The Lost Puzzler. Eyal Kless
walls. Instead, many roads led into its centre, like the tentacles of a giant beast. Simon explained as a matter of warning that everyone was welcome in Newport as long as you had coin to spend and weapons to protect your wares. Newport was a den of criminals, but the supplies and weapons it sold were crucial to the survival of Rafik’s village and the other communities of the west.
As the made their way to the city, they caught a glimpse of the shimmering Tarakan highway. Simon explained that this was a road built by the Tarakan infidels to connect their nefarious cities. Only a few of these roads survived the Catastrophe intact. Rafik heard his father once comment that the Tarakan infidels’ cities were so large they filled the horizon, reached the stars above, and were filled to the brim with the most hideous and unimaginable sins. He didn’t really believe such a thing could exist until he saw Newport.
Truck merchants visited their village about once a month, or more during the harvest seasons and festivals, but only a handful of people from Rafik’s village ever travelled to Newport, and none of them had done so more than once in their lifetime. When I go back home, Rafik thought, Eithan will be so jealous. He would beg Rafik to tell him every little detail of his adventure, with the grand finale being the tale of the curse being lifted. Eithan would apologize for throwing the stones at him, and Rafik would let his friend grovel and beg for forgiveness, but in the end, they would become blood brothers again. Rafik blinked away tears and quickly wiped his eyes with his bandaged hand.
Two nights before, when Fahid was not paying attention, Rafik had carefully loosened the blackened cloth bandages and took a peek at his fingers. If anything, the markings seemed to have grown larger. The skin on his hand was still whiter than the rest of his body and it tingled and itched. As they made their way towards Newport, Rafik began tugging nervously at the linen cloth until Fahid noticed and cuffed him on the back of his head again.
After that it took some time before Rafik dared to glance at his brother, who was sitting rigidly, staring wide-eyed at their destination. It was Fahid’s first time in Newport, too, and probably his last. Rafik clenched his bandaged hand into a tight fist inside the dirty cloth. There is a cure—there must be.
Truck merchants made a living going from town to village, selling and buying whatever was available. Every time a truck arrived at Rafik’s village the merchant would stop a few hundred yards away and signal with his horn. The guards would approach, and if everything looked safe the merchant would be let into the village. Women would hide in their houses while men would come out to the centre of the village and look as menacing as possible. It was important to show force, not only to lower prices but also because many truck merchants cooperated with bandits as a way of buying passage and protection, often selling vital information about a village’s defences. Once business was concluded, men and even boys Rafik’s age would carry merchandise back and forth from the truck.
When he was younger, Rafik was always amazed at the size and bulk of the trucks. They were immense and scary looking. Cnaan said it would take more horses than his village could gather to move a fully loaded truck, yet the merchant would simply get into it and the truck would move all by itself. On several occasions Eithan tried to explain about the dark magic of the truck’s heart, called engine, but Rafik was almost sure his blood brother was making this up.
As their cart approached Newport and their road merged into an even wider one, he realised that the trucks that parked outside his village were small in comparison to the ones he saw now. When they finally came into the last stretch before Newport he saw a SuperTruck for the first time, a mammoth of steel that travelled on Tarakan highways at unimaginable speeds. The thirty-wheeler dwarfed all the other vehicles around it. Each of its wheels was bigger than their own wooden cart, pony and all.
They were forced to move off road as the vehicle rumbled past. Roughly the same shape and size, the SuperTrucks differed in almost every other aspect including colour, and the number of naked women painted on their exteriors. Rafik had never seen a drawing of a naked woman before, although once he peeked at his bathing sister, and perhaps that was why he was cursed now. He tried to avert his gaze from the drawings every time a truck rumbled past, but his eyes had an uncanny knack of finding their way back to things he was not supposed to look at.
Slowly the city emerged around them. At the end of the long stretch of road they reached a roadblock manned by a dozen heavily armed men. Fahid gripped his gun with both hands, but Simon told him these men were aligned with the truckers guild. Their job was to inspect and collect tax and then direct trucks to designated parking areas. As it happened, they were in luck; the leader of the men was from a village to the southwest of Simon’s own village, and he had a soft spot for Wildeners, as he called them. He let them through for only a small amount of coin and gave them directions to a tavern called the Round Wheel, which he promised had an adjacent stable and lice-free beds.
The tavern was a formidable three-story wooden house but the stable looked and smelled as if it had not been cleaned in weeks. Simon went inside and haggled with the owner for a long time, and when he came back outside he was in a foul mood, grumbling that one night’s stay cost enough coin to feed his family for a fortnight. That struck Rafik as odd; he imagined lifting the curse would take longer than one day. Maybe he’d get an ointment to rub on his fingers and then they could go home. Simon had to persuade and eventually threaten Fahid to holster his weapon before they walked out onto the street.
“You’ll get us all killed, boy. In the name of the Prophet Reborn, try to calm yourself.”
“These infidels have no honour. We must be ready,” argued his older brother, but he eventually relented and hid the pistol under his garments.
It was midday, and Rafik wanted to pray before they left the Round Wheel, but Simon said there was no time for that, they needed to be back in the tavern before dark.
“This place is not like your village or mine, Rafik,” he explained. “The guild’s men are concerned with taxing you but not protecting the peace unless it is in their interest. We must not be caught out during darkness, or we might attract all manner of trouble.”
It sounded reasonable, but still, there had been a lot of missed prayers, and Rafik was beginning to suspect his uncle was perhaps not as devoted to the Prophet Reborn as he should be. It was more than a bit unfair, since Rafik was the one who was cursed, and he needed prayer now more than ever.
When they were done with cleaning and feeding the pony, Rafik tried to argue again about the prayer, but Fahid snapped at him to shut up.
Rafik was positioned yet again between the two grown-ups and was ordered to walk between them, and keep his mouth shut and his bandaged hand in his pocket.
Soon all thoughts of prayer were gone from his mind as they made their way through the biggest crowd Rafik had ever seen. Everyone was armed, even the women. The second thing that struck Rafik regarding the people of Newport was their hair. Some men had hair as long as a woman’s, and many of the women had hair as short as a man’s. To Rafik, this fact alone was astonishing, and he caught his brother staring as well.
The streets were wide but covered with potholes full of dark, foul-smelling water. Most people walked, but every once in a while, a truck would drive through the crowd, which parted expertly, as people stepped to the side so as not to get run over or sprayed with muck.
“Just stay calm, both of you,” Simon said quietly. “If I’m right, the place shouldn’t be far from here.”
The Prophet Reborn must have been angry at his uncle, because they had to ask people for directions and backtrack several times, but eventually they reached a door with a sign above it saying “Dominique’s Bar.” The name “Dominique” flashed red every so often but her last name stayed dark all the time.
“Follow me and … well … just keep close,” Simon ordered and pushed open the door. They stepped into a kind of shop. As they walked in a group of men were laughing loudly, and one of them got up and immediately fell over for no apparent reason, which made everyone else laugh even harder. More than a few of the men turned and glared at them menacingly.
“Stay close and don’t drink anything,” warned Simon.