DAY 24

The Messenger can barely see Kashif ahead of him. He has separated himself again, even from Gibran, the goat. The Messenger appreciates the goat’s pace. Its brittle limbs barely maintain balance on the side of the road. Every once and a while, The Messenger leads it away from the steep cliff’s edge.

A few hours into the walk, Kashif is sitting at the cliff’s edge himself, staring out into the mountainous distance.

“Why did you stop?”

“This is where we are going.”

He points over the valley of green.

“We will climb that mountain?”

“Will Gibran be able to handle it? The walk down is steep.”

“You distrust his abilities.”

Kashif slides down a little before leaning back to walk down the cliff from the road and not fall over. The Messenger focuses on Gibran. He tries to get the goat to go first, but the animal refuses him. Kashif has already disappeared into the bush.

“Okay, if you don’t want to come, stay here.”

The Messenger begins his descent and uses his hands on the rocks to support himself. When he reaches the flatter valley below, Kashif is far ahead of him while Gibran is lost behind him. Until he hears steps.

The goat is tiptoeing its way down. The baggage it is carrying is pressing forward on its head, but the goat is resilient. It extends its neck backward. It is obedient. It knows its job. To lose the bag is more perilous than tumbling down the cliff. Not worried anymore, The Messenger looks ahead. He hears the crunching of branches and follows the echo of the sound.

The goat reaches level ground unscathed, fully balanced. It yelps a little as if to cheer before following the trail by sound himself. It appears like a long time before The Messenger finds Kashif in a slight clearing before the incline of the mountain. He is sharpening a branch. His strokes are long and straight. The branch bends into the knife with appreciative slivers flailing onto the ground.

“Have a seat. Rest a little before we take the mountain.”

The Messenger prefers to lean against a tree. The falling pine needles of the cedar make a sparkling sound up above.

“Have you thought of a story to sell me with yet?”

Kashif continues to shave the branch and The Messenger wonders if he will shave it entirely into nothing. It is almost nothing, its width the size of a finger.

“You have been away for fifteen years. You were captured, and then escaped?”

“Who captured me?”

“Another group?”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“No group can claim responsibility for such an act. Terror is all about responsibility. That is the selling point.”

“You disappeared to another country?”

“Also impossible. They have been looking for me. Even those who believed me dead. Your story must be good enough to eliminate my martyr status. The story must be very ­believable.”

“What really happened? How did you martyr yourself?”

“I created a death scene.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t live the same anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I found out about her.”

“Your daughter? That’s understandable.”

“I didn’t know she existed. For five years, I didn’t know she existed. And then I woke up one day knowing a part of me was dying somewhere. It was something I never felt before. Something within me separated itself from the whole. I don’t know how to describe it, really.”

“So you knew she existed even before you really knew she existed.”

“Yes.” He stops talking and shaving the stick now that Gibran is made visible in the bush. Gibran’s whiteness is almost unicorn-like in the brush.

“Her mother never told me. She never wanted to tell me. She never wanted her to know. So I went in search of her, one day. To do so, I created my death scene. I staged a death scene and then left blood in my place. My blood. On a mountain like this. I took pictures and sent them to the television network. They created the rest of the story. They had my blood to prove it was me, but not a body. That’s how you create a martyr. You remove the body from the scene. It always leaves a tiny space of doubt to fuel the legend.”

“What did they determine the cause of death to be?”

“The explanations varied. From foreign enemies, to suicide, to Mohammed taking me as a prophet from the mountain as a sacrifice. This one usurped the rest.”

“How did you find her?”

“I ventured into every hospital on the planet, and I followed my instincts.”

“How long did it take you to find her?”

“Five years. I found her in a nunnery. Abandoned by her mother.”

“Do you know her mother?”

“I know she is mine.”

“How?”

“I took her blood. Blood will have blood, isn’t that what they say.”

Gibran is proud to have reached the cleared out space in the forest. The goat is breathing heavy, but Kashif, in a swift move, inserts the threadlike sharpened branch into the goat’s chest and the goat instantly keels over. The Messenger is shocked by how quickly it happens. Gibran’s eyes are wide open, as if never seeing it coming.

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. I felt you were as hungry as I am.”

Kashif removes the baggage from the goat’s back and delicately lifts the goat onto his shoulder.

“Take the bag, will you?”

They leave the spot without a story. The Messenger follows Kashif and is able to keep up with him as he climbs up the mountain. The goat’s mouth is dripping blood and creating a trail for other predators to sniff out.