The Color of Black

By Cheryl Steinmann

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

            THE SUN ROSE blinding and merciless. Soon the temperature would be unbearable.  In the distance a dust cloud was visible. He licked his lips, half in anticipation, half in thirst as he peered through the binoculars. His triumph, his destiny, would soon become real. Let others have their physical thrill that was not for him. His orgasm was power. Control over events. Control over people. Ultimately, control over the world.

The sun reflected off the windshield of the approaching vehicle, sending a stab of light into his brain. Lowering the field glasses as the land rover crested the rise, he stood patiently, fighting the urgency he felt in his blood. He could be as patient as the grains of sand, slowly reclaiming and burying anything that stood in the way.

The heat rising from the desert made the air dance and shimmer. As he stared into the distance, his thoughts raced.  His father. His people. The attempted Jihad.

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He was born Alarak Xerxes Iskandar. His mother Fatimah, a woman of strong faith, had a vision before he was born, that vision portrayed him as a leader of men, of countries. Ruler of all. And so he was named.

His father was Sheik Abdul-Jamal Iskandar, the respected leader of a large and powerful tribe. They had lived in this section of the Zargos Mountains for generations.  With the disruption of the government came the disruption of their lives. Renegade soldiers would raid the encampments, kidnapping the women and stealing the livestock.  The men of the tribe retaliated by ambushing the soldiers and seizing the weapons. The guns were dispersed among the men providing an adequate stockpile. Long nights were spent around the fires planning the coup which would avenge their tribe.

In another camp, far away, General Pahlavi reclined in his plush, leather chair, reviewing his latest orders. He was to recruit eight unseasoned soldiers for a scouting party. His troops were vanishing in alarming numbers, making him anxious. Undeniably, there would be deserters, but what disturbed him most was the possibility of insurgents. Resistance would not be tolerated. The renegades must be crushed.  The official orders he had received were quite clear.

When dawn broke red and hot over the horizon, three carriers left the compound.  The General’s jeep lumbered up the barren hillside while the other two traveled on.

Mozaffer was ready to come off watch when he spotted the dust cloud. Definitely a vehicle. Perhaps several. Mounting his horse he rode swiftly to warn the camp.  Once there, he quickly dismounted and headed directly for the Sheik’s tent, where Abdul-Jamal was stealing a relaxed moment, deep in his own thoughts.

He looked up as Mozaffer disturbed his serenity, sensing an urgency in the man’s arrival. As Mozaffer spoke of what eh had seen, the leader listened intently. He had known it was only a matter of time before the inevitable. After dismissing Mozzafer, Abdul-Jamal spoke briefly with Jettah od-Din, who had been crouched in a dark corner of the tent, polishing his rifle. He marched purposefully into the bright sunlit day to rouse the warriors.  All were battle ready in short order.

Taking the lead, Abdul cut a commanding figure, his long desert robes blending the lines of man and beast into one being. The warriors of the tribe flew over the unforgiving terrain like skaters on ice. Pounding hoof beats sent gravel skimming through the air. Not far ahead the jeeps could be seen still advancing. Soon both riders would confront the enemy.

As General Pahlavi sat watching in the cover of his jeep, the young recruits ahead rounded a bend and nearly plowed through the mounted warriors. The taste of panic was strong in their mouths.

The young soldiers knew the reputation of these nomad warriors. Everyone had.  When they left the compound earlier they never dreamed they’d have gotten into a situation like this. They were trained to fight a civilized enemy, not these desert savages on horseback. The jeeps came to rest end to end amidst the fierce warriors.

Abdul-Jamal peered down his straight nose at the young driver of the front jeep, while his men sighted their rifles on the other soldier’s heads. The frightened rookies looked worriedly from one another to the cruel looking men on horseback, wondering the outcome.  Jettah od-Din dismounted with a hostile flourish and opened the driver’s door. 

Suddenly, a shot rang out from the second jeep. Jettah od-Din dove to the hardscrabble ground as his companions opened fire mercilessly, peppering both vehicles with their automatic weapons.

When it was quiet, a muffled, wet groaning was barely audible. Unfortunately, a boy in what was left of the second jeep was still alive. Jettah od-Din picked himself up from the dust and approached the vehicle cautiously. He jerked open the door and dragged out what was left of the survivor. Violently throwing the boy up against the jeep caused a second moan to escape his shattered lips.

“How many more? Whom do you seek?”  he spat venomously, giving the young soldier a vicious shake. The dying boy coughed spasmodically, spraying Jettah od-Din’s robes with blood. Try as he might, he could not articulate an answer. His brain told him he might live through this, if only he could respond. His death warrant was signed, as he could not utter a word. 

            He thought of his beautiful young wife and their young child, his mind and body reeling with shock. His last thoughts were of his family, his baby girl, making love to his wife. He saw these as through a cloud, muddled but somehow, still a bright light in his mind. He knew he was going to die.

“He is of no use to us,” Abdul-Jamal said, calm and cold,  “Kill him.”

Jettah od-Din let go of the boy who fell to his knees. His attempt to stand was his last act. Unsheathing his saber, Jettah od-Din brought it down so swiftly it flashed through the youth’s neck, quick and clean with barely a sound, except a slight gurgle. The head rolled through the dirt and came to rest under one of the horses, mouth agape, sightless eyes turned toward the heavens. The horse shied and lunged, landing one hoof smartly on the head, squashing it with a horrible crunching sound. Finally, what remained of his body collapsed to the dust.

The nomad warriors set the jeeps ablaze before returning to camp. Thick black smoke rose lazily in the hot desert air. Some time later, General Pahlavi saw the smoke and when he heard nothing more from the soldiers, he guessed what had happened. It was not by chance that most of the men he chose had no families. He knew it was not deserters they had found, but rather the nomadic desert warriors. He ordered his driver back to the compound. From there he would leave for Hanafi.

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Countless times Alarak had watched the men ride out and return, but never had they returned in such a frenzy. Sheik Abdul decided it was in their best interest to move. The camp was in a turmoil. Alarak and his brother, Ja’far Mohammed, helped their mother prepare for the move. Alarak watched his father stride from group to group, giving orders here, listening patiently there. He saw his father as an honorable man fighting to maintain their way of life. As Abdul drew nearer his eldest son, he waved the boy over.

“Alarak,” he said, gently pulling the boy closer, “the fight today was small. The time is soon when the true call will come. The faithful of our tribe are many. We must gather all for the next battle. It will be cruel and bloodthirsty, yet, I feel our people will prevail. When it is done, I will return for you and you will learn the ways of Kings. You will rule the tribe until I return. So it is said, so it is done.”

Alarak looked into his father’s eyes and saw a fierce determination there. He also saw into the depths of his father’s heart and felt the warmth for him. They looked at each other, each riding his own wave of faith and emotion.

The shout of voices and trample of hooves broke the spell. Abdul stood with his hands on his son’s shoulders. He gave Alarak a small smile, patted him on the back and turned away.

Abdul-Jamal Iskandar strode purposefully toward the band of warriors and mounted his horse. Alarak felt his heart dim at the sight. His father was indeed a leader of men. But Alarak couldn’t rid himself of this strange sense of loss. It already felt cold where his father had been.

Swiftly the warriors were astride their mounts and eager to ride. Abdul rode his proudest stallion, Buraq. The lineage of this horse was as fine and as old as the name itself. His black coat shone with hints of red in the unforgiving sun. He tossed his head impatiently and snorted. Abdul-Jamal leaned forward and spoke softly into the animal's ear. It had an immediate soothing effect on Buraq. Abdul looked at his eldest son once more. Alarak returned his father’s gaze unflinchingly. Sheik Abdul-Jamal Iskandar raised his rifle into the air, gave a loud cry and the warriors stormed off, raising a thick, choking cloud of dust. By the time it had settled, they were out of sight.

Alarak turned to the task that lay ahead. His heart was heavy for his father, but at fifteen years of age, he was aware of what must happen. The battle was not for land or pride. It was a fight for life. A fight to the death.

Ja’far and Fatimah had finished loading their things and were waiting for Alarak at the head of the caravan. He walked past the women and children, all that remained of his tribe, to take his rightful place in front. With every step he gathered his strength. Each family he passed eyed him with awe. As he drew near, he looked at his mother, holding her head high. Her piercing eyes and proud mouth strengthened his resolve. He was the ruler of the tribe now and he would rule as his father had done. Alarak drew himself to his full height, climbed on his horse and led the caravan.

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As the fragmented tribe neared the safety of Dur Untashi, the warriors spread the word to the other encampments. All the members of the tribes had been prepared for this day. The women were packed off for safety and the men were headed for the city of Hanafi. They would go into hiding there, awaiting further orders.

While the nomads were mustering forces, General Pahlavi was carrying out his orders. Shah Mustafa Kamel had been furious at the General’s incompetence, and it was sheer genius on the General’s part that kept his head on his shoulders.

“You blithering fool!” roared the Shah at the news. “You sent eight children to certain death and we still have little or no information. What are their numbers? Who are their operatives? How well are they armed?” The Shah paced wildly, his golden robes flowing behind him. He suddenly spun around and slammed his fist on his desk.

“You will stop them! I will not abandon my palace to shepherds and camel drivers!”

Despite the coolness of the marble interior, beads of sweat appeared above General Pahlavi’s brow. A growing fear in the pit of his stomach made it difficult for him to think.

“We will double our troops in the city,” he blurted out, “ and we will double our informants’ ah, what we could call ‘benefits.’ You could order a curfew and special passes for the townsfolk.” The General wiped the sweat from his brow, but the fear remained.

“These are limited measures, at best,” said Shah Kamel resolutely. He seated himself behind his massive desk and folded his hands in front of him.

“I, too, am of great faith,” he said slowly, “As are my nomadic opponents. It’s a shame we are on opposite ends. Our hearts burn with the same fire. You, General, will tend to these things. I will remain here. So it is said, so it is done.”

General Pahlavi left the office knowing all too well how close he had come to death. He knew too, that the Shah must stay. Leaving the city would cause a mass exodus and it would leave the palace free for the taking.

While the General was giving orders outside the palace, the nomads were finding refuge among their comrades in Hanafi. Long before the new hour of curfew was in effect, the influx of warriors was complete.

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Alarak’s caravan had arrived at the cavern of Dur Untashi without event. The dark cool interior was a welcome contrast to the oppressive heat of the desert sun. The caravan had crossed the salt plains as quietly as a mirage. Even the young children had been silent in the sweltering heat. As they neared the mouth of the cave, Alarak felt a slight, cooling breeze against his face. His steed snorted happily at the cool air. Alarak put a hand to the horse’s cheek, calming him. As the ruler of the tribe, he would wait until the last member of the caravan was safely inside before he entered.. He pulled his horse up sharply and to the side of the entrance. Only when the last member was inside did he allow himself the full pleasure of the cool cave air.

Ja’far helped their mother unpack as Alarak gave directions. It seemed a natural thing, taking command of the situation. He calmly appointed tasks without hesitation. They would need lookouts. The older boys of the tribe were well trained in the use of firearms. Alarak gathered his young troops around him and scheduled guard duty. His orders were accepted without question. These junior warriors understood. Their fathers had rode off to almost certain death to insure the tribe’s way of life. They would now do what they must to protect the women and younger children.

Afterwards, it was time for the evening meal. The fires set the cave glowing and gave it a comfortable atmosphere. Countless generations of Alarak’s tribe had found safety in its ancient darkness. The history of his people was thick with strife and seemed doomed to repeat itself. He leaned back and stared into the darkness at the vault of the cave. The smoke from many fires had blackened the rock. He felt in his heart he would not see his father again. An image of his future rose in his mind as he remembered his mother’s words. He would be the leader of armies. Nevermore would his people go into hiding. He would lead them out of the darkness.

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General Pahlavi’s troops methodically walked the silent streets of Hanafi as night fell. They patrolled in groups of three, keeping sharp eyes to the front and side. The Elite Guard protected the Shah. Tension at the palace was high.

Sheik Abdul-Jamal and Jettah od-Din had passed word among their men. They in turn passed it among each other. Tomorrow at noon, when the sun was high in the sky and the soldiers seemed almost casual in the heat, the nomads would make their move. They would stealthily ambush the patrols in the early morning, one by one, remaining practically unnoticed. The townspeople would supply ample and willing coverage. Certainly some patrols would remain, but they were of small consequence. The palace was the main objective. The Shah was the reward.

For now, at least, let the soldiers walk the night and get comfortable with the sleepy streets. Their comfort would be their undoing.

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Morning crept in slowly, belying the heat and turmoil of the coming day. Merchants were stopped by weary patrols and questioned briefly. Showing their passes, the townsfolk continued about their business. The soldiers strolled among them, speaking with them here, inspecting goods there. The patrols were young and quickly tired of this fruitless effort. They longed instead for the coolness of their homes and a lengthy rest.

Sheik Abdul and his men were outfitted in the clothes of the locals. The streets were now filled with people. Some of the patrols stood languidly in doorways, trying to dodge the sun. I made no sense to check passes now, they thought. The palace guard would ultimately watch over everything.

The door upon which three young soldiers leaned on was abruptly yanked open. They landed hard, sprawling on the wooden floor, their weapons clattering out of reach. One of them almost laughed at their folly, seeing what appeared to be an ordinary merchant grinning down at them. Abdul-Jamal stonily looked past the hapless young man to Mozaffar. Now, grasping the seriousness of their plight, one soldier made an attempt to lunge at Mozaffar, only to impale himself on the war blade Mozaffar had drawn. Screaming silently, the soldiers’ lifeblood pooled at Mozaffer’s feet. The other two soldiers’ brains now registered the danger to themselves, and they made to arise. Abdul forcibly pushed one to the floor while Mozaffar handled the other. As if reflected in a mirror, the two desert nomads simultaneously cut the soldiers’ throats savagely, slashing through to the spine. Their white robes were spattered with the blood of the young soldiers. Sheik Abdul and Mozaffar straightened slowly and appraised their work. It had been done quietly, quickly and efficiently.

They changed into crisp, clean robes, leaving the bodies where they lay. There was no need to be overly cautious, as soldiers would be disappearing all day. What a day this would be.

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Jettah od-Din and Ilek-Khandi stood watching a patrol haggle with a wine merchant. Striking what they thought was a bargain, the men laughed and nodded while digging money from their pockets. The merchant handed the goatskins to one man and took the money from another. He had accomplished his task.

The older soldier led the way, the two younger men followed eagerly. As they entered the quiet alleyway, the coolness of the shadows fell about them like a cloak. Propping their weapons against the wall, they anticipated the smooth wetness of the wine on their parched throats. Out of respect to the older soldier, the two recruits waited patiently as he drank his fill. He lowered the wine sack and motioned for them to open the other one. This they did, gladly and quickly. As the young men savored the wine, the older man leaned his head against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes.

Caught up in their own small pleasures, the soldiers were oblivious of the two men approaching them. Jettah od-Din was within striking distance of the older soldier, who stood still with his eyes closed. Jettah od-Din reached out and cleanly cut the man’s throat, and he sputtered and coughed. The two young men turned toward the sound only to receive the same reward. Before the bodies hit the ground, a door in the shadows opened. Four men appeared, withdrawing the bodies and weapons from the alley, before their blood left any trace of violence in the dust.

Jettah od-Din and Ilek-Khandi stood watching another patrol approach the wine merchant. Oh yes, it was a good day for wine.

These critical scenes replayed repeatedly throughout the city that morning. Sheik Abdul-Jamal and his fighting men had many comrades in Hanafi, who were willing to offer much reinforcement. For too long they had also suffered under the Shah’s rule and were willing to risk their lives to be free of it.

As the sun rose higher in the sky the nomad warriors closed in on the town square. The animated clatter of the open-air bazaar would provide adequate cover. The colorful merchants’ tents and robes of the women gave the day a festive air. Laughing children chased one another through the crowd. An icy stab cut Abdul’s heart as he thought of his own family. How many people would die this day, he could not predict. He felt his own death drawing near but was unafraid. There was never time nor place for fear.

Abdul-Jamal cleared these thoughts with a shake of his head. The palace was set at the north end of the square, with the sun reflecting white hot off the smooth stone face. Two ominous looking soldiers stood guard at the inner gates. Shah Kamel had ordered the outer gates left open so as not to heighten suspicion. The soldiers on the roof had abandoned their post to seek brief refuge inside.

The sun now stood high and motionless in the sky. The time was here! Sheik Abdul-Jamal Iskandar’s voice pierced the air with an ear-splitting war cry, and the men in the crowd echoed it. Women screamed and scrambled to find their children, ducking under the cover of the bright tents.

The ready nomads surged toward the palace in one body. The two guards had raised their weapons, firing openly into the surging throng. Several warriors fell. One clutched at the gaping hole in his belly, his intestines slipping through his fingers. Another lay motionless, his head blown in two. The nomads returned fire at the guards savagely, suspending them against the wall with gunfire. As the tattered, bloody bodies slid to the ground, the sharp stattico of a machine gun erupted from the roof. The guards had returned quickly to their positions upon hearing the pandemonium. They fired in a wide arc at the rear of the advancing unit. Several men were halted, thrown back forcibly by the impacting bullets. An old woman, mesmerized by the scene, was caught full face by a blast. Her head disappeared in a bloody vapor, her heart  pumping gushes of blood out the stump of her neck until her body teetered and crumbled, it’s blood flowing onto the dry, gray earth.

The men at the head of the melee stormed the palace doors, shooting anything that moved. Their numbers were dwindling but they remained relentless. For every man that fell, the remaining hearts grew more determined. They must, for the main body of the guard was protecting the Shah in his chambers. There the battle would be bloodiest. Men were continually wounded and died as they made their way resolutely through the palace.

Abdul and Mozaffar led the way down the cool corridors toward the Shah’s hiding place. The palace guard rounded a corner in front of them and opened fire. Bullets tore mercilessly into the bodies of the warriors. Abdul dropped to the floor and returned fire. Mozaffar stood and brutally arced his weapon into the guards, offering cover to his friend and ruler. Retaliation came in the shape of return fire, shredding his strong body. Fighting men from the rear let loose their fire and finished off the guards with a hail of lead.

When they reached the Shah’s chambers, Abdul evaluated the large guard unit at the doors. Each was armed with machine guns. The warrior’s numbers were severely depleted. As Abdul was about to make the charge, an equally large guard unit arrived from behind. There was a brief firefight in the rear. The startled warriors tried to stand ground, but were slaughtered. Blood spread through the halls like rain running through the streets. The once proud Sheik knew it was over. Only a handful of his men had survived.

The place guards moved in, sandwiching the defeated warriors, collecting their weapons. The new prisoners were roughly lined up against the wall. As the guards reached for Abdul, the ornate doors of the Shah’s chamber opened. Shah Kamel stood in the frame, resplendent in his shining white robes.

“What a wonderful display of courage,” the Shah’s voice lilted over the body-strewn corridor. “’Tis a shame we must oppose each other. You could have served me well, Abdul.”

“I serve no man.” replied Abdul through clenched teeth. He moved forward threateningly and two guards raised rifles to his head.

“No!” shouted the Shah, stopping the guards. Turning to his enemy, he predicted “Oh yes, Abdul, you shall serve me. Brief as it will be, the message will be strong. Your death will serve me well.” Turning to the guards he ordered, “Lock him away safely. Do not cause further damage to him, today. In fact, see to it that his wounds are tended.” The Shah smugly placed his hands together and bowed mockingly to the Sheik. Abdul remained silent as he was led away, humiliation causing his blood to burn.

The Shah walked out and stood on the sunlit balcony, surveying the carnage. Indeed, he thought, these nomads had fought hard. Do they die hard as well?

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Jettah od-Din crawled into the doorway, hiding just seconds before the sound of boots reached his ears. A throbbing pulse pounded in his head. His left arm lay shattered, useless at his side. A bullet had creased his temple, causing blood to stream down his face. The flow was slowing now as it gelled in the hot air. Another bullet had ripped a sizable chunk of his side away, exposing the works within. Painfully, he crawled through this dark and quiet home toward the rear. He could hear the stamping of hooves and nervous snort of horses. He peered out cautiously. Surely, this could not be! He must be dreaming or worse,  dead. Buraq, the Sheik’s own valiant steed stood before him. Jettah cooed to the stallion as he crawled forward. Grasping the reins in his teeth and the stirrup with his one good hand, he pulled himself up. Leaning on Buraq for support, he wondered the fate of the animal’s owner. What had befallen his brother? What vile scheme was the Shah planning?

A coughing fit sent pain searing through his body. Black patches danced before his eyes. Alarak. Dur Untashi. I must not die yet, he thought. There will be time for dying, but first, I serve the King. I must reach the new King.

He pulled himself across the saddle, struggling to remain conscious. As he righted himself, he leaned forward, wincing sorely and spoke to Buraq.

The proud steed had stood patient and unmoving while Jettah od-Din had struggled. Now he flew like the mythical beast he was named for. He knew what he had to do and where to go. Buraq also had a destiny. He carried this man, whose scent was so much like his master, out of the city and across the arid wasteland. On instinct, Buraq changed course for the cave of refuge.

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As evening advanced along the rough and rocky terrain, Dur Untashi pulsed with new life. The refugee nomads had set up camp deep inside the cavern. The older boys of the tribe stood watch while the women prepared the meals. Ja’far Mohammed and Ali Najif manned their post on the outer rim of the cave. The cooling night air helped relieve them of the stress they felt while anxiously waiting some news.

Suddenly, Ali pointed into the distance. Ja’far squinted and lifted the field glasses to his eyes. He saw a dark horse carrying a rider, slumped in the saddle, swaying precariously as the horse ran. As the pair drew nearer, Ja’far was startled to see it was Buraq, his father’s horse.

“Ali, go below and bring me Alarak,” Ja’far ordered. Ali went without question.

Ja’far descended from his perch, reaching the ground as Alarak emerged from the cave. Horse and rider were plainly visible in the setting sun. It was clear the man was injured. His face was buried in Buraq’s thick mane, blood steadily oozing from a hole in his side. The horse stopped in front of the two boys. Ja’far took hold of the bridle. Alarak caught the man as he was about to collapse to the dirt. Dismay and alarm filled their faces when they realized this was their uncle, Jettah od-Din.

“Get mother!’ shouted Alarak, fighting the fear that threatened to crack his voice, “Hurry!”

But his brother had already disappeared. Fatimah knew the healing ways. She had learned them from her mother. All the ancient prayers and potions, she knew.

Alarak looked down into his uncle’s face.  He wondered how he had managed to travel so far in this condition. His was a determined people. Jettah od-Din was among the very determined. His head had leaked so much blood, one eye was solidly caked shut. Jettah coughed weakly and looked up at Alarak with his clear eye.

“We have failed,” he whispered. “The Shah…. Abdul….Tomorrow….”

That was all. Jettah od-Din Iskandar was gone. He had endured excruciating pain during his ride. He told the new King. Now, he could die.

Fatimah came running from the depths of the cave with Ja’far fast behind her. Seeing Jettah, she knew her bag of herbs and potions would serve no purpose. She looked at her eldest son with a mixture of pride and apprehension. Now he was truly ruler of all. Blood from his uncle’s gaping wound had soaked his robes. He raised himself, carrying his uncle’s lifeless body. Fatimah studied her son’s face closely. He returned her gaze. They both knew what he must do.

Jettah od-Din’s body was washed and wrapped in his shroud. Alarak watched the process quietly. It was as if he were watching a dream. He gnawed the tasteless jerky more from habit than from hunger. His body needed food for the journey, but his hungers lie elsewhere.

Midway through the night, the full moon rose. The dust in the air gave it a red, blood-like hue. Buraq had been fed and rested. Alarak led his father’s stallion to the mouth of the cave, where his mother and brother waited. Fatimah took a chain from around her neck and put it on Alarak.

“This chain is from your father, wear it well,” she said, looking deep into his eyes. She stepped forward and hugged him tightly. “You will return to us. I have seen it clearly.” As she let go of him he looked at her and felt her strength. He knew she spoke the truth.

Ja’far came forward and the brothers hugged, patting each other on the back. Alarak took him by the shoulders, “Now, you must keep the watch until I return.” Ja’far nodded solemnly.

Buraq nervously pawed the gray dirt and snorted, anxious to be away. Alarak deftly mounted his father’s steed and looked once more at his mother.

“Ride swiftly and return safe, my son.” she said, pride welling in her voice.

Alarak replied in hid father’s words, “So it is said, so it is done.” Wheeling Buraq about, he left the cave.

As the boy and beast flew across the moonlit landscape, Alarak kept his mind clear. What-ifs and fantasies had no place now. He knew he would be unable to save his father, that was not the plan. The plan was to get to Hanafi, that was all. He was being drawn to the events of tomorrow like a fly to honey. He only knew he must be there. He fingered his father’s chain and the moonlight glanced off it coldly. Dropping the chain to his chest, he spurred Buraq to full speed, galloping through the night.

The pair entered the city in the pre-dawn-gray. Alarak ducked into the courtyard of a merchant friend to avoid the patrol. As he jumped from the horse, he heard a noise and spun around, dagger at the ready. Seeing the merchant, he relaxed.

“Sales were good yesterday,” smiled the merchant, “the soldiers bought much wine.”

“That may be so,” replied Alarak, “but no amount of wine will make this day a good one. This is the day of my father’s death.”

“Alas, this is true.” sighed the merchant, “This is a sad day for many.”

The two entered the house silently. Dawn rushed upon the land, red and hot and unforgiving. Alarak kept his head clear of thought as he waited. The noise of the streets grew as the morning wore on. When the time of the spectacle was near, Alarak left the house and went into the crowded streets. They had a life of their own, surging and pulsing toward the square.

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As Alarak rounded a corner, he stopped. People streamed around him, pushing and shoving to get a better view. Soldiers had cordoned off an area in the center of the square. A dozen or so of the once proud nomad warriors stood against a stone wall, blindfolded, their arms and legs bound. Two stone pillars stood across from the prisoners. A large, bare chested man stood with his arms crossed, next to one pillar. Beside him there was a smoldering brazier, his sword lay within the coals.

The balcony doors of the palace opened and the crown hushed. Shah Kamel wore a matching red and gold turban and robe. He studied the throng of people and thought, yes indeed, Sheik Iskandar would serve well. Raising his hands to the sky, he let the sunlight land full on his face. Doing this had always made him feel good. When he lowered them, three guards led Abdul to the pillars. He wore an iron collar with a chain attached, being led like an animal. His strong arms were bound in the same manner, the chains wrapped around his well muscled chest. Two guard walked alongside, weapons pointed at Abdul’s head. They brought him to the pillars and spun him around. The chains on his arms were pulled taut and secured to the pillars, leaving him exposed and helpless.

On the balcony, the Shah was pleased. Soldiers removed the prisoners’ blindfolds. They must miss nothing. The Shah waved his arm and General Pahlavi began reading the charges.

Alarak could see his father plainly. His heart was black, his brain had gone numb. The cold stone at his back went unnoticed. His blood was colder.

“Sheik Abdul-Jamal Iskandar, you are formally and rightfully charged, under the rule of Shah Mustafa Kamel, with the crimes of conspiracy to overthrow the regime and the murder of innocent people. The Shah has found you guilty of these crimes, for which you will suffer.”

Alarak stood riveted in place. Try as he might, he could not look away. His hand  absently fingered the chain around his neck. The crowd watched silently, not daring to breathe.

Shah Kamel, standing on high, looked down at Abdul, and with a slight grin, nodded.

“For storming the palace and attempting to take power, you will be relieved of your hands.”

The large hooded man reached for his saber, waving the sharp, hot steel in front of Abdul. The Sheik stared intently into the man’s eyes, the only visible part of his face. The executioner’s gaze faltered as he read the steadfast pride on Abdul’s features. He then raised his blade in the hot air, bringing it down swiftly, slicing one hand off cleanly. Adbul’s body arched in pain as the blade severed his remaining hand. As the executioner slowly reached for the branding iron in the brazier, Abdul’s blood streamed from the stumps of his wrists. When the searing iron met the raging wounds he nearly bit his tongue in two to keep from screaming. The wounds were sealed, the bleeding had stopped. Agony coursed hotly through his veins.

Alarak’s world did a slow roll as he watched his father’s anguish. The smell of burning flesh wafted through the air.

“For having visions of yourself as King, you will lose your eyes.”

The crowd gasped as one being. Alarak’s heart grew cold as stone. He watched, as if in a dream, when the executioner picked up the branding iron, holding it  up to Abdul’s face. An uncontrollable sweat broke out on Abdul's body, but he stood still and proud. He would show them no fear. The prisoners were visible beyond the red hot iron. Abdul was looking at their familiar faces when the iron first struck. The searing pain put his body into shock and he slumped against the chains. The hooded executioner cruelly grabbed Abdul’s hair and pulled his face up. The black and oozing hole of one eye socket stared uselessly at him, the other eye was closed. The burning hot iron slid cleanly through the eye lid and into the orb itself. A thin yellowish liquid seeped out and steamed from the heat of the rod. Abdul’s seemingly lifeless body sagged between the pillars. The executioner threw the iron aside, crossed his arms and waited.

The crowd fidgeted and whispers could be heard. Alarak took no notice. His eyes saw only his father, broken and chained. This was not death with honor, as his father deserved. This was a violation of his people. His people. Alarak was ruler now. While Abdul was dying, Alarak was cultivating a ruthless, bloody, warriors heart. Its color was black.

Sheik Abdul groaned, he was coming to. The Shah nodded to the General.

“For the murder of innocents, you shall be put to death.”

Alarak thought, finally, put an end to this. As the executioner again drew his sword, its cold steel reflected the rays of the cruel sun. He placed the tip just below Abdul’s navel. With a grunt, he shoved so hard it protruded out Abdul’s back.

“FATIMAH!” Abdul screamed as the blade was pulled upward. His guts spilled out into the burning sun, landing in the dust with a plopping sound.

This business finished, Shah Kamel ordered the remaining prisoners shot. As the soldiers carried away the bodies, Alarak sat, dazed. Now he knew. He came not to learn the ways of men, but to learn the ways of war. Black and cold and empty and cruel. These were the ways of war.

Alarak, his senses dulled, was jostled along as the crowd dispersed. Somehow he made his way back to the wine merchant's house. Entering the cool home of his old friend gave him no comfort. He grabbed a wine sack, emptied it, and grabbed another. His brain still numb, he went out back to Buraq. The black steed neighed happily at his approach.. Alarak rubbed the horse’s nose thoughtfully.

“As went our fathers, so shall we go.” He leapt onto the proud stallion and galloped out of the city. Boy and beast rode in that morning, man and beast rode out now.

They pounded across the dismal landscape, Buraq happy to be running and serving his new master, mindless of the tragedy and death. Alarak, lost in mournful thought, played with the chain around his neck. Again, his future came before his eyes. He would be the leader of men. His father would have been proud.

************************************************************************

The rattle and grind of a land rover broke his reverie. Alexander Munroe emerged looking crisp and masculine in his desert garb. His soft blue eyes were shielded from the glaring sun by reflective aviator glasses. Alarak detested these. He was instinctively suspicious about men that hid their faces.

“Commander.” Hailed Alexander, saluting smartly.

Alarak relaxed slightly. “Greetings,” he responded. “It is good you are here, Mr. Monroe, there is much to discuss.”

They shook hands and Alarak was pleased with Alexander’s firm grip. This man would serve him well.

“Come.” He said, with a sweep of his arm, walking toward the bunker entrance. “There is still much to be done and the time is drawing near.”

                                                            Chapter Two

THE MORNING SUN gently danced across the yard. The soft light shining through the trees projected leafy patterns over the lawn. Ashley stood at the patio door with her morning coffee, black and strong, none of that de-caf stuff for her. She had finished her studies at the University of Buffalo and was ready to face the world.

Yeah, the world, she thought with chagrin, the world did not consist of her grandma’s back yard. Although it was a nice place to start. This had been her home for half her life and it felt good to be here.

“Do you want another pastry?” Hattie asked, wiping her hands on her apron as she entered the room.

“No thanks, Gram,” Ashley answered, “I’m fine for now. I have to watch my figure or no one will watch it for me.” Ashley fluttered her eyelashes in mock flirtation.

“Oh Ashley!” Hattie scolded lovingly. “”You can be such a card. Anyway, I wanted to ask you if you’d like to come shopping with Rose and I. She’ll be here around ten o’clock.”

Ashley’s first thought was, just what kind of card am I? Queen of hearts, spades, or worse yet, the joker of the deck? She kept these thoughts to herself, knowing her grandmother might not fully appreciate the humor she intended.

“I was going to sort through all my college junk today. I need to organize some papers, throw others away… Fun stuff like that.” She replied, smiling. “Gram, I appreciate the offer, really. But if I don’t get organized, I’ll never find a job!”

“That’s all right,” said Hattie, disappointedly, “If I see anything you need, I’ll pick it up.”

“Thanks Gram, you’re a peach.” replied Ashley. “Are you sure you don’t need any extra money”

“No, I’m fine on that count, besides, I can bill you later.” joked Hattie, in reply

Hattie turned and walked back into the kitchen. She wanted to check her list before Rose arrived, knowing Rose, being a stickler for details, hated distractions. Rose also hated to be kept waiting.

Ashley walked past her bedroom on the way to take a shower. What a dump, she thought, Bette Davis like. Cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly on top one another, papers were sticking out of one in such fashion it reminded her of a TV commercial. Please, just don’t explode, she thought, giggling. Ah well, first her shower, then her room.

Feeling refreshed after her shower, Ashley dressed in jeans and her favorite Save-The-Whales tee-shirt. She tied her shoulder length brown hair back with a blue ribbon. Now I’m in a clean mode, she thought, and set to tackling the box most likely to burst open. The job went smoothly enough, once she had decided what was rubbish and what was useful. It always amazed her just how much stuff she could accumulate. She swore to herself she must be part packrat. After sorting through her belongings, she respectfully placed the photograph of her parents on her dresser top.

They would have been proud of her. The insurance money had covered most of her education, odd jobs filled in the rest. Now, she was well versed in the art of journalism, if art it was. Her father had said that, long ago. He had been a reporter in Youngstown. She had admired her farther in those days, she still did. She missed both her parents dearly, but life must go on.

“All right already!” Ashley said to herself aloud, “Next you’ll be singing the blues.”

She turned around, hands on her hips, inspecting her room. Looks fit for humans, she thought to herself, smiling. Sunlight streamed between the white eyelet curtains, shimmering off the mint green walls. It spilled across the antique brass bed, reflecting little spots on the ceiling. It was a cheery room overall, and her mood brightened.

Ashley carried a carton of papers to the side porch, Gram’s local recycling center. Newspapers, plastics, aluminum, glass, there was a regular production going on here. Yeah, Gram was something, Ashley smiled to herself. Hattie was a proud woman, but not vain or snobbish. She was civic-minded and played fair. Ashley felt a shadow crowd her heart and wondered how much longer her Gram would be there for her. It was an unconscious though and she pushed it from her mind.

“What is the matter with you today?” she chastised herself. She placed a carton next to the stack of neatly tied newspapers. We’ll have to take all this to Rochester Recyclers this weekend, she thought. Standing up at the sound of crunching gravel, she saw Rose’s old black Cadillac pull up to the house.

“Let me help you with those thing,” she said, bounding down the steps, as her Gram tried to gather the bags from the car. “Jeeze, Gram, did you empty the store shelves or what?” she asked teasingly.

“Oh no, not in the least.” Came Rose’s practical reply. She had always been a matter-of-fact woman. Since her husband’s death five years ago, she had worked as a domestic for a wealthy family. The pay was good and it put her business-like nature to good use.

The three women carried the bags of groceries up the stairs and inside the house to the kitchen. While Hattie busied herself putting things away, Arose helped herself to a good cup of coffee. She had always made Ashley feel a little uncomfortable with her curt manner. Ashley was a bit more easy-going herself. Although, she told herself, after I get another fifty years under my belt, who knows?

“So, Ashley,” said Rose, looking over the brim of her steaming coffee cup, “what are your plans?”

“Well,” replied Ashley, “I’ve sent out a few resumes. So far I’ve received two ‘no deals’ and one ‘no answer.’ That’s locally. I’ll be writing up a few more letters in the next couple of days. After that, I plan to look for some other work to carry me through.” She pulled the eggs and bacon out of a plastic bag as she replied, handing them to her Gram, stationed at the open refrigerator.

“Rose, tell Ashley about the nanny job.” Hattie said impatiently.

“Nanny?” Ashley asked, surprised. “Nanny.” She repeated quizzically.

”There you go.” Rose said, shaking her head. She had half expected that response.

Hattie had finished putting things away. She stood there, looking at the two women, so opposite, yet so dear to her.

“Now, now, girls,” she said in a chiding voice. “Let’s sit down and talk about it. Rose, would you like more coffee?” Hattie asked, pouring herself a cup.

“Thank you, I would.” Replied Rose, seating herself at the oak table. It was in a bright corner of the kitchen, with windows on both sides. The sky was starting to cloud over, sending shadows skittering across the yard.

Ashley came to the table, opened her can of soda and took a chair facing Rose. Hattie sat between the two, like some kind of referee.

“All right then, “ Rose began, “the Williamson’s have been interviewing nannies for a while now. If the Misses likes one, the Mister doesn’t, and vice-a-versa. I took the liberty of telling the Misses about you, Ashley.” She looked pointedly at Ashley. Rose thought Ashley was, at times, too big for her britches. “She would like to meet you tomorrow at two o’ clock.”

Ashley was surprised, to say the least. Rose must have painted her with glowing colors.

“I hope you told her I know little about children.” Said Ashley. This was true. She had baby-sat for friends and gotten along just fine, but a nanny? She wasn’t so sure.

“I told her you were an honest young woman, hard working, diligent and a non-drinker. Lately the Misses has been tipping a few, and I don’t mean just with the evening meal. She is in and out of the house all day, social-butterfly, she is. The boy is five and the girl is three. No diapers to change.”

Rose said this last like it was a done deal. Ashley still wasn’t so sure about it all. Tomorrow at two o’clock. Well, she could at least check it out. After all, she didn’t have any other interviews tomorrow, she thought sourly.

Hattie remained silent through the brief exchange. Ashley looked at her Gram. There was encouragement in her eyes.

“Okay,” said Ashley politely. “I’ll go for the interview. I may not accept the position, but I’ll go.”

Hattie smiled at her only grandchild. She knew that when Ashley made up her mind, it stayed made up.

Rose dictated directions to the Williamson’s family estate. Ashley wrote it all down dutifully, knowing that if she skipped anything, Rose would likely get angry.

Hattie and Rose chatted for a while. Ashley left the kitchen for the sanctuary of her room, her head spinning. Rose was a nice lady, just different, she supposed. How Gram could endure her friendship was a mystery.

As the Cadillac crunched heavily out of the driveway, Rose was pleased. She had done a favor for her longtime friend and it made her feel good. Maybe Ashley could even learn something from it all, she thought. She flipped the gear lever and drove home.

**************************************************************

By noon the next day, the nervous jitters had hit Ashley full force. Crimany, she thought to herself, get a grip girl! It’s not like you’re interviewing with the Washington Post! Her teal suit and a crisp white shell would serve the day. She liked the way the suit changed the color of her eyes to a muted green. She fixed her hair simply, one side held back with a comb, the other tucked behind her ear. She applied her make-up sparingly. Don’t need to look like the nanny-of-the-night, she thought and laughed out loud. She had just put on her mother’s pearl earrings when a light rap sounded at the door.

“Come in Gram.” She called as she put on her white shoes.

“Oh my,” exclaimed Hattie as she saw Ashley, “that outfit looks wonderful on you! You’re sure to make an impression.”

“A positive impression, I hope,” Ashley said. “At least until I find a job in my field. It’s sure not as easy as they said it would be.”

“Things seldom are.” Said Hattie philosophically. “How about a hug for luck?”

“Why, of course!” replied Ashley cheerily, “Don’t leave home without it!” She smiled at her Gram. Without her Ashley would be lost. She stepped back and gave one last glance in the mirror. Ready or not, time to go.

Hattie watched from the porch as Ashley got into her little white Escort. Ashley’s hair shone with gold in the afternoon sun. Hattie’s heart swelled. She loved Ashley as she would her own daughter, had she lived. Ashley waved from the car and pulled out of the driveway.

She followed Rose’s instructions for the drive to a Williamson Manor. From the highway she could see the whitecaps far out on Lake Ontario, frothy ruffles disappearing into the blue. She turned with the road and put the lake to her back, the deep green of the hillside contrasting pleasantly with the blue sky. According to the directions, the gate was just ahead. Large oak trees, perfectly spaced, grew on the left side of the road. The long expanse was broken by an iron gate. Ashley signaled left and pulled up to the intercom. Pressing the call button, she took in the massive stone pillars anchoring the elaborate swinging gates.

“Yes.” Came a tinny voice from the speaker.

“Ashley Skye,” she announced from her car, “I have an interview with Mrs. Williamson.”

“Very well.” Came the dismembered voice. There was a quiet hum as the gates opened. Ashley drove slowly down the curving blacktop. Huge oak trees lined the way. She came to a clearing and glanced around, still no house in sight. When she rounded the next curve, there stood Williamson Manor, nestled alongside a hill. Rose bushes bloomed profusely. Small evergreens studded the front of the building. Two angelic statues flanked the entrance, their wings frozen in flight. Ashley stopped the car in the parking area and walked toward the door.

Some pretty serious dollars behind these walls, she thought. The door opened just as she approached it.

“Glad you could come,” said Rose to Ashley, “Mrs. Williamson will see you in the solarium.” Rose really was glad, but she was all business as she showed Ashley the way.

The greenery in here surpasses that of outside, thought Ashley as she entered the solarium, taking a seat under a palm tree. The room was fifteen feet high, the south wall solid glass. Windows dotted the west wall. There were plants and trees Ashley didn’t recognize. Trailing vines were suspended throughout, and the air had a misty, jungle-like feeling. Ashley suppressed the urge to look for snakes and smiled to herself.

Just then, Mrs. Williamson entered, wearing a crisp, white tennis outfit.

“Ashley Sky, such a pretty name.” Mrs. Williamson said. “I have heard good things about you.”

Ashley stood and the two women shook hands.

“Thank you,” replied Ashley, seating herself. “I must tell you I feel a little out of my element. I’m not so sure I’ll meet your standards.”

“Oh, Rose told us all about you.” Mrs. Williamson said cheerfully. “Ben and I agreed that you would be perfect for the position. That alone was no small task, we disagreed on so many applicants.”

Ashley saw a shadow cross the woman’s face when she said this, but she knew it was none of her business. It seemed like a good time to cross this bridge, but before she could speak, Mrs. Williamson continued.”

“You would have every other weekend off, alternating with Wednesdays. You’ll have your own quarters, of course. You can take your meals in the kitchen. The children don’t have a strict schedule, except Benji’s tutor, that’s twice a week. Although, how anyone can tutor a five-year-old I can’t guess.” Laughed Mrs. Williamson. Pulling a slip of paper from her pocket, she handed it to Ashley. “This would be your salary.”

Ashley felt her eyes pop open as she read the figure on the paper. Unreal, was her first thought.

“Yes.” Was her second, unaware she had vocalized it. She looked up from the paper in her hand, trying to regain her composure.

“Mrs. Williamson, you realize that I’ll still be looking for work more suited to my field, don’t you?”

“Oh, please,” Mrs. Williamson said, “Call me Gabby, almost everyone else does, with the exception of Rose. Now, until some newspaper gets their clutches into you, you can work for us.” She finished, smiling kindly.

Despite what Rose had said, Ashley liked this woman. She wasn’t snobby, like a lot of beautiful, rich women, and beautiful she was. Long blonde hair, large brown eyes, slim but well defined legs. Foregoing her social stature, she almost seemed like someone Ashley could be friends with.

“Well,” said Gabby, rising from her chair, “I’ll show you around and fill in the details. Can you have you things here by Monday?”

“Yes, Mrs., er, Gabby.” stuttered Ashley. “When do I meet the children?”

“No time like the present.” chirped Gabby, leading the way.

*********************************************************************

 

On the drive back to town Ashley reflected on the events of the day. The kids were adorable, she recalled with a smile. Benji and Sara had been outside with the gardener and an Old English sheepdog pup named Reggi. Sara had her mother’s good looks, even at the tender age of three. Benji probably looks like his father, Ashley thought. Steel blue eyes, dark hair and coloring. They seemed to like her as well. Listening politely as their mother explained who Ashley was. Sara jumped up and down, clapping her hands in the air. Benji extended one small hand to Ashley, and she accepted the gesture. Now it was a done deal.

When shown her quarters, Ashley was pleasant surprised. Fully equipped with a first-rate CD player, leather sofa, big screen TV, and brass and glass tables. In the bedroom were a queen size bed, fully made, a walk-in closet and a beautiful, full-length antique mirror. The bath was equipped with a whirlpool tub. When Gabby asked if this would suit her, Ashley could only nod.

Dusk was falling when she pulled up to her Gram’s house. She could see Gram through the window, busy at the stove. Gram turned to Ashley as she entered the kitchen.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“Better than I thought,” Ashley answered. “so good, in fact, I got the position.”

“I knew you would,” Hattie quipped. “Rose told me all about it.”

I wish she’d tell me something, thought Ashley.

“How would you like to celebrate? Big steak dinner Saturday?” invited Ashley. “I’m buying.”

“Then you’re on,” replied Hattie. “Should we invite Rose to join us? She did help you with this.” Hattie knew Ashley and Rose were distinctly different, but felt some show of thanks was in order.

 

“You’re right.” Sighed Ashley. It wasn’t like she hated Rose, she just didn’t understand her. “I’ll call her now, what’s her number?”

“It’s in the book, next to the phone.”

Ashley went into the living room to call Rose. No answer. She’d have to try again later. Meanwhile, I’ll change clothes and get comfortable, she thought.

While Ashley was in her room changing, Hattie put a sudden hand to her head. Her vision swan and steel bands tightened around her brain. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Hattie leaned against the kitchen counter and took a slow, deep breath. She wouldn’t worry Ashley with this one. Next time, she’d call the doctor, but not now. She turned back to the stove and robotically mashed the potatoes.

************************************************************************

Saturday morning after breakfast, Hattie and Ashley gave the house a thorough cleaning, moving the furniture to vacuum behind it, washing the curtains and windows. Ashley found herself washing the top of the refrigerator, cutting through the dust and grime with a strong solvent.

“That’s it!” she announced. “Why am I doing this? Who’s going to see way up here? Gram, did you invite the Nets over?” Ashley looked down at her Gram, smiling. She didn’t mind it all, really.

“Now Ashley, you stop teasing,” Hattie mock scolded. “it just needs doing, so we’ll get it done. Besides we should drop off the recyclables today. Oh by the way, did you try calling Rose today?”

“No, I didn’t get the chance.” Ashley replied. “I’ve been driven like a pack mule all morning.” She gave a poor imitation of a bray and they both burst out laughing.

“Okay, okay.” Said Hattie, holding up her hands, she knew when she was licked. “If you load the car, I’ll call Rose. Deal?”

“Deal.” Ashley answered as she climbed down and went to load the car. Hattie turned to the living room to call Rose. The phone on the other end of the line rang twice before Rose answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi Rose, Hattie here. Ashley and I would like to invite you to dinner tonight in celebration of her new position. You would be the guest of honor.”

There was a short pause while Rose thought quickly.

“Oh, I’m sorry Hattie, I’ll have to gracefully decline. My Ladies Club meets tonight and we’re drawing up plans for our annual craft and bake sale.” Rose tried to interject disappointment into her voice.

“That’s too bad,” Hattie answered a little sadly. “We were looking forward to your company.” She knew the Ladies Club was next Saturday, but respected Rose’s wishes.

“You tow just go ahead and enjoy your meal,” said Rose. “We can get together another time. Say hello to Ashley for me.”

“Oh I will. See you later Rose.”

Hattie replaced the phone in the cradle and looked at it dumb foundly. She just couldn’t understand the friction between Ashley and Rose. Two different women, two different generations. Best to leave well enough alone, she thought. Still, she was grateful for the endorsement Rose had given Ashley. That had been an unselfish act and Rose needed no reward, Hattie knew. Well, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t force one to dinner. The picture this thought brought to mind made her laugh in spite of herself. She went to the porch to see how Ashley was doing.

Everything was loaded into the Escort and Ashley had swept the porch. A pair of work gloves lay on the chair.

“Wherever did you find those?” Hattie asked, standing in the doorway. “I was looking for them last week.”

“They were lying behind the newspapers,” replied Ashley, straightening. “Did you reach Rose?”

“Yes,” answered Hattie, “she can’t make it. Her Ladies Club meets tonight.” She wasn’t sure if Ashley saw through the lie or not. Her expression didn’t change.

“Then it’s just you and me against the steaks, eh Gram?” Ashley smiled. She knew her Gram liked some teasing, it kept her on her toes.

“Until I have to gum it to death, Ashley.” Hattie replied and they both laughed.

They got lucky at the recycling center and only had to wait behind five other cars. After they unloaded, they stopped at a greenhouse along the roadside. Hattie wanted to put a Boston fern in the living room. After picking out a nice specimen, Ashley carefully placed it in the rear of the car and they and they headed for home.

Mid afternoon clouds filled the sky as they pulled up to the house. Ashley took the fern from its resting place and gingerly carried it up the back stairs. As Hattie placed a doily on the small round table, Ashley crossed the room like a bride carrying a bouquet.

“Dum-dum-te-dum.” She thrummed, wondering in the back of her mind when sh’ed be doing something like this for real.

Hattie turned, eyeing Ashley fondly. Her granddaughter would make a beautiful bride one day, she thought.

“Ashley,” warned Hattie, “do be careful with that.”

After lovingly placing the fern on the table, like a crown on a king, the two women stood back and admired the effect. It was pleasing to the eye and gave the room just the right touch.

“Well Gram,” said Ashley, “time to hit the showers.”

“I think I’ll take a short nap,” Hattie said, “you go ahead and have a nice soak.”

Ashley cast a worried glance at her Gram and that shadow again danced across her heart. It was unlike her Gram to take naps. She looked Hattie full in the face, trying to find what was wrong.

“Have you been feeling all right, Gram?” Ashley fought to keep the alarm out of her voice.

“Oh my, yes,” Hattie lied, trying to sound convincing. “we’ve just had a busy day and I’d like to get some rest before we go out tonight.”

Ashley accepted this explanation with some unease. It was a fact Gram was getting older, but this nap thing still bothered her.

“All right then.” Ashley said with a slight smile. “Is there anything I can get you before I slip into the bubbles?”

“No thanks. I’ll be fine after I rest a little.”

Ashley compulsively gave her Gram a hug. She noticed how frail Gram’s body felt in her arms. She stepped back and smiled.

“Then you have a nice rest and I’ll wake you later.” Ashley said, putting her arm around her Gram. As they walked toward Hattie’s room, Ashley had to chase that cloud away again. Knock it off, she told herself, you’ll end up ruining Gram’s evening.

Hattie sat on the edge of the old poster bed and slipped her shoes off. Ashley pulled down the shades behind the fine lace curtains and the room darkened comfortably. After Hattie had positioned herself, Ashley gently draped the patchwork over her. She looks so delicate lying there, Ashley thought with a pang. Pushing unpleasant thoughts from her mind, she left the room.

She went to her room, grabbed her robe off the hook and headed for the sanctuary of the bubble bath. She turned the hot water on full and added a healthy dose of bubbles. When this started to mix, she turned on some cold. No lobster boil today, she smiled to herself. After undressing, she turned the water off. Bubbles had reached the top of the old claw-foot tub and were almost cascading over the side. As she stood, she caught her reflection in the full length mirror on the back of the door. She stepped forward, scrutinizing her body. Not bad, she thought, not bad at all. Her delicate throat led to strong, well-rounded shoulders. Her breasts were full and firm. She ran a hand across the flat plain of her belly and down her shapely hips. She caught her eyes in the mirror, embarrassing herself. She went to the tub, stepped in with long, sleek legs and disappeared beneath the bubbles. As the warm water caressed her body, she drifted off to sleep.

***********************************************************************

She was a girl again, back in Youngstown. Her parents descended the staircase, dressed to the nines. Her mother wore a tea-length black velvet dress, showing bare shoulders and a modest cleavage. The pearl necklace and earrings were the perfect touch. Her father looked handsome in his dark suit, gold cuff links peeking out the sleeves of his jacket. They were going out to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary dining and dancing.

At thirteen years old, Ashley was responsible enough to stay home alone, and besides, she had plenty of homework to keep her busy. She hugged and kissed her parents before they went out the door. Her mother blew a kiss as the car drove off. Ashley watched them drive away, then clambered up the stairs to her room.

Her homework finally finished, Ashley decided to snuggle up on the couch, eating popcorn and watching TV. It was a detective show about two undercover policemen with a fast red car. She especially liked the cute dark haired one. Engrossed in the program, a sudden knock at the door startled her and she knocked her popcorn to the floor.

Oh, just great, she thought as she crossed the room. I’ll have to clean this up before Mom and Dad get home.

When she reached the door, she peered cautiously out the window and was shocked to see a policeman standing there. A terrible premonition rolled through her mind. Trembling, she opened the door slowly.

“Ashley Skye?” the officer asked gently.

She nodded silently, holding the door for support.

“I’m afraid I have some terrible news.” Said the officer. He quickly stepped forward to catch her as her world dissolved to black.

**********************************************************************

Ashley woke with a start. The bubbles brought her back to the present. Her mind reeled from the impact of that memory. She turned on the cold water and splashed her face. She had loved her parents dearly, loved their memory still. As she drained the tub she knew they would want her to go on with her life. Drying herself off, she thought how proud her father would be, she following in his journalistic footsteps.

“Or at least trying.” She said to herself. Her days off would give her ample time to correct that.

“What’s done is done.” She said to her reflection as she combed her hair. “Life is for the living. You can’t stop time.” With these clichés swirling in her head, she went to wake her Gram.

When she reached Gram’s room and peeked through the doorway, she was surprised to see Hattie was already awake.

“Oh, you’re up already,” said Ashley, “did you have a good nap?”

“I slept like a baby.” Hattie lied. She felt so drained. There was no pain involved, it was just that she had so little energy. She forced herself to give a cheerful smile. “I’ll be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” She said, rising from the bed wearily.

Ashley laughed, glad her Gram appeared to be feeling better than before. “Take your time. We’ve plenty of it.”

Hattie wasn’t so sure about that.

*********************************************************************

The waiter seated them at a window. The view of the bay was breathtaking as the full moon reflected off the water. The two women ordered and the waiter retreated.

Ashley looked stunning in a white sleeveless dress, shot through with gold. She wore her hair up, showing off the gold earrings dangling against her neck.

Hattie was dressed sedately in a wine colored skirt and blouse that nicely highlighted her attractive silver hair. The gold chain peeking from beneath her collar matched the one around her wrist.