Jebel rolled away and squeezed his eyes shut, and although he didn’t get any sleep that night, he didn’t open his eyes again until morning.
The camp came alive at dawn. The bald, thin, miserable-looking people exited their tents like ghosts and drifted to the clearing within the triangle, where they knelt and launched into prayer. Jebel and Tel Hesani knelt with the rest of them, near the back, beside the woman whose tent they’d shared.
Prayers and self-mutilations lasted an hour. Then they returned to the tents and dismantled them. It was quick work and they were soon on their way. There was no breakfast save for water, which was passed around in a dirty leather flask.
They marched west in triangular formation, chanting solemnly. Most scratched themselves as they limped along, opening or widening wounds on their arms, legs, and faces. Some stuck pins into their flesh or cut themselves with knives. A few carried whips and flailed their backs. The only one who didn’t mutilate himself was Qasr Bint, who strode at the head of the group, leading the chanting.
They passed several villages. When the villagers spotted the parade, they dived inside their houses and didn’t emerge until the chanters were long gone.
Jebel wanted to ask Tel Hesani if he knew who these people were, but he didn’t think he had permission to speak. Except for the chants, nobody had exchanged a word all morning. He didn’t dare break the unspoken code—he suspected that the penalty for doing so would be a savage whipping or worse.
There was no pause for lunch. They marched until afternoon. Occasionally some would fall and struggle to rise. Instead of being helped up, they were surrounded by their companions, who kicked and poked them until they clambered to their feet. The victims of these beatings never complained. Nor did they thank those who had struck them. They just marched as before, softly chanting.
Shortly before they stopped for the day, the woman whose tent Jebel and Tel Hesani had shared fell and couldn’t rise. She’d fallen a few times and been bullied back to her feet, but this time she just lay there as she was kicked and punched. When they realized she couldn’t continue, one of the men whistled sharply. At the head of the group, Qasr Bint lowered his gaze and circled back. He stared at the woman for a moment, then said, “Now, daughter, it is your time.”
The woman’s face lit up. “Thank you, master,” she wheezed, tears of joy trickling down her filthy, bloodstained cheeks.
Qasr Bint nodded at the people around the woman. They picked her up and tore her robe from her. Her flesh was a mass of cuts, scars, and seeping wounds. The woman tottered, then wrapped her arms around Qasr Bint. She tilted her head back and he kissed her. While their lips were joined, he stuck his hands out. A knife was placed in each by his followers, the blades long and curved. Still kissing the woman, Qasr Bint placed the tips of the knives to her sides and pressed in. He drove each knife all the way in to the hilt, left them there a few seconds, then wrenched them out.
Blood gushed. The woman yelped and collapsed. Qasr Bint returned to the head of the group, and the march continued. The woman was left behind to thrash in the dirt and die.
Jebel and Tel Hesani trembled wildly, shocked by the lewd violence, but also filled with a terrible sense of dread. If this was how they treated one of their own, what hope for the um Wadi boy and his slave?
Finally Qasr Bint stopped in the middle of nowhere, stepped off the track, strode into the middle of a field, and dug the tip of his walking stick into the dirt. His followers unpacked their belongings and began to set up the tents.
“Where do you think we’ll be sleeping?” Jebel whispered. Tel Hesani shrugged. “Do you know who these lunatics are?”
“No,” Tel Hesani said, barely moving his lips. “Be quiet.”
When all of the tents had been erected, the people gathered in the center of the triangle. Loaves of bread and several large fish were taken out of bags, broken up, and passed around. Everybody took two chunks of bread and one piece of fish. The fish weren’t cooked, and the bread was almost hard enough to snap their teeth, but Jebel and Tel Hesani ate ravenously. When all had eaten, a bag of raw potatoes was opened, and each person was given one. Then mushrooms were handed around, and finally a fruit that tasted like a sour plum.
Qasr Bint didn’t eat with the others. He stayed in his tent. After dinner, everyone knelt and prayed again. Jebel and Tel Hesani shuffled across to join them, but a man with crazy green eyes shook his head and pointed at the tall tent. They shared an uneasy glance, then advanced to the tent, where they stopped, wondering how to announce themselves. Before they could decide, Qasr Bint said, “Enter, my sons.”
Jebel had been expecting grandeur, but the tent was no different from the one they had slept in. Qasr Bint sat cross-legged in the center, and there was no sign of a blanket or cushions. He gestured for them to sit, then began talking.
“Your names are unimportant. All of my children abandon their names when they join my noble mission. But I will have them anyway.”
Once Qasr Bint had committed their names to memory, he continued. “We are the Um Biyara. Biyara is the world of the afterlife, where the spirits of the rich go when their bodies die. You are aware that usually only a wealthy man can buy a place for his spirit in Biyara?”
Tel Hesani shook his head, but Jebel nodded, recalling his lessons at the hands of Blair and Bush.
“Our gods are as materialistic as we are,” Qasr Bint explained. “They welcome the rich and damn everybody else to nothingness. But wealth is not just measured by the amount of swagah a man accrues over the course of his life. There are other ways to earn the favor of the gods.
“The wealthy families of Abu Saga used to hate the Um Biyara, because we brought hope to the masses. For generations they hunted us and tried to stamp us out. But now many of them have seen the error of their ways. They realize that by aligning themselves with the Um Biyara, they increase their chances of finding a place in the afterlife.”
Qasr Bint rocked backwards, a glint in his eyes. “We knew our day would come if we waited long enough, and now it has. The rich have sought us out in recent times, eager to ensure that they are accepted by the gods when they die. For decades such liaisons were kept secret, but that is changing. Even the high lord acknowledges us now. We can express our beliefs openly, and our more powerful followers protect us from those who would cut us down.”
Tel Hesani coughed politely. “What are your beliefs, exactly?”
“All people are sinners,” Qasr Bint said. “The gods forgive the sins of the rich—every Um Saga accepts that fact. But we believe that there is hope for the poor too. If they atone for their sins by punishing themselves, and offer up their suffering to the gods instead of swagah, the gods will look kindly on them. Once fully cleansed, they can be killed, and their spirits will prosper in Biyara.”
“Killed?” Tel Hesani frowned.
“Of course,” said Qasr Bint. “We cannot leave them to die a natural death. They are weak creatures. They would sin again if given the opportunity.”
“You mean all of the people with you will be slaughtered?” Tel Hesani gasped.
Qasr Bint nodded. “For some, death will come soon. For others it will be years, maybe decades. It depends on how much punishment they can take. A person’s capacity for pain is linked to the magnitude of their sins. One who has sinned lightly will tire shortly. Grievous sinners struggle on longer. Every last sin must be clawed, cut, burned, and whipped out of a person. Once they reach that exalted state, they earn the acceptance of the gods, and we grant them a blessed execution on the spot, before they are infected again by the foulness of this world and lose their place in Biyara.”
Tel Hesani stared at Qasr Bint, appalled. The Um Biyara chuckled. “You don’t understand. I didn’t expect you to. But I will help you see the light.”
Tel Hesani shook his head. “It may be foolish of me to say this, but your beliefs are immoral. Holy men should seek the good in people, not the bad.”
“But that is what
we do,” Qasr Bint argued. “We expose the good by whittling away the bad.”
“No,” Tel Hesani said. “You encourage people to see wickedness in themselves where there probably isn’t any. I cannot believe that any god would accept pain and suffering as payment for a person’s spirit. No god could be that vicious.”
Qasr Bint’s forehead creased, and there was a long, uncomfortable silence. “I see now,” he muttered. “You have been sent to test me, to make me bring any hidden doubts to the surface and examine them.”
“What makes you so sure that we have anything to do with you?” Tel Hesani asked. “Maybe our paths crossed by accident, not design.”
Qasr Bint laughed. “You are a true demon! I’ll have to stay on my toes around you. But that is as it should be. Feel free to challenge me. I will answer all of your questions and strive to convert you to the true religion.”
“And if you can’t?” Tel Hesani said.
“Then I’ll kill you anyway. If a spirit can’t be saved, it must be extinguished for the good of everyone else—we can’t have you running around infecting others with your vileness.”
“So we’re damned either way,” Tel Hesani said bitterly.
“Not at all,” Qasr Bint protested. “Dead if you win and dead if you fail, yes. But not damned. If I convert you, your spirits will be saved—the gods accept those of other nations too, once their price has been paid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to meditate.”
Qasr Bint gestured towards the exit. Tel Hesani rose, but Jebel remained sitting. There was one question that hadn’t been answered, and he was curious.
“Yes, my child?” Qasr Bint said.
“Your followers,” whispered Jebel. “You say they’re all sinners and that’s why they have to cut and whip themselves.”
“That is so,” Qasr Bint agreed.
“What about you?” Jebel asked. “Why don’t you torment yourself? Are you rich?”
Qasr Bint smiled condescendingly. “I am not wealthy, no, but I am not a sinner either. I am one of the fathers of the Um Biyara, a direct link between the living and the dead. My blood is pure. I have been raised without sin; therefore the gods will accept my spirit when I die.”
Jebel gulped. “Then why don’t you let us kill you, in case you commit a sin in the future? Other people are killed once they’re cleansed. If you’re already clean, why not offer yourself up now, to ensure the safety of your spirit?”
Qasr Bint’s expression darkened. “Get out,” he growled.
Jebel rose and smiled grimly at the leader of the Um Biyara. “You’re nothing but a twisted trickster who likes to watch people suffer,” he said, then walked out ahead of a stunned Tel Hesani and a quivering Qasr Bint.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The slow, steady march continued over the next few weeks, the same pattern as the first day—prayers to begin with, a meager meal at the end of each day, and more prayers when they camped.
After a couple of days, some of the Um Biyara asked Qasr Bint why the slaves were not punishing themselves. He said it was because they weren’t converts. The Um Biyara asked if it was wise to let an unclean pair march freely with them. Qasr Bint slept on the matter and was struck by inspiration during the night.
“Although you do not see the need to suffer,” he told Jebel and Tel Hesani the next morning, “we see the need within you, and we must help you find the path to redemption.”
Since then Jebel and Tel Hesani had been whipped, struck, and kicked every day. The Um Biyara ripped out chunks of their hair, prodded them with pins, and ran flames over their skin. One night, as he and Tel Hesani squatted at the rear of the praying group, Jebel studied his array of bruises, burns, and cuts, and sighed. “You must love this,” he said bitterly, rubbing spit into a deep burn to try and soothe the pain. Angry tears glittered in his eyes.
“How so?” Tel Hesani frowned.
“The slaver has become a slave. I bet it fills you with delight.”
Tel Hesani sighed. “You have learned so little about me. I could never enjoy seeing another person enslaved. I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone, not even Bush and Blair, although if anyone has ever deserved slavery, it’s that pair.”
“But surely you want your enemies to pay the way you’ve paid,” said Jebel.
Tel Hesani shook his head. “Slavery is wrong. While there’s even one slave on Makhras, the world is a lesser place.”
Jebel’s face crinkled. “But after all these years of captivity… your family held too… suffering at the hands of cruel masters… you must hate. You must want revenge.”
“No,” Tel Hesani said firmly. “The Um Aineh are committing a terrible crime, and they will live to regret it one day. You can’t hate those who are harming themselves. Instead you pity them and try to help them if you can.”
“You’re a fool,” Jebel sneered, the way he had been brought up to as a loyal Um Aineh. But secretly he envied the slave, and although he would have denied it if accused, part of him wished he could have been raised to see this as a world where kindness towards your enemies was a sign of nobility, and not, as he had been taught to believe, a mark of weakness that merited punishment by the gods.
Qasr Bint spent an hour or two most days preaching to Jebel and Tel Hesani, filling them with the doctrines of his religion, urging them to pledge themselves to the Um Biyara. Tel Hesani argued with him sometimes, but there was a vein in Qasr Bint’s forehead that throbbed when he was angry. Tel Hesani kept a close watch on that vein and quickly went mute whenever he saw it pulse.
The Um Kheshabah had discussed escape with Jebel, but the world was covered with a white crust in which their footprints would be visible if they ran. The winds of a storm might mask their escape, but the storms hadn’t returned yet. Also the Um Biyara were paying close attention to them. Tel Hesani had edged towards the perimeter of camp a few times when nobody seemed to be looking. Each time an Um Biyara popped up out of nowhere, guarding against any possibility of escape.
Tel Hesani thought their best chance might come when the Um Biyara stopped at a town or village to convert the locals. He hoped that he and Jebel could slip away while their captors were busy saving spirits. But the Um Biyara never stopped except to replenish their supplies. Tel Hesani decided to ask Qasr Bint where the converts were going to come from.
“The lands west of the as-Sudat,” Qasr Bint replied. “There are many factions in Abu Saga. We have won the support of high lords in the southeast, but they fear a backlash if we operate too close to home.
“So we go to the scattered settlements of the west. Most mines lie south or north of the great mountain, Amud. But there’s an area around it that has either been mined dry or isn’t worth excavating. In a few isolated pockets, outcasts have settled. Those are the sinners we will target. If we prove ourselves in the wilds, we can then focus on the homesteads closer to Disi.”
“Then this is a trial run?” Tel Hesani asked.
“Of a sort,” agreed Qasr Bint.
“How do you plan to convert?” asked Jebel.
Qasr Bint smirked. “You’ll find out soon, my son. We’ll cross the as-Sudat in a few days. After that it’s a short march to the first village. All that I’ll say is that it will be memorable.” He winked monstrously. “Most memorable indeed.”
They crossed the as-Sudat four days later, over the fabled Erq Assi Jeh rock bridge. There were several natural rock bridges stretching high above the roaring torrent of the river, but most were impassable, thin, and narrow. The Erq Assi Jeh was an exception, the width of six men and thick enough to support many more.
Crossing the Erq Assi Jeh was supposed to bring a person good luck, and many Um Saga came here on pilgrimage, but rarely at this time of year. As Jebel crossed, he found himself thinking that he and Tel Hesani would need more than luck if they were to escape the clutches of the Um Biyara.
He paused midway across the bridge to glance over the side. They were high above the river. If he fell, he’d sure
ly die. That wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. One brief fall, a hard crash, the escape of a quick death…
“Be careful,” Tel Hesani said, taking hold of Jebel’s arm. “The wind is strong.”
“I was thinking…” Jebel whispered, staring at the river.
“I know,” Tel Hesani sighed. “I was contemplating it too.”
Jebel’s gaze snapped around. “You?” he gasped.
“Doubt finds its way into all men’s hearts,” Tel Hesani said sadly.
“It would be swift and painless,” Jebel said, looking at the river again.
“But final,” Tel Hesani murmured. “We must stay alive and hope.”
“That’s what I told myself when I was robbing graves,” Jebel said hollowly. “The belief that I might be able to escape and complete my quest kept me going. Now I’m not sure. Maybe…”
Jebel stared hard at the roaring water. Tel Hesani said nothing. He couldn’t save the boy if he chose to jump, so he waited for Jebel to make his decision.
Jebel looked up, and his expression cleared. “No,” he said. “This isn’t my time.”
“Nor mine,” Tel Hesani smiled, then guided Jebel back to the center of the bridge, where they rejoined the procession of Um Biyara on their way west.
Heavy snow hit the day after they crossed the bridge, forcing them to a halt. The snow fell for three days, causing the Um Biyara to wonder if this was a sign from the gods that they should turn back. Worried about the success of their mission, they huddled together and prayed for guidance. They were led in prayer by Qasr Bint, who had abandoned his tent to be with his people in their chilly hour of need.
It would have been a good time for the pair of slaves to flee, but the storm was too fierce. If they left the camp now, they’d die of cold within hours.
On the fourth day, with no sign that the storm would break, Qasr Bint gambled. He issued an open challenge to the Biyara gods—stop the snow within the next six hours, or the group would retreat. For five hours it looked as if his gamble would backfire, as the snow was driven on harder than ever by savage winds. But then, unbelievably, the wind dropped. By the sixth hour it was clear enough for them to break camp and march.