Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1) (6 page)

She walked near the second man, hoping to pass by him and either escort them to the door or attempt to get her father's gun. However, instead of stepping out of the way, as courtesy would dictate, the man grabbed her arm roughly. His fingers dug into her flesh, eliciting a gasp.

"You are not telling us everything. We heard there is a man hiding in this town, a man who went missing recently. We need to know where he is, and it seems you know something you are not telling us."

His voice was low and menacing, promising consequences if she refused to help. His grip on her arm tightened and she whimpered. But Rebekah did not raise her head to look at him or answer his questions, she would not be bullied. She would stand tall and resist the evil surrounding her, as her namesake had done so long ago.

"Perhaps you don't know anything, or perhaps you are afraid," the man continued. "The only thing to fear from us is if you lie to us. We are not here to ask about your days and nights spent alone. We are not here to investigate your virginity, only to find this person. He may be in danger. He may be hurt, and we are here to help him, to take him home."

Rebekah shook her head as she continued to look at the floor, a single tear breaking free. The man's threats were not well-veiled, but there was nothing she could do. If she revealed Recai's presence, her punishment may well be worse than any of the things she might endure at the hands of these men. She sent out a thought to her father, hoping he would not blame her for the disgrace she was surely about to suffer.

The man pushed Rebekah back on the cot roughly, which landed her directly on Recai's midsection. Her weight drove a broken rib into his body, puncturing his lung.

As Recai's punctured lung filled with blood, across the desert in Elih, Darya looked out over the city of her birth from the balcony of her penthouse apartment. The glow of the city an ominous backdrop for the minarets atop tall mosque pillars. Cars flew by below her, their light stretching before them, creating an up-lit glow for the buildings surrounding her apartment. This city that had eaten others alive was the catalyst for both her success and her constant frustration.

The sky was orange in the distance as the yellow dust from an impending kum firtinasi, a sandstorm, swept over the desert. Soon she would need to go inside to keep from breathing in too many of the fine particulates. But for now, she watched as destruction rolled toward the city, the distant sound of thunder warning of the danger about to descend.

She ran a hand over her coiffed hair, feeling the flatness her headscarf had left behind. She hated having to cover in public, but her uncle's "morality police" made it necessary. Mayor Mahmet Yilmaz was her father's younger brother and a constant presence in her life. And even though she was afforded many freedoms by her familial ties as the niece of the mayor of Elih, she could not be seen to publicly flaunt her status. And so her styled hair and expensive clothes were hidden away, displayed only behind closed doors.

Darya was stuck in a limbo of sorts; her ambitions for prestige and power were undermined by her gender. She saw no justification for the restrictions on her. Indeed, they were necessary for the lower class and for the people out in the deserts. These rules helped keep peace—or so her uncle claimed. If true, then so be it; she had no interest in the plights of others anyway. But the fabric of her hijab chafed at her ego and pride.

Tightening her hands around the railing of the balcony she leaned out, inhaling the last bits of fresh air there would be for days. When the storm hit, the sky would be blotted out for hours, the sun covered by sand, blanketing the city into darkness. After the winds died down the rain would begin, but not the purifying rain the city so desperately needed. The water would only serve to solidify the grime where it lay. The people in the city would be wiping every surface to remove sand and grit until, inevitably, the next storm would wash over.

Tasting the electricity in the air, she cursed inwardly at the weather for keeping her inside. Her external conditions mirrored her life: forced to live behind closed doors, existing in secret, moving her chess pieces from the shadows so in the end, she got what she wanted. She was no one in the world outside, no one would know her on sight and her name held no awe. Here, behind the veil of a computer screen and a pseudonym, she was powerful and commanded respect.

Turning back toward her apartment, she approached the French doors that served as gates to her prison of luxury. Just as Darya stepped inside to change for the night's charity event, lightning slashed through the distant sandstorm.

While Darya prepared for the inevitable sandstorm, Recai involuntarily lurched up, forcing the broken rib farther into his chest. His attempts to breathe came out as a crackling, gasping sound as his pierced lung began to deflate.

"Recai!"

Rebekah reached for him.

"You whore of a liar!"

One of the RTK men grabbed Rebekah's arm. She lashed out, whipping around and slapping him solidly in the face.

"Don't hurt her…!" Recai wheezed from the bed, his body fighting desperately for oxygen.

He forced himself to sit up but the pain in his chest was unbearable. The second man stepped forward and pulled the sheet off of Recai's body.

"In only bed clothes!" the second man exclaimed as he turned his back on Recai. "Alone with a man in this state of undress. What kind of woman are you?"

Rebekah struggled against the RTK officer's tight grip, but she was unable to break away. Instead, she simply spit at the insult. Recai reached forward, enduring a pain so complete he felt certain he would pass out. Slowly his hand rose toward the pistol holstered in the officer's belt. Inches from the weapon, Recai leaned farther forward, forcing his body to succumb to the demands of his soul.

"Mahmoud!" the man holding Rebekah called, bringing his companion's attention to Recai. Mahmoud turned around quickly and backhanded Recai. He flew back against the wall, hitting his head against the hard plaster. The wound on his cheek opened and waves of nausea swept over him. Moaning, Recai briefly shut his eyes, wishing he was anywhere else. Doing anything else. His consciousness threatened to fall under the surface of pain but Rebekah's voice calling out brought him back.

"You killed him!" Rebekah screamed, fearing the worst. "Recai! Don't you know he's already hurt?"

Her cries were met with a cruelty that neither Rebekah nor Recai could have anticipated. The first officer, called Mahmoud, backhanded her, snapping her head back.

"You cry for your lover?" he sneered. "Where is your father? Where is your mother? Is there no one here to protect you from your female lusts?"

"No…" Recai moaned.

"Answer me, you whore!"

Rebekah received another blow but did not call out; she did not answer her abuser or submit to his inquisition. Recai inched himself forward as Mahmoud threw Rebekah to the floor. Her elbow hit the concrete with a cracking noise. Still covered by her burqa, it was impossible for Recai to see if she was in pain or if tears had escaped from her deep brown eyes. The lace over her face hid her, but he felt her gaze upon him.

"The Holy Prophet said ‘Whenever a man is alone with a woman, the Devil makes a third'," Mahmoud spat the verse, glaring down at the dark purple pile of cloth that hid Rebekah from view.

"There has been no sin!" Recai rasped, attempting to stand by sheer force of will. His knee screamed in protest as he pulled himself up. Reaching his feet he stood in defiance, only to be pistol-whipped back to the cot by the second RTK officer who stood nearest him.

"And yet you lie here in a state of undress alone with a Jew woman?"

"Why were you looking for me?" Recai asked, hoping to pull their attention away from Rebekah. Perhaps they would finish what they started and kill him and leave her alone. His voice was weak as he fought for breath.

"We are looking for those who offend the Prophet; here we have found two."

Mahmoud reached down and roughly pulled Rebekah to her feet. She stood limply at his side, a marionette of fabric and bones.

"No, you said you were looking for a man who was missing, who may be hurt. How did you know about me? How did you know I was in the desert?"

"Perhaps you are not the man we were looking for."

Mahmoud's grip on Rebekah's arm tightened, causing a small whimper.

"Perhaps you are simply a weak man who succumbed to the temptations of the flesh that this whore presented to you? Perhaps you are innocent of any wrongdoing, a victim, and need only repent."

"Is this what happened?" the first RTK officer inquired, peering at Recai through slanted eyes. "Were you tempted by this woman? We are looking only to punish those who merit it. If you were tempted and surrendered to the weakness of the flesh, all you must do is repent. Allah is merciful in his wisdom."

"No. There is no sin here," Recai insisted.

"And you, can you explain this man, dressed in his bed clothes?" He asked, turning his attention on Rebekah.

"He was injured." Her voice a tenuous whisper, "I cared for him in his need. He would have died without our help."

"And so you tended to his needs? Caring for his body?" Mahmoud pressed.

"I…no…I sought only to help ease his pain."

"This is a house of sin!" the other, nameless, RTK officer roared. Recai noticed for the first time that there was a tattoo on his neck—eyes of ink peered out at him over the collar of the man's shirt.

"No…!" Recai tried to explain.

"Do you say the girl is lying?" the officer pressed.

The tattooed officer's attention turned to Recai again, and he leaned down closer, his breath hot and moist against Recai's face.

"She tells the truth…you twist the meaning," Recai replied.

"Well, we shall have to ensure we are hearing the truth." Cruelty glinted in the officer's eyes as he smiled. "And you shall watch."

"No!"

Recai lurched forward, willing his body to fight, to defend Rebekah. Using all of his energy he delivered one weak blow to the tattooed man's chest. His body was beaten and broken and lacking in oxygen; he simply could not fight.

Laughing mirthlessly, the man punched Recai solidly in the jaw, cracking the joint. Tears sprang to Recai's eyes. Falling backwards he slumped against the wall. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. His lip had been split when it slammed against his teeth from the officer's violent blow. Blood fell from the wound Rebekah had stitched up, dripping down the side of his face, staining his skin.

"We are the servants of Allah," the inked officer taunted as he stood up and delivered a kick directly to Recai's middle, eliciting a cry. The impact pulled Recai in on himself. He huddled tightly on the bed, unable to retaliate. The pain from his ribs tore through him, shattering his focus. All he could make out were snake eyes that were part of his attacker's tattoo.