Final Winter

‘All in God’s time, my mighty warrior,’ the Sudanese said. ‘All in God’s time.’

Amil was confused but happy. ‘I understand now… I think I do…but tell me, sir, why have you come back? Is there more to be done?’

The Sudanese said, ‘There is always more to be done. But I need to know something. Your work that day, going to the Internet place in Lahore. Did you tell anybody what you did there?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see anybody in Lahore who would recognize you?’

‘No.’

‘And you have kept your secret well, all these weeks?’

Amil nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, yes, I have.’

The Sudanese slapped him gently on the back. ‘You have done so well, my friend. You truly have. Here, I must show you something.’

Amil watched as the Sudanese reached into his robes and pulled out a small pistol. It was a dark and ugly thing, and there was something odd attached to the end of the stubby barrel, like a short length of pipe wider than the barrel itself. Amil eyed the pistol as the Sudanese raised it.

‘Is…is that for me?’

‘In a way, yes.’

‘But I have no experience in using such a thing!’

The Sudanese shook his head. ‘No experience is necessary. But I have one more thing to tell you, Amil.’

‘Yes, what is that?’

The Sudanese’s easy smile disappeared in an instant. ‘Greetings from the people of the United States of America.’

And the end of the pipe-length was pressed against Amil’s forehead, and all was darkness.

~ * ~

On the island of Bali, Ranon Degun looked out through a window of his aunt and uncle’s home, watching the rains fall. The exhilaration and joy he had experienced at making that cellphone call and feeling that he had been doing something great and exciting had dribbled away, like ice melting in a glass. What worth had it been? What great thing had he accomplished? There was so much to do and he thought he had done his part… and silence. Nothing. He looked back into his uncle and aunt’s home, saw the disarray of dishes in the kitchen, laundry to be folded, floor to be swept — women’s work, not work for a man, yet his uncle had demanded that the home be cleaned before he and his wife came home later that night. ‘You must do something here to support yourself,’ his uncle had shouted, ‘for we cannot feed you for free! You understand? We are not your slaves, to feed you and clothe you at your demands!’

So there it was. Women’s work. When just a while ago he had been a proud jihadist, taking the first step to fight against the enemy, to free his beautiful island from the filthy—

A man was coming down the pathway, a tall man, a black man—

The Sudanese!

Ranon ran out of the small house, went down the stone path, the sodden leaves on the tree branches slapping him in the face and on the shoulders, and the Sudanese gave him a wide grin as he met up with him. He grasped the black man’s hands with his and said, ‘How wonderful! How wonderful! Do you have any news?’

The Sudanese smiled back at him. ‘Yes, wonderful news… but only if we can speak quietly. Can we do that?’

Ranon released the man’s hands, quickly nodded. ‘Yes, yes, right here. I know the place. Come along!’

He walked quickly, not minding the downpour, as the Sudanese kept pace with him, following behind him, as he peppered the older man with questions. Did his phone call really make a difference? How goes the jihad? Why was there no news of a major strike against America? Was the day coming soon? Could he, Ranon, join the Sudanese and leave Bali to do God’s work?

They came into a small clearing. Almost out of breath, Ranon said, ‘This is my secret hiding place. It’s where I come to pray and think when my uncle and aunt… when they yell at me too much. This is where I come to be alone.’

The Sudanese nodded, and Ranon noted something odd, as if the man was troubled by what he said. But the Sudanese simply said, ‘And of my visit. And what you did. Was anyone told?’

Ranon shook his head. ‘No one. I swear.’

‘Very good.’

The Sudanese slid a large hand into his clothing, took out a pistol. Ranon was fascinated with the black shape. The Sudanese said, ‘Ranon, do you know how to use one of these?’

‘No, I do not.’

The Sudanese shrugged. ‘It does not matter. I do, and that is all that, is important.’

And while Ranon was trying to figure out what the man meant, he felt the touch of the cold metal upon his forehead and flinched. Something inside him froze when the last words he heard were, ‘Greetings from the people of the United States of America.’

~ * ~