A/N: Apologies, I didn't realize how much time had passed since my last update. To make up for the brevity of the next chapters and the long time in between updates, there'll be two updates today. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the writers on this site whose stories give me such great enjoyment and who are so much better than I am at updating. Apologies , again, and thanks for your faithfulness go out to you, the readers of this tale. :-)
God, full of mercy, Who dwells above, give rest on the wings of the Divine Presence , amongst the holy, pure and glorious who shine like the sky, to the soul of - daughter of -, for whom prayer was offered in the memory of her soul. Therefore, the Merciful One will protect her soul forever, and will merge her soul with eternal life. The Everlasting is her heritage, and she shall rest peacefully at her lying place, and let us say: Amen.
El male Rachamim
Artie can smell the man next to him on the bus.
The window is halfway open, but the dry air of the rocky desert only intenisfies the odour instead of alleviating it.
He smells like fish.
And sweat.
The stench encroaches on the senior warehouse agent just as much as his neighbour's considerable girth does, and Artie finds himself repeatedly pushed into the narrow aisle with the irregular jostling of the ancient vehicle.
He has been cursing under his breath for the better part of the last hours, but it is when he finally keeps his mind silent, that he hears it.
There is an incessant prayer whispered quietly by the man next to him and with startling clarity, Artie realizes that he understands every word of it.
He took the babelfish out of his ear before he ever got onto the tiny, crowded bus, hoping to quiet his overtired and cluttered mind by rendering himself deaf and dumb in this country of strange tongues and foreign accents.
The words flowing out of the man next to him,however, aren't comprised of roughly understood strings of Persian syllables studied decades ago in an underground government facility.
They are Hebrew.
The tongue of his grandparents.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise up and he immediately breaks out into a cold sweat as the meaning dawns on him.
It is understood primally, more from memory than translation, for Artie knows this prayer.
He knows it by heart.
El Male Rachamim.
The prayer for the dead.
Sung quietly by an obese man somewhere in the nomansland in the boundary region of Iran and Afghanistan.
Enemy country.
What other explanation is there than that of a suicide bomber, meaning to lead this tiny bus full of smuggled items and people towards an untimely end?
Artie looks at him, aghast, wishing to at least see his murderer before he will be lost to the sands of the desert forever.
But the sweating man next to him only smiles, seeing the recognition of the Hebrew on his face and holds out a small package to him.
„Cracker?" he asks in Yiddish and Artie is convinced, that he isn't a suicide bomber, just unimaginably stupid.
Speaking the language of Israel in the middle of the Muslim's Holy Land, is as sure a death sentence as strapping a bomb around the torso would be.
And Artie has invariably co-signed that death sentence by the understanding in his eyes at the language of the perceived enemy's and by relegating the blasted Babelfish to his pocket.
His heavy tongue, will roll with an American accent, and even if he will be able to gather enough of his memory of the Arabian languages, they will murder him for being an enemy of the state nevertheless.
It's a pity, really.
No one really knows where he is, except for Abigail.
And she only has a vague idea.
And is sworn not to tell.
Maybe his agents will find the artefacts they are going to take from him in the years to come and piece things together.
A sharp pain twists through his chest at the thought.
His agents minus Myka, because he would have failed at this mission.
There are tears in his eyes, and the man across from him who had still been waiting for his response regarding his offer of a simple snack, takes his hand into both of his.
He starts in a low but deceptively powerful voice to sing the Prayer for the Dead in this barren country, but to Artie's great surprise his heavy bass is soon joined by lighter voices all around them.
Following his instinct,while being fully aware that he might be singing for himself, the head of the Warehouse joins into the ragtag chorus of lost men passing through the Desert of the Dead.
Dashti Margo.