A Girl with a Past
The Brig, 5 October 2014, 10:57:00 AFT
Uncertain of how much he slept, if he really slept at all with the Colonel’s words still echoing in his mind, Tarasov awakes to the sound of softly muttered prayer. The beams of light are again falling into the dungeon, allowing the major to see the Talib’s face. He looks like a man who has left all earthly worries behind, and deep in his heart, Tarasov feels envy.
“Too bad you can’t bang your head into the ground, chained to the wall by your neck as you are,” he snaps. “Looks like your God will not come to save you.”
“So you’re awake,” the Talib says, still going through his praying routine. “Today, I will be in Paradise, if God wills.”
“Suit yourself.”
Before the Talib could reply, the door opens and the two talkative fighters enter the dungeon.
“Upsy-daisy, rag-head! Your seventy-two women are waiting for you,” Polak says, grabbing the Talib.
“Too bad they ain’t virgins no more,” Hillbilly adds with a grin while removing the chain holding the prisoner.
Now that death is no abstract thought anymore, primordial horror appears on the Talib’s face. Kicking and screaming, he tries to free himself from the fighters’ grasp. The reek of urine bites into Tarasov’s nose. Mercilessly and without saying any more words, the guards haul the Talib out.
The door slams shut, but the doomed man’s desperate screams are still audible. Somewhere outside, a crowd has gathered. Tarasov, now alone in the darkness, wishes he could move as far away from the door as possible and hide in a dark corner.
I don’t want to hear what’s coming up next.
Even so, his ears strain to catch an audible detail of the Talib’s fate. Trying to distract himself, Tarasov begins to hum songs learned at school. He wanders through the hits of his youth, songs that were the soundtrack to a few successful and many failed love affairs. He tries to recall something from his training to prepare himself for a dreadful death. Nothing works. Not even the heavy doors can suppress the noise of screams, soon to be suppressed by the roar of a cheering crowd. In despair, he wishes the Zone was a god he could pray to so it would unleash a horde of its worst mutants upon his captors. Then the words of the two ‘brothers’ come to his mind.
That’s pathetic… The Zone will not help me. The Zone calls all men, but when men call the Zone they get nothing. The Zone is the Zone and I am nothing without it. But what is good about the Zone if it has no power beyond its boundaries?
He knows that the Zone will send no mutants to tear the Tribe’s warriors apart, or turn the stronghold into a meat-grinding anomaly. The Zone has let him down.
No one could have prepared me for something like this.
Tarasov realizes that he, a survivor of seemingly hopeless battles against mutants, mercenaries, vengeful Stalkers, anomaly fields and worse, is now in the grasp of mortal fear.
I will be listed as missing in action… and in twenty years when nobody remembers me anymore, the army will close my file as KIA. A merciful lie. And I only have my mother to think of when I die. Just like when I was born. Full circle, game over.
The door opens and the ‘brothers’ appear.
“Get ready, Spetsnaz. It’s nothing personal – orders are orders.”
Polak says nothing, but as he carefully removes the chain from Tarasov’s neck he gives him an encouraging pat on the back.
Tarasov lets them grab him, knowing he has no chance if he tries to resist. All he can do is to meet his fate with dignity, and that means not being dragged along the floor as the dushman allowed himself to be.
Struggling to his feet, he tries to walk for himself as the guards haul him towards the heavy wooden gate of an enclosed compound. All kinds of people have thronged here – children in tribal dress, boys in miniature uniforms and holding real weapons, fighters laughing and mocking at him. But only men. He tries not to think about the reasons why the women are not present, but for a moment, Tarasov catches a glimpse of the girl from the Colonel’s room. She is the only woman he can see in the crowd, and her scarred face is the only one looking down at him with the least hint of compassion. She stands next to the Colonel, who looks down at the pit devoid of any emotion, surrounded by several of his Lieutenants.
Tarasov has no time to return her gaze: he is dragged through the gate into an area of narrow, sandy ground surrounded by huge blocks of wood, like an old Roman arena. A pole stands at the far end. The guards drag him to a chest-deep hole dug into the ground close to the pole, and the major spots the remains of a human being not far away. The head and torso have been smashed to a bloody pulp, presumably by the stones that are lying around the corpse.
Thus far, Tarasov has faced his fate bravely, but upon seeing the hole and the corpse, he pulls together all his strength to resist.
“Not like this!” he screams. “I did nothing bad to you!”
“Save your breath for later,” Hillbilly says. “As an officer, you will be spared of the hole. It’s the big man’s orders.” He binds Tarasov tightly to the pole. “Die bravely, Spetsnaz.”
The Pit, 11:52:37 AFT
The rope cuts into Tarasov’s flesh as he desperately tries to free his wrists. The guards have done their work well: no matter how he struggles, his efforts are all in vain. All he can do is stare at the wooden gate in front of him. He knows that whoever comes through it will bring his death.
“Brothers and sisters of the Tribe!” The voice sounding over the crowd is cruel and cold. “We have here a soldier from an army that once brought death to your people. They laid the way for the destruction that came down upon you at the hands of those who call themselves the students of God. Now they are back to spy on us. Tell me, what is the just punishment for such trespassers?”
“Death,” the crowd roars.
“Brave women of the Tribe, you who have suffered so much! The time of badal has come. Cherish the sweetness of justice!”
Angry female voices hiss from behind the gate.
Maybe they are discussing who will throw the first stone. I must free myself before they come. I won’t make it but at least I’ll die putting up a fight.
The shackles still hold, remaining intact as he helplessly watches the gate open. Led by an elderly crone, dozens of women enter the Pit with faces as hard as the stones in their hands. A cold breeze stirs up the black scarf of the leader as she stands motionless in front of him, her hand clutching the stone she intends to throw at his head.
She looks like a dark angel avenging a sin I have never committed. So be it. Let this be done.
Tarasov raises his head and looks into the woman’s dark eyes, preparing to die with her scornful face as the last thing he sees. The woman’s breast rises as she draws breath before unleashing a scream. But it is just two words that leave her lips.
“Zendeh bogzaaridash!”
The crowd suddenly falls silent.
Tarasov has already prepared his mind for the pain of the first strike when the woman drops her stone to the ground. An astonished murmur spreads throughout the crowd like a wave. The women behind her look at each other. She looks up to the Colonel and shouts out again.
“Man behesh tarahhom kardam!”
Her wrinkled face radiates confidence and pride as she waits for the Colonel to respond. From the corner of his eye, Tarasov sees him rising from his seat. The eyes of the Colonel and the woman lock, as if wrestling in a contest of willpower.
After a long minute, the Colonel nods. In reply, the woman bows her head in a sign of respect, covers her face with her scarf and turns around. She leaves the Pit with slow and dignified steps, ignoring the crowd that now erupts with disappointment.
The two guards hurry to the pole and untie him before dragging him out of the Pit.
“Don’t be too happy,” Polak tells him, “I would sooner die than face what the Beghum has in mind for you.”
Realizing he might yet live, Tarasov’s stomach lurches
seconds after the wave of relief hit him and, unable to control his mind and body, he retches as the wooden gate slams closed behind them.
After giving him some time to recover, the ‘brothers’ pour water on his face to clean him up before taking him to a mud house nestled on the hillside. It is bigger than the others and clay pots stand along the walls with colorful herbs planted inside.
Stepping through the wooden door decorated with a jackal’s skull bearing strange, painted symbols, Tarasov detects a refreshing herbal scent, an odor so pure and sweet that it brings tears to his eyes. The two guards remain outside.
“Good luck, Spetsnaz!” Hillbilly whispers, while Polak remains silent and crosses himself.
With his mind full of doubts about what is in store for him, Tarasov enters the house.
With the Beghum, 12:37:29 AFT
Rubbing his chafed wrists, he wanders further inside and finds himself in a cool, tidy room smelling of herbs, spice and other exotic, but not unpleasant aromas that linger in the air. The earthen floor is covered by tribal carpets. Smaller rugs adorn the white walls among shelves holding a disorderly host of pots, jars and jugs. On another shelf, strange-looking containers are arranged with a few tools among them, their purpose remaining a mystery to the major, except for a copper mortar and pestle.
Facing him is the woman who saved him from the Pit. She sits on a bench beside the hearth, with a girl sitting at her feet. Tarasov recognizes her as the girl who tended to the Colonel’s wound. He wipes the tears and dust from his eyes so he can see her better. From under the scarf covering her hair and the tattoo resembling a gently undulating line on her forehead, a pair of dark green eyes study him curiously. Tarasov guesses that she could be around twenty years old. He can’t help himself shudder again, like he had the first time he saw her scarred face, though now it was for a different reason.
Her eyes…stunning, but old beyond her years.
She is wearing a long, blue gown and a leather belt which holds a long, curved knife. Its scabbard and grip are adorned with precious stones. As she sits there with her legs crossed, her gown permits view of her bare feet and ankles that are encircled by delicate golden bangles.
Tarasov looks at the bare skin as if mesmerized, and finds it hard to turn his eyes elsewhere. The girl feels his stare. After a long minute, making a face that has embarrassment and nonchalance equally written upon it, she covers her feet with the gown.
“Dokhtram tarjomeh mikond”, the elderly women says, “chun man englisi sohbt nemikonam.”
“Beghum not speak English. I will translate,” the girl tells him in slightly broken English, but her voice, surprisingly deep and sultry, causes Tarasov to ignore her mistakes.
“My English is not perfect either,” he rasps, his throat dry and sore from inhaled dust and retching.
“Your knees are trembling. Sit down,” the girl says. Tarasov gladly complies. “Warriors brought you here because we have tradition. If one woman says not to kill the man in Pit, he stays alive.”
“I am… very grateful.”
“First you drink our water.” The older woman passes an earthenware jug to Tarasov, and he greedily gulps down the cool, pure water inside. “Now you are guest of Beghum Madar. She wants speaking to you.”
The woman looks at Tarasov and starts talking in a language he cannot fathom. Now, without rage distorting her features, it appears to him that she isn’t an elderly crone at all. Indeed, she can only just be beyond the years when her face would still have retained some of the attractiveness of her youth, and Tarasov becomes aware of a slight similarity between the two women. While she speaks, the younger woman keeps her eyes on the major. Her gaze discomforts him. There is a quality to it that he can’t stand for too long.
“Daastaani toolani va ghamgin ra bayad be to begooyam…”
“It is long and sad story,” the girl translates. “Beghum Madar is from village where everything began. She survived and knows what happened. She wants to save our leader’s soul.”
Beghum Madar continues. Slowly, her voice becomes more forceful, as if gripped by powerful emotions, while at other times she falls silent, giving the impression that she is telling a story that is hard for her to bear. After a few minutes, the girl speaks up again in an almost humble voice, as if she reinstates words of immense importance.
“Colonel not permitting to talk about our village. But she knows what killed our people. It is still there. Beghum Madar wants you to find it. Colonel is not letting warriors to go there, but you can. She will tell you where it is. You will find it and bring it to him. This is price of your life.”
“If so, that warrior should have left my friend alive. He was innocent, and could have helped me find that thing!”
“Scavengers are not innocent,” she replies without bothering to translate his words to the Beghum. “They are not warriors.”
“The hell they aren’t –” Tarasov begins.
“Quiet!” the girl commands. “You speak bad words. Your friend was a weak man.” Her angry eyes pierce into Tarasov’s but he withstands her look.
“Squirrel was as good as any of your… warriors!”
“Our warriors fight for honor, not money and loot like scavengers.” The girl’s voice softens as she turns her eyes away. Tarasov doesn’t answer back. Inside his heart, he admits to himself that the girl has a point.
“You also not fight for such things, soldier. You fight for something else. When Beghum Madar was looking to your face, she saw shadow of death in your eyes.”
Tarasov frowns. “Please… what is your name?”
“You need not know my name.”
“Whoever you are, I beg you: tell Beghum Madar that I am just a soldier from a land far away, trying to find some lost people.”
She translates his words. While answering, the Bhegum looks at Tarasov with eyes that seem able to penetrate into his soul.
“You were an ordinary soldier once perhaps,” the girl translates, “but what you have seen has changed you. Not here. Long before you came to our land you met death. Beghum Madar sees that you cannot breathe the air of peace. You came from a place that signed… no, marked you with love of danger. This is why you can find our leader’s… medicine.” Uncertain if she has used the right word, the girl exchanges a few quick sentences with Beghum Madar. “It is something he has to see. It will give him peace.”
“What exactly do I need to find?”
“You will find it close to Shibar Pass. Turn south from road and look for village in the valley. Beghum Madar says, you will find a big car with white color on a hill.”
“Your men took everything from me. How am I supposed to do this?”
“I told you: you are now guest of Beghum Madar. Before you leave, everything will be given back to you. But until then you must stay in this house and not go outside. Now rest. Beghum Madar is tired, too. She wants you to leave.”
“But… how can I leave when I must stay here?”
She translates his words.
“Marde shayesteyee baraye to khahad bood.” Beghum Madar replies directly to her, not Tarasov who looks from one woman to the other without a clue. Her voice is hard and commanding. “Be harhaal hich marde dighari to ra nemikhahad!”
The young woman blushes and covers her scar in shame.
“Be entekhab man etemad kon, dokhtra.”
Beghum Madar’s last words must have been comforting, because when the young woman looks at Tarasov again, the coldness vanishes from her green eyes. She looks him up and down with a mixture of anticipation and hesitation.
“Beghum Madar… my mother says you have blood of true warrior,” she murmurs, “and you will stay in my room… because tonight you will make me mother of a warrior.”
This is not happening to me.
The girl leads him into a small room furnished only by a thick, woolen mat. Rays of sunlight lance inside through splits in the crude shutters that cover the arched window and reflect off of dust motes as
they perform their slow, swirling dance. An opening in the wall, covered by a colorful curtain, leads to a smaller chamber.
“Rest here for now,” she says. “You will need your strength.” She gives him a cotton towel and a piece of soap. To Tarasov, in his grimy condition, they smell pure like heaven. “Behind curtain, there is a room with more water to wash yourself. Beghum Madar will bring you food. I come later.”
She shuts the door, and the major hears a heavy lock being engaged. He feels as if he is a prisoner once more.
5 October 2014, 23:42:58 AFT
Dark rain pours down. It would be filthy weather to be out in, but Tarasov is resting his head on the desk in the command room, feeing such an exhaustion that he had never experienced before. He wonders why the view outside doesn’t resemble the Cordon. The lush vegetation has disappeared and the barren hills are full of crevasses from which herds of small mutants stream like ants.
I am back in the Zone. My Zone.
The thought brings him some relief, though he shudders; it is cold in the command room. Through the rain, the drab apartment blocks of Kiev loom beyond the hills.
I am home.
But the watch rosters and maps are gone from the wall, a ragged carpet hangs there instead. Memories from the New Zone flash into his mind.
I want to be back there. The old Zone has let me down. It is not my Zone anymore and I don’t belong there. I want the New Zone. I want its rage, its darkness, its mysteries.
The light goes out and the window’s frame blurs, slowly narrowing and assuming an arched shape. He hears a female voice from above.
I am here.
Tarasov gives a start. Looking around, he realizes he is in the Beghum’s house, in the Tribe’s stronghold, somewhere in the new Zone that had been once Afghanistan. He relaxes with odd, unexpected relief.
“I am here,” the female voice insists. “Wake up!”
Now he sees the girl, a lamp and a jug in her hands, and his heart starts beating fast.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“I not tell… yet. Stand up.”
Her words are authoritative but she speaks with a softness in her voice that Tarasov wouldn’t have expected. Getting up, he sees that she barely reaches up to his chest. As she removes the tattered camouflage shirt from his shoulders, her fingers touch his skin, stirring excitement throughout his body. She stands close enough to let him detect the sweet aroma of female sweat, mixed with a strange scent that reminds him of pomegranates with a hint of wood smoke. She takes a small sponge from the jug and pours a balm-like liquid over his shoulders and chest. The salve emanates a spicy scent, pungent and pleasant in equal measure.
“What is this?” he whispers.
“An ointment,” she replies, moistening his skin with gentle strokes. “I prepared it myself from herbal oil and powder of glowing stone.”
“Glowing stone? You mean, an artifact? A swag?”
“No… it is from stones of Samal.”
“Samal?”
“Guardian of lost valley.”
“Tell me more…”
“No.”
As his coarse skin absorbs the salve, Tarasov is aware of a relaxed sensation in his muscles, as if they are thawing from inner warmth. It is pleasing but strangely unnatural. He feels her touch becoming more and more sensual with every stroke of her hand.
“Have you done this to men… before?” he asks, swallowing hard.
“No.” It seems to him as if her voice carries a barely concealed note of shame. “Men are scared of my scar. English is funny language. Men are scared because I am scarred. Is that right word?”
Now it’s his time to reply with a no. “No. I think beautiful would be a better word.”
“You lie,” she replies, with the nuance of a smile on her lips.
“Are you with me because your mother ordered you to… do this with me?”
“Why?”
“Uhm… actually, because I wish you were doing this because you wanted to.”
Now a smile runs across her face, like the smooth oil streaming down on Tarasov’s body. “Before Colonel and his Marines took us in, girls could not refuse if parents chose a man. But now I could have… and did not. I was watching you when I was healing him. You had respect of him.”
“Honestly? He was frightening.”
“He is. But you remained proud. You didn’t beg him for mercy like many men did before you. You are a brave man, soldier. Besides…” She moves her index finger along Tarasov’s eyebrows. “…you have beautiful eyes. And besides…” Her hand slides down over his neck and shoulders to his chest. “…you are strong. I like you. Do you have a woman, soldier?”
“No… and does all this mean that I will be your man?”
“Maybe,” she replies with an enigmatic smile.
“And after we do this, and I find whatever I have to find, what then? Will I be free to leave?”
“You will be free…” She kneels down at his feet, applying the soothing balm everywhere except his loins. She looks up to his face. Their eyes meet. Her hands, softened and warmed up by the balm, now touch his body where no woman has touched him for a long time. “…but you will not want to leave.”
What is that thing you’re pouring over me, Tarasov wants to ask, in fear of being bewitched by some supernatural act of sorcery, but all he can do is to emit a soft moan. Looking at the girl’s face on which the last evidence of shame has vanished, making way for a barely withheld, wild desire that yet has something pure and honest about it, he moves to caress her. She gently pushes his hand away.
“Lay down now,” she tells him.
Looking up from the mat, Tarasov watches the girl remove her scarf. A rain of dark brown hair falls over her shoulders, streaming down to her delicate hips. She loosens the buttons on her apparel, letting it slide to the ground, then takes the jug and pours the balm slowly all over herself, standing motionless with her eyes closed, letting the viscous liquid flow down on her sinewy body.
Now he sees that her scar doesn’t only cover half her face. It runs down through her neck to her breast, making the untouched, inch-width space between her nipple and the scar look like divine intervention or at least mere luck.
His glance glides below, to where a woman is supposed to be touched in the most gentle way and where her skin, from where even the thinnest of hair had been plucked, reveals scars left by long claws or knifes.
The orange light from the lamp glimmers on her small breasts and hardened nipples. Her lips move in an inaudible whisper, as if praying. The warm oil flows down her body. Mesmerized, Tarasov’s eye follows a drop of oil run down from her aroused breast to her scarred belly, then to her inner limbs and drop down, as if it were the moisture of her flesh.
Then she looks down at him. The reflection of the flame dances in her eyes.
““Will you give yourself to me?”, she says solemnly, as if concluding a mating ritual.
“Even if I had a choice – I could only say yes.”
“Then you are my man now,” she whispers, lying down at his side. She closes her eyes and stretches out her arms, offering herself to him. “And I am your woman. Take me.”
Her voice is barely more than warm breath in his ear. Feeling her lips touch his skin, he closes his eyes, succumbing to the waves of heat engulfing his body.
6 October 2014, 06:08:51 AFT
Tarasov awakes to a loud knock on the door. From under half-opened eyelids, still heavy from sleep, he sees light falling in through the window. It must be morning.
Damn it, let me sleep. If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.
The knocking gets impertinent. Tarasov stretches his arms and, feeling that the girl is not lying beside him, buries his face into the mattress to detect the smells of sex, oil and sweat again.
“You don’t have to look for me like that. I am here.”
Tarasov opens his eyes and sees the girl standing at the door. What he took for knocking was actua
lly her nailing his father’s photograph to the wooden door.
“It is my surprise to you,” she says. “Because this is your home now.”
“Hey,” he exclaims, jumping up from the mat, “where did you get that photograph from?”
“Driscoll was here. He brought your things.”
She points to the corner where Tarasov’s Vintorez stands propped against the wall, a neatly rolled bundle sitting beside it. His watch lies on top. The exoskeleton stands there too – cleaned, and to his surprise, now bearing the desert pattern camouflage of the Tribe warriors. Moreover, in a much smaller bundle he recognizes a few things that had once belonged to his guide. Even the Heartstone is there. The sight of it, and that of Squirrel’s battered little harmonica, saddens him, but this soon makes way for appreciation. In hindsight, he now fully understands the girl’s words about the difference between Stalkers and the Tribe.
Men like or the Colonel might be brutally cruel, but they seem to have more respect towards certain things than the Stalkers… and Stalkers could be nice, but they’re not called scavengers without reason.
“Hey… that’s great!” Tarasov joyfully exclaims as he straps on his watch. “But out of all this, you are my best surprise.”
The girl giggles. “You don’t have to call me ’best surprise’. My name is Nooria.”
“Nooria,” Tarasov slowly repeats. “At last you tell me. You have a beautiful name.”
“It means: light. And your name is Mikhailo. What does it mean?”
“Archangel, leader of Heaven’s armies, things like that,” Tarasov replies with a shrug. “My mother was very religious at that time. But how do you know?”
“I have been looking through your things.”
He gets up and steps to the door. For a moment he feels like taking the photograph down, but as he looks at the girl called Nooria and her – or by now, their – mattress, which is still in a mess from the intense night before, he leaves it in its new place.
“Thank you, Nooria,” he says. “Thank you for everything.”
“For what?” Nooria replies with a smile. “Say thanks to my mother.”
Tarasov doesn’t know how to reply. Clearly, it was the Beghum who saved his life and who eventually put him up with her daughter, but it was Nooria who had accepted him and, although it feels difficult for him to admit, made him happy. Now, as he looks into her pure, green eyes and sees the happy smile on her scarred face, his suspicions about being used as a buck or being bewitched seem utterly ridiculous – even unfair.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says, repeating her meaning. “Today you will go away, but you will return to me.”
Her words sound neither like a request nor an order but a statement about something that needs not to be asked, because there is no way for it to happen otherwise.
“Yes, I will,” Tarasov softly replies, and looks at the photograph fixed to the door with four rusty nails. “You got me nailed, Nooria… nailed for good.”
“Tora dost daram,” Nooria replies.
“What does that mean?”
“I think you know already,” she says and turns her gaze away from Tarasov’s eyes.