Summer Snow, Chapter
Three
by
William T. Hathaway
[ShatterColors
is honored to
serialize the
first three chapters
of the novel,
SUMMER
SNOW
(Avatar Publications,
ISBN 0-9738442-3-X)]
Click
for Chapters:
ONE
and TWO
Chapter
Three
"Go
away," Ainoura
said through the
door when he knocked.
"I'm
hit. Let me in."
He pushed the
submachine gun
around to his
back so she wouldn't
see it.
"No.
Men find you here...kill
both us."
Her voice was
choked with fear.
"I no want
die."
Jeff
knew the feeling,
but he was in
need. He was bleeding
from helping her
country's air
force, and she
didn't want to
get involved.
An old story.
"They're
gone. They got
what they wanted.
They won't be
back."
"Then
police come. Lose
my job, maybe
jail."
"I'm
on the police
side."
"No...go
away please quick."
Her voice had
become a hiss.
OK...she
could have it
her way. It was
her place. He'd
already left a
dribble of blood
at her door.
"My
watch." His
voice showed his
resentment.
"What?"
"My
watch...I left
it."
She
padded away. He
waited, listening
to sirens from
the base wailing
uselessly. The
door opened a
crack, chain on;
fingers extended
his ancient Rolex,
bought on R&R
from Nam. He took
it; the door closed,
dead bolt clicked
in.
Jeff's
jaw clamped shut
and his chest
burned. He hadn't
expected a ticker-tape
parade, but he'd
hoped at least
for a place to
wash off the blood...a
gentle hand to
soothe the brow,
maybe even thanks
for trying to
stop them from
stealing it...whatever
it was. Had to
be something major
for that kind
of operation.
But he hadn't
stopped them:
they'd got away
with it, they'd
won. He'd failed,
and now she was
through with him.
He raised the
edge of his hand
in a kiss-off
salute and started
down the steps,
woozy from shock.
His ears throbbed
and ached and
rang with sadistic
electronic music.
The
door across the
hall opened a
sliver; a woman's
voice, Kyrgyz
accent softening
the edges of her
English, asked,
"Are you
hurt?"
He
nodded. He didn't
want to go back
out on the street.
Cholpon
opened the door
wider; her eyes
took in his singed
and wounded body.
Who was this tall,
bleeding man?
His coarse, glowering
_expression repelled
her but something
else about him
drew her. Underlying
the violent red
flaring from his
aura were the
blue and gold
of spiritual potential.
He gave off none
of the dense,
opaque murk that
had surrounded
the men he'd been
fighting. He was
very much in need
of help that she
could give. She
gestured him in.
Grateful
for sanctuary,
Jeff stepped into
her hall. Her
lustrous dark
eyes enveloped
him with attention.
The gaze was too
intense for him,
so he looked away,
then stole a glance
back at her and,
despite his pain,
was pleased by
what he saw. Her
face held a delicate
symmetry of Oriental
eyes, high cheekbones,
a little nose,
and a small, shut
mouth. Straight
black hair spilled
over the shoulders
of her silk robe.
The robe curved
generously over
her breasts, in
at the waist,
and out again
at the hips, alternations
of abundance and
leanness. She
stood erect with
her arms down
and her hands
cupped in front
of her. A little
over five feet
tall, average
for Kyrgyz women,
she came up to
his shoulder.
Seeing
the submachine
gun on his back,
Cholpon's lips
pursed into a
frown; her hand
moved trembling
to the collar
of her robe. The
man's a killer.
You saw him kill.
Jeff
needed to reassure
her. "Spasibo,
thank you...for
helping me,"
he said in his
lame Russian.
"You
are welcome,"
she said in her
much better English.
She stared intently
into his face,
then widened her
focus to take
him all in. Pondering,
Cholpon pressed
her palms. He
was violent but
not cruel...not
hateful. He had
much light shining
beneath much pain.
He was the one
Djamila meant.
It had begun--meet
it head on. "Come,"
she said and walked
down the hall.
Jeff
followed her,
appreciating her
shelter, intrigued
by her gaze, wondering
why she was helping
him. They stood
awkwardly in her
living room. He
dropped his arms
to his side to
look less threatening,
but when she saw
the shredded,
blood-soaked sleeve
of his shirt,
she winced and
clutched her arms.
She gave him that
appraising stare
again, first focusing
deep into his
eyes, then out
to see him whole.
As he met her
gaze, Jeff could
see that stronger
than any fear
in her was a quiet
self-composure.
He had the eerie
feeling she was
examining his
thoughts. She
motioned him into
the bathroom.
He
unstrapped the
submachine gun
and ammo and set
them near the
door. She chose
not to look there.
In
the bathroom he
took off his shirt
and was greeted
by the battle-stink
of his armpits
and the torn flesh
of his triceps.
Bits of plywood
stuck out of the
gash. The arm
had shielded his
head; its hair
was burnt away,
skin reddened.
He thanked it
for its fealty.
She
wouldn't touch
the splinters,
so he jerked out
a bunch, then
yelled and gripped
the sink. As pain
chased away shock,
his fear returned,
rushing up in
waves. Again he
heard the thunk
of the grenade,
saw the flash,
felt the blast,
his helplessness
as the shack blew
apart. Back then,
it had been too
fast and vivid
to be frightening,
an existential
instant. Now was
the time for terror,
swelling out of
the belly, making
him shake and
cringe.
Seeing
his desperation,
Cholpon overcame
her squeamishness
and began to rub
his neck and shoulders.
Her small firm
hands soothed
the tremors. Her
murmurs salved
the spasms away
and calmed him.
She held his hand.
The dread was
still there, but
it no longer ruled
him.
The
prospect of more
pain decided him
against washing
the wound. He'd
have to get pumped
full of antibiotics
and tetanus serum
tomorrow anyway.
The US embassy
doc was on leave,
so he'd need to
find a local vrach.
As
Cholpon wrapped
the gauze bandage
around his shoulder,
he appreciated
the shapeliness
beneath her floral
robe, the brush
of her breast
on his arm, her
hip against his
leg. Her woman's
fragrance wafted
a promise of stronger
scents and tastes
below. He was
suddenly glad
he'd lived...although
lately he hadn't
much cared to.
Cholpon
tried not to brush
against him. He
stinks of sex
and he's already
sniffing me, the
randy old dog.
"From
the window I saw
you." She
forced her nervousness
away and spoke
in her business
voice. "You
were the only
man who went out
there. Everybody
else stayed inside
and hid. I thought,
maybe you are
Russian soldier
and work on the
base. But you
are American.
Why did you fight?
You have friends
there?"
"No,"
Jeff said. "Terrorists...I
didn't want them
to get away with
it." His
voice turned rueful:
"But they
did."
She
pulled out a strip
of tape and began
fastening the
bandage. "Don't
care about yourself?"
He
started to say,
Not much, but
changed it to:
"Some things
are more important."
"Oh?"
She stepped back
and beaded him
with a look he
translated as,
Cut the crap.
Jeff
mulled over the
jumble of reasons
that had sent
him out there.
"I did it...just
to do it."
"You
do these things
before?"
"Not
for a long time."
Cholpon
returned to taping
the gauze. "I
am glad they did
not hurt you more."
She glanced up
at him wryly.
"We have
not so many bandages."
"I'm
glad too,"
he said. "What
do you think they
took?"
"Maybe...money?"
she replied.
"Always
a good bet. Could
be a safe with
the air force
payroll...couple
of million soms.
That'd be worth
it for lots of
people."
She
cut a final strip
of tape and finished
the bandage. "How
long you been
in Kyrgyzstan?"
"Oh,
about eight months."
"Such
things like this...they
usually don't
happen here, even
now with the changes."
Her voice flowed
with musical cadences
and the lilt of
her accent. She
put the medical
supplies back
into the tin cabinet.
"Good
news," Jeff
said. "Actually
they don't usually
happen in the
US either. But
we put them all
on TV. Everybody
sees them and
thinks they happen
all the time."
His voice rumbled
with bass notes
and long Wyoming
diphthongs.
The
klaxons of emergency
vehicles grew
louder as they
approached from
several directions,
medleying with
the sirens from
the base. A police
car screeched
to a halt out
on the street
by the gate, its
radio blaring
frantic dispatches.
He
told her he'd
like to take a
bath. She was
embarrassed, flustered,
then maybe relieved.
Only death reeks
worse than fear.
She started the
tub. With medical
authority, she
warned him against
getting the bandage
wet, then left
quickly.
Jeff
stepped out of
his slacks for
the second time
that night. Aside
from the worst
headache of his
life, the damage
wasn't too bad,
since the plywood
had stopped most
of the grenade.
He had more shrapnel
punctures down
his left side,
but they weren't
bleeding much,
already puffing
closed, but red
and stinging inside.
The thought of
probing tweezers
tomorrow made
him clench his
teeth. He remembered
mortar fragments
being plucked
from his pulpy
arm at an aid
station near Ban
Me Thuot.
A
knock on the door
was followed by
her hand holding
a towel and sheet:
his winding cloth,
perhaps. Or the
closest thing
she had to a man's
robe.
Soapy
water smarted
as he washed off
blood, stench,
and her neighbor's
perfume. He wondered
if they were friends
and if Ainoura
knew she'd asked
him in.
He
came out of the
bathroom wearing
the sheet like
a toga; now it
was his turn to
be embarrassed.
The separation
had made them
strangers again.
Cholpon had brushed
her hair and set
out cookies, tea,
and aspirin. She
held up a bottle.
"I have some
of my father's
old brandy. You
need it?"
He
hadn't wanted
a drink this badly
in the nine months
since he'd quit.
Fighting back
a thirst that
was centered in
his throat but
scourged his whole
body, he resisted
the urge to grab
the brandy and
down it. The liquor
would put his
ragged nerves
to rest, chase
away the fright,
but after that
he knew what it
would do to him.
Been there...much
too often. He'd
spent only one
year in the bottle,
but it'd been
enough to break
his life wide
open. He shook
his head. "No,
thanks."
She
nodded in approval.
They
sat in sagging
chairs in her
living room and
sipped the tea,
weak and sweetened
with raspberry
syrup, from white
porcelain bowls.
His fingers shook
so much the tea
sloshed out, so
he gripped the
bowl with both
hands. He ate
a cookie. It was
a local brand
from the bazaar,
usually bland,
but now it tasted
fine. He munched
several, then
swallowed four
aspirin. When
they hit his stomach,
nausea seethed
up. He gripped
the chair arms
and resisted the
urge to retch
as his mouth filled
with salty saliva.
Gradually the
queasiness passed,
and he was able
to swallow. Vomiting
on her rug was
the last thing
he wanted to do.
His
head swirled with
clangor and pain,
and he wanted
to cry. Don't
do that either.
Trying to grope
out of it, he
pulled his chair
closer to hers
and ventured a
glance into her
eyes again. Their
depth and softness
drew him; he seemed
to fall through
her wide-dilated
pupils into a
shining black
mystery. He saw
his own tiny image
splashing and
playing there.
It was too much,
so he shifted
his gaze to her
irises, which
were rings of
dark brown not
as deep as the
pupils. He felt
dizzy, so he looked
out to her face,
nestled like a
bud in its sheath
of black hair.
He liked the contrast
of her short straight
nose to the curving
lips below it.
She was smiling
slightly, and
he could feel
himself smile
back. Her smooth,
fine-pored skin
was the light
yellow of almonds,
except for a reddish-brown
mole on her cheek.
Nervous
and self-conscious,
Jeff looked around
the apartment.
Although clean,
it had been cheaply
built, probably
in the 1950s,
and then not maintained:
water stains blotched
the ceiling, cracks
ran down the walls,
gray linoleum
surrounded a thick
rug, its blue-and-red
beauty out of
place amid the
drabness. The
furniture was
old but could
never be called
antique: mass-produced
functionality
in the Soviet
style. A stenka,
a dark wooden
mass of cabinets
and shelves, covered
one wall.
On
a table next to
a lamp sat a gold-framed
photo of an old
woman with mountains
behind her, wind
fluttering her
shawl. Her eyes
were like Cholpon's,
and looking at
her calmed him.
"Your
mother?"
he asked.
Cholpon
glanced at the
picture and smiled.
"My Shayka.
But in a way my
mother too."
He
looked at her
puzzled.
"I'm
a Sufi Muslim,"
she explained.
"She is my
spiritual teacher."
Jeff
thought about
the rippling robes
running at him
and the prostrating
prayer of death
on the airstrip.
He imagined the
teacher to be
a female ayatollah.
He fought back
a giddy wave of
panic. Wanting
to change the
subject, he asked
Cholpon where
she worked.
She
hesitated, then
said, "On
a farm."
He made the mistake
of telling her
about a USAID
program he worked
on that gave insecticide
and nitrogen fertilizer
to farmers. She
looked at him
as if he'd turned
into a monster.
"Nyet!"
She sat straighter,
chin out, ebony
hair cascading
back, eyes now
blazing, arms
open, square hands
with short, ringless
fingers reaching
at him. "No
good." She
gave him an impassioned
mini-lecture about
the virtues of
manure and natural
bug chasers. The
chemical way was
poison, genetic
engineered seeds
a fraud. Organic
farming made better
sense, especially
with so many people
unemployed.
As
Cholpon got more
worked up, she
slipped into Russian
and Kyrgyz, so
he understood
only part of what
she said, but
he enjoyed watching
her. People always
look their best
when they're talking
about something
they believe in.
She could well
be right. But
all he believed
in now was his
yearning for her,
for the refuge
she offered from
the death outside.
Her womanliness
was the opposite
of the killing
out there, and
she brimmed with
a balm that could
wash it away and
restore him.
But
his attraction
to her was more
than that. She
had an intriguing
quality, a fascination
he'd never encountered
before. Jeff stood
up, took her hand,
and said, "Let's
talk about it
on the couch."
They
sat together on
lumpy springs,
and he told her
he'd like to discuss
it sometime when
he could focus
on it more. He
tried to hold
the sheet closed
without much success.
It was stippled
with blood. Seeking
solace, he bent
to kiss the full
lips of her little
mouth, more out
of neediness than
lust. Just to
hold her and feel
her affection
would be enough.
Cholpon
flinched and turned
away. Part of
her wanted his
embrace, but not
now, not yet.
Djamila was right--there
was a tie between
them...something
unfinished. Despite
the differences...a
deep pull towards
this strange man.
She'd known him
before--another
life. But what
had he become
since then?
As
she stroked his
hand, a charge
of Shakti energy
flowed from her
into him; too
much for him now,
it shattered his
defenses. The
tremors seized
him again, but
worse. He shuddered
and gasped, inner
sirens wailing
louder than any
outside. He closed
his eyes to block
the tears.
The
battle returned
in instant replay.
Every muzzle flash,
each hurtling
grenade was aimed
at him. A horde
of hooded men
strove with all
their skill to
kill him--and
he them. They
were all death's
devotees, serving
it worshipfully,
eager for their
turn to partake
of the sacrament.
This time there
was no high, just
the certainty
of annihilation.
Out
there, part of
him had been craving
that. Now, touching
her, it seemed
insane. Wasn't
this human creature
beside him enough?
Didn't her caring
make up for the
dreck?
His
lack of answers
made him clutch
her like the spinning
earth. His sheet
fell away, and
he was just a
naked man, sick
of life yet afraid
of death.
Pushing
her fear aside
to tend to his,
Cholpon rolled
him on his stomach
and knelt beside
him. She ran her
fingers through
his heat-crisped,
gray-brown hair,
and his scalp
tingled as it
relaxed. Avoiding
his puncture-speckled
left side, her
hands stroked
his body in long
sweeps, then sought
out old horrors
knotted in his
flesh, thrust
into them, kneaded
them away. But
as they loosened,
they spilled long
lurking memories.
Nam again. Gray
men rushed from
the bamboo, fleeing
the globe of napalm
his side had sent
them, firing their
AKs. As they charged
his patrol, he
made the same
stupid mistake
all over again,
and John Randall
bled to death
in the rice paddy
because of him.
That
brought another,
deeper wave of
anguish. It was
always after him,
usually just the
grip of withered
fingers, now a
full-blown strangle.
She rode this
one too, rubbing
his quivering
body, purring
ancient sounds
of comfort, turning
off the lamp.
Her voice became
a song, part lullaby,
part chant, its
clarity penetrating
and soothing--a
song he'd needed
to hear all his
life.
He
reached for her.
She gazed at him
for a long moment,
his face glowing
in the revolving
red and blue lights
of the police
car outside. Moved
by his need and
their reawakening
bonds of long
ago, she gathered
him in her arms
and held him to
her, draining
his trauma away.
He
sought her ravenously,
one hand clutching
her, the other
parting her floral
robe to reveal
a nightgown covering
her breasts. He
touched them,
caressed their
softness, and
finally felt safe:
they could erase
the memories and
heal the wounds.
As his lips moved
eagerly towards
them, Cholpon
pulled away and
touched her fingertips
to his temples
with a pulsing
motion. She placed
one hand on the
crown of his head
and the other
on his forehead
and massaged in
hard circles,
then pressed sharply
between his eyes.
Jeff's
brain flooded
with a rush of
clear white light.
He shuddered,
sighed, and fell
asleep smiling
at her breasts.
Summer
Snow
©
2006 by William
T. Hathaway
|