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I finish my plate and set the utensil down on it. He reaches across the table and grabs my plate, carefully not looking up so there is no chance of eye contact between us. As he turns away there is a banging on the front door so fast and hard that I jump in my seat and I yelp.
Bhoja growls, low and deep. I don’t know for sure but it sounds like a dangerous growl. My stomach twists as fear claws through my thoughts. The one thing that his reaction makes clear is that he’s not expecting anyone and, I’m guessing, that it’s not normal for someone to try and knock down the door when they do show up.
He tosses the dishes onto the counter and then goes to the door, wiping his hands on his apron. He throws the door open, blocking my view of what is outside. There is a rapid fire exchange in Urr’ki that I couldn’t possibly follow. All I know is that he sounds really angry. Which is saying something since Urr’ki is an angry sounding language anyway. It’s full of harsh barks and consonants but this sounds extra mad.
I stand up and move closer until I get a glimpse past him. The instant I do my heart freezes in my chest. One of the Maulavi is there, barking at Bhoja and thumping the ground with a twisted staff. Bhoja and the Maulavi seem to be arguing. About what I do not know but it isn’t hard to guess that I’m the topic of conversation.
Bhoja squares his shoulders as he rises to his full height. He fills the door and his voice is deeper and even more rumbly than normal. He growls something that is a single harsh syllable. It makes me scared and that sound isn’t directed at me in the slightest, but the Maulavi is not phased at all. Instead, he smiles. A sly, evil smile that turns my blood into ice.
The Maulavi lifts two fingers and motions. I can’t see what’s happening but there is a lot of clattering outside and what sounds like a lot of feet. Armor? Is that the sound of armor clanking? Bhoja continues to stare down the Maulavi then like a balloon that springs a leak his shoulders slump and his head lowers.
Bhoja says something more but the defiance is out of his voice now. The Maulavi answers then Bhoja steps aside and the Maulavi walks in. The Maulavi is smaller than Bhoja. His skin is a sickly shade of green, his eyes are wet, and he licks his lips. A lot. It’s gross. Everything about him makes my skin crawl and what’s worst of all is he is completely focused on me.
He walks across the room, moving slow. Tapping his walking stick before every step. Desperately afraid I look past him to the one possibility of help. Bhoja is standing next to the door through which I now see there are several armed and armored Urr’ki waiting. Bhoja frowns and when I meet his eyes he gives a subtle shake of his head.
“You,” the Maulavi says his voice a sniveling sneer, “will come with me.”
4
NIYAH
The room is devoid of any notable features. Plain stone without any hint of a seam or how it was made. A single heavy wooden door and this chair that is too big for me. My feet don’t touch the floor which is cutting the blood off to my legs.
Bhoja was allowed or maybe forced he forced his way into coming along when I was taken from his house. The Maulavi has me in custody for ‘questioning’ but so far no questions have been asked. The worst thing that’s happened so far, besides my legs going numb, is boredom.
Bhoja and another Urr’ki stand on either side of the door looking grim. They’re both dressed in armor that definitely looks like it's seen heavy use. I tried talking to them but the most I got was another subtle head shake from Bhoja and I finally gave up on that happening. And I’ve waited. And waited.
I suppose I should be thankful that I finished breakfast before they came for me. Since I’ve come here there has been no offer of any comfort. No water, no food, nothing. Just these two Urr’ki, only one of whom I know in the slightest, silently staring.
This must be some form of torture. Keep me waiting until my own thoughts drive me crazy but for what end? I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. When I open my eyes nothing has changed. I didn’t expect it to, but one could always hope.
What would Greta do?I ask myself and give the question some serious thought but my conclusion sucks.She wouldn’t have gotten into this situation. That’s what she would do.
I snort and shake my head. I’m not wrong. My sister was smart. Really, really smart. She was the total package, unlike me. My mousy hair, my okay face, my less than stellar boobs. Greta got the best of our genetic gene pool and I took the leftovers. I’m okay, but she was perfect. And I couldn’t even be jealous of her because her heart was so freaking big I could never bring myself to hate her even a little bit. Jealousy kind of requires some degree of hatred and I never had that for her. Envy though, that I have in spades. And she’s not even here anymore.
The sadness that comes with that thought is every bit as fresh as it was the day I figured out she wasn’t with us. Heavy and weighty and more than I want to confront. More than I know how to confront.
*tap* *tap* *tap*
Bhoja stiffens and his tusks quiver as his frown deepens and his eyes narrow. The sound is coming from beyond the door and there is no doubt that it’s coming closer. My heart speeds up and so does my breathing. I try to force myself to be calm but I might as well demand that water quit being wet. It’s not happening.
The sound stops outside the door. Nervously I look at Bhoja. He is frowning so deeply that his eyebrows meet in the middle and his tusks touch the sides of his nose. He has one hand clenched into a tight fist but he continues to stare straight ahead.
The door swings open to reveal the same Maulavi that came to the house. He’s wearing a raggedy gray robe and still has his twisted staff in one hand. As he moves into the room, coming closer, I can smell him. He smells of something off, like food that is on the verge of spoiling. The knuckles of the hand that grips his staff are swollen and look arthritic. He moves like someone who has arthritis too. As if every step is a painful exercise.
He comes to a stop in front of me with his head bowed, staring at the floor or my feet I’m not sure which. He coughs and it sounds wet. The coughing fit grips his body and it is clear to me that he’s sick with something. Whether it’s a degenerative disease or a communicable one I do not know.
“You,” he says, when the coughing fit is over and he looks up with his wet eyes, “came here to spy. Admit it and let’s end this charade.”
“What?” I ask.
He smiles and when he does it reveals rotting teeth, several of which are missing. He takes another step closer and his breath is horrendous. It makes me gag and I have to turn my head to try and get away from it.
“You are a spy,” he says. “My brethren and I know this. It will be much easier for you if you admit it.”
“I’m not,” I say.
“Liar!” he yells, pounding the floor with this staff. “Do not lie to me. We know when you are lying. We have ways.”
