The Breath of God. Jeffrey Small
HE RUINED his life?
Staring into the glowing embers of the campfire as he lay on his reed mat, Issa couldn’t push the question out of his mind. In leaving on this journey, he had gone against the wishes of his parents and teachers. But he needed to find the answers. Now, he wasn’t even sure of the questions. Thoughts swirled in his mind much like the hot, red sand had swirled around his legs as he had walked alongside the caravan earlier that day.
An unfamiliar noise from the far side of the camp startled him. His heart racing, the teenager sat up.
Silence.
The other dozen men slept peacefully around him. Probably nothing to worry about.
Issa settled back on his mat, tightening the wool cloak around his bony shoulders against the cool desert wind, the ruach. Breathing deeply, he found comfort in the aroma of roasted wood. Why had he been so jittery? Maybe it was the strange land, the different customs. Far from his own people, he now slept beside Egyptian beer merchants and Chinese spice peddlers.
When he had crept out of his parents’ modest stone dwelling that night many months ago, he had felt full of confidence. His parents expected him to follow a life he wasn’t ready to accept. Although he enjoyed the attention of the families who knew of his reputation and brought their daughters to meet him, he had too much to learn, too much to experience before he was ready to marry. He was only fourteen, after all.
A loud grunt followed by a wet snorting sound returned Issa to the present. That was it—the noise that had startled him earlier. The camels.
The animals had acted strangely the last few nights. Camels did not rank high on Issa’s list of God’s creatures. Loud, smelly beasts, they enjoyed biting his shoulder if he ventured too near during the endless daily walks. Keeping outside biting range didn’t guarantee escaping their displeasure, either; they would just as happily spit a glob of warm mucus down his neck. When the merchants traded the more civilized horses for the camels last month, they had told Issa that these disagreeable animals could not only carry heavy packs on their large hump through the searing desert heat but could also remember the exact path walked months earlier. Tonight they just kept him awake, and tomorrow he faced yet another day in the scorching sun, shuffling across the endless red landscape through dried grasses, thorny bushes, and scraggly trees.
Once the camels settled down, the night stilled. Even the insects decided to sleep. As Issa stared at the heavens dotted with the faint light of countless stars, the questions played again in his mind. He squeezed his eyes closed and pushed away the doubts. He knew he was destined for something larger, but what, he wasn’t quite sure. He had made the right decision, he repeated to himself.
As a child, he had enjoyed listening to stories from the merchants who traveled through his village, bringing tales from the East, along with their brightly colored silks, brilliant stones, and pungent spices. These men radiated an energy that eclipsed their gruff and uncultured mannerisms, an energy absent from the teachers who didn’t appreciate Issa’s unique perspectives.
He was a smart, if sometimes unruly student. He may have asked too many questions, but what was the point of learning if not to question? Unfortunately, his elders saw his probing as disrespectful. During his travels, he would find the answers he sought.
Another sudden bout of coughing and spitting came from the camels. Issa jolted upright. Brushing his matted black hair from his face, he peered into the dense night. The camels were only thirty paces away, but he couldn’t make out their dirty beige coats in the darkness.
Manu, the newest addition to their caravan, stirred on the other side of the fire. A native of this land, he would know what disturbed the animals. But Manu just grunted and rolled over. Issa debated waking him, but one look at the man’s forearms—larger than both of Issa’s lanky legs together—as well as the crescent-shaped knife strapped to his belt, convinced Issa to let the beefy man sleep.
Issa took some comfort in knowing that if anything unusual happened, the four porters would check on the animals. Not hearing their voices, he relaxed onto his mat. The porters were accustomed to the habits of these beasts, since they slept next to the smelly creatures for warmth, unlike the merchants, who were permitted to sleep by the fire. Difficult fate these porters had: carrying the sacks that didn’t fit on the backs of the camels, cleaning up the campsites. The merchants barely acknowledged their presence. Issa tried to strike up conversations with the porters, but they seemed to be made uncomfortable by the attention, and he was unsure how to proceed. Issa’s father was only a tekton by trade, and making tables and doors didn’t provide enough money for the family to afford even a single slave.
Issa’s thoughts were interrupted by a baritone roar that froze him to his sleeping mat.
The merchants around him jumped from their slumber. The sounds that followed terrified the teenager. A guttural snarl clashed with the camels’ roaring. When his temporary paralysis subsided, Issa sat and strained to see, but he couldn’t make out the struggle. Then a noise followed that Issa hoped never to hear again: a shriek that sounded neither human nor animal. The wail pierced the crisp air and vibrated through to his bones.
Manu, the first of the merchants on his feet, grabbed a half-lit log from the fire in one hand, drew his knife in the other, and raced toward the camels. As soon as he could will his legs to move, Issa followed the other men. When they reached the roaring camels, Issa slowed, expecting to find the source of the animals’ distress where they were tied, but the terrible scream originated from ahead. He heard the porters’ shouts from the same direction. Confused, Issa followed the merchants. When he pulled to a stop beside the others, his breath heaved in his narrow chest. Then an involuntary gasp caught in his lungs. His eyes locked onto a sight that would be imprinted in his memory for years to come.
Issa had never seen a tiger before, only heard tales, but he knew instantly from the faded stripes on its white coat what it was. Three of the porters waved their arms and yelled at the beast. Manu stepped into their midst. Growling, the tiger backed away from the crowd, eyeing the flaming torch in the large man’s hand. Issa glimpsed what looked like a tattered log in the tiger’s powerful jaws as it retreated to the desert shadows. The fur around its face appeared matted and wet. The beast had stolen something from their camp. Will Manu retrieve it? he wondered. But the largest merchant stood his ground, watching the tiger carry its prize to its lair in the mountains that defined the horizon. The tiger gone, Issa looked at Manu’s wide, dark face, whose deep crevices seemed canyonlike in the glow from the torch. He showed none of the fear that Issa felt.
Although the danger had passed, Issa realized that the shrieks continued. He focused on the semicircle formed by the men. Then he saw the source of the inhuman cries. The fourth porter, a boy, no more than a year or two older than he, lay clutching a mangled stump just below his right hip. The rest of his leg was missing. In its place, a thick pool of blood soaked into the dirt.
Issa’s stomach turned. In a moment of awful clarity, he realized that the tiger, targeting the smaller prey, must have grabbed the porter while he slept next to the camels and dragged him a short distance. The porter’s leg had been torn from his body.
As abruptly as the terrible sound had begun, the porter’s screams stopped; his mouth now moved wordlessly. Issa looked to Manu, who watched the scene with a grimace on his face, or could it have been a smirk? The boy needed immediate help to stop the bleeding, or he would die within minutes. Why is his countryman just standing there? Issa scanned the other faces in the group. No one moved.
Unable to speak from the shock of the attack, the boy began whimpering like a fox caught in a trap. His right hand, covered in blood thickened by the dusty red dirt, grasped at the remains of his leg; his fingers searched through the torn flesh.
Issa could no longer contain his anxiety. “You’ve got to help him!” he pleaded in a voice that came out higher-pitched than he wanted. Speaking Greek, the common language of the traders, presented a challenge for him. Manu cocked his head in Issa’s direction and raised the makeshift torch in the direction of the boy’s voice. Confronted by the grimace of the large man, Issa stretched up to the full extent of his awkwardly