The Lost Puzzler Read online

  Just then, the shark jerked sideways as a mushroom of glowing fire exploded to its side. It accelerated past Rafik, its side door sliding upwards. Rafik threw himself out of the reach of Jakov’s outstretched metallic arm, and as the shark drove away he rolled onto his back and caught a glimpse of Jakov’s scowl. For a moment he was afraid the shark would turn back, but it sped away.

  The ground was surprisingly cool to the touch. Rafik got to his feet and ran back to Sweetheart, just as a large SuperTruck came into view. As Rafik climbed back to the cabin, he heard a voice saying, “Did you say you were having trouble with pirates, Sam? Cause I ain’t seeing many of them here.”

  “Warhead Steve,” the Captain thumped his hands on his wheel, whooping with joy, “speaking of the wrong guy at the right time.”

  “I believe it was you who told me I was a fool for carrying weapons on my rig, Captain,” said the trucker.

  “I believe I owe you an apology and enough drink to fill your haul,” answered Captain Sam. “I owe you, trucker, big time.” He turned to Khan, who was slumped in his seat, looking pale, sweat dripping down his face. “And I think you owe an apology as well.”

  “Me?” Khan raised his head from his hands, “I don’t even know the guy.”

  “Not to Warhead Steve. You called Sweetheart ‘a lump of rusty metal,’” the Captain said in all seriousness.

  Khan took several deep breaths to steady himself before saying, “I wasn’t thinking straight, Captain. I apologize sincerely.”

  “Don’t apologize to me, apologize to her.”

  To Khan’s credit, he did.

  24

  It took them three more days to reach New Denver, one of the larger towns bordering the Tarakan highway. According to Captain Sam, it had a family of competent mechanics. Warhead Steve and his co-driver, Krunk, helped the Captain with the initial repairs before two other truckers showed up and escorted the damaged Sweetheart off the Tarakan highway. It felt like a funeral procession. Sweetheart was in a sorry state, barely able to communicate, and when she did, her voice was broken and distorted. She had almost no auxiliary power, and one of her engines was dead. Her body was torn where blasters had scorched her hull, and she was riddled with bullet holes. Surprisingly, it was Captain Sam who had a cheerful demeanour throughout the journey. He told Rafik he felt like someone who’d found out that his beloved had a terrible accident but was going to pull through, so he didn’t dwell on anything but the necessary steps that would make recovery possible.

  “She can partly heal herself,” he said, as Sweetheart was towed into a large garage, surrounded by repairmen and mechanical moving boxes called bots.

  “All SuperTrucks have self-repair systems, so with enough power tubes she could regenerate her own hull. We truckers look after each other. I’ll get the power tubes quick enough.”

  They watched as the mechanics and the bots moved around Sweetheart like flies around a corpse. Captain Sam sighed, then shrugged to no one in particular.

  “I’ll need help with the rest of the repairs. It’ll cost me an arm and a leg, but there’s a gal up the East Coast who’s a genius with the internal mechanics of SuperTrucks. I’ll drive up to her as soon as Sweetheart feels well enough. It’ll take a couple weeks, but if I get lucky with some merchandise to haul, the trip might even pay for itself. After all that, when she’s ready, myself and some of the boys are going to find this Jakov . . .” He didn’t complete the sentence, but Rafik knew he wouldn’t want to be in the weapon merchant’s shoes when Captain Sam came for revenge.

  Khan approached and stood next to them. “Captain, I say this with all sincerity: I can never repay you for this.”

  Captain Sam snorted and laughed, then spat on the ground and twirled his long beard. “Ah, no, Khan, I took the job. All I want is my original payment when you get your hands on some coin.”

  “I will repay my debt,” promised Khan as he extended his hand.

  Captain Sam did not look convinced, but nevertheless he shook Khan’s hand and said, “I talked to a guy I know, Jeremiah, he’s a youngster driving a ten-wheeler. He’ll be going up the narrow backroads tomorrow, and doesn’t mind the extra company. It will take you longer, and it’ll be a bumpy ride, but you’ll reach Regeneration eventually. And if you ask me, with this Jakov after you, it’s probably better that you stay off the highway for now.”

  Khan nodded as the Captain continued. “This Jeremiah’s quite a character, but as we truckers say, ‘his oil checks out,’ and he even has a few weapons on board, so you’ll be safe.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” asked Rafik.

  Captain Sam turned his head to meet the boy’s eyes. “No,” he said, not unkindly. “I have to stay with Sweetheart and make sure she recovers, but I hope our roads will cross again.”

  Rafik nodded and said what his father would say when he wished for something to happen: “I will pray to the Prophet Reborn for that.”

  The Captain chuckled. “You do that, Rafik, you pray for all of us, and one day we shall meet again and you can solve all of Sweetheart’s puzzles.” He fished Fahid’s knife out of his pocket and handed it back to Rafik. “I didn’t bring you to Regeneration, so I’m giving you your blade back. I even cleaned it for you. Sharpened it, too.”

  Khan and Captain Sam talked some more. Rafik, palming his brother’s blade and feeling guilty and happy at the same time, made an excuse and left the two men.

  Later, when Khan found the boy, he was sitting on a large rock and staring off into the distance.

  “Come on, Rafik,” Khan said gently, “let’s find somewhere to lay our heads tonight.”

  Rafik blinked, as if coming out of a dream, then turned to Khan and spread his fingers wide. “Is this why you’re taking me away?” he asked. “Is this why Jakov is after me?”

  “Put your hand away,” Khan hissed.

  Rafik shook his head and waved his hand in defiance. “Why? Why did I have to leave my village? Why are you and Jakov fighting over me? Why did Dominique and Martinn have to die? Why did Jakov shoot at Sweetheart and Captain Sam? Is it because I can solve puzzles? Why is that so important? Tell me, Khan!”

  “Lower your voice, rust.” Khan looked around nervously.

  “I will not, I want to know.” Rafik was now standing, facing Khan, looking at him with resolve mixed with anger. “Tell me why my family took me away from my village. Why Eithan, my blood brother, threw rocks at me? Why do people shoot at each other over me? Why? I can’t do anything special—why am I so important?”

  Rafik was crying now. Small fists of rage pounded Khan relentlessly until the man had had enough. He caught one of Rafik’s hands, and then the other.

  “Rafik, listen to me,” he said between gritted teeth. “Rust, stop misbehaving or I’ll smack you. As far as anyone here is concerned you are my nephew, so I could break every bone in your body and no one would mind. Look at me.”

  Exhausted from the ordeal on the highway, Rafik gave up struggling. He sagged in place, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast.

  Khan checked their surroundings. When he was satisfied that no one got curious enough to find out what their little drama was about, he spoke in a hushed tone. “You’re a very special boy, Rafik. You can do things that very few people can do. You can solve puzzles. That’s what makes you special. In the truck, you tried those weird puzzle games and after one day you were playing them at the highest levels of difficulty. I know, because Captain Sam told me so.”

  “Those puzzles weren’t difficult for me,” Rafik mumbled.

  “Exactly. That is why there are people who are looking for anyone with your gift. These folks want to find someone like you so much that even people like me know about it. They will take care of you, and teach you wonderful things that I know nothing about. Then it will all make sense. I promise, son, it will all eventually make sense.”

  Khan gently pried Dominique’s glove from the boy’s grip and put it on Rafik’s hand. “We need to go now,” he said, as
Rafik got slowly to his feet.

  It didn’t take long for Khan to find a woman who would give them lodging and dinner in exchange for a few coins and Khan’s offer to chop wood. The meal was greasy; they shared it on one plate and had to eat with their hands, but Rafik didn’t mind. Afterwards, they shared a room that had two itchy cots. Rafik whispered his prayers and washed in a small tub while Khan counted and recounted their remaining coins. When Rafik was done, Khan said he was going out to look for supplies. He left Rafik in the room and locked the door from the outside. Rafik lay on a cot and tried not to think about the last few days. He played with his brother’s blade, and though it was not the right thing to do, he engraved his name on the wooden wall near his bed, and added the name of the Prophet Reborn in the holy language.

  Memories of the violence he’d experienced in Dominique’s bar and on the Tarakan highway kept invading his thoughts, and his fear came back to haunt him. To keep his mind off things, he busied himself searching for patterns in the room. He counted the stains on the walls and the wooden planks of the floor and even the circles the flies made around the closed shutters. The sounds of footsteps and short bursts of laughter came from below. He counted the number of steps taken between the outbursts of laughter. Eventually all the patterns merged into one, and Rafik found himself floating in the familiar void again.

  He played his game on the wall of symbols, ignoring the voices which occasionally penetrated the peaceful bubble surrounding him.

  “. . . You did not tell me you have a boy.”

  “He’s not my boy. He’s someone I’m escorting as a favour.”

  “He’s cute.”

  “You’re cute.”

  “. . . What if he wakes up?”

  “He never wakes up, sleeps like a log, this one, believe me, now come here.”

  There was more laughter and murmuring and sounds, which Rafik chose to ignore. He was by the wall of symbols, playing his puzzle, and the world made sense.

  25

  Jeremiah’s ten-wheeler was in a sorry state; its body was so patched you couldn’t tell which metal was part of the original vehicle. The cabin was tiny in comparison to Sweetheart’s: only one row of soft, worn-out seats, with the driver sitting in the middle. The air flowed only when the windows were open, and whenever the truck stopped or slowed down, the cabin would get unbearably hot. There were no flashing screens, no stories to watch or puzzles to solve. Considering its condition, it was no surprise that the vehicle didn’t speak, and if it had a name, Jeremiah never mentioned it.

  They drove at a speed that would have impressed Rafik two or three months before but now seemed like crawling. When they were driving uphill, the truck would slow to a walking speed and cough and bellow clouds of black smoke that would linger behind them. Rafik could not imagine what it would be like to stand behind the truck when it moved past; the farmers they passed held cloths over their faces for protection and waved their hands in the air to disperse the residue. Apparently the truck had a special engine, which in the eyes of Jeremiah compensated for its slow speed and the smog it created. It could have been fuelled by almost anything: oil, wood, grain, and even certain types of crushed stones. Jeremiah claimed he would never swap places with the SuperTruck drivers, or even the fourteen-wheelers, and, as he said, “have to choose between being a slave to the Oil Baron of the north or bowing to the City of Towers.”

  Despite having a faithful wife, four sons, and three daughters, Jeremiah seemed to be on a single-minded mission to spread his seed throughout his route. Their journey was filled with tales of the trucker’s various conquests, and each village or hamlet brought a new series of such stories, which, Rafik had to admit, were very educational. Rafik wondered how Jeremiah ever had time to actually drive. When not telling stories, Jeremiah sang at the top of his lungs, accompanying himself with a tiny four string guitar while steering the truck with his left leg. The songs were not the kind of poetry you found in the holy scripts, but were more like Dominique’s banter. Rafik’s vocabulary would be greatly enriched by the end of the trip.

  All the villages they visited were closely guarded, with high wooden fences and sentry towers, but once Jeremiah was identified, they were always allowed to drive through the gate and spend the night inside the protective walls.

  “It’s my route,” explained Jeremiah as he checked his appearance in a broken glass, running his hand through greasy, thinning blond hair and spraying himself with a liquid he called “love water.” “They knew my father and now they know me, so I get special prices.” He winked and grinned as he slid out of his seat. “And special treatment, too . . .”

  On their fifth day of travel they arrived at a small town called New Jerusalem. The name excited Rafik greatly, since it was very similar to a city mentioned many times in the holy scripts. The guards seemed to know Jeremiah very well and waved them through in a friendly manner. As soon as they were through the gate, Khan turned to Rafik and made sure he was wearing Dominique’s glove.

  Rafik watched with interest as people moved out of the truck’s way or just stood and watched it manoeuvre through the narrow streets. A few waved at them, and Rafik waved back, although he made sure not to use the gloved hand, just to be on the safe side.

  The village felt similar to his home, but there were certain obvious differences: women wore short sleeves and did not cover their heads, men had short beards and wore their hair long, and the few boys and girls he saw mixed freely. Yet the overall feeling of community was a painful reminder of the family and friends he’d left behind. Jeremiah parked the truck expertly, and he and Khan went out to the awaiting crowd. Bartering took time, and the heat inside the truck was uncomfortable, but every once in a while Khan made sure Rafik was still inside and warned him about getting out.

  Once the business was concluded, and although it was only midday, Jeremiah declared they would be stopping for the night. His gaze drifted to a woman who was standing inconspicuously near one of the small huts with a large, yellow-haired baby in her arms. Khan tried to argue for a speedy departure, but Jeremiah was quick to remind him who was in charge; since both Khan and Rafik had been taken as a personal favour to Captain Sam, they should just shut the rust up. After that Jeremiah actually ordered Kahn to help him unload several items, including a huge wedge of smelly cheese and a smoked leg of lamb. Then he walked away towards the woman without glancing back.

  Jeremiah disappeared into the hut, and the door quickly slammed shut behind him. Khan kicked the dirt in frustration and spat on the ground. He checked again that Rafik wore Dominique’s glove, then ordered the boy to stay inside the truck while he went to look for a place to stay.

  Soon it got unbearably hot inside the cabin. Rafik lowered his window and leaned out, keeping himself busy by looking for patterns. He was too engrossed in his own world to notice a group of boys and girls until they marched past the truck and towards a small, fenced-in field. They were talking loudly among themselves. Just like in Rafik’s village, the boys were constantly teasing one another, pushing and shoving playfully, getting into mock fights, or challenging one another in different ways. The only difference was that there were plenty of girls in this group, and Rafik watched them with fascination as they passed by.

  One boy, obviously the leader of the group, was holding a ball made of leather patches sewn together. They quickly formed two teams, and soon they were competing against each other, each term taking turns kicking the ball around the field with the intent of sending it into a marked area on the opposite side of the field. It didn’t take long for Rafik to figure out the rules. He was fascinated by the game. The best player was a squat boy who charged powerfully through the defence of the rival team to score point after point for his team, but almost equally skilled was a girl who was faster and nimbler than any of the boys and was quickest to cover the length of the field.

  After a while a woman came and ordered one of the boys to stop playing and come with her. Subsequently, his team began lo
sing badly. Once it was obvious that it would be unfair to continue playing in such uneven circumstances, the kids huddled together and tried to re-form the teams. There was much arguing and shouting, and it seemed they would soon come to blows.

  Then one pointed at the truck and said something. They all turned and looked straight at Rafik, who immediately withdrew to the inside of the cabin. The fast girl detached herself from the group and strode purposefully to Jeremiah’s truck. As opposed to the girls in Rafik’s village, she did not avert her eyes but sought his, looking up at him with an open, challenging stare.

  “Can you play?” she asked. Her accent was strange, but Rafik could still understand her words.

  He shrugged, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Well? Can you or can’t you?” she snapped, impatiently tapping her foot.

  When he failed to answer she said, “Oh, never mind,” and turned to leave.

  “Wait.” He heard himself say and pushed his body forward. “I’ve never played this game before, but I think I know how.”

  She stopped and turned back, “Really? You think it’s that easy?”

  He thought about it for a moment and then nodded, accepting the unspoken challenge.

  “Then you’re on my team,” she said.

  Rafik pushed the door open and jumped down. She stood almost a head taller than him, with short black hair, light green eyes, and a narrow face. She stuck her hand out and said, “I’m Rijana.”

  He hesitated, understanding instinctively what he needed to do. But his hand must have had a mind of its own, as he found himself shaking hands with the girl. “Rafik,” he said weakly, realising too late he was wearing Dominique’s colourful glove on his other hand.