Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1) (9 page)

For three years he wore black, wandered with Kurdish nomads, and let his beard grow. Hundreds of miles of sand passed beneath his feet and months of silence filled his ears, but despite his reflection, peace remained always out of reach.

He found moments of calm, the closest thing he could find to serenity, inevitably broken by the sudden smell of Rebekah's skin on the desert breeze or the subtle taste of her tears in the rain. Somewhere between life and death his heart had made a home for them. A love tied him to her so strongly he feared it would overwhelm him and drag him beneath the surface into a dark abyss.

Over the years, Recai found he could no longer sleep through the night. His dreams danced within his mind, leaving him restless and frustrated. Every night he would lay awake for hours, finally submitting to sleep only to wake just before her veil would lift. He couldn't cry; he had no tears left. He couldn't fight; his body had been broken. He couldn't sleep; he had no peace. The hole in his chest was ragged and raw and never did close, although the scars on his flesh eventually faded.

One night, as the others drifted to their beds he walked alone into the heart of the desert one more time, leaving behind no trace, sand filling in his footprints. The city called to him, her lights dim in the distance. He traveled by night, and during the harsh light of day he would sleep for the few hours that he could. He continued for days until he reached the civilization he had abandoned. His dreams remained vivid and he often woke with a scream on his lips, images of fire and the dead stare of beautiful brown eyes in his mind.

Recai enjoyed Darya's attention, but more than that he was elated his plan was proving easier to execute than expected. The guard had his name. He relied on that being enough for word to spread that the son of Baris Osman had returned from the dead. Darya also drew attention to them; she was clearly someone of importance, or at least curiosity. How better to re-enter the world than to be seen with this striking woman, who stood almost as tall as himself? Now he had only to allow word of his presence to spread slowly through the crowd. Dead men make the most intriguing party guests.

His plan to attend tonight's event was sound. He would watch the reactions of those around him and see who spoke of his past and who ignored his return. A part of him hoped the men who had abandoned him in the desert, who had destroyed so much, would recognize him and attempt to finish what they began. This time, he would not be so easily subdued.

 "You have been away from home for a long time?" Darya inquired, tilting her head up to face him, her smile bright and her lips red.

"What?" Recai's reply was too sharp.

He had lost some of the grooming of his youth during his time in the desert. But the memory of his mother kept his back straight and his shoulders broad. He would do her legacy right.

"You said you hadn't been in crowds much recently."

"Oh, yes."

He took a sip of his champagne, refocusing and pulling his attention back into the present.

"You couldn't have been in Elih, if there were no crowds!"

Darya was beautiful, no doubt about that. Her face was sharp: pointed chin, dramatic coloring, and rolling layers of thick hair. Put together, each feature enhanced and softened the others, giving her a look of ancient beauty. She was elegant and poised with a fierce gaze.

"No, no, I've been on a bit of a hajj I guess you would say." Recai chuckled, in spite of himself.

"You've been to Mecca?" Darya asked excitedly. Her feet itched to explore the world, to see the sky from anywhere but her penthouse balcony.

"Ahh, no, not a real Hajj. More of a personal quest."

"You've been lost."

She stated it as a fact.

"And you are very insightful."

He turned to face her as he spoke, allowing her attention to occupy him. Without thinking, Recai reached out and placed his hand gently on the waist of the woman before him. With her hand still on his arm they stood close, close enough that Recai could smell her spicy perfume and the undertones of sandalwood oil. Music surrounded them, sealing the illusion that they were alone in the crowd.

The two lost themselves. They stood outside of their customs and culture, souls yearning for more, beyond the constraints their worlds placed on them. Both had all of the privilege and power to have almost anything they wanted, but each was chained to a rock which slowly pulled them under the surface.

The sitar blended with an electronic beat while a woman sang in Bulgarian, weaving a traditional sound with modern style. People had begun dancing in the center of the room; the wait staff served golden glasses of champagne and other liquors as fast as they could be poured.

Recai placed his other hand on Darya's hip and stepped closer to her.

He split in two, feeling as though sinew and muscle were ripping away from his heart. His body could not let go of the past, even for a moment. With a sigh he dropped his hands and stepped away from her embrace, his skin cold.

"Something has hurt you," Darya surmised with her usual confidence. "I'm sorry."

"No…" Recai felt the flush of shame rush to his cheeks. "Please, I… Don't be sorry."

He spoke earnestly in a world where honesty was rare, and it filled her with joy.

"There is nothing so awful that time and faith can't overcome. That's what they tell us, isn't it? Well Recai, between you and me, they lied. Some things cannot be overcome. It's how we continue on in spite of them that matters."

They danced in and out of each other's reach through the night. Recai would take a step forward, only to retreat when Darya found the courage to meet his advance. Outside, the stars were on fire as they moved slowly across the sky. To them, the city was a million miles away from the horrors of his past. It was seductive to forget, to rewrite history, for Recai to change his past with the more benign story of having been on a spiritual quest instead of a desperate attempt to escape life.

Eventually, Darya left him to join a group of women. While with Recai her whispered words spoke of judgment and annoyance, but publicly she smiled and laughed easily. He watched as she would answer a question with a smile, her head nodding toward him. No one spoke to him; had he changed so much during his years away? Could no one recognize him anymore? Sand had hardened his hands and the sun had leathered his skin, but the green of his eyes and hue of his beard were enough for anyone to know it was him. Darya weaved her way through the crowd until she disappeared out of his line of sight.

Recai approached the bar and ordered a bourbon from an aging bartender. He watched as the guards shifted closer to his position and the guests eyed him with speculation. In the end, everyone left him alone. No one knew what to say to a ghost.

Drink in hand, Recai leaned against the bar, allowing the dulcet tones of the acoustic guitar to calm his nerves. He rubbed his eyes before taking a sip, allowing the spicy liquor to burn his mouth and throat.

"Effendi, sit here." A young woman working as a waitress for the evening called respectfully to the old bartender, when he stepped into the back room. The term of endearment was not lost on him and he smiled in response. He rubbed his hands and reminded her so much of her aging mother that she couldn't help but make the spontaneous offer.

The waitress wore a long black skirt and a tightly fitted white blouse. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and hung loose down her back. Hijabs were not allowed at the mayor's celebration. Despite initially looking forward to being without it, she found herself feeling exposed and cold. Her ears were uncomfortable from the touch of the breeze.

"Maryam, you are kind to an old man," he said as he lowered himself heavily onto the backless stool.

"Eh, the unkindness of the world far outweighs one offered seat."

"Yes it does my dear, yes it does."

The old man flexed his aching fingers, stretching the scar tissue across his bones.

"Besides," Maryam stretched and yawned without covering her mouth. "I'll never get up if left to my own desires. I could sit and let the night's work fade away, leaving the ‘yes ma'ams' and ‘of course sirs' to the others."

She mimicked the voices of the other waitresses as she spoke, making the old man reveal the first honest smile he may have made in years.

"Just keep your hands where the women can see them and your other assets where the men cannot, and the night will be over before you know it," he remarked.

"Effendi, why are you working here?" Maryam asked, ignoring rules of courtesy and custom to assuage her curiosity. "Don't you have children to work while you sit at home in the evenings?"

Maryam thought of her own mother, who lived in Ibradi with her sister. She worked in the city, sending her family what money she could. During the day Maryam was a nurse, but that made just enough money to cover her expenses. Extra work like waitressing was for her family. Someday she would marry and be able to bring her mother to live with her. Perhaps she would have a large house in the north of the city with a gate and rooms ready to be filled with children.

"I have no one. I am just a lonely old man taking kindness from a beautiful girl. Now get back to work before anyone notices how long you've been gone."

"You'll keep my secret won't you? I wouldn't want the devils out there to think I wasn't being respectful," she winked conspiratorially.

"If you'll keep mine."

The old man held up his hands to display the swollen knuckles that betrayed his age.

As Maryam returned to the party, the sounds of popular music wafted through the open door, assaulting the old man's ears. He sat lost in his thoughts of another young woman who had once fretted about his age.