The Lost Puzzler

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.

“You’ll get us all killed, boy. In the name of the Prophet Reborn, try to calm yourself.”

“These infidels have no honour. We must be ready,” argued his older brother, but he eventually relented and hid the pistol under his garments.

It was midday, and Rafik wanted to pray before they left the Round Wheel, but Simon said there was no time for that, they needed to be back in the tavern before dark.

“This place is not like your village or mine, Rafik,” he explained. “The guild’s men are concerned with taxing you but not protecting the peace unless it is in their interest. We must not be caught out during darkness, or we might attract all manner of trouble.”

It sounded reasonable, but still, there had been a lot of missed prayers, and Rafik was beginning to suspect his uncle was perhaps not as devoted to the Prophet Reborn as he should be. It was more than a bit unfair, since Rafik was the one who was cursed, and he needed prayer now more than ever.

When they were done with cleaning and feeding the pony, Rafik tried to argue again about the prayer, but Fahid snapped at him to shut up.

Rafik was positioned yet again between the two grown-ups and was ordered to walk between them, and keep his mouth shut and his bandaged hand in his pocket.

Soon all thoughts of prayer were gone from his mind as they made their way through the biggest crowd Rafik had ever seen. Everyone was armed, even the women. The second thing that struck Rafik regarding the people of Newport was their hair. Some men had hair as long as a woman’s, and many of the women had hair as short as a man’s. To Rafik, this fact alone was astonishing, and he caught his brother staring as well.

The streets were wide but covered with potholes full of dark, foul-smelling water. Most people walked, but every once in a while, a truck would drive through the crowd, which parted expertly, as people stepped to the side so as not to get run over or sprayed with muck.

“Just stay calm, both of you,” Simon said quietly. “If I’m right, the place shouldn’t be far from here.”

The Prophet Reborn must have been angry at his uncle, because they had to ask people for directions and backtrack several times, but eventually they reached a door with a sign above it saying “Dominique’s Bar.” The name “Dominique” flashed red every so often but her last name stayed dark all the time.

“Follow me and … well … just keep close,” Simon ordered and pushed open the door. They stepped into a kind of shop. As they walked in a group of men were laughing loudly, and one of them got up and immediately fell over for no apparent reason, which made everyone else laugh even harder. More than a few of the men turned and glared at them menacingly.

“Stay close and don’t drink anything,” warned Simon. “And in the name of God and the Prophet Reborn, put away that gun, Fahid. You are making people nervous.”

Simon led them slowly through the room. People were standing or sitting, but every single one of them was drinking from a cup or a mug, which struck Rafik as odd. There was also a strange, rhythmic music emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once, but Rafik could not see any bards or musical instruments, so he assumed the musicians were upstairs or in the basement, which seemed a very strange place to put them. Rafik’s village tolerated travelling bards, and they were allowed to sing and play to the men of the village and entertain them with news and stories from the world. Rafik and Eithan were fascinated by them and never failed to secure a secret vantage point from where they could enjoy the show. The biggest troupe that visited in Rafik’s lifetime consisted of four musicians, and they came only once and had to leave in a hurry after one of them was caught talking to a woman. There must have been at least six or seven of them here, concluded Rafik, yet his brother and uncle didn’t seem to pay any attention.

They walked farther inside. Rafik wondered if this was a den for Tarakan sinners, like the ones mentioned in the holy scripts sixteen times, a place that sold poisoned water, and all who drank from it would burn in hell for all eternity.

“I am looking for Khan Carr,” Simon said to a burly man. The man turned and pointed sluggishly towards a table at the back corner, where a large group of men sat, surrounded by smoke and plenty of upturned jugs. When they approached the table, two of the men got up and moved towards them. Words were exchanged, bodies were patted, and weapons put aside for safekeeping, but the situation was not tense, since a shaggy-looking man at the table recognised Simon.

“Banishla,” he bellowed and moved away from the table to hug Rafik’s uncle. The man was thin, almost gaunt, with short-cropped grey hair and black eyes that missed nothing. He wore a black tunic stained with grease and a pair of trousers like most truckers wore, made of a rough-looking blue material. His boots were the shiniest Rafik had ever seen.

“Banishra,” Rafik heard Simon mumble under his breath.

The man waved dismissively, “How are you, old dog? How’s your dear brother, eh? We have to drink to his life and health.”

“These are my nephews, Fahid and Rafik, sons of Sadre Banishra. Boys, this is Khan Carr, a dear friend of your father.”

Khan Carr shook hands with Fahid and added a pat to Rafik’s head. He stank of smoke and other less recognisable but equally repulsive odours.

“Fine boys, from a fine man,” he declared with what Rafik thought was not a sincere voice, yet Fahid stuck out his chest with pride and stood a little taller.

“Master Carr,” Simon began, looking nervously at the guards surrounding them.

“Call me Khan, my friend,” Khan slapped Simon on his shoulder.

“As you wish …” Simon’s unease was apparent.

“Sit down, have a drink with me, we’ll get something for the boys to eat? They look hungry.”

“Khan, I need to talk to you, privately,” Simon said firmly, and stood his ground.

The small man paused for a few heartbeats, then his manner changed and he said quietly, “I see that you did not come here to sample my fine brews and reminisce. This is business, yes?” He glanced at the two brothers. “Or perhaps it is about something else altogether? Fine, follow me, then.”

He led the three of them to a small room, which was less noisy and, just briefly, less smoky. Only one other man came into the room with them. Tall and lean, he had a short greying beard, which did not cover the ugly scar on his left cheek, and he carried a large handgun at his belt. He took his place by the door and focused his stare at a point on the far wall.

Khan produced a black pipe from his pocket, lit it with a silver fire maker, and blew stinking smoke from his mouth and nostrils. Several chairs and tables of various sizes were placed in the room without any logical design and after being prompted by Khan everyone sat down. Rafik sat on one of the smaller stools.

“I need your help, Khan,” Simon said as soon as the door was closed. “Sadre needs your help.”

Khan blew more smoke from his mouth and said, “What is it?” in a dry, calculating voice.

Simon turned to Rafik. “Show him your hand.”

Hesitantly, Rafik took the bandage off.

Khan blew another puff of smoke, thankfully to the side this time, before placing the still-smoking pipe gently on a side table.

“Come closer, son,” he ordered, but not unkindly. “Do not be afraid. I owe your father and uncle much and will not harm you.”

Rafik walked cautiously closer, without raising his eyes from the floor, and thrust his hand forward. Only then did he dare look at the man’s face.

Khan’s eyes went wide. He swore under his breath and grasped Rafik’s hand, spreading Rafik’s fingers wide and staring at the markings for a long time. He kept breathing in and out and mumbling to himself so softly that even Rafik could not understand what he was saying.

Eventually Khan let go of his hand, and Rafik snatched it back and hid it in his tunic pocket.

“You understand our problem, yes?” Simon asked gently.

“Perhaps,” Khan answered carefully, “you should spell it out for me, so we can avoid … any misunderstandings.”