The Lost Puzzler Page 8

  Rafik blinked away tears. His uncle said they were going to find a man who would know how to cure him. He clung to this hope with all his will. It would all be a great adventure and soon he would come back home, cured. Besides, he did not feel like an infidel; he still believed in God and the Prophet Reborn. He still prayed devoutly every morning. He didn’t feel the need to attach anything to his body like the infidels did, or to maim and kill innocents. He concluded this was all some kind of misunderstanding. Clearly the Prophet Reborn was testing him in some way, the way the Prophet himself was tested. Rafik swore to himself that he would pass this test and remain pious and true to the faith no matter what happened.

  “When are we going to stop and pray?” he asked, but received no reply.

  When Rafik asked again, Fahid muttered something noncommittal just as a barrage of rocks rained down on their cart. Most of the stones fell short but one stung Rafik’s back. The pony almost bolted in panic and Uncle Simon swore loudly. Fahid jumped off, leaving enough space for Rafik to turn around and see their attackers. There were nine boys spread across the hill, and Rafik knew them all. Half of them ran up the hill when they saw Fahid but a few stayed and picked up more rocks.

  Normally Fahid had tolerance for pranks, but this was not a normal day. He cocked his gun and shot once over the boys’ heads, causing them to drop the rocks they were holding and scurry away in panic. The cart jerked violently as the pony tried to bolt again.

  “Why in the Reborn’s name did you do that?” Simon bellowed. “They must have heard that shot in the village. Now we must hurry. Seriously, to waste good ammunition on such things . . .”

  Rafik was once again wedged between the two nervous men. He did not watch the road ahead, or pay attention to his red-faced brother. He was still looking behind him at Eithan, who was the only boy who did not run away after the shot was fired. They were close enough to recognise each other but too far away to meet each other’s eyes. With a shout of rage, Eithan suddenly flung the stone he was holding at their cart. It fell short, rolling on the road until it came to a stop. Then Eithan turned and ran up the hill.

  15

  I shook my head in disbelief, even though I knew that Vincha was telling the truth. I had met too many liars on my journey, and I knew the difference. “I’m surprised they didn’t kill him outright,” I said.

  “No, they just chopped his fingers off.” Vincha’s voice was venomous.

  “You can’t beat fatherly love,” Galinak remarked from behind me. When I glanced back at him, he was shaking his head. “Rustfuckers.”

  Vincha shrugged. “Some people get all messed up and do all kinds of shit when they first find out they’re marked. The worst is what they do to themselves. I knew a girl who plucked her own eyes out.” She levelled a meaningful gaze at me.

  “Yes, it’s true these things happen, especially in rural areas,” I said, “and most of the time the severed or maimed part does not heal itself or grow back, although this isn’t the first time I’ve heard of such a thing.”

  I felt their attention on me almost as a physical sensation and added, “But I’ve never heard of it happening to an adult. Most likely the regeneration can only happen during adolescence.”

  Vincha nodded and stroked her cropped hair. Galinak broke the awkward silence.

  “Are you going to finish the eel?” he pointed at both our plates. “They get poisonous once they’re cold, and it would be a shame to throw good food away.”

  Without a word both of us handed our plates to Galinak.

  “I guess we all have similar stories, every one of the tattooed,” said Vincha softly.

  I turned back to her and nodded. “For me it wasn’t so bad,” I said, feeling I should strengthen the bond I was slowly establishing with Vincha, in order to encourage her to continue with her story. “I was . . . I am from a well-off family, and Wilderners aside, the purges were already tapering off when my marks emerged. My family protected me.” I looked straight at Vincha, thinking, The way you protect your own, but she didn’t catch my eye.

  “My mother tried to kill me when I was born,” said Galinak suddenly, “but I think she was just on a bad Skint trip or something. Both of my parents were marked, so their fear was that I would be born, you know, a naturalist.”

  This time I wasn’t sure whether he was bluffing or not, so I just shrugged and focussed my attention back to Vincha. “So the boy ends up here, and . . . ?”

  “Hold your trigger, soldier,” she said with a smirk. “You paid well and good to hear the story, so I’ll tell it to you as it was told to me. When you reach my age, you learn to appreciate the slow things. Like Galinak over there.”

  Galinak grunted something rude under his breath and busied himself picking eel skin from between his teeth.

  “When I came back from the Valley, I went cold natural,” continued Vincha, “unplugged, vegan, call it whatever you like. As soon as I got over the craving sickness I went to the boy’s village, to see what happened to his family. Even though I was without any augs, they shot at me. If you think they’ll get used to us in time you’re wrong, Twinkle Eyes. It’s the same in all the outlying villages: some towns are dangerous, no matter what religion they follow. Makes me wonder how many of us got butchered out there just for having been marked.”

  “And how many died for having a simple skin rash.” I nodded, trying to nudge her back to the story.

  “And for a bunch of zealous religious freaks preaching the Prophet Reborn and trying to go back to the pure old ways, they sure packed some nice, modern weapons, if you get my drift. They don’t mind that part at all, never did. Anyway, I didn’t give up and finally caught up with this Eithan fella. He wasn’t very cooperative at first, downright hostile, to be honest, but”—her eyes glinted mischievously—“I have ways of endearing myself to young men, with or without augs.”

  “You broke his ribs, didn’t ya?” said Galinak, smacking his fist to his palm for effect.

  Vincha shrugged, but her smile broadened. “I made him talk, shall we say, in various pitches of voice, and in the end he told me what I wanted to know. Even with the boy gone, the gossip was too much. Fahid’s wedding was called off a half a year after Rafik left, the village spat the Banishras out.” She spat on the floor to emphasise the point. “Bunch of backwater rust arses.”

  “Did Eithan ask about his friend’s fate?” I asked.

  “Not in the beginning, but before I left he asked me if I knew how Rafik was faring. I told him the truth. Eithan just shook his head and said, ‘No, he is alive, I would know if he was dead.’ I thought it was an odd statement, but I couldn’t stay long enough to talk to him further since there was already a manhunt after me. I thought if I lingered any longer I might overstay my welcome.”

  “I would have stayed.” Galinak’s smile was full of eel and bad intentions.

  “And that’s why your skull is fractured in so many places. Half of your brain leaks away in those rare moments when you shower, dear.”

  They began exchanging insults again, like bored children in the back of a cart.

  “Vincha. The story!” I snapped. “Tell it your way, but tell it, rust.”

  That, for some reason, stopped their bickering. They glared at me for a moment, then burst out laughing.

  “You know, you’re cute when you’re angry, Twinkle Eyes.” Vincha reached over and ran her fingers softly down my cheek. “Don’t worry, little cub,” she purred, seeing me blush. “I don’t think you have the strength or the stamina, to be honest.” Galinak chortled in amusement.

  They went back to their bickering and I watched the two lethal warriors trade insults like misbehaved children until I could bear it no more. My palm hit the wooden table and got their attention. I felt like an admonishing parent when I bellowed “Can you please tell me what happened to Rafik?”

  I guess I said the magic word, because finally she did.

  16

  It took ten days to reach Newport, nicknamed
Trucker’s Heaven, a city Rafik had heard of but never truly believed he would ever visit. Under any other circumstances Rafik would have been ecstatic at the prospect of travelling so far, but when they caught their first glimpse of Newport he felt only anxiety. They were tired, dirty, and aching from the tough ride, and the rationing of supplies meant Rafik always felt either hungry or thirsty or both. With each passing mile the prospect of ever making it back home seemed more and more like wishful thinking.

  On the second and third nights of their journey they stopped and bartered for supplies in two small hamlets. Rafik was ushered into a barn and was not allowed to go outside or speak to anyone, and as soon as the sun was up they moved on. The rest of the nights, they roughed it in the wilderness, pitching a makeshift tent off the road. To save time, they did not try to catch game or even cook on an open fire for fear of bandits. For obvious reasons, they did not purchase supplies in the village for a long journey; they had only taken whatever they could from Rafik’s home. As a result, for several days their rations consisted of stale bread, smoked sausages, and hard cheese, which stank so badly Rafik gagged with each bite he took.

  He suffered from hundreds of itching ant bites, and he spent the travel time wishing for a long hot bath and a soft cushion to rest his aching backside on. Worst of all was the terrible itch he felt in his bandaged hand, but his brother strictly forbade him from unwrapping the linen and even cuffed him over the head when he caught Rafik trying.

  When they were younger, the two brothers used to play pretend games where they travelled together, defeated enemies, and discovered new lands. But it was obvious that Fahid was not enjoying the reality of this particular adventure. He never let go of his gun, obsessively cleaning it or counting and recounting his bullets. Worse, he did not join Simon and Rafik in prayer, excusing himself with the need to take care of the pony when it was obvious he easily could have tied it to a tree and joined them.

  Simon and Fahid took turns guarding their little camp at night. The lack of proper sleep made them tired and irritable during the day, yet they flatly refused to share their burden with Rafik. Every time they exchanged words or even glances, Rafik could feel the resentment in his brother’s eyes. It was not the trip Rafik had imagined when he’d daydreamed about exploring beyond the village’s fields.

  On the seventh day they met two woodcutters who traded a crude but sharp hand ax for a leather pouch and a cloth tunic, and agreed to share food around a tiny bonfire. They were a father and son, both unbelievably strong and incredibly drunk but otherwise friendly and knowledgeable about the way of the land. The son had a wooden flute and knew a few tunes, many of which Rafik had never heard before, but mainly the pair chose to entertain them with stories of the skirmishes and close calls they’d had with a savage local gang of bandits who robbed and murdered their victims, then made clothes from their skin and goblets from their hollowed skulls. That night, Rafik had trouble falling asleep.

  On the eighth day they reached what the woodcutters called the Smooth Road, which used to connect Newport with another city that was now gone and forgotten. The Smooth Road was wider than anything Rafik had ever seen but nothing like its name implied. Its hard surface was so full of potholes that Rafik could not fathom why it was called smooth at all. From there on traffic became more frequent, even though they were approaching Newport from the forest side, which was supposed to be relatively untravelled. Every so often, four- and six-wheeled trucks passed them noisily, throwing dirt and raising dust and scaring their tired, old pony. A few truckers honked their horns or waved from their high seats, but most ignored them completely, leaving them wheezing amid black exhaust fumes and dust. None of the truckers stopped to trade, rightly assuming that so close to Newport, the three had nothing left to barter with.

  The dust and pollution that lay over the valley were so thick it took Rafik a while to notice Newport sprawled in the valley below them. It was the biggest thing he had ever seen in his entire life. It seemed as if the thousands of buildings were part of a single mythical creature, a hundred times larger than his own village.

  Newport had no protective walls. Instead, many roads led into its centre, like the tentacles of a giant beast. Simon explained as a matter of warning that everyone was welcome in Newport as long as you had coin to spend and weapons to protect your wares. Newport was a den of criminals, but the supplies and weapons it sold were crucial to the survival of Rafik’s village and the other communities of the west.

  As the made their way to the city, they caught a glimpse of the shimmering Tarakan highway. Simon explained that this was a road built by the Tarakan infidels to connect their nefarious cities. Only a few of these roads survived the Catastrophe intact. Rafik heard his father once comment that the Tarakan infidels’ cities were so large they filled the horizon, reached the stars above, and were filled to the brim with the most hideous and unimaginable sins. He didn’t really believe such a thing could exist until he saw Newport.

  Truck merchants visited their village about once a month, or more during the harvest seasons and festivals, but only a handful of people from Rafik’s village ever travelled to Newport, and none of them had done so more than once in their lifetime. When I go back home, Rafik thought, Eithan will be so jealous. He would beg Rafik to tell him every little detail of his adventure, with the grand finale being the tale of the curse being lifted. Eithan would apologize for throwing the stones at him, and Rafik would let his friend grovel and beg for forgiveness, but in the end, they would become blood brothers again. Rafik blinked away tears and quickly wiped his eyes with his bandaged hand.

  Two nights before, when Fahid was not paying attention, Rafik had carefully loosened the blackened cloth bandages and took a peek at his fingers. If anything, the markings seemed to have grown larger. The skin on his hand was still whiter than the rest of his body and it tingled and itched. As they made their way towards Newport, Rafik began tugging nervously at the linen cloth until Fahid noticed and cuffed him on the back of his head again.

  After that it took some time before Rafik dared to glance at his brother, who was sitting rigidly, staring wide-eyed at their destination. It was Fahid’s first time in Newport, too, and probably his last. Rafik clenched his bandaged hand into a tight fist inside the dirty cloth. There is a cure—there must be.

  Truck merchants made a living going from town to village, selling and buying whatever was available. Every time a truck arrived at Rafik’s village the merchant would stop a few hundred yards away and signal with his horn. The guards would approach, and if everything looked safe the merchant would be let into the village. Women would hide in their houses while men would come out to the centre of the village and look as menacing as possible. It was important to show force, not only to lower prices but also because many truck merchants cooperated with bandits as a way of buying passage and protection, often selling vital information about a village’s defences. Once business was concluded, men and even boys Rafik’s age would carry merchandise back and forth from the truck.

  When he was younger, Rafik was always amazed at the size and bulk of the trucks. They were immense and scary looking. Cnaan said it would take more horses than his village could gather to move a fully loaded truck, yet the merchant would simply get into it and the truck would move all by itself. On several occasions Eithan tried to explain about the dark magic of the truck’s heart, called engine, but Rafik was almost sure his blood brother was making this up.

  As their cart approached Newport and their road merged into an even wider one, he realised that the trucks that parked outside his village were small in comparison to the ones he saw now. When they finally came into the last stretch before Newport he saw a SuperTruck for the first time, a mammoth of steel that travelled on Tarakan highways at unimaginable speeds. The thirty-wheeler dwarfed all the other vehicles around it. Each of its wheels was bigger than their own wooden cart, pony and all.

  They were forced to move off road as the vehicle rumbled past.
Roughly the same shape and size, the SuperTrucks differed in almost every other aspect including colour, and the number of naked women painted on their exteriors. Rafik had never seen a drawing of a naked woman before, although once he peeked at his bathing sister, and perhaps that was why he was cursed now. He tried to avert his gaze from the drawings every time a truck rumbled past, but his eyes had an uncanny knack of finding their way back to things he was not supposed to look at.

  Slowly the city emerged around them. At the end of the long stretch of road they reached a roadblock manned by a dozen heavily armed men. Fahid gripped his gun with both hands, but Simon told him these men were aligned with the truckers guild. Their job was to inspect and collect tax and then direct trucks to designated parking areas. As it happened, they were in luck; the leader of the men was from a village to the southwest of Simon’s own village, and he had a soft spot for Wildeners, as he called them. He let them through for only a small amount of coin and gave them directions to a tavern called the Round Wheel, which he promised had an adjacent stable and lice-free beds.

  The tavern was a formidable three-story wooden house but the stable looked and smelled as if it had not been cleaned in weeks. Simon went inside and haggled with the owner for a long time, and when he came back outside he was in a foul mood, grumbling that one night’s stay cost enough coin to feed his family for a fortnight. That struck Rafik as odd; he imagined lifting the curse would take longer than one day. Maybe he’d get an ointment to rub on his fingers and then they could go home. Simon had to persuade and eventually threaten Fahid to holster his weapon before they walked out onto the street.