Ismael gazed through his binoculars at the large outcropping of boulders the tracker called Manessa. They had made good time through the day’s heat, thanks to the water they carried. Now the sun sat on the horizon behind him like a large orange, spreading fingers of red across the western sky in a brilliant sunset.
The white tents at the base of the rocks were unmistakable.
“They’re here!” he said. His heart pounded steadily and a tremor took to his hands. “The camp is here.” He lowered his glasses and snatched up his AK-47.
“Nothing lives. Do you hear me? We kill every animal and every man and every child—everything! And every tent burns. We go in hard and smother them before they know what’s hit them.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain was already checking his weapon.
“Horses only. Leave the tracker with the Jeeps. Weapons on automatic.”
Ismael stepped into the stirrup, mounted his horse, and yanked the bit tight in its mouth. It was a fresh mount, and he didn’t have time for the black stallion to question his authority. The horse’s eyes spread wide and it backed up, snorting. The others mounted. They were two kilometers from the camp.
Eleven horses now stood abreast—the ten Republican Guard and Ismael. He nudged his horse and they trotted forward, maintaining their file. Whatever else these men were, they were excellent horsemen. Ismael had no doubt they would shoot as well as they rode. His father had sent the best.
The plan to take Caleb by force wasn’t really a plan at all. The tribe didn’t have a defensive bone in their bodies. She would just take him and head due west, with or without the tribe’s help. Eventually they would run into territory that Caleb recognized. Rebecca was only waiting for the sun to remove its heat.
She made her way around the rocks and climbed to the perch where she’d hidden her weapons and gear. She pulled out a leather saddle pack and flipped the flap up. Thirty seconds later she was dressed in the khakis, the Glock loaded and holstered. She gripped the rifle, hoisted the bag over her shoulder, and turned to leave. An orange sun glowed on the horizon. In twenty minutes it would be dark, and she would be riding her camel west with Caleb in tow.
She glanced at the camp below. The monks loitered about, at peace with the ending of yet one more day. A nuclear bomb could go off in London or New York or Tel Aviv and these people might never even hear about it. In some ways she coveted the simple lives they led. In other ways she pitied . . .
Something caught the corner of her eye and she turned slowly to the desert. What she saw stopped her heart. A line was moving towards them, black against the shimmering heat rising through the sunset, like a row of ants.
Rebecca instinctively jerked down, into cover.
Eleven dark horses marched towards them out of the red sky, in even step. She knew immediately that it was the Arab. The assassin had found them and was coming in force! Dear God, she had to save Caleb!
A cry suddenly sounded from the tribe, and Rebecca spun for it. Half a dozen monks ran for the edge of the camp, robes flowing behind. They were going to reveal themselves!
Rebecca jumped up and shouted at the monks. “Get back!” Didn’t they see the horses? “Get back!”
But they didn’t seem to hear, much less get back.
Hadane was among them—leading them, actually. They came out of the tents like pack rats now, the whole tribe running for the front edge of the camp, as if to welcome the Messiah himself. But this was not a savior. This was death, and it was marching with guns loaded.
Rebecca jumped over the rock. Below her Hadane yelled instructions at his tribe, motioning them to line up beside him. All of them, monks and women and children. A man with dark hair pushed in eagerly next to Hadane and she saw that it was Caleb. They had lost their minds en masse.
Rebecca ran across the boulders, heart slamming in her chest, desperate to take up a firing position close enough to stem the attack. Dear God, help me.
It occurred to her with that prayer that she didn’t have a chance against eleven armed men. If she fired, she would give her position away. She could not save the tribe alone. She should be hiding, not scrambling to attempt an impossible rescue.
But Caleb was with them, wasn’t he? And without Caleb, her mission would fail.
Rebecca ducked her head and leapt over the rocks.
The tents looked red in the setting sun’s light, like a field of uniform boulders with pointed tops. Ismael swallowed against a dry throat and took a deep breath. He checked his safety one last time and glanced down the line of trotting horses.
The men stared ahead, soldiers proud at the edge of battle. Never mind that this battle was a foregone conclusion—they had been trained to sniff out a slaughter, and they could smell the blood now.
Ismael felt a bead of sweat break over his left eye and he let it run. His only prayer was that the Jew was still there.
“Ready to charge,” he said. His voice sounded high with excitement. He kicked the stallion, and it broke into a gallop. The others followed immediately, lagging momentarily and then catching up.
They charged abreast, bearing down on the sleeping tents like an eagle rushing in for an unsuspecting mouse.
Rebecca bounded down the rock pile, yelling at the tribe.
“Get back! They’re Arabs, you fools!”
A muted thunder rolled across the flats and she glanced up to see that the horses were in a charge.
“Get into the rocks!” she screamed.
But no one seemed to pay her any mind. They strung out in a long line, with wide spaces between each person. Hadane stood with his feet spread and planted, staring directly ahead with head tilted down, like a gunslinger in the desert, facing off with Pecos Pete.
Rebecca landed on a boulder ten meters from Hadane, then crouched behind another to give her cover. Caleb stood between her and the leader, copying the monk’s stance. The Arabs’ horses pounded towards them, less than a hundred meters off now.
Hadane threw his arms wide, as if he were on a cross. He twisted his head to face Caleb, and Rebecca saw his bright eyes clearly.
“Do you believe, Caleb?” the man yelled over the approaching roar. His eyes flashed and a maniacal grin split his face. He yelled again.
“Do you believe? Do you remember the day the sun stood still? The day the sea parted? Believe, Caleb! Believe!”
Caleb kept his eyes on the monk. He lifted his arms. The whole tribe stood with arms lifted now, like scarecrows in flowing robes, facing the horses. Several of the younger children chased about their legs, jumping, oblivious to the predicament that faced them. The others ignored them.
“Look into the eyes of God, Caleb! Look and believe!”
Hadane stretched his arms over his head, fists clenched, to form a V. He lifted his chin and cried out, “Belieeeeeve!” It sounded like a scream.
Rebecca watched, stunned. Caleb threw his head back and wailed at the sky. “I belieeeeeve!”
Rebecca spun to face the horses. The riders were in view, led by a black stallion, its rider’s kaffiyeh streaming back in the wind. They galloped with rifles in one hand and reins in the other, leaning into their charge. Firing into the rogues would accomplish nothing until they slowed. When they did, she would kill as many as possible. But the tribe stood defenseless. They would be slaughtered, and in the end she would die with them. But still, she could not simply watch as the Arabs butchered such sweet, innocent . . .
Rebecca swore at her sentimentality and lined her sights on the leader. He would be the first.
Down below her, Hadane and Caleb were still screaming at the sky; from the desert, the horses still thundered in. They showed no sign of slowing. Now they were thirty meters off, at a full gallop.
Rebecca’s finger snugged the trigger to fire.
It struck her then that something was happening—something that felt disjointed in her mind’s eye. The Arabs were not bringing their rifles down to fire. They were not bracing for any kind of impact. They were simply rushing forward, full tilt.
Rebecca saw this through her sight, and she pulled back slightly for a broader view.
Sound suddenly began to fade. Her ears felt stuffed with cotton. Caleb stood with his head cocked back and his mouth spread in a silent scream, wailing at the sky, but the sound did not register. Two horses were now barreling down on him, no more than twenty paces off. She could see the flare of their nostrils, the sagging of their lips with each stride, their huge eyes peeled in horror.
But their riders . . . they weren’t even looking at the tribe!
The lead rider suddenly reared back, three meters from Hadane. His black stallion clawed at the air. The other riders pulled up hard on taut reins. Their horses braked to a halt, protesting vigorously. The tribe stood still, arms stretched up and faces tilted to the heavens with Hadane, screaming in silence.
It occurred to Rebecca that she wasn’t breathing. The horses stamped and the riders looked at the tents beyond the tribe. For a moment silence settled on the eerie scene and Rebecca stared in total disbelief. A buzz filled her mind.
A child laughed.
Rebecca heard the laugh and immediately saw the young girl from the corner of her eye, hiding behind her mother’s tunic, peeking and smiling at the soldiers.
But the soldiers didn’t hear her. Or see her.
“Where are they?” the leader demanded in Arabic. “Where are the tents?”
The buzz in Rebecca’s head faded to a high-pitched pinging sound. What she saw was an absurdity that refused to connect with her mind. The Arabs did not see the tribe. Nor the tents.
“On the other side of these boulders,” one of them replied.
“Shut up, you idiot! They were right here.”
“The sun plays tricks in the desert,” another said.
The leader walked his horse right up to Hadane, and then right past him, as if he didn’t exist at all.
But Hadane did exist. And he was still screaming silently at the darkening sky.
A tremor shook Rebecca’s limbs.
The leader stopped his horse behind Hadane, centimeters from his head. The other horses stamped forward on stiff legs, their flesh quivering, stepping through the tribe. The leader spun his horse around twice, his eyes darting around, scowling.
He kicked the stallion. “Hiyaa!”
The horse bolted. The rogues followed, galloping into the camp, past the tents, and through the other side. The sound of their hoofs faded into uncanny silence.
Rebecca crouched, every muscle strung tight.
A scream started, very soft, as though far away, and then swelled to full volume. Hadane’s scream. Caleb’s scream. All of them screaming the last syllable of believe. “ . . . ieeeeeeve!”
It rushed to full volume and then ceased, as if someone had pulled the plug. They lowered their arms and looked around with wide eyes.
Some began to laugh.
Hadane grinned from ear to ear, and Rebecca slumped to her seat behind the boulder.
They were jumping around and dancing and laughing for ten minutes before Rebecca made her way out of the boulders to face them. The horde of Arabs had gone, in search of the tribe.
Caleb stood limp, staring out to the desert with his back to her, but Rebecca made for Hadane who was holding a small child and spinning in circles. He set the child down as she approached.
An odd resentment had settled on her in the Arabs’ wake. In an inexplicable way, Caleb had proven himself to her with the demonstration of power, but she couldn’t accept his proof. For one thing, her mind was still having difficulty believing what she had seen. The tribe had found a way to blind the Arabs to their presence, and even thinking about it made Rebecca feel stupid. Either way, she could not agree with Caleb’s beliefs, regardless of his proof. He was a Christian. She was a Jew. Their beliefs clashed.
“I will take Caleb now,” she said. “I have to go.”
“Did you like it?”
He was talking about the Arabs. “Interesting. Madness.”
“We were simply riding our bicycles,” he said. “One day you should try to ride.”
“Please. I’ve heard enough about bicycles and oceans and the eyes of God to keep me entertained for a month. I don’t know what kind of sorcery you work, but I can see why you keep it in the desert. You dance and hop and carry on like children and you practice this magic. Frankly, it feels laced with madness. Now I have no choice but to take Caleb.”
“If you take Caleb, you will take the madness,” he said with a gentle smile.
A voice spoke behind Rebecca. “I will go.”
She turned. Caleb stood looking at her with those impossibly green eyes. She felt oddly disarmed and averted her stare.
Caleb turned to Father Hadane. “I owe you my life, Father.”
“You owe me nothing, my son. You only owe it to God to run when he asks you to run.”
Caleb stepped forward and knelt in the sand, taking Hadane’s hand. “I owe you my life.” He kissed the elder’s hand and stood. They looked at each other for a few long seconds.
“We have a long journey tonight,” Rebecca said.
“You understand that you aren’t taking me,” Caleb said. “I am going. And I’m going because I’m meant to go.”
“Yes, of course. Then let’s go.”
Hadane reached up and ran a thumb over Caleb’s cheek. “Visit again, my boy. Remember what I told you. Be bold. Cowardice keeps man double minded, hesitating between two worlds. True faith abandons one option for the other. Hesitation is the death of faith.”
“Yes,” Caleb replied. “What’s the use of asking, if we don’t dare ask for anything we can’t satisfy in our own power? I will remember, Father.”
“Good.”
They hugged. Miriam led two camels out to them—Rebecca’s and another for Caleb. Had they prepared for this already?
Five minutes later, after Miriam had told them which stars to follow and which mountains to keep in sight, Rebecca led Caleb out of the camp, leaving a throng of well-wishers waving in the last light.
It was going to be a long journey, and in all honesty, Rebecca wasn’t even sure where they were going.