NaNoWriMo 1K-A-Day: Day 7

Brothers At Arms (Joseph)

A deep, vibrant fragrance caused him to raise his head. It wasn’t anything like the flowers that decorated the house. Joseph whirled around as Fatin Ataullah strode into her husband’s office. She wore a loose, flowing silk kimono over simple dark-washed skinny jeans and a close-fitting, scoop-necked crop-top. Her thick, long jet-black hair cascaded over her head, and her ice-blue eyes sparkled as she watched him.

Joseph tensed at the gleam in her eyes. He knew the relationship between the Consul and his wife was strained; he heard them frequently fighting over petty things, such as the way she dressed. She would have no productive excuse for going into his office.

“Sayyidita,” Joseph slipped out of his chair and bowed low to her, both showing deference--and positioning himself between the woman and the letters. “Forgive me, your husband is not home--”

“Yes, I know,” she waved a hand and smiled, still staring at him with a tiny smile playing around her lips. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

Joseph kept his eyes downcast, as was appropriate for a servant. “Ask; I am yours to command.”

Fatin did not reply right away, but Joseph had learned better than to relax, even in the slightest.

“You are American?” she asked.

Now it was Joseph’s turn to balk. He had not broadcasted his origins, but at the same time, he was not surprised that she knew, since the Consul must have also known.

“I am, Sayyidita,” he answered. He waited for her to make the first move.

Her soft linen sandals shifted to the side and walked back toward the door. Joseph held his position, following her out of the corner of his eye until she had retreated far enough out of the room for it to be within the bounds of etiquette for him to return to his work, since she had not verbally dismissed him.

He had only reached for the pen, when her voice reached him again.

“Do you think I am pretty?”

Joseph froze, and his blood chilled; she had spoken in near-perfect English, the first he had heard since being thrown in the back of that sheep truck. What sort of question was she asking? Did she honestly want to know, or was she testing him? Which answer should he give? He had probably hesitated too long by now, anyway. Joseph decided to go for honesty first, and deal with the ramifications as they came.

“Yes, Sayyidita,” he answered, not trusting himself to say more.

She giggled softly, and he heard her hands sliding over the smooth wood of the door frame. “You are not even looking, abdul,” she made his title of service sound like a playful pet name.

Joseph felt his chest constricting. “Forgive me, Sayyidita; I do not feel it is right for me to look on you while your husband is not at home. I only mean to honor my master, and honor you.”

The scent of her perfume grew as she stepped closer.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

Joseph immediately transferred his gaze from her feet to her eyes.

Fatin Ataullah was indeed an alluring sight; Joe immediately recalled several examples of models on magazine covers, air-brushed and photo-retouched to immaculate perfection. All those seemed phony and fake as he stood barely six inches from a woman who could easily outclass any of them. And yet he only looked at her eyes.

Fatin smiled at him. “That’s better,” she murmured, running a hand through her long, dark hair. For a woman fast approaching her thirties, she still looked and carried herself as one twenty years younger. She sauntered away, leaving Joseph to stand there and watch her hips sway as she walked. The minute her back was turned, Joe resumed staring at the carpet.

He did not move until the sound of her softly-padding footsteps faded beyond his hearing.

The exchange flooded the young man’s mind with doubts; he had always spoken Arabic out of deference to the man who had paid money for him--never once did it cross his mind that either the Consul or his wife would know English. But, of course, as the Consul, it would make perfect sense for Karim to know multiple languages; how to discern this, though? The volatile man might suspect something untoward if the man he trusted most began asking about other languages; it would not be a stretch to conclude that Joseph was trying to find a language his master did not understand, with which to communicate with the enemies of his master. What should he do?

>>>>>>>>>>

King of the Roses (David)

“Boy?” The raspy voice grated like sandpaper over my ears.

I jumped to my feet out of habit. Big Sulley had a tendency to kick anybody who didn’t stand when he addressed them.

“Sir, I--”

Sulley’s big hands, stiff with arthritis, reached out and clamped my shoulders. He shook me, but it was more of an involuntary muscle spasm than actual menace.

“What are you doing here, boy?” he grunted.

I took a deep breath and prayed for peace. “Sir, I am here to do what needs to be done.”

Sulley still stared at me, his thick eyebrows drooping so I couldn’t tell if he was sneering or just looking at me. “There is nothing we can do. I am going to give the street back to Phil.”

“Just like that?”I was so surprised to hear the conclusion that I forgot all sense of respect for our not-so-fearless leader. “Mr. MacDonald, this isn’t about who controls the streets--”

Sulley sighed and shuffled slowly over to his big leather armchair. “That’s all he wants, that’s what he’s going to get. It’s not worth a fight. It’s just a few blocks. It’s Real is all but dead as a ministry. There really isn’t any point.”

“No point?” I couldn’t believe the community that had lasted my whole life would just roll over and disappear like that. “Did you not hear what he’s been saying? Gunther is making death threats against God! What sort of a ministry can we have here in Portland if we just abdicate at the least sign of aggression?”

“David.”

It felt weird, hearing Big Sulley say my name. He held out his hand over the armrest. When I offered mine, he patted it like a little old lady. “You have helped me well with your music over the years, when my torments come. I don’t know what I would do without it; I want you to go home, to stay safe.”

“But we’re It’s Real!” I reminded him, pulling my hand away. “How real is it, if all we do when things get rough is give up and go away? Is it Real? Or Isn’t it?”

Sulley frowned at me, the corners of his mouth sinking deep into his wrinkles. “Why are you talking like this?”

Gunther is an angry dog that needs to be taken down, I reminded myself. “Sir, I’ve faced mad dogs that were practically wild with aggression, and one time, on a walk in the woods, a cougar attacked the puppies in my care. They couldn’t protect themselves, so I stepped in to defend them.” I wasn’t bragging, I was only stating facts. “That mobster out there? Yeah he’s big and rough and he’s got a loud, foul mouth--but he’s no different than the cougar or the mad dog.” I pointed out the window to the houses, where more than likely people cowered behind couches. “These people need to know that nobody can stand up and say those things about God.”

Sulley had stared at me, not moving, not even blinking the whole time. I finished, and he still did not move. I wondered if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open, but then he spoke.

“Take the gun,” he said.

ReBible: "Brothers At Arms" Excerpt--Joseph's Backstory

 .....Joe began automatically filling out the areas of the form asking for his basic information. The purpose of the form, he saw, was ascertaining the reason for his promotion. The first section merely wanted his full name, date of birth, current address, names of parents, stuff like that. Joe filled out his mother's name, Rachel Jamison. He glanced over to the blank labeled, "Name of Father," but luckily his eye caught a small box in the corner labeled "Single Parent." Gratefully, Joe checked the box.

Not that he did not have a father; Joe knew there must have been one, but he was not a part of his son's life at all. Rachel Alban had led an idyllic singlehood, but her aim and highest goal had always been to marry the perfect man and have plenty of children. She knew she had found the one when she met the man who had been Joseph's father, Captain Jamison, a soldier in the Marines. They, of course, had Joseph, but then Rachel's dreams of being the model Army wife were shattered when she became an Army widow. Rachel felt somehow deceived, somehow sold short of her goal. She wanted more than just the one son; especially when little Joe began exhibiting behaviors that irritated her: he was too quiet, he read too much, he talked too smart for someone his age, and many others as he grew. Rachel began to see that if she wanted the family of her dreams, she needed to be searching for the right man with which to make that family.

Thus began a steady stream of men in and out of Joe's life. All of them were father material to the mother; none of them were father-figures in any way to the son. Inevitably, the search for the perfect husband (or at least a perfect boyfriend) caused the death of Rachel Jamison, when her son was only fifteen years old. Upon her death, however, Joe discovered that, far from leaving him destitute, his mother had at least set aside enough money to pay for one year's tuition at the college of his choice. Joe, following a hint from his mother that his father had been a soldier, opted for West Point.

Once there, however, Joseph became acutely and painfully aware of just how unique and specially gifted he was.

Living at home and going to public school, Joseph had endured the surprised stares of teachers as he turned in excellent homework assignments every time, and in grade school none of the others really cared much about how fast the others got their work done, or how grades compared, anyway. Within his home his mom all but ignored him as long as his grades were good, so Joseph continued functioning and reasoning as he always did. Entering high school at fourteen, however, Joseph quickly received his first inkling that something set him apart from the other kids his age.

First, there was his affinity for foreign languages. There was a mandatory second language program at his grade school, and parents could choose from three languages taught at the school: Spanish, German, and French. Unbeknownst to Rachel, the three forms her son brought home at the beginning of the school year for her to sign (which she did, very impatiently and unconcernedly) were not for the same class; Joseph got her to sign him up for all three classes, and for the next several years, Joseph handled three beginning language classes with uncanny ease. By the time he entered high-school, Joseph was nearly fluent in at least those three languages. The foreign language program in high school offered Chinese in addition to the standard three, so Joseph eagerly tackled that language for the year.

He was also an exceptionally well-mannered young boy, conscientiously picking up on social cues even at a very young age. Such a skill made him popular in elementary school, as the other kids appreciated the way he was always nice to them and always seemed to know the right things to say and do, but his keen mannerliness all but alienated him from the other high school kids. They called him "dork" and "nerd" and "show-off" and "prissy" and --most painful of all-- "spacey." He never gave an incorrect answer to any question, but his constantly pensive demeanor gave others the impression that perhaps Joe Jamison did not always reside on planet Earth. Joe, finding himself again rejected, first by his mother and now by his peers, grew discouraged. He began withdrawing from everyone in his life, and when his mother died a year after he began high school, he knew he would rather join the ROTC in preparation to enter West Point Academy than face another year at high school. Perhaps in the military setting Joe could find at least a few people with whom he could intellectually relate, and if not, well, surely they would take him more seriously there than in high school.

It only took two months for Joe to discover how wrong he was. The ROTC, from his perspective, was exactly like high school, but involved more rules and restrictions and the instructors demanded more of the cadets than the high school teachers their students. The name-calling persisted, only instead of “spacey” Joseph was branded the more refined name of “space cadet.” By the time he entered West Point, Joseph felt completely alone in the world, and lost in his own mental capacity.

In the present, Joe paused in his reminiscing to thank God he had found Him in that uncertain time.

With all the pressure and instability Joseph felt, he knew it would have been too easy to resist all forms of social interaction in spite of his aptitude, and to turn to countless other methods and substances even the others of his unit began trying and using to cope with the emptiness he felt in his soul. Joseph recalled the exact date, April 5, 20--, when he happened upon a tract someone had just discarded in front of him.

"LOST?" It read.

Joseph picked up the tract, reading the questions that resonated with the ones even now spinning in his head.

"Have you ever wondered why you are here? Is it enough to know, like most will tell you, that you have an ambiguous, indefinite purpose in the Circle of Life? Did you ever think it could be possible to have a specific reason WHY you are THE WAY YOU ARE? Would you like to be directed by Somebody willing to SHOW you the right way to live, rather than just TELLING you? Chaplain Lucas Grace can help you! Come to Chapel on Easter Sunday to hear the Greatest News Ever Told!"

By the time he finished the tract, Joe was so excited about the prospect of finding answers to his questions he folded the tract, slipped it into his shirt pocket and continued to his next class with a lighter step. It occurred to the young cadet that he had seen several cadets on campus handing out flyers and tracts just like this one, but he had always passed them by assuming they were just hawking another religion or life-change philosophy, one for which a busy student already too pensive for his own good would not need. He probably would not have accepted from them the flyer he now carried in his pocket, yet he noted with irony that the cadet that did accept the paper originally, ultimately rejected its message.

Joseph attended the service, and he was so enraptured by the message the Chaplain shared that he stayed behind after everyone else left to speak with Chaplain Grace alone.

Lucas Grace had served as the Chaplain at West Point for twenty-three years, and in spite of that many sermons, the number of cadets taking the opportunity to dedicate their lives to Christ decreased as the years progressed. Chaplain Grace often had to combat the discouraging thought that once the cadets stopped coming forward, he would stop preaching; he fought it with the reassurance that this chapel, this time is where God had him, to preach the Gospel and make disciples, not just to win converts. Every time he was tempted to quit, Lucas would consider whether the next year, after he was gone, a cadet would come looking for God, and Lucas would have missed the opportunity. That's what he had asked himself on Christmas, and now on Easter, he received his answer in the form of the wide-eyed, shy, lonely new cadet named Joseph.

Joseph was looking for answers, and he was looking for a purpose. Chaplain Grace showed him the message of the Bible, and Joseph knew that this was the answer and the directive he was looking for. He threw himself into believing and founding his life on the principles of the Bible as ardently as he pursued his studies, if not even more so. If ever again he felt the old disorientation or confusion coming on, Joseph would immediately turn to prayer and the Word of God. He met with Chaplain Grace multiple times during the week, and the older man became the father-figure and mentor Joseph never had but always sought.

Chaplain Grace, far from thinking Joseph "spacey," encouraged the young man to view his proficiency in languages and his keen perceptiveness as gifts instead of hindrances. He inspired the young cadet to choose the field he felt God calling him to, and so Joseph chose two focuses he felt utilized and amplified the skills he already had, in a wider, more applicable manner: a Master's degree in World Cultures and Religions, with an undergraduate in World Languages.

A few years later, Joseph, a junior officer, received a freshman roommate, Benjamin Samson. Joseph immediately brought him to Chapel, and in very short order, Benjamin also joined the small "Bible mentor sessions," as Joseph called them. Joseph recognized the hand of God in first leading Joseph to Himself, then bringing to him a young man open to the Gospel for a roommate, so every evening and morning, Joseph and Benjamin spent an hour in reading the Bible and in prayer. Joseph felt that these quality times made anything he faced during the days and weeks bearable, even the unexpected promotion to lieutenant and subsequent deployment to Florida that had cropped up in the space of two months. One minute Joseph had been attending a lecture on "The Spiritual Motivations of a Believer in A Religion Without A Centralized Deistic System," and the next he was riding in the familiar green jeep to the airfield for a flight to Tampa with a brand-new silver bar on his uniform and a letter of recommendation in his pocket.

ReBible: "Brothers At Arms" Excerpt--The Betrayal

 Major Addison "Yadda" Reubens peered through the glare of the Iraqi sun at the town of Qalqalas in the distance. They were still several kilometers away. He could barely see their destination--an oasis straight ahead of them, past the town--on the horizon.

Sweating profusely, he adjusted the rough linen turban on his forehead and draping around his neck as he trudged among the smelly, bleating, jostling sheep. He glanced to his left, where Captain Joseph Jamison walked free and easily with the sheep crowding around him, as carefree as one who had been a shepherd his whole life. Reubens had to admire the kid; he had mastered the behavior of an Iraqi shepherd so perfectly, you could not tell by looking at him that these sheep had been in his care all of four hours. You couldn't even tell he had never been a shepherd in his life before then. Reuben's wandering thoughts snapped back into focus when he saw the large stones lining the road next to the town, as they drew closer. He knew what awaited them--or at least Joseph--behind those rocks. Reubens paused; suddenly, he did not want to go through with "the plan." He saw Capt. Faver glance at him, and McJacobs, both with knowing expressions. Sgt. Hamid bin Yakub, or "Yak," as they called him, had informed everyone of his intentions to "remove" Joseph from the operation and make it look like an inevitable accident. Reubens winced; if only he hadn't made the mistake that cost him that point position! Granted, he didn't like Joseph's preferential treatment by the Colonel any more than Yak did, but killing? Surely there was another way!

Could they escape through the streets of Qalqalas, perhaps? Yak would see them; he'd be watching them every step of the way so far. He wouldn't be able to see them in town from the field, and Reubens hoped he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. The soldier gripped his staff in determination; Joseph would not be killed, not as long as he could do anything about it.

"Yadda!" Corporal Aaron Revere, called "the Rev" by the other members of ISRL, interrupted Reubens' train of thought. "Which way do we go?"

Reubens glanced toward the rocks, and away toward the town. He pointed toward town. "Steer the sheep down that way!" he ordered, and the rest of his detachment obeyed, albeit not without puzzled expressions.

As Reubens expected, Yak's gravelly voice reached him over his earpiece.

"Yadda, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Reubens winced, "We're taking the long route through the town… sir," he replied.

"That wasn't the plan, Reubens," Yak pointed out, deliberately being vague about his alternate plot. "Skirt the town; it will be faster that way. I'm almost in position."

Reubens and his group had almost reached the small decline into the town. "Negative, sir," he responded to Yak, "We spotted suspicious activity along that road; it's too risky."

"Risky?" Yak exploded, causing all the men to jump as his voice blasted their eardrums. "Reubens, don't you dare leave my sight--"

Reubens sighed with relief. They had made it to the outskirts of the town. A few paces more and Yak would be blind to them. "Approaching town, sir," he reported casually to Yak. "We'll turn off our comms till we get through, then I'll let you know when we reach the other side." He raised his hand to signal everyone to switch off their comms.

"Reubens, you'll regret--" click!

Reubens nodded with satisfaction as he saw the rest of the men switch off, effectively "going dark," at least to Yak. It was a risky maneuver, but Reubens hoped it would be enough to save Joseph's life.

"Keep the sheep close," he cautioned the young officer.

Joseph nodded and reached out with his staff to guide a wandering sheep back toward the flock. Carefully, Joseph worked his way to the edge of the flock, placing now his body between the flock and the various obstacles in the town streets such as crates, people, and even the occasional truck.

One sheep nearly got away from him, and as Joseph bent to restrain it, Reubens clearly saw an Arab, standing next to a rusty, blue cattle truck, raise his hand to his ear, staring at the group intently. Reubens saw him nod, saw his lips move, and by the time Joseph stood up, the man was a picture of disinterest. The Arab made eye contact with Reubens and nodded; somehow he was in contact with Yak, who had given him some sort of instruction. Reubens sighed and glanced to the other side of the road as they neared the truck. He heard one of the men call out to Joseph, but the dialect was strange, and even if they spoke Arabic, Reubens didn't know enough to fully understand what they said. The man smiled a rotting grin full of wide holes at the young captain and waved. Joseph looked to his sergeant for confirmation, which Reubens felt loath to give. Slowly, reluctantly, Reubens sealed his involvement with the plot against Joseph with a nod. Joseph turned back to the man, who began fingering Joseph's jacket admiringly. Soon all the men at the truck had him surrounded.  Reubens used the ram at the head of the flock to steer the rest of the sheep away from the small scuffle as five Arab men swiftly wrestled Joseph into the back of their truck. He heard the others call out in surprise, he heard the truck motor grind to life, but Reubens could not bring himself to even look at the vehicle as it roared away with Joseph inside.

"Ey!" he heard one of the Arabs yell, and something slapped against his left side.

The Colonel's jacket, the one he'd given to Joseph; the men had ripped it off him and tossed it at Reubens. He saw a thick packet tucked into the pocket; by the feel of it, Reubens deduced there was money inside. Yak had sold Joseph to them.

Reuben burned inside.

"I hope you're happy, you turncoat!" he muttered before turning on his comm as they reached the far side of town.

Meanwhile, in the back of the truck, Joseph struggled in vain as a burly Arab bound and gagged him. The man left Joseph laying there and climbed out to the side of the truck.

The young soldier's mind raced. This was not at all how he envisioned his first mission! Why hadn't the others in his unit stopped them? Did they even care about him? Had Yadda known? Joseph soon forgot about these worries as he realized that this truck had very recently held many of some animal--sheep, perhaps? The truck bed was heaped with piles of dung. Joseph stumbled to his feet in disgust, for it occurred to him that he had landed on a few piles, himself. In the bouncing, lurching truck it was difficult to gain a footing, but at least Joseph made it to his knees, where it was easier to absorb the movement and control his body.

He considered his situation. They obviously intended to carry him a great distance, and Joseph was willing to bet the destination had nothing to do with Operation Shepherd. Where would he end up, and why had he been singled out?

"The Lord is my Shepherd," Joseph thought, "I shall not want..."

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