Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1) (4 page)

Words drifted out to Recai but he couldn't take meaning from them; the sounds lined up in a row in his mind but they made no sense. The voices were hushed and familiar. His mouth was dry and his tongue thick, but as he leaned to reach the tea Rebekah had left him a sharp pain cut through his side. He gasped and pulled his arm back. Leaning back into the bed, he sighed. The heavy ache of his face and the sting of his cuts were nothing compared to the agony of his broken ribs.

He needed to get home. He needed to get to somewhere with a phone so he could call his housekeeper and have her send someone to pick him up. He needed to see a physician.

At least I'm safe for now.

The old man could have easily left him in the desert to die, and the kindness of the woman who tended him spoke to their character. Why would they rescue him and take such a risk only to hurt him now? No, naïve or not, Recai chose to believe there was still good in some people.

At least whoever had done this to him could not find him here.

Çayustu, he lamented.
Not even a real town. Are there any paved roads that even come out this far?

He was no farther from home than if he had gone to Diyabakir to attend one of the achingly boring meetings the Board of Directors insisted he attend periodically. Keeping up appearances and maintaining the reputation of the Osman Corporation was his only job, and he felt ill every time he sat beneath his father's portrait. The only reason he didn't turn his back on the whole thing and move overseas was the nagging need to honor his mother's memory.

This little village was a blip on the map, could barely even be considered a town. Recai had never been here before—no reason to come this far—but he'd heard of it and knew that some of his friends had come out here to meet tour guides for trips into the desert. No, given the circumstances he was farther than an hour and a half from the city. Here he had nothing but his feet and a maybe a camel.

Recai wiggled his toes and pulled up the sheet covering him, revealing his bandaged feet.

"Probably second degree burns," Hasad said as he walked into the small room, his daughter following behind with something that smelled delicious.

"Easier to navigate without shoes," Recai replied, slowly hoisting himself up. Pain shot through him but he bit back a groan. He took in the appearance of the old man who'd saved him from certain death.

Hasad's pursed face was hardened by age and a life spent in the sun. His dark skin betrayed his Indian heritage, making him an anomaly in Turkey. Recai could still remember when the enclaves of Bangladeshi Jews who had lived in Elih had mostly evacuated, when Mayor Yilmaz declared the return of Shariah law and the absolute power of the RTK.

"Stupid without shoes," the man retorted with a snort as he uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to the interloper. "We will have dinner here with you, then tomorrow I will go to the next village and find a phone. You have money for a taxi?"

"At home, that will be no problem. Thank you for your hospitality."

The old man snorted again. "Hospitality has nothing to do with it. I find a man dying, I cannot leave him. I'm glad you are healing quickly, but it will be days before you can walk on those feet, maybe weeks before you can go without your ribs being bandaged."

"I will have a physician look at me when I get home. I am sure your care has been exemplary."

Recai smiled at Rebekah who blushed and handed him a plate.

"Bazlama with minced meat," she said before passing him a cup of water. She sat on the floor and served herself and her father the same meal with beer.

"A good beer cleanses a man's soul." The man took a long drink and smiled. "My name is Hasad Sofaer. You met my daughter, Rebekah."

"Yes, she has been very kind."

Recai looked over at the girl and noticed she had pulled her hair up under a veil, probably for his benefit, as was fitting. He was touched by her show of respect as well as by the gentle features of her face. She was nothing like the women he was used to—silly and immature. Instead, a simple honesty radiated from her.

The three sat and ate in silence, pausing only to drink. Recai ate slowly to avoid upsetting his system, but found the food so delicious that it was difficult to refrain from taking huge mouthfuls and gulping it down. When Hasad finished eating, he drained his beer and looked directly at the injured man occupying his bed.

"Now you're fed. You've been stitched up and the color is returning to your face. Now, you can tell us who you are."

"My name is Recai. I come from Elih. I was born there but left to travel. I only came back home because my father's business is in need of new . . . oversight."

Without telling them who he actually was, Recai recited some of his history. He did not lie, did not tell any untruths, but he did leave out that he was an Osman, the only son of Baris and Pinar Osman. To volunteer his family name would open him up to demands for ransom and other troubles. These people seemed good, but it was impossible to know what someone was capable of when real power was placed in their hands.

"Recai, you are Kurdish," Hasad stated.

"In part."

"You spoke Kurdish in the desert, but your accent is strange."

Hasad had intended it as a question, but he spoke plainly.

"My mother was Kurdish, my father native to Elih. I received most of my schooling overseas in England. So yes, my accent has many influences."

Hasad considered this information for a moment before continuing with his investigation.

"You are Muslim."

"Yes."

"Rebekah says you don't drink. Do you follow all the tenants of your religion?"

"No, I do not," Recai confided, once again taking the risk of believing that these people were not associated with the RTK. "In fact, I do drink, but from what little I remember, that is what led me to whatever my current predicament is. So for now, I would like to keep my mind as clear as possible."

Hasad peered at Recai before clapping once, and breaking out into a hearty laugh.

"Yes well, we cannot all be as pious as some would like. Even the Pope has to wipe his ass with his right hand from time to time. Now, Bey Recai, you should rest." Hasad said, using the prefix ‘Bey' as a sign of respect.

With that Hasad stood and left the small room, taking his dishes as well as Recai's with him, unlike most men, who would have left those things for Rebekah to do. Recai had stumbled upon some very good people indeed. Rebekah remained at his side, her food half eaten, studying the lines of the blanket covering Recai's legs.

"Thank you, Rebekah," he whispered, looking over at her and suddenly aware that Hasad had left them unsupervised.

Recai wasn't a conservative man; he'd dated many women and had known more than a few in ways frowned upon by his culture. But Rebekah interested him. Her quick wit reminded him of the women he had met in university in Britain, but there was more to her than that. Something that spoke of home.

When he was younger, he had found Western women exciting. A woman with a mind of intellect and a body for exploring things forbidden to him in the religious community he grew up in had been new and intoxicating. Soon he learned that while their minds stimulated him, their Western ways quickly wore on his nerves, always displaying themselves and jockeying for attention. Rebekah seemed like a woman to spar words with, and to respect. She was a novelty in the oppressed culture of Elih.

"You are very welcome, Recai." The corners of her mouth moved up as she spoke, her smile belying her demure stance. "My father likes you."

"Does he?"

Recai allowed himself to sink lower into the mattress, fatigue returning to him now that he had been fed.

"Yes, he values honesty. Remember that and you may have found an ally in him."

Her eyes lingered on his, open and honest. Rebekah's ease and confidence impressed him. After his ordeal, he couldn't help but consider the importance of having someone on your side.

With that thought paramount in his mind, Recai Osman drifted off to sleep.

Morning came early in the small house on the edge of the desert. One injured Muslim didn't mean the world stopped turning, and Hasad had things to do. There were animals to care for and the day's food to prepare. His morning chores didn't take long, with only the one camel and a few other livestock to feed, but the work needed to be done. This life was nothing like the one he had dreamed of in India; this life he would abandon if not for his beautiful daughter.

Before the sun rose, Rebekah was up boiling vegetables and spicing a sauce for his lunch—food she wrapped easily in paper and that he could eat with his hands. He would be gone most of the day, trading and looking for a day's work where he could find it. Plus today he had the task of finding a ride for Recai back to the city.

Hasad contemplated the man sleeping in the back room of his home. He was nothing like any other Muslim he had met before. There had been no judgment of their home, their religion, or of his daughter's outspoken nature. To have Rebekah relegated to living in fear and covering her body thanks to the requirements of another man's religion outraged Hasad. Seeing someone from outside his community regard her as a person, a wonderful person at that, was refreshing.

As he readied to leave the house, Hasad kissed Rebekah and squeezed her tighter than usual.

"Child, the gun is under the couch."

"Aba—" she protested, but he held his hand up.

"Recai seems a good man, but if he is not you aren't to hesitate. And if anyone comes to the door…"

"I know, Aba. I close the door to the back and put on my burqa. I know, I am alone almost every day."

"Yes, but today, there is actually more to fear."

Hasad hesitated, reconsidering his decision to leave her alone with Recai. But he dismissed the thought. Besides earning a living, he had to arrange for the man's departure if he was ever to be rid of him.

Hasad walked out of the house without another word to his daughter and without checking on Recai. He wasn't dead; Hasad could hear his rattled breathing.
God help me if there's fluid in his lungs.
Was he saving a life or harboring a wanted criminal? Either way, it was time for Recai to go.

Outside, the air was dry, and the familiar taste of the desert greeted Hasad. He had lived here for so long it was hard to imagine his life before. Sand disguised the lines separating road from yard, deep tire tracks and packed-down earth the only marks distinguishing between the two. The few houses near him were bustling with activity: boys heading off to school or work, men congregating to pass the time, women and infants beginning their routine within the home.

Homes in Çayustu were old and in poor repair. It wasn't unusual to see an entire wall replaced with a lean-to or a window without screens. Chickens clucked as they scurried from yard to yard, having escaped one of the make-shift pens so many people had. Hasad could smell spices swirling in the air from kitchens where the day's cooking had begun. Cardamom and cumin, and the taste of yeast accented his hunger.

In a time past, he had been a wealthy man, an engineer teaching at Mumbai University. In a time past, he had a lovely young wife and two small children. In a time past, he did not fear those in charge. It was so long ago it was hard to believe that he was that same man. Now he was poor. A trader. A member of the slave underclass who worked wherever necessary to provide his daughter with as good a life as he could.

Yes, it was time for her to marry; perhaps to a man who could offer her a life like the one Hasad had fled.