The Lost Puzzler. Eyal Kless
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tried to grab him. But he misjudged the power Rafik had accumulated in his mad dash. They collided, and the infidel fell back on the ground with a thump and a cry of surprise and pain. Rafik barely lost speed, but the little he lost was significant. They were almost upon him, and he was getting too tired to keep this pace much longer. It was now or never.
Rafik roughly calculated his position and changed his direction once more, ducking under the arm of a pursuing infidel, his bare feet feeling as if they were hardly touching the ground. He could see his mark now, getting closer, but also the infidels who were running towards him from all directions. He passed the bodies of his friends lying on the ground in neat rows, Eithan among them. It was over, he knew it. One infidel was in a better position and would intercept Rafik before he could reach his target. The others were only an arm’s reach behind him; he heard the sound of their steps hitting the dirt and could almost feel their breath on his back.
There was no power in him anymore; his lungs were on fire, his feet were bleeding, and his body was in agony. In a few heartbeats, Rafik knew, it would be over. The unbelievers would triumph, yet it was something he was still unable to come to terms with. God was with the believers, and the infidels always lost. Always. It was something Rafik had known as a fact from the moment he could comprehend words from sound. Just as he felt himself slow into despair and defeat, his body already accepting the fate his heart was yet rejecting, the infidel who was about to intercept him stumbled on an invisible twig on the ground. An accident? Surely not! It was a miracle.
Rafik’s spirit soared as he skipped over the body of the fallen infidel guard, galloped the last few yards, and wrapped his hands around the tree that was his target, shouting, “Boom!” again and again in ecstatic joy. He heard the infidels curse in defeat and his teammates, the holy warriors, shout in joyful triumph as he raised his hands and proclaimed victory.
When Rafik turned around he saw his teammates jumping up and down, roaring their excitement. Eithan ran forward and hugged his friend, picked him up from the ground, and spun him around in a circle. The infidel team looked disappointed, but many among them held Rafik’s view on God’s attitude towards the believers and were almost visibly relieved to lose.
The boys changed the name of the game often, sometimes to “Pure Blood and Tattooed” or “Guards and Bandits.” The rules were pretty much the same, but when they called the game “Holy Warriors and Infidels” there was always an extra excitement in the game, much more at stake than a simple afternoon’s honour. No matter what the odds, the holy warriors were the blessed sons of the Prophet Reborn. The Infidels had to lose, they had to, even if this time was too close for comfort.
Rafik squirmed and kicked a bit until Eithan finally lowered him down, though he was still full of excitement, and he kept hugging and thumping Rafik’s chest with open palms even as the rest of the boys were calming down. That was typical Eithan; he always became completely engrossed in everything they did but remained a little too enthusiastic for too long. It annoyed Rafik, who found Eithan’s company embarrassing at times, especially around girls. But when one chooses his best friend at the age of three and they swear to each other in blood at the age of seven, one does not break the friendship just because pretty Elriya keeps laughing whenever Eithan behaves like a fool. Nor do you walk away from a friendship because your sworn brother happens to be absolutely awful in any kind of physical game and sport, and you have to coerce your teammates with promises and threats so they pick Eithan for their team.
Rafik pushed his friend gently away before the others began taunting them. With his attention focused on Eithan, Rafik did not notice the two boys who emerged from the bush. One of them was Cnaan, the boy who had swallowed the dirt flung by Rafik. Strictly speaking, when the only rule of taking a combatant out of play was that his back had to touch the ground, Rafik’s move was perfectly legal. Yet Cnaan was not trying to dispute the victory or debate the rules; he just wanted to get even. In his clenched fist, he held a massive ball of leaves and dirt, and he charged Rafik with the zeal of hurt pride and the confidence of someone who outweighs his opponent by a full stone.
Eithan called a warning, but Rafik only managed to turn before he was lifted off the ground for the second time. A heartbeat later the ground claimed him back with a cloud of dust and a blow that took the air out of his lungs. His right hand partially blocked the fall, and he felt the skin scratch and split open on the gravel.
Momentarily dazed, Rafik could only shield his face from the barrage of vicious blows Cnaan was landing on him. He twisted and managed to half-turn on the ground, but Cnaan turned him back with a vicious shove and sat firmly on Rafik’s chest, pinning him down. As his eyes cleared, Rafik’s vision was filled with Cnaan’s heavyset frame. One chubby hand grabbed Rafik’s jaw while another was poised, ready to shove a fistful of revenge into his mouth.
Suddenly Cnaan’s overbearing weight was lifted off Rafik’s chest. Rafik rolled to the left and rose unsteadily to his feet, wiping dirt off his face with his bloodied arm. Cnaan and Eithan were rolling on the ground, kicking, punching and, in Eithan’s case, occasionally biting. That was another trait of the little guy; fearlessness and a blind loyalty to his blood friend. Rafik did not mind that side of Eithan’s personality. The problem was that Cnaan had friends as well—perhaps more followers than friends, but boys ready to join in the fight, especially if Cnaan was winning. They set upon Eithan, and it was Rafik’s turn to come to the rescue. Rafik had friends, too, boys who suffered from Cnaan’s attention from time to time and were waiting for an opportunity for payback. In a few heartbeats, the entire group was brawling.
As the battle commenced, time slowed and the outside world vanished from existence. Rafik flung his limbs in all directions, hitting anyone he did not recognise as a friendly face. As in any battle of grand proportions, alliances were formed and promptly broken as one side lost heart. A few of Cnaan’s entourage fled the fight, bleeding and crying. When Rafik saw the glint of fear in Cnaan’s eyes, he knew he was going to win the day yet again, but victory was snatched away with cruel suddenness as a heavy set of hands clamped around his collar and he was hauled to his feet. Angry words were hurled at him from several grown-ups. He was slapped across his brow, and that was stronger and more humiliating than anything he’d suffered during the fight. The rest of the boys were held by other angry adults.
Rafik held his breath and tried as hard as he could not to cry. At the corner of his eye he caught Cnaan’s frightened stare; like Rafik, he was trapped between two pairs of heavyset arms. A temporary alliance silently formed with that very glance, as a new common enemy was recognised: the grown-ups.
“Why were you fighting? Who started this?”
Rafik did not answer, nor did Cnaan, or Eithan.
“We thought it was a bandit attack; the entire village is up in arms,” said another angry voice to his left. “The signals were fired, men are coming back from the fields, women and children are hiding, what were you thinking? I will tell your father, Rafik, and I hope he’ll put his belt on you.”
Many more grown-ups were now arriving, all of them carrying weapons. Rafik’s heart sunk. It was true; now that the ringing noise in his ears had subsided, the ringing of the alarm bells was clearly audible. They were in trouble—worse, he was in trouble.
“Tell me who started this or …” The hand rose up again and Rafik flinched, knowing the slap was going to hurt and this time he would cry.
“That’s enough, Rachmann.”
The commanding voice of Fahid, Rafik’s older brother, froze the threatening hand as it was poised to strike. Instead, Rafik was released.
The man called Rachmann turned to face Rafik’s brother. “The boy’s mischief frightened the entire village.” He pointed an accusing finger at Rafik. “Is there no discipline in your household?”
“I do not see Rafik standing alone here, do you?” was the calm reply. “And he was not fighting with himself, yet I see your hand raised against only one boy.”
“Well, we all know he is the one full of mischief,” grunted Rachmann, who was many years older than Fahid and disliked being told off by someone who had just come of age.