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FARUQ
Morning breaks in a wash of soft gray light that slices through a gap in the tent flap. Shuffling to the edge of the bedding, I swing my feet to the floor and sit a moment, staring. The golden wheel gun lays on the floor where it fell. Like some holy saber, the weapon that took the life of the tyrant of Baqir, but refused to take mine, belongs to me now. Why am I still here? What can my miserable life be worth to anyone?
The attendant boy steps into the tent with a bow. “Sheikh Faruq, your breakfast.” He presents another bowl of taji stew with a hunk of dry yellow cake.
It takes me a moment to gather my words. “Set it on the table there.”
“Yes, Sheikh.”
“What is your name, boy?” I ask. He’s underfed and nervous.
“Baral.”
“Okay, Baral. Why are you serving me? Why bring me breakfast? I killed Kapka, and most of the men in this camp died at the hands of ...” I can’t bring myself to say her name. “Well, they died.”
“Ilah has sent you to save us,” Baral says without hesitation. “Why would I not serve the last prophet of Ilah?”
It’s as if I asked him why do you breathe? “I’m no prophet.”
“I disagree,” Baral says with a boyish innocence. “You have come to us in our time of need.”
“All I did was put a bullet in Kapka,” I retort.
“I do not refer to Kapka. He was always a pawn in the greater scheme. Used by those more powerful than him, and inflicting his own pain on others. Removing Kapka means you can now take your place as Prophet and lead us in the Judgment Day.”
“Judgment Day? Do you not believe this has come and passed? Long ago, when Etyom was formed?”
“No prophet came in that time to guide us. Instead, Kapka’s forbearers took our people. But now you are here. To lead us through the coming storm.”
“What storm?”
“Against the false god. Against the Vardøger. They say he has an army. They say he can’t be killed. But you can do it,” he says. His eyes are full of hope. It’s not something I’ve seen in a long time.
Vardøger. The name is familiar. I heard Kapka and his men talk about this man. Rumors and whispers of a demon. “You think this false god comes for us all?”
“A battle is coming,” Baral says. “He will not take sides. Everything will be laid bare before him.”
“If this Vardøger has an army, we stand little chance. Right now it’s you, me, and a few of the men and women who worked this camp.”
Baral bows low and, in a tone as respectful as he can, says, “I am sure Sheikh Faruq knows of the exploits of Mohammad. He was a warrior prophet. In less than ten years, his army grew from just three-hundred men at the Battle of Badr to ten thousand men marching on Mecca.”
Warrior prophet? No, I can’t let this happen. My people have suffered enough. Finally free of Kapka only to fight in someone else’s war? My miserable life might not be worth much, but the lives of my people are. This boy’s life is. If I must guide them, it will be to safety. Away from Opor, or this Vardøger, or anyone else who would do them harm.
“A group of Kapka’s reinforcements arrives today?” I ask.
“Yes. They are arriving now.”
I stand, supporting my weight. “See to it they are fed. You and the others as well. I will address everyone shortly.”
“Everyone is to eat?” the boy asks, eyes wide.
“That’s correct.”
“Yes, yes Sheikh Faruq. It will be done,” Baral says, disappearing through the flap into the cold.
Need to find something suitable to wear. The majority of Kapka’s clothing is a mixture of luxury and old-world sophistication. A simple off-white tunic stuffed into rugged slacks with suspenders will do. The expedition boots are too large but will suffice if I layer up on socks. I throw on a heavy fur-lined jacket. I’m far too skinny for this garb, but there’s no time to be picky.
I grab the wheel gun, break it open and eject all the empty casings—all but the misfired round. That one stays with me. I slip the token into my front pocket. Moving to the thick wooden dresser, I open it to reveal a crushed velvet-lined carrying case for the gun. Inside are rows and rows of large caliber, brass bullets with lead noses. I grab a handful, insert them into the cylinder and snap it closed, shoving the barrel into my waistband.
Here goes nothing.
Passing through the tent flap, the wind bites at the exposed areas of my flesh. I snug the jacket around me and walk past the groups of gathered men, newly arrived reinforcements requested by Kapka before his death. The attendants pass out bowls of taji stew, which the men hungrily accept. Their eyes dart back and forth, as the men chatter amongst themselves. Then they see me. Some say nothing, utterly confused, while others jabber and point dirty fingers at me. I’m sure I look like the risen dead.
With complete composure, drawn from some hidden reserve deep inside, I work my way past them, my chin up, my steps slow and surefooted. Secured in my left hand swings the large, blood-soaked cloth sack that contains my trophy. In a few steps, I’m up onto a short wooden platform. From here, I count about fifty men. They stare back, unknowing what transpired in this place.
Calm and discipline, Faruq. Be a rock. Hit them hard, then hold them fast. If you don’t fill this vacuum, someone else will.
“Kapka is dead.” The words rasp, hoarse and foreign across my vocal cords. “I killed him.” I toss the bag from the platform. It lands with a clunk against the icepack, the bag sliding open to reveal the side of the madman’s head.
A gasp ripples through the crowd.
“What is this treachery?” a burly captain on the front row shouts, his face twisted in anger. “Where are Kapka’s men?”
“They chose their fate,” I reply.
“This man has tried to seize the great Kapka’s rule for himself,” he shouts to the crowd. “He is not to be trust—”
The blast of my golden revolver causes everyone to flinch. Some of the closest men gnash their teeth and cup their ears. The captain stumbles back, staring at the small crater at his feet where the round struck the ice.
“My name is Faruq and I am here to tell you that you are free. I wish to rule no one.”
The crowd grows still.
“Some of you no doubt believe in Kapka’s dream, and have benefitted from it,” I say, my voice on the verge of breaking. “Others were forced into his army. And yet others were treated as no more than slaves and whores to be used. Had Ilah willed, He would have made us a single community, but He wanted to test us. We should have competed with each other in doing good, not evil. Now is the time for change. Every one of you will return to Ilah and He will inform you regarding the things about which you differed.”
“Don’t think you can so easily bribe us with a hot meal and words stolen from our Holy Book,” the captain says. “There is nothing to stop me from killing you where you stand, groveler-lover.”
Groveler lover? He’s referring to Mila.
The captain pulls a handgun from its holster and levels it at my head.
“Yes, you could kill me where I stand,” I say. Breathe Faruq. Follow it through. “And then what?”
He stares at me, confused.
“Then you take over in Kapka’s place? And perhaps it will be your head in a bag, and another man standing where I am now. If I have shown you anything, it is that even the weakest of men can overthrow a tyrant. This is the way of history.”
The crowd murmurs, restless, volatile.
“Or,” I continue, “we can find another way. I wish no more violence for our people. No more pain. The Graciles are gone. The enclaves are broken. We do not have to fight any longer. Come with me, and we can build a new way of life, together.”
The captain’s trigger finger twitches.
“Sheikh Faruq is the last prophet of Ilah,” Baral interrupts. “I know this to be true in my heart. Kapka’s own gun would not kill him. He will guide us through these end days.”
The boy must have seen my suicide attempt.
“Blasphemer!” The captain swings his gun toward Baral.
My weapon bucks upward with a flash of fire and the captain’s skull explodes in a pink mist of brains and blood. Again, I stoke the fire of the murderer hiding deep inside. When will it ever stop?
The crowd gasps. Several men grab up their knives and guns, their eyes flashing with anger.
“Threaten my life, if you must. But I will tolerate the oppression of the peaceful no longer.” My words sound confident, but my chest aches.
“Fine,” says another man. “Then we’ll threaten your life.” He and three other men rush me.
My blood runs cold and the specter of death casts a long shadow. Three more cracks of gunfire and my assailants tumble lifelessly into the snow. This time, it’s not my doing.
One of Kapka’s men steps forward, smoke spiraling from the barrel of his rifle. “I never wanted to join,” he says. “Kapka forced me. Threatened my family. My name is Amir, and I will follow Faruq, the last prophet of Ilah.”
No wait, that’s not who I am. I’m not a—
“Kapka made good on his threat against my family,” says another voice. It’s one of the camp’s cooks. Standing at the edge of the crowd, she holds a smoking revolver. Several more of the camp’s women are with her. Each brandishes a weapon. “We too will stand with the prophet.”
“No, you’re not listening—”
A second captain steps forward to the short platform and turns to face the crowd. “Kapka’s ways were not the ways of our forefathers. I will stand with the prophet.”
“And I.” Another man steps forward.
“I too.”
“I will not.”
This is getting out of control.
A crescendo of curses and shouts sweeps the crowd. A small melee ensues. But it’s short-lived as the last of Kapka’s loyal followers are pulled to the icy ground. Ruling through hate and fear only leads to more hate and fear. Few men were as loyal as Kapka hoped.
Still, this is not how I wished it. I am no prophet.
Baral sidles up next to me. “Not all men are born great,” he whispers.
I swallow and cut my eyes at him. “Some have greatness thrust upon them,” I whisper. My father used to say that to me.
Baral smiles.
This is not how I wanted it. Or is it? What did I expect? An icy-wind whips by, grabbing at my coat. I stare at the golden revolver in my hand then at Kapka’s clothes hanging from my bones. Am I like Kapka? Or can I use this new power for good? To rescue our people from the hell of oppression and war?
The crowd stares at me, their hot breath misting the cold air. I can’t even make out their faces, each person blurring into the next. An electrical sense of expectation grows to an unbearable tension. I started this. Now, I must finish it. I thrust my golden wheel gun into the air.
There’s an instant of windswept silence. The throng of people before me erupts, cheering and pumping their fists.
“Fa-ruq! Fa-ruq! Fa-ruq!”
