Chapter two
The encounter with Stanno left Scar broodingly quiet, and Miles left the subject untouched. He himself was irritated enough by the man's attitude, something they did not need here.
The heat was beginning to irritate him as well. Miles pulled off his uniform jacket and slung it over his shoulder. He wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand in an impatient gesture. Scar glanced at him.
"It's still early," he said. "It's going to get hotter."
"Well, that's just great, isn't it?" Miles grumbled. "Can we find some damn shade for a few minutes?"
Scar nodded toward the supply tent that stood nearby and they went inside. It wasn't much cooler in there, but they were out of the sun's intense rays.
A group of four soldiers, working in their shirt sleeves, were shifting packing crates and taking inventory of their contents. When the major entered, they stopped what they were doing and stood at attention.
"As you were," Miles said wearily. "Is there any water in here?"
"Right over here, Major!"
Jean Havoc waved the two of them over to a table that stood at one end of the tent. There was a collection of tin cups next to a barrel with a spigot at the bottom. He held out two of the cups. "Belly up!"
He grinned at Miles as the major gulped down the water. "You Briggs boys may have finally met your match. Or is there really much of a difference between stinkin' hot and stinkin' cold?"
"I'll take the cold any day," Miles replied.
"I realize Colonel Mustang was anxious to start this project," Scar said, "but it's not the right time of year."
"You could have said something," Miles remarked.
"No one asked me."
"So how do you folks do anything in this heat?" Havoc ventured to ask.
Scar looked at him and realized why he was familiar. He remembered seeing him on a rainy day back in East City in the company of Colonel Mustang. At the time, he had taken the gathering of so many alchemists in one place as a sign from God. He still believed so, but not in the way he originally imagined. If Mustang and his men had not appeared when they did, he would have taken Edward Elric's life. He wasn't exactly fond of the boy, but he was glad he was prevented from making that mistake.
"We work around it," Scar replied. "In the early morning and late into the evening. We spend the middle of the day inside."
"Well, we're on a timetable," Miles said. "We don't have the leisure to spend waking hours doing nothing."
"I never said we were idle," Scar countered. "That time is spent doing domestic work, teaching, studying, that sort of thing. Whatever needs to be done inside."
"It is also a good time for prayer and meditation."
Scar turned quickly. Entering the tent was his master, still as strong and serene as he had always been.
"Saahad!" Scar stepped up to him, taking his hand and touching it to his forehead in the gesture of respect. "Did you just get here?"
The old priest beamed at his pupil. "Oh, no! I've been here for several days. Some of our brothers and I accepted the kindness of a ride here from an amiable young soldier." He gave Scar an appraising look. "No one seemed to know what had happened to you, but you look well!" He looked over at Miles. "And you. You must be Major Miles."
Scar led the old priest back over to the table. "Miles, this is my teacher, Saahad Bozidar."
The old man held out his hand and Miles took it with a slight hesitance, wondering if he should copy Scar's gesture, but the priest simply shook his hand firmly. "I am very pleased to finally meet you."
"Likewise, sir," Miles replied.
"I understand you are the commanding officer?"
"For the military. I'm temporarily authorized to act in a civil capacity if called upon."
"I'm sure we are in good hands," Bozidar said with a benevolent smile.
"Something to wet your whistle?" Jean said, holding out a cup of water.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Havoc." Bozidar took the cup and drained it. "My student here was able to tell me something about you, Major. Your grandfather was Ishvalan?"
"Yes, sir," Miles said, then added, "He died during the war."
Bozidar nodded solemnly. "I see. What was his name?"
"Attar Tosakesh."
"Hmm." Bozidar tapped his fingers against his cup. "Yes. I remember the family name. They were rug weavers."
Miles smiled. "I still have the one he sent me."
The old priest brightened. "But that's excellent! You must let me see it! I haven't seen craftsmanship like that in a long time!"
"It's being sent here from Briggs along with some of my things," Miles replied.
"Are you're planning on staying with us for some time, then?"
"It depends on how well the reconstruction goes," Miles said with a slight shrug. "I'm on loan from Briggs. My assignment has tentatively been set for a year. If I feel sufficient progress has been made, I'll be heading back up north."
"Ah, well." Bozidar smiled. "Then perhaps you shouldn't get too used to the heat." He turned to Scar, studying his features. "And you, my son. Is your heart easier?"
Scar hesitated long enough for the old priest to regard him more closely. "It must be very discouraging to see our holy land in such a state."
"I knew what it would look like," Scar replied. His eyes fell away from his master's scrutiny, but the old man did not press him further.
The soldiers in the tent had paused to wipe the sweat from their faces and to half-listen to the conversation, but one of them suddenly tensed as he glanced out through the tent flaps.
"Duck and cover!" he hissed. He and the other soldiers scrambled behind the stacks of crates.
Havoc looked around in alarm. "Oh, crap!" As he seemed to contemplate diving under the table, an elderly Ishvalan woman hobbled into the tent. Her gnarled hand clutched the top of her walking stick like a claw, and her myopic red eyes darted around the tent before they finally fell on Havoc. She squinted, then pointed her stick in his direction.
"You! Boy!" she snapped. "Have those glasses come yet?"
"Uh…no ma'am. Not yet," Havoc replied cautiously. "They relayed a message out here just this morning. They said it would take a couple more days."
"A couple more days!" the old woman squawked indignantly. "A couple more days? You made me send them my old pair so they could get copied and they still have those, too! What if I died before they got here? With my poor eyes, what if I was walking along the road and fell in a hole?"
Havoc looked as though he would be happy to dig one for her. "I'm sorry, ma'am."
"He's doing the best he can, baata," Bozidar said, bending down and patting the woman's shoulder. "Just be patient."
"Hmph! I can't afford to be patient at my age! I could wake up tomorrow morning and I'd be dead!" She leaned back to squint up at Scar for a moment. "Hmph. No, no…" she mumbled under her breath. She hobbled up to Miles, peered at his uniform with a scowl, then narrowed her eyes up at his face. "Take those things off, boy! Let me see you properly."
Miles took off his dark glasses and looked down at the old woman. She squinted hard at him, rubbing her chin. She poked a finger at him. "What's your family, boy?"
"Miles, ma'am."
The woman shook her head in exasperation. "No, no! That's can't be right! That's not a proper name!"
"This is the grandson of Attar Tosakesh, baata," Bozidar told her. "The weaver. Do you remember him?"
The old woman drew in a sharp breath and stared up at Miles. "Do tell?" She squinted again. "Yes…yes…you have the same nose! Hmph! I should say I remember him! Oh, wasn't he the handsome one, Attar was! All the girls made eyes at him, shameless hussies! Then he goes and marries that foreign girl. Hmph!" She rapped her walking stick against the ground. "Listen, boy! Your grandfather was the youngest son of Arad and Shulee, who was the aunt of my mother, Nenya. She was the eldest of four and had problems with her knees."
Miles stared at her in surprise. "Are you telling me we're related?"
"Major!" Bozidar exclaimed. "What a blessing for you!"
Miles regarded the old woman as though he wasn't so sure.
She poked him in the stomach. "Your grandfather was my first cousin once removed!"
"Not far enough," Havoc muttered.
Miles shot him a look, then turned back to the old woman. "That makes us…second cousins?"
The woman waved her hand. "Something like that." She jabbed her stick in Havoc's direction. "Tell that boy to hurry up with my glasses!"
"I think he's already done everything he can."
"Hmph! Well, I don't know what this world is coming to! That I don't. There was a time when children respected their elders! Come along, young Attar!" The old woman whacked Miles across the backside with her stick, making him jump with a yelp and making Havoc clap his hand over his mouth. "Walk me back to my tent. With my poor eyes I could step on a scorpion and fall in a hole. And you!" She waved her cane at Scar. "What's-your-name! Where's your chuva? You don't look proper!"
Her question appeared to be rhetorical because she hobbled off toward the entrance, waving at Miles. "Come along, boy! Come along!"
Miles put his glasses back on, his expression stony. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he muttered darkly.
He followed the old woman out of the tent while she launched into a tirade on everything that wasn't proper. When her voice finally faded, one of the soldiers peered cautiously around the side of a stack of crates.
"Is she gone?" he whispered.
"Yeah, she's gone," Havoc called back. "She grabbed the major by the ear and swooped off with him."
"Poor bastard!" one of the other soldiers said mournfully, shaking his head.
"He will come to appreciate his good fortune in time, I'm sure," Bozidar chided the men gently. "I hope we are able to see more such reunions in the days to come." He turned his attention back to Scar, appraising him thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "Come with me, my son."
They made their way across the headquarters area and on to the tent city. Bozidar gazed beyond the compound at the ruins that lay shimmering in the heat. "Yes, there is much to be done," he mused to himself.
The old priest led Scar along the edge of the rows of tents. There were not many Ishvalans out at this time of the day, but their subdued voices could be heard.
"You'd think our people would be happier to be here, wouldn't you," Bozidar remarked. "There seems to be a general air of melancholy and distrust. Many wish to have as little contact with the Amestrians as they can. They are welcome to take advantage of meals in the mess tent, but very few of them do so. Ah, well," he sighed. "The healing process will take some time."
Yes, it probably will, Scar thought. His own hatred of the Amestrians had been tempered. The only one he would still desire to kill in the foulest, most painful fashion was Kimblee. He would probably always feel that way.
"But it's early days, yet," Bozidar went on. "Once the rebuilding begins in earnest, I'm sure things will start looking up."
Bozidar came to a stop at one of the tents. He lifted the flap and Scar followed him inside.
The interior had no furniture, not even one of the army-issue cots. Bozidar had always been very much an ascetic. There were only a couple of blankets on the ground. On one of them were all the priest's belongings: a stack of a few worn books and a small, neatly folded pile of clothing.
Bozidar knelt and went through the clothing, then stood up. He held one of the long striped sashes that identified Ishvalans as much as their red eyes.
"The old baata asked where your chuva went. I suppose it's long gone."
"I can barely even remember what happened to it, Saahad," Scar admitted.
"Well, fortunately, I have a few extras that have been given to me over time by some who have lost loved ones." Bozidar turned to his pupil. "Shall we observe the honors properly?"
Scar considered the striped sash in the priest's hands. Someone's mother had made it long ago in anticipation of the ceremony that would bestow it. Perhaps whoever had given it to the priest found the loss associated with it too painful to keep. His own had been bloodstained and shredded and had been cast aside along with everything else that made him who he was. Well, a new start had to be made somewhere.
He nodded finally. "If you would, Saahad."
Bozidar unfolded the chuva, softly intoning a blessing on it. Repeating the prayer, he draped the sash over Scar's shoulder and wound it around his waist, tying the ends in a knot at his hip. "I claim this child in the name of the Creator Ishvala."
He stepped back with a smile to admire the effect. "There now. I have been your spiritual father, after all."
Scar placed his hand upon the thick band where it lay across his chest. It was odd to feel its weight again.
"Thank you, Saahad. I'm very honored."
Bozidar smiled, then studied his pupil's face with the gentle scrutiny that always seemed to bore straight into his heart. "But you are still troubled."
He gave Scar no further prompting. He merely waited for him to speak. Scar looked back at him, dreading what he had to say yet anxious to say it.
"I have to leave the priesthood,"
Bozidar nodded thoughtfully. "I see," he murmured. After a moment he said, "To be honest, I had a feeling this would happen."
Scar wasn't sure whether to be relieved or ashamed at that reply. "I suppose I don't really have to explain why."
"As long as you understand yourself."
"Yes, Saahad. Of course I do." The old priest looked at him as though expecting more. "I dishonored my calling."
"How?"
Scar hesitated. This was how Bozidar taught.
"By committing murder in God's name, and by using alchemy to do it."
"Why?"
Scar's frowned deepened. He felt like a novice. "Because I sought revenge for our people."
The priest nodded, then he said, "No."
Scar waited for him to go on. This was when Bozidar stopped asking questions. "You gave in to despair. You felt you needed to be God's judge on earth not because God wanted you to, but because you felt God had failed you."
Scar suddenly felt cold. "I lost my vocation, Saahad! Not my faith!"
"No, I don't think you actually lost your faith." His master smiled, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You just misplaced it for a while. God did not fail us. We may think we were left to the mercy of those who worshipped power, but ultimately, they were the ones who were overcome, and we are here. There are many of our people whose faith has been shaken. They think we were abandoned by God or we were being tested or we were being punished. It was much the same centuries ago when the great earthquake destroyed half of Ishval. The river that once flowed here disappeared and the face of the land was changed," he went on. "We thought we were being punished then, too. And yet, we are here. Come with me."
He beckoned for Scar to follow him outside and he placed his hand on Scar's shoulders and turned him to face the view beyond the tents. "What do you see?"
"I see ruins, Saahad."
"What else?"
Scar shrugged slightly. "Cactus. Scrub. Meskaa trees."
"What do you hear?"
"I hear…cicadas…quail…" Scar smiled a little. "Cactus wrens."
"It looks dead out there," Bozidar said quietly. "But it isn't. There are many plants and creatures out there that have learned to live and thrive here. So have we." He turned Scar to face him and tapped him on the chest with his fist. "God has not tested us so much as he has tempered us. He has molded us into a tenacious people, and our faith should be just as tenacious."
Scar gave a half-smile. The weight that had been pressing on his heart had lifted, if only a little. "Thank you, Saahad. I hope someday to be half as wise as you."
"Ah, my son, the wisest man knows that there is always more to learn. That's what my master taught me," Bozidar said. "And the best way to learn is to teach." He considered Scar for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I think that will do admirably."
Scar looked at him, slightly puzzled. "What will?"
"You will teach," Bozidar replied simply. "You did so before, and you will do so again. There will be many children here once all our people have returned. School will give them structure and a sense of security, and I would not want the education I gave you to go to waste."
"You want me to teach all the children?"
"We'll find some assistants for you. Whoever you think will do. You will be in charge of organizing everything." He gave Scar a look that was almost sly. "That should keep you busy."
Miles brought his cup down hard on the table. "You what?"
"I left the priesthood," Scar replied simply, frowning slightly at his plate. Somehow, creamed chipped beef was a term that covered any number of evils. "I discussed it with Bozidar and he gave me his blessing."
"You didn't get any damn blessing from me, you bastard!" Miles growled. He pointed his finger in Scar's face. "I dragged your sorry ass out here to help restore our culture and our religion, remember?"
"I'm sorry, Miles," Scar replied calmly. "I'm discussing it with you now, and there's no reason for you to be so concerned. If you need a spiritual leader, Saahad Bozidar is much better suited for that than I am. He's put me in charge of teaching the children. They're our future, after all."
Miles glared at him for a moment, then sighed wearily and rubbed his forehead. "All right. I'll trust you on this." He gave Scar a wry half-smile. "Sorry. Didn't mean to bite your head off. It's been a rough day."
Scar shrugged and turned his attention back to his dinner. "You have a lot of responsibilities on your shoulders."
"Tell me about it!" Miles muttered.
Havoc walked into the mess tent and headed for the chow line. "Hey, Major!" he called out. "How's your auntie?"
Miles glowered at him. "Do you have any idea how many latrines you'd be digging right now if you were still in uniform, Havoc?" he growled. He disregarded the former lieutenant's snickering and turned back to Scar. "I have a welt on my ass this big from that stick of hers!" He spread his thumb and forefinger apart almost to their limit. "When I wasn't fetching and carrying for that old bat, I had to listen to her bitching about every goddamn thing she could think of!"
Scar kept his expression somber. "You may find this hard to believe, but I envy you. Part of your family actually survived."
"Please! She's all yours!"
Scar shook his head and drank some of his coffee. He would have been grateful for any family at all, but he wasn't prepared to go quite that far.
