the abandoned foyer. No housekeeper or security guard rushed out to stop him. The apartment was eerily calm. Inching farther into the opulent home, a deepening sense of urgency struck him. The sound of her voice on the phone, the deathly calm of the apartment, none of it added up and he feared for her—and himself.

"You called and I'm here," he continued, his voice muted by the thickness of pain in the air. "I'm here to help you, Sister."

Rounding the corner into the main room of her living quarters, Isik saw Darya, covered in blood.

"Darya!" he cried, rushing to her.

With still eyes and a glacier gaze, Darya lifted and pointed the tip of the scissors at her half-brother's throat. The hatred he saw in her look made him recoil well before he registered the physical threat.

"What happened?"

With a nod, Darya gestured to where the mayor lay in his own blood, bile, and urine. Isik approached the body cautiously, certain of its earthly death but superstitious about the spirits that might still linger. Whatever happened here did not happen without the devil's hand.

Behind the desk Darya's overturned chair was lying in the pool of vomit she had spit up earlier. A streak of blood ran down the wall, and the curtain was pulled off its precariously hanging rod. Isik's stomach lurched to see his uncle's pants pulled down below his knees, his penis severed.

"Did you do this?" Isik asked without looking up, his hardened shell taking in the scene before him without emotion.

"He deserved it," Darya responded flatly.

"No doubt." Isik stood and faced his sister. "Are you all right?"

"You mean do I still have my honor?" she scorned.

"You lost that years ago, and I have no interest in honor for you or myself. But are you hurt? Do you need… something?"

Tears welled behind Darya's eyes and pushed against the layer of ice that had formed over her pupils. They would stay trapped, prisoners of her hate along with her heart.

Stillness was her only response. Nothing was all right. Nothing would ever again be all right. She bled from her face, her mouth, her nose. She bled from injuries seen and unseen. She bled until she exsanguinated, nothing left to keep her frozen heart beating. Hate became the only thing keeping her alive.

Recai knelt on the tile floor of the mosque, his head bent in supplication, forehead against cold tiles. Around him sand gathered, drawn to him and his newly found connection with his homeland. Slowly the earthen grit moved along an unseen breeze until it landed near him. Small piles of sand rose as he supplicated himself before Allah.

With hands flat on the ground he recited from the Qu'ran silently, the words flowing through his mind like a breeze, refreshing and effortless:
But those who wronged among them changed the words to a statement other than that which had been said to them. So we sent upon them a punishment from the sky for the wrong that they were doing

Earlier today Recai had been swallowed by the earth, cleansed by the harshness of the sand. His feet had moved independently, drawn through the darkness until he found himself standing at the threshold of decision.

"Are you here to pray?" the Imam had asked in the deep, smooth voice of a cantor.

"I don't know."

"Best then to try, whatever your reason for being here. Prayer can help you find the way."

"I came through the sand."

The Imam had stiffened.

"Through the sand?"

"The sand and the tunnels, I found my way…but my friends," he looked up at the Imam with urgent revelation. "I know they will look for me. My friends will be lost."

"Ya Allah!"

"You go find them…I'll pray."

Recai now breathed in the sunlight surrounding him, its purity and heat filling him with purpose. He had not been a devout man, he had not always been a good man, but he believed the truth of the message sent to him in the desert. Those who had perverted the teachings of the Prophet Mohammed and the very word of Allah would be punished. Nothing he did with all of his money would make a difference until something changed.

He finished his silent prayer, whispering "Ameen," before standing and turning toward the inner rooms of the Mosque. Further inside the Imam was talking in hushed tones, refusing to allow anyone to disturb him. Even the people he'd been sent to retrieve.