Stone Tosser

Shots rang out through the marketplace, echoing and rebounding off the stucco walls. Sa-lei al Muhammad darted left and plunged underneath one of the marketplace stalls. Immediately, another cacophony of shots rang out; bits of stone and dust were thrown up by the flying lead. Sa-lei coolly checked his sandals as the fire continued; he always stopped to inspect them while this sort of thing happened. They were his most valuable possessions. He knew how to care for his effects. After a few minutes, the patter of stumbling feet rebounded off the walls. Another roar rang out and a body thudded down next to him underneath the vendor's cart. Writhing in pain but was too afraid to speak, the man's eyes widened in fear as the clop of hoof beats neared their position. Sa-lei tried to cover himself with one of the cloths hanging out of the booth; he wanted no part of whatever trouble the man had managed to get himself into. Hopping off, the rider of the horse bent over and yanked the injured person to his feet. The ailing thief (as he had been identified by several soldiers yelling in the background) broke out into pleading, both in Arabic and broken English. Wringing his hands to together, the man stared up with long eyes, explaining why he should not have his hands cut off for thievery. He had a family, there were no jobs, and it was only a bread crust, so on and so forth. The soldier, his numerous medals of rank glistening in the sun overhead, only narrowed his eyes and glared back in silence. Finally, the thief snarled out that the soldier just finish the cutting and let him be on his way, that he was the devil incarnate and would drive him mad if he stood there any longer. Then, the soldier spoke. He said, in a rather sedate and icy tone, "Don't be ludicrous my silly little sandy friend. I would never cut off your hands. Do you think I'm some sort of barbarian? Good God, I'm here to civilize you people." he the hefted a colossal revolver, emblazoned with the imperial eagle of Germany, into his hand, and proceeded to blow the thief's brains out the back of his head.

Colonel Oliver Hubrissus was her majesty's representative to the small city of Najaab, just outside of Khartoum in the Sudan. Lying on the outside of the settlement was Fort Autarkic, the base of his influence over the region. The fortress was a large, dusty, two story administrative building with a large stone wall around it. A magazine lay about thirty yards from the administrators. The barracks were immediately adjacent to the magazine. It jutted from the ground, distinguishing itself against the clear blue sky of the desert. It was the only structure visible from more than five miles away. Eerily, the village houses blended into the sand as if they were not there at all.

He commanded three companies of the Royal Highlanders and two companies of cavalry in addition to a ten company contingent of infantry regulars. His given mission was the "civilization" of the natives in the area, which were predominately dark-skinned and Muslim. Ironically, Fort Autarkic contained an odd selection instruments to implement civility. It contained 40 artillery pieces; 30 Maxim automatic fire cannons; 3,500 rifles with bayonets; 2,000 small arms; and 1,000 shells of poison gas rounds. The colonel had learned his craft during the Great War with the Germans. Certainly, his record was a mixed one. He had successfully captured a German field marshal, the same field marshal from whom he had received the ceremonial pistol he carried in his leather belt. Unfortunately, the colonel had subsequently decided to execute the field marshal and his troops, fixing their heads on stakes along a four-mile section of the front near the Somme. British High Command, feeling themselves prudent, banished Hubrissus to the wastelands of the Sudan. Far from feeling punished, the colonel was elated. Clapping his hands together, he chuckled upon receiving his orders; having already dispatched one group of barbarians, he happily started with a new set.

Sa-lei chucked another rock up at the high walls of the Ingliz castle. Bending down, he grabbed another one of the smooth stones that dotted the ground. He carefully checked the straps of his sandals while he was bent over, straining his eyes on tracing the knots in the twilight of the rising sun. Distantly, he felt the vibration of men coming from the village. Sa-lei hurled his last rock at the stone fortress and then looked for a small scrub bush to hide behind. The Ingliz soldiers typically ignored him when returning from patrol, but this was probably not a routine patrol. More likely, they were all drunk from carousing in the Ingliz-run tavern in the village. As the khaki-clad infantrymen stumbled by his bush, Sa-lei pondered about how the tavern managed to stay in business. Most did not drink. It was a sin. But the Inglizes could…but why? Dismissing the meaningless thoughts from his mind once the drunkards passed, he continued hurling rocks at the top of the wall. Stomach finally beginning to growl for food, Sa-lei took a break and began to walk toward marketplace.

He stole bread from the marketplace everyday. Employed at the fort, Sa-lei's job was to hurl rocks at the birds that roosted on top of the fortress walls. The Inglizes did not like bird droppings all over their well-maintained walls. Every week he was paid five pence for his troubles. He had drawn this salary ever since his parents had been killed by marauding Mahdists* a few years before. Some of his peers among the village adolescents called him a traitor. They denounced aiding the Inglizes, angrily whispering to each other about "Sa-lei the pale skin". This attitude was beyond his comprehension. In his mind, the Inglizes had always been here, were all-powerful, and would always be here. Even in the occasional attack of the Mahdists, who were armed with firearms too, the Ingliz regulars laid waste to them. Their will was absolute and their punishment swift. But they knew how to take care of their friends. Theoretically, he could buy the bread with the money he earned. It was a relatively high salary compared to the village artisans. However, there was a more important item to save for. His uncle would be passing through Najaab soon. He was a nomadic herder, shuttling his camels and horses across the wastes of North Africa. Sa-lei was listless, he felt as if he had no purpose among those in the village ever since his parents had left him. True, he did well working for his masters in the fort, but he felt a vague disquiet at the same time, especially around their leader, the koh-nell. He actually could not even look at him, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt kept his eyes averted from the koh-nell's lunatic stare. Seeing no other reason to stay, he wanted to abandon himself to the wastelands, endlessly strolling from sea to sea along the rocky plains.

Cursing as he lay on the floor, Sa-lei tensed his muscles in an attempt to keep his throbbing head from moving. It was pitch black, with three rays of light slicing their way into the room. He could not remember exactly what happened, but he knew the bread was not stolen cleanly. Craning his head ever so slightly, he observed man sitting on a bench in the cell's corner. All of a sudden, a sharp pain accompanied a crack in his neck that sounded like when the farmers shucked the seed off their grain. It was Reverend Wendell Ananias. He ran the fortress mosque. The holy man uttered to him in a calm, convincing voice, "Oh my friend, my friend, what ever will we do? You're lucky you know; had the good Colonel been here he would have blown you to bits. Scattered you all over the sand really. You're also lucky because I understand you and your people. You're only ignorant savages after all, like children I suppose. I know much of your brutal instincts. Violence is in your nature, yes?" Sa-lei had no idea what the man was talking about. Had he not only stolen bread? He asked Ananias why there was so much fuss about little piece of bread. The reverend's eyes widened, "Are you mad man? You almost killed a soldier? Do you mean to tell me, in all seriousness, you don't remember?

He related the story back to Sa-lei. Sa-lei had been walking through the market when the patrol came in. They rode by, looking like children who had just stolen a licorice twist or sour drops from a candy store. Tied to each saddle was a bundled up body. Each bag clunked across the ground, bumping up and down as much as a cricket. While the cavalrymen rode back to the stables, a private came over and began thrusting his bayonet into a body with a very amused grin on his face. The cloth around the corpse dropped away and Sa-lei saw none other than his uncle, the herder. He flung himself at the bayonet-poking soldier, struggling to gouge his eyes clear out the back of his head. A whistle was blown and more soldiers clattered over the cobblestones. The troops beat him until he began to resemble one of the Afrikaans of the south. Only the timely intercession of Ananias had saved him.

The preacher continued, "I saw some potential in you. You had slipped, but I thought you might be able to rise above your condition. I offer you this: you will work in the prison here with a very special inmate arriving either today or tomorrow from the capital. He is a European, a crusader if you will. He is a Catholic and an eer-ish-man, a very vile type of people. However, they have more civility than your fellow villagers, if only slightly…" Ananias grimaced in disgust. Sa-lei was not exactly sure what to do. He was grateful his life had been spared for committing such an idiotic act against the God-like Ingliz soldiers. However, he did not necessarily look forward to his punishment. He had no notion of what an eer-ish-man might be, but he did recognize European, crusader and Catholic. The terms had no definition as such in his mind, but they were dirty words among all the Arab and Afrikaan Muslims of the city. They were phrases that were spit out of the mouth like a fly that has accidentally been swallowed, with disgust and revulsion. But he really had no choice, did he?

The Irishman (as he now knew him to be called) arrived from the Ingliz prison at Omdurman, near the capital. Sa-lei's duties involved giving the prisoner his food and watching his door. Initially, he stayed as far from the man as possible. He was possessed by the devil. When the koh-nell himself had brought the man in, he was thrashing about in irons with a burlap sack on his head. Kicking the koh-nell square in his jaw, he cursed at him in Ingliz, though his accent was incomprehensible. He avoided seeing the prisoner for days. Scurrying up to the cell door, he would jam the Irishman's food through a slot in the door lest he catch the same affliction that plagued Catholics, crusaders and Irishman. The only time he ever even heard him was during his crazed speeches he made out his window to the people milling around below. From what broken words he could hear, the Irishman incited the people- calling on them to kill all the Ingliz! "What a maniac" Sa-lei murmured to himself. He immediately found that saying anything was a mistake.

The Irishman tossed himself against the door. His blue eyes looked through the food slot; he raved, " Whut in Chroist's bloody n'me did y' just call me'? Y' tea sip'n English stooge! I'd thruttle ye right now if ah wasn't chinned up like a bloom'in dog! Um Father Aidant O'Toole and if ye's wants to foight, we's can foight! I may's be a man a' da book, but uh can be downright nasty when I wants to!"

Sa-lei's interest was piqued, a man of the book? Did not the Koran speak of people of the book? He heard a cleric in the marketplace speak of it one day. The cleric had been stoned to death shortly thereafter, but it was a lovely speech. In any event, Sa-lei wanted to know more. He queried the Irishman, asking questions incessantly. Amazingly, the prisoner told him something mind-boggling everyday. Sa-lei had to steady himself walking home everyday against the fortress walls because of the sheer significance of what the man related to him.

As time went on, Sa-lei heaped extra food on the plate of his prisoner. He had grown to fond of him. Daily, he received a new tidbit of knowledge. For instance, the English were Europeans too! It amazed Sa-lei that his brutal masters and this seemingly enlightened man could be from the same place. Father O'Toole spoke of his own country, Ireland, where he and the other Irish people lived. It was very similar to Sa-lei's own land. The English killed the common folk in the streets, laughing as they did so. There was a difference though. O'Toole's people fought back. He was part of the eye-arr-ay (the letters held no significance for Sa-lei, he figured they were another English word), an organization similar to the Mahdist armies of the past. Another difference as that O'Toole's countrymen were winning. Sa-lei pondered this and asked, "But what happens when your people are free? What will happen to us? We aren't even Europeans like you…we'll never gain our freedom." O'Toole narrowly missed cuffing him through the food hole. He yelled, "Would you quit be'in such a damn fool! Of course y' can beat de' English! Dere nothing but a pack o' crooked toothed ol' bastards! Have you not listened to a word I said? I can beat you, you beat me, I can beat the English, and so can you! It's a system o' perfect equality! We'll all beat each other and have a perfect world, eh?" Sometimes, no matter how clever the priest might seem, he said some awfully confusing things.

Eventually, another matter appeared to him. Why was the Irishman here? There were no other Irishmen. What made him special? He asked once before leaving. The priest responded, "It's a funny thing man. In my homeland, there are men that'll kill the bloody Tea-drinkers in the middle of the road, bomb their cars, and cause general mayhem. I ca'n talk tough, but like I said to ye' befur, I am a man o' da' book, I would never kill a man. No, Um dangerous for a different reason boy. Look at m'big faat flapper. I stir the people up, make 'em know what's happenin', what 'dey cun do. Don't ye' see, I'm more dangerous than 50 gunmen, 'dey gutta ship me halfway round de' stinkin globe to shut me 'gab. God bless 'dat blarney stone by 'da way. If yuh' got nothing else, help yuh' people boy. Let 'em know how things be. I shout at 'em from da' window but they just gimme funny looks, couldn't tell ye' why doh…I was trying to have a bloody serious discussion." Sa-lei just chuckled.

Then, disaster struck. Ananias, who Sa-lei had grown to dislike more as time went on, came in to speak with his little prisoner watcher. Sa-lei noticeably shifted away from him as he stepped in. he opened with, "Well, your English has improved remarkably, we may make you a productive member of Anglo-Saxon society yet…" Sa-lei curled his lip, obviously wanting no part in "Anglo-Saxon society". Ananias continued, "I have good news for you though, your term is almost up. London has sent word that although her majesty has lost the lower counties, the Irish insurrection is over. But you wouldn't know about that would you? Anyway, the crusader will be hung tomorrow, as killing him no longer has the unintended consequence of making him a martyr to those potato people…good news, yes?"

Sa-lei was not in the room, he had skulked out.

On the day of the execution, the scene in the fortress courtyard was almost comical. A regiment of infantry stood lined up perfectly in rows, dress in scarlet parade uniforms with polished brass buttons their rifles and bayonets gleamed in the sunlight pouring down from the overbearing Arab sun. Colonel Hubrissus was engaged in a raucous argument with Father O'Toole, who was currently up on the gallows with a rope around his neck. Father O'Toole had said something to the effect that the colonel's mother had gallivanted around the fine island of Ireland many times but that nobody would take her in. Apparently, all the Irish men were turned off by her "crooked grin". The colonel was not amused at all. He slapped the priest across his face with the flat end of his sword and ordered the drum roll to begin. After issuing the order, he began to pick his ear, since everyone would be looking at the gallows anyway.

Little did the colonel know, someone was watching him intently. Perched on top of the fortress wall was Sa-lei. He had stolen a rifle from a drunken soldier earlier that day. He now had his sight trained directly on one of Hubrissus's cold eyes. Absolute control was his. With one little twitch of the finger, a filthy little Arab boy could snuff out the life of one of the world's most feared military commanders. Father O'Toole would want it that way. Killing the evil occupiers and driving them back to their own country; that "was the ticket".

But did it have to be that way? Sa-lei hesitated. The rifle muzzle dropped an inch or so. What would be gained by this? O'Toole would still die. Sa-lei would undoubtedly be killed. The colonel may or may not die. After all, Sa-lei had never shot a rifle in his life. While he sat indecisively, the priest saw a glint of metal on top of the ramparts. Sa-lei's decision crystallized at that moment. The Irishman only shook his head a fraction, of a fraction, of a fraction, of an inch, but it was enough. The rifle clattered on to the stone of the ramparts and Sa-lei scurried away. His life was no longer trackless. He had been as surely shoved into his destiny as the sun was forced to rise every day.

Years would pass before Professor Muhammad returned to his country of birth. He almost did not recognize it. He felt the flow of dust trickle flow through his hands. It was 1956, thirty some odd years since the Arab street boy had packed his belonging on a carriage and traveled north to Egypt. Twenty-five some odd years since he'd learned to read and write in his native tongue. Fifteen years since he gotten his doctorate and traveled the world, talking to famous people throughout the west. Ten years since the great powers of Europe (with the notable exception of Ireland, he happily observed) had annihilated themselves in another great war. Now, he had come full circle. One thing did not change, and that was the soaring pinnacle that stood out against the sky. Once again, he stood at Fort Autarkic in Najaab watching as the invaders packed themselves to depart. A British colonel (not Hubrissus, he had long since died) tenderly folded the Union Jack that had just been taken off the flagpole to the tune of "God Save the Queen". Off to the side, a more informal exchange was taking place. The commander of the garrison was presenting the interim government's defense minister with an antique pistol, etched with large designs. It was an heirloom, passed down to each subsequent commander of the base since its founding. Frowning, Sa-lei thought to himself, "I hope that he has the good sense to put that thing down. It's too heavy for any of us to wield. Even the colonel didn't know what he was getting himself into."

But it had passed out of his hands, he had done his part. Bending over, he grabbed one of his stones, kind of like in the old days and threw it at his wall. He hit one of his birds. How different the stones felt so many years later.

*Mahdists were a group of Sudanese rebels who followed the Mahdi, a self-styled Islamic prophet, during a civil war in the late 1800's. They captured the capital of Khartoum but their success stopped there. The uprising was eventually put down, but bands of Mahdist rebels still wander the landscape in Sa-lei's time.