Bright morning light poured in through the open curtains spilling over the
figures of Ian and Mobius. Ian squinted at the intrusion of the seemingly
blinding light. His head was throbbing and his mouth was dry. He dropped
his head back to his pillow and groaned at the motion. He'd only had one
drink. Damn, what had been in it? As the throbbing subsided a bit from
him remaining still, he began to recall the odd dream. What had the woman
meant? He furrowed his brow, but that caused the pain to return. He sat
up and rubbed his forehead before lobbing a pillow in Mobius' direction.
"Wake up. Rise and shine."
Mobius opened one wary eye and peered blearily at Ian. "You truly hate me don't you? Could you not just let me sleep?" He slung the pillow back at Ian.
"Nope, I'm awake therefore you are awake. Besides, I want to see the art museum today. And the zoo."
"You are a boring man, Ian Nottingham," Mobius laughed, teasing his friend.
"As if you wouldn't choose a library over an amusement park." Ian harumphed as he ran his hand across the growth of beard on his chin.
Mobius canted his bald head to the side, "You have a point." He smiled, white teeth gleaming in the morning light.
"Speaking of books . . . have you ever read anything about Septima Zenobia?"
Before Mobius could reply, a soft knock at the door signaled the arrival of their room service breakfast. The topic was dropped, forgotten, as they began to enjoy their food.
The second day of R and R for Mobius and Ian was filled with sight-seeing. Their first stop had been the zoo, which didn't have a whole lot of animals. There were a few ostriches in a cage, some turkeys, and a lone camel in a dark shed. Ian remarked that the rebuilding of the zoo must be coming along slowly, while Mobius noted that there were more trees in the area than they had seen during their entire deployment to the region. A group of boys were playing cricket in one of the open fields and Mobius and Ian had stopped to watch for a few moments before continuing onward.
Their next stop was the Fatima al Masjid mosque in Abdulla Al Salem district. The mosque was a bright and colorful structure, the architecture awe inspiring. They encountered a mobile convenience store operating out of the back of a truck and purchased some drinks to cool themselves, the mid- day heat being oppressive.
The duo then set out to explore the city's museums, the National Museum and the Tareq Rajab Museum. The National Museum, which used to house the Al- Sabah collection, a large and important selection of Islamic art, had been stripped of many artifacts in the previous two years and had just begun reconstruction efforts. Its four buildings and planetarium were heavily damaged, some by fire, and largely empty. Ian could not contain his sadness at the loss of such treasures and a single tear traced its way down his cheek. He had known that the Iraqis had systematically looted the exhibit halls and smashed and burnt what remained, but he had still not expected it to be so bad. Mobius remained quiet as well, a grim look upon his face.
Leaving the courtyard of the National Museum, Ian and Mobius came upon Sadu House, a small museum and cultural foundation dedicated to preserving Bedouin arts and crafts. The house was built of gypsum and coral in the pre- oil era style and had beautiful decorative carving. After marveling a while at the architecture of the building , they entered and were greeted by a friendly proprietor. They each purchased some Bedouin woven goods as souvenirs and Ian bought a small book to send home to Tomas as well.
Next to Sadu house they found Bayt Al-Badr, a small marker out front proclaiming it to be built between 1838 and 1848. The most remarkable thing was the front doors, done in the style of the doors of Old Kuwait. Ian suddenly regretted not bringing a camera, but even so realized the potential problems lugging around a camera could cause.
Continuing on to the Tareq Rajab Museum, a private collection of Islamic art housed in the basement of a large villa, Ian and Mobius were delighted to find its treasures intact. Ian's attention was immediately drawn to an oil painting, hung off to the side, its muted colors probably never garnering it much notice. He stood before the painting, studying it and unmoving, until Mobius nudged him.
"Are you all right?" Mobius said in low tones.
Ian nodded and pointed to the painting, "Do you know who that represents?" The figure in the painting was that of a young woman on horseback. In her hand was a thin sword, a bow slung across her shoulder.
"No, but I would bet a case of Kool-aid you're going to tell me."
Ian smiled thinly, "It is Myrene, Queen of the Gorgon Amazons. She led a cavalry of thirty thousand women and conquered large areas of Egypt and Syria. She was the first great wielder." His voice was filled with awe. He then pointed to the cuff on the woman's wrist, a large red stone resting at its center. "She was buried near Troy, the blade still on her."
Mobius furrowed his brow, "If she was buried with it then how . . .?"
"She was exhumed, presumably by Artemisia the first, a female advisor to Xerxes. Xerxes was the ruler of Persia at the time, modern day Iran."
The curator of the small museum stepped up behind the two men. "You know your history, young man."
Ian winced inwardly, unsure of how much the old man had overheard. He had been so transfixed by the painting he had not heard the elderly curator slip up behind them. The man's English was halting, so Ian replied in Arabic, "Thank you, it is kind of you to say so."
A wide grin spread across the man's wizened face, "You speak Arabic!"
Ian nodded to the man, "My Master had me schooled in several languages. I am certain he would be interested in obtaining this portrait. Is it for sale?"
Mobius moved away, unable to follow the rapid conversation.
The curator narrowed his eyes, studying Ian intently, "Perhaps. Though the price would be rather steep considering the paintings importance to the history of the area."
"Do you have something I may write upon?"
The curator stepped away, returning a moment later with pen and paper in hand. "Here, you may write on this." He handed the paper and pen to Ian, still looking at the younger man curiously.
Ian wrote down Kenneth Irons name and private telephone number including the international dialing prefix. He handed the pen and paper back to the elderly gentleman, "I am positive he would love to hear from you regarding this. He is capable of meeting your price as well, I feel."
The old man smiled and nodded at Ian before thanking him and retreating into another room. Ian looked around and spotted Mobius gazing at a large urn. He tugged at his friend's sleeve, "Time to go."
Mobius sighed and followed Ian outside. Both men were surprised to find how much time had slipped by while they had been indoors. Early evening was upon them and having skipped lunch they agreed to find somewhere to get dinner.
After they had dined at one of the fine restaurants in the Kuwaiti Towers, they made their way back to their hotel. Mobius showered while Ian spoke to the concierge about having the book he had bought for Tomas shipped home. Mobius had just stepped out of the bathroom when Ian returned to the room.
"Do we want to go out again tonight?" Mobius looked at Ian who appeared rather wearied.
"You can if you want, I'm showering and then heading to bed. Long day."
Mobius nodded and twirled his towel, snapping it at Ian's legs, "Wimp." He laughed then admitted, "I'm pretty beat too."
Ian undressed and headed in to shower. Mobius heard the water come on and laid down in the bed, enjoying the feel of the Egyptian cotton sheets against his body. He was asleep before the water ever stopped running.
Ian came out of the bath to find Mobius sound asleep. He moved quietly about the room, careful not to wake his friend, and gathered up clothing that had been tossed down, tidying the room before climbing into bed himself. He laid with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, for a while awaiting the dreams that he knew surely would come.
He sniffed at the air, he could tell his quarry was near. He could smell the scent of the beast. He gripped the spear in his hand a little tighter and headed into the shallow stream, washing away the scent of his passing. He had not gone far when he spied the tell-tale flash of tan fur in the scrub brush. He hefted the spear aloft and with a quick motion of sinewy arm muscle hurled it directly at his target. The spear hit true and the beast went down.
He began to step towards his kill when a strange thing happened, a black shadow appeared on the sun and began to creep slowly in front of it Fear gripped his heart and he turned and ran towards home, his kill forgotten.
Deep within the recesses of a cave, he found the people he knew and loved huddled around a fire. Some were trembling, others weeping quietly. They had gathered here for safety, obviously, unsure of what was transpiring. The earth shook violently causing a hush to fall over the assembly. When the tremor had ceased there was arguing over who should go out to look. An old man stood and walked toward the exit. There was mumbled approval. If the old man were to die, it would be less of a tragedy than if one of the young people were lost. The young and healthy ones would be needed more to protect the group.
What seemed like hours passed. He sat beside the woman that would be his mate soon, an arm around her, assuring her that everything would be all right even though he wasn't entirely certain of that. At last, the old man returned, much to the relief of everyone. In his hands he held a large rock. He stood in the center of the group near the fire and everyone pressed in close to see.
Looking at the rock, his arm still around his woman, he could see that it was mostly black, burnt looking even. What disturbed him most though was the glowing red center of the rock. It seemed almost alive.
The rock was proclaimed a gift from the gods by the elders and would be placed in a sacred spot. The elders deemed that only a pure woman would be given the charge of guarding the stone. Much discussion went on before the oldest woman in the group came to stand before him and his soon-to-be mate. Sorrow was etched onto her face as she informed them that they would not be given the opportunity to pair as they had chosen. His mate-to-be was now the Guardian of the Stone and would be required to remain pure. Silent tears traced down his cheeks and he removed his arm from about her shoulders and stepped back from her, bowing to her even as tears flowed freely from her eyes and sobs wracked her form.
The unchanging cycle of moon and sun continued. Sunsets and sunrises came and went and the dark shadow that had been on the face of the sun had been gone for many days. He had gone to see her several times, always in the company of an elder, to bring her food and furs. She had changed somehow. He could see it in her eyes. She still looked at him with longing, but there were dark circles under those beautiful orbs as if she had not been sleeping well. She was nervous and jumpy, fear seemingly her constant companion now. He watched her as she ate, longing to hold her, to comfort her in some way, but it was not allowed.
Another cycle of the moon had passed when he found himself washing his body in the stream near the entrance to the caves. Dark fingers of clouds crawled across the moon, a terrifying reminder of the thing that had blackened the sun, bringing the rock and stealing his love. He thought perhaps he would dive down and tie himself to the bottom of the stream, allowing his life to flow away with the cold water. Before he could find something to carry out this plan, his attention was drawn to the cave mouth. His woman, for he still thought of her as such, stood just within the cave, the sacred rock in her hands glowing bright red as if it were on fire. Fearing for her safety he leapt out of the water and ran to her. Surely she would be burnt if she continued to hold the stone as it glowed. He reached her quickly, his long powerful legs closing the distance easily, and reached to take the stone from her before it blackened the flesh of her hands. As his hands closed over the stone he saw what was to be, as did she. Together they cried out. People came running from all directions at the noise. Together they spoke of what the living stone had said.
Ian woke in a cold sweat, his eyes flashing open, terror still gripping his heart. Realizing where he was with relief, he sat up in the bed rubbing his face with his hands. He pulled his legs from the tangled sheets and sat up. Mobius was not in the other bed, but a moment later Ian heard water running in the bathroom and realized where he must be. Today would be the last day they spent in Kuwait City and Ian did not want to waste a minute of it. He rose from the bed and walked across the room to bang on the bathroom door, "Speed it up, baldy!"
"Hold your horses, boy. I'll be out in a minute," Mobius called back through the closed door.
Ian couldn't resist ribbing his pal a little more, "What's taking so long in there? Trying to grow hair?"
The door opened and Mobius appeared in front of Ian. He held a razor in his hand and there was shaving cream still smeared on parts of his head. "Trying to get rid of it, smart ass." He held the razor out to Ian, "Here, make yourself useful and get the back for me."
Ian laughed and took the razor, motioning for Mobius to head back into the bathroom.
Bright morning sunlight poured down upon the pink marble steps of the hotel as Ian and Mobius came out the front doors. They hailed a cab and soon found themselves at the front entrance of the largest library in the city. They spent the next few hours browsing the available tomes and reading at the large long tables. A growling stomach alerted Ian to the fact that they had skipped breakfast. Reluctantly they left the library and headed to the Kuwait Towers.
The Kuwait Towers, comprised of three unique towers and the most famous landmark in the city, afforded them a wonderful view of Sief Palace, the Emir's residence. They went down from the two-level observation deck on the upper globe and found the restaurant housed there. After a hearty meal, they caught another cab and went to the northern shore of the city.
Walking along the shore the pair encountered fishermen mending nets and a few kids rollerblading. Several women, covered head to toe in burkhas, sat on a bench watching the children. A speedboat roared out of the harbor, fetching some foul looks from the fishermen. Several old dhows, Arabic fishing boats, bobbed in the wake of the speedboat. A fishing shui sat a little further out in the harbor, two men on it casting a net out into the water.
Ian and Mobius made it back to the hotel a couple of hours before checkout. They decided to make use of the outdoor swimming pool before they had to leave. Making their way down to the pool they found it relatively empty, surprising given the heat of the day. Both men swam several laps, enjoying the cool water. Floating on his back, Ian stared up at the sky. He let his thoughts wander and they eventually came to rest on the possible future Bladewielder, Sara Pezzini. He was almost certain that she would wield the blade now, having seen Septima in a dream and Myrene rendered in oil. They both shared her features much as the frozen body of Elizabeth Bronte did. Thinking of Septima caused him to think of her veiled warning, but the thought was quickly forgotten as Mobius snuck up on him and dunked him. Mobius action started a small water war as Ian was dead-set on revenge. Laughing the pair splashed water in every direction, causing the lifeguard to wonder if there was going to be any water left in the pool.
Checkout time was nearing and Ian and Mobius packed their belongings, both men falling silent as their vacation neared its end, their thoughts turning inward. Ian picked up the tab for their stay, as he had promised he would, and they left the hotel both saddened that their hiatus from their normal routine was over.
Four o'clock found both Mobius and Ian on a bus headed towards base camp. Both back in their BDU's they were surrounded by a mother dressed in a burkha and several small children as well as other passengers, both male and female. Their transport from the bus station, a driver from the motorpool behind the wheel of a jeep, was waiting on them when they arrived.
The trip from the bus station to base camp was uneventful, but upon arrival they were unable to immediately locate any other members of their unit. Finally they decided to visit the field hospital in hopes of finding Hewitt Preston. As they entered, they were greeted by a silver-haired gentleman in a lab coat, "Nottingham and Mobius?"
Both men nodded in reply, exchanging confused glances with each other.
"Excellent, the rest of your unit is already here. You are just in time to begin the scheduled drug therapy," the man smiled, giving the impression that he was eager to treat them.
"Sir? We've been on R&R. What scheduled drug therapy?" Ian looked cautiously at the man.
"The therapy was ordered by the DOD in conjunction with medical technology acquired from Vorschlag Industries. Please go on inside and the nurse will see you settled in." He nodded to each man and took his leave of them.
Mobius and Ian shared another look, this one a look of concern, before entering the second set of doors.
Ian watched as the clear fluid collected in the drip chamber of the IV before making its descent down the tubing and into his arm. The needle had been inserted into his arm at the brachial vein and taped in place after the area had been cleaned with alcohol. The needle had pushed some of the alcohol in from the surface of the skin and it burned like mad. To make matters worse, the antiseptic smell of the place was nearly enough to nauseate him. He tried to remain still and just relax until it was over, but there were too many distractions. His mind kept turning back to the subject of Vorschlag Industries and Kenneth Irons. Irons had raised him, provided for him, had him educated and trained in the martial arts. There had always been books to read, language tutors, and fine art to appreciate. All the things that most people would consider part of a privileged life. Most people except for himself. He knew the truth behind how he had been raised. Treated as nothing more than a servant his entire life, here he now found himself subject to another of Irons' whims. He sighed heavily, his eyes traveling to the IV tube again. The needle still stung but it wasn't as bad when it had first gone in. Then it had felt like a sword being plunged into his arm. He hated needles. A sword. The word swirled around in his brain, triggering a memory. There was something he knew he should remember . . . the needle had felt like a sword . . . no, not a sword, a lance.
Ian looked around and, not seeing anyone nearby, sat up quickly. He pinched off the flow from the tubing just behind where the needle entered his arm. His heart was beating wildly and he was in a near panic. Septima had warned him, but he had not listened carefully enough. He wondered how much of the drug was already coursing its way through his body. He looked around furtively again and using his teeth bit a small hole into the tubing. Some of the fluid escaped onto his lips and he spat. Thinking quickly, he doubled the tubing and held it between his teeth until he could reach his canteen. He unscrewed the lid off the canteen and held the tubing so that the liquid would flow into the canteen rather than his arm. He hoped none of the staff would come to check on him anytime soon. As the drug dripped into the canteen he couldn't help but think what a waste of perfectly good Kool-aid. Small sacrifice compared to what he might face otherwise though.
Nearly fifteen minutes had gone by and the IV bag was almost empty. He watched the last of the clear liquid gurgle down into the drip tube and, with a sigh, released the tubing from the position he'd been holding it in. He screwed the cap back onto his canteen and hooked it back to his belt. He thanked his lucky stars they'd been late arriving and hadn't been forced to remove everything before beginning the drug therapy. The resilient plastic of the tubing moved back into shape, the small hole he'd made in it nearly invisible as the tubing straightened out. The last few drops of the drug flowed into his arm just before the nurse came in. He feigned sleep as she removed the needle from his arm and placed a cotton ball over the injection site, holding it in place with a strip of tape. As she left the room, a man was entering with a cart, the same silver-haired man they had encountered earlier. Ian listened to their interchange as they stood in the doorway.
"He has been administered the full dosage of psychotropin in a 1500ml saline IV. He was sleeping as I removed the IV as were some of the other patients."
"Very good. See to the last one then and we'll proceed with the next step."
Ian watched, his eyes narrowed to slits, as the man pushed the cart in and removed a set of goggles attached to a small electronic device from the cart. He felt the man gently nudge him and pretended to awaken. He decided appearing confused was the best course of action.
"Hmmm?" Ian opened his eyes and rubbed them groggily.
The man checked his clipboard against the chart hanging from the end of the bed. "Sergeant First Class Nottingham?"
"Yes, Sir."
"We're going to have you watch a little video. First we'll secure you to the bed in case the goggles should trigger a seizure and then we'll put these goggles," he held up the black goggles with the video screens a few inches from each eye, "on you and get started. Is there anything you'd like to do before we get started?"
It took Ian a moment to realize what the man was asking, but when it sank in he answered affirmatively, "Yes, Sir. I'd like to go relieve myself if it is not a problem."
The man helped Ian up and escorted him to the facilities. Once alone, Ian unscrewed his canteen's lid and poured the contents into the commode. He put the empty canteen back on his belt and then finished up. He was escorted back to his room and then strapped to the bed with thick leather straps. The immobility was annoying, but not nearly as much as the images flashing before his eyes once the goggles were in place and turned on. Tiny ear-pieces transmitted sound to him, the whole experience rather inescapable except by sleep. When he finally did start to nod off, it was sensed by electrodes within the headpiece, which measured brain wave activity, and he was delivered a nasty shock. He quickly decided sleeping was not an option.
The images he was receiving were violent in nature, some sexual, some just barbarous. Scenes of brutality and senseless savagery, some cartoonish even, flashed on the mini twin screens. The narrative that accompanied the images did not really seem to go with such fierce scenarios, but were phrased almost poetically, some philosophically. He felt anger rising within him and fought to hold it down. He found he could unfocus his eyes to avoid watching the vicious scenes, but nothing he tried could drown out the audio portion. He managed to circumvent it some by thinking of song lyrics, but some of the words still leeched in.
The next few weeks brought daily sessions with the goggles, which Ian had grown to despise. His contact with other members of his unit was limited. Even Mobius kept his distance, seeming to be more inhuman with each passing day. Even though they slept in the same tent, Ian may as well have been alone. The least bit of teasing of his friend only brought confused stares, or worse chastisement in the form of snippets of poetry from the dreaded indoctrination tapes. Ian had finally decided that silence was the best route to take. At least by remaining silent he could have the company of his tent-mate without hearing thinly veiled metaphors. Silence also kept his little deception a secret by disguising the fact that his thought processes were not akin to those of the rest of the unit.
The letters from Irons had stopped coming. Ian was certain that meant that Irons was aware of what had been done to his unit and assumed that Ian would not be in a mind to comprehend or even care what a letter from home would say. He did get a thank you letter from Tomas, but he hid it away in his footlocker and read it when no one was looking.
Depression was setting in at an alarming rate and Ian found himself wanting to sleep much more than normal just to avoid facing what had become of his friends. There had been times during the last weeks that he had sat in the mess tent surrounded by his unit, no one speaking, when he had wanted to do nothing more than excuse himself and go sit in the tent and sob. He couldn't afford the luxury of that even though as it would only serve to draw attention to himself and point out differences that would be extremely costly if noticed.
He felt so isolated and was beginning to think he would reach his breaking point within a matter of days when he accidentally overheard a conversation between two members of the 181st on his way to the latrine. The younger of the two men mentioned something about "Dear Abby boxes." That was all Ian needed to hear before he took off for the mail delivery counter.
He entered the large tent expecting a line. When he found there wasn't one his heart sank, surely if there wasn't a line that meant all the boxes had already been distributed. He sighed and began to head back outside when a voice stopped him.
"Hey Mister? You need to pick something up?"
Ian turned to look at the man standing behind the makeshift counter. The man's hair was stringy blond and well past regulation length and his OD jacket wrinkled and frayed. The spot where his name tag should have been was merely a darker patch of fabric, the name tag missing. He shrugged and replied, "Not really, I was just hoping there would be some "Dear Abby boxes" left."
The older man nodded, his thin lips pursed. "That Abby she does a lot of good." He turned and looked over his shoulder at the many rows of metal shelves. "Let me see if there are any left."
Ian smiled, even though he was certain the answer would be negative. He doubted there would be a single box left as they were highly coveted items. Every time "Dear Abby" ran an article about servicemen stationed abroad and how even though there was not a war going on currently that those men and women doing their patriotic duty deserved as much recognition as those that served during wartime, care packages came flooding in. There were never enough to go around though and only those that showed up as soon as they arrived got one. Ian sighed and started to leave.
"Hey look what I found!"
Ian stopped and turned back to the counter. The man had returned bearing a large box in his arms and smiling, his large eyes twinkling.
'You're kidding?! There was one left?" Ian was dumbfounded.
"It appears so. Looks like this one came out of New York," the man said, inspecting the postmark.
"Thank you so much, Sir."
"Enjoy it." The older man smiled and walked off between the rows of shelving.
Ian took the heavy package and headed back to his tent. Luckily, Mobius was nowhere to be seen. Ian sat on his cot and just looked at the package a few moments before opening it. He could hardly believe his luck. Something from home, New York even. He smiled and used his knife to slit the packing tape open. Lifting the flaps of the box he was delighted to find that someone had packed it with gaily-wrapped presents.
Tearing the paper off the first present he was thrilled to find a paperback novel. It wasn't his normal fare, but new reading material was highly prized. He found himself torn between reading it right then and continuing to explore the contents of the package. He decided on the latter and put the book under his pillow.
The next item he pulled out was deceptively heavy. Casting aside the colorful wrapping paper he found a box containing several packets of pre- sweetened cherry Kool-aid. It was almost as if the person who had so carefully made this care package knew him personally. He simply stared at it a moment before glancing around furtively and hiding it away in his footlocker. Cherry Kool-aid was a cherished item, but pre-sweetened cherry Kool-aid was even better.
The next box he opened was full of homemade chocolate-chip cookies. He could tell they were homemade because the edges were uneven and the bottoms slightly burnt. He smiled. That would make them taste even better, knowing that someone had taken the time and effort to bake them. He bit into one, munching happily, as he opened the next box.
Several packages of instant noodles, mixed in with two cup-of-soup containers were revealed as the box lid was removed. Ian smiled and put them to the side, amazed at how thoughtful the person who had put this package together was. Another small box contained disposable razors and a package of cough drops.
There was only one small box left in the package and Ian was hesitant to open it, thinking perhaps he should save it for when he needed his spirits lifted. Curiosity won out though and he opened the thin flat present to find a package of photographs. He took them out and studied them one by one. His benefactor had sent pictures from around New York City. He put the last picture, a shot of Central Park, back in the package as a tear slid down his cheek. He leaned over and put the photos in his footlocker with a heavy sigh. As he sat back up and began to tidy up the wrapping paper and packaging, a small white envelope slid off his cot and hit the ground. He bent and picked it up, sliding a finger underneath the flap to open it. He took out the letter and read its contents.
Dear Soldier,
I recently saw a letter in Dear Abby's column that prompted me to send this package. I've been alone a large part of my life and I know it must be lonely over there and that you must get homesick. I wanted to write and let you know that your efforts are appreciated and hopefully send a few things you might enjoy. I've included some pictures of my hometown, New York City. Anyway, hope you like the goodies and that you come home safely.
Sara Pezzini
Ian sat looking at the letter disbelievingly, his hands shaking. Was it possible? How many Sara Pezzinis were there in New York? He put the letter into his breast pocket and went to find a phone. Luckily there wasn't a line for the one phone at the PX. He had his international calling card numbers memorized and quickly dialed NYC information. The operator informed him that of the four Pezzinis listed only one was listed as Sara. The other three names didn't even begin with S. He thanked the operator and hung up, still in a mild state of shock. He rushed back to his tent, which was still vacant thankfully, and took the letter out and re- read it. He took the pictures back out of his foot locker and studied them again, this time more carefully. Sure enough, a picture of the Macy's storefront showed a reflection of Sara. He was certain it was her now, her slim figure and long brown hair showed clearly. He put everything away, almost reverently, and simply sat on his cot. His fingertips rose to his lips, he had eaten a cookie prepared by her hands. A smile broke slowly across his face. Come home safely, she had written. He vowed at that moment that he would indeed come home safely. Suddenly he felt as if he could endure anything. He strode out of the tent, his heart lighter than it had been in years. He was certain that somewhere in New York someone very special waited, even if she didn't know it yet. It was only a matter of time and he would do everything within his power to make sure he was at that meeting. He stared into the early evening sky. Here in the desert with very few lights, billions upon billions of stars shone down upon him and he smiled.
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Mobius opened one wary eye and peered blearily at Ian. "You truly hate me don't you? Could you not just let me sleep?" He slung the pillow back at Ian.
"Nope, I'm awake therefore you are awake. Besides, I want to see the art museum today. And the zoo."
"You are a boring man, Ian Nottingham," Mobius laughed, teasing his friend.
"As if you wouldn't choose a library over an amusement park." Ian harumphed as he ran his hand across the growth of beard on his chin.
Mobius canted his bald head to the side, "You have a point." He smiled, white teeth gleaming in the morning light.
"Speaking of books . . . have you ever read anything about Septima Zenobia?"
Before Mobius could reply, a soft knock at the door signaled the arrival of their room service breakfast. The topic was dropped, forgotten, as they began to enjoy their food.
The second day of R and R for Mobius and Ian was filled with sight-seeing. Their first stop had been the zoo, which didn't have a whole lot of animals. There were a few ostriches in a cage, some turkeys, and a lone camel in a dark shed. Ian remarked that the rebuilding of the zoo must be coming along slowly, while Mobius noted that there were more trees in the area than they had seen during their entire deployment to the region. A group of boys were playing cricket in one of the open fields and Mobius and Ian had stopped to watch for a few moments before continuing onward.
Their next stop was the Fatima al Masjid mosque in Abdulla Al Salem district. The mosque was a bright and colorful structure, the architecture awe inspiring. They encountered a mobile convenience store operating out of the back of a truck and purchased some drinks to cool themselves, the mid- day heat being oppressive.
The duo then set out to explore the city's museums, the National Museum and the Tareq Rajab Museum. The National Museum, which used to house the Al- Sabah collection, a large and important selection of Islamic art, had been stripped of many artifacts in the previous two years and had just begun reconstruction efforts. Its four buildings and planetarium were heavily damaged, some by fire, and largely empty. Ian could not contain his sadness at the loss of such treasures and a single tear traced its way down his cheek. He had known that the Iraqis had systematically looted the exhibit halls and smashed and burnt what remained, but he had still not expected it to be so bad. Mobius remained quiet as well, a grim look upon his face.
Leaving the courtyard of the National Museum, Ian and Mobius came upon Sadu House, a small museum and cultural foundation dedicated to preserving Bedouin arts and crafts. The house was built of gypsum and coral in the pre- oil era style and had beautiful decorative carving. After marveling a while at the architecture of the building , they entered and were greeted by a friendly proprietor. They each purchased some Bedouin woven goods as souvenirs and Ian bought a small book to send home to Tomas as well.
Next to Sadu house they found Bayt Al-Badr, a small marker out front proclaiming it to be built between 1838 and 1848. The most remarkable thing was the front doors, done in the style of the doors of Old Kuwait. Ian suddenly regretted not bringing a camera, but even so realized the potential problems lugging around a camera could cause.
Continuing on to the Tareq Rajab Museum, a private collection of Islamic art housed in the basement of a large villa, Ian and Mobius were delighted to find its treasures intact. Ian's attention was immediately drawn to an oil painting, hung off to the side, its muted colors probably never garnering it much notice. He stood before the painting, studying it and unmoving, until Mobius nudged him.
"Are you all right?" Mobius said in low tones.
Ian nodded and pointed to the painting, "Do you know who that represents?" The figure in the painting was that of a young woman on horseback. In her hand was a thin sword, a bow slung across her shoulder.
"No, but I would bet a case of Kool-aid you're going to tell me."
Ian smiled thinly, "It is Myrene, Queen of the Gorgon Amazons. She led a cavalry of thirty thousand women and conquered large areas of Egypt and Syria. She was the first great wielder." His voice was filled with awe. He then pointed to the cuff on the woman's wrist, a large red stone resting at its center. "She was buried near Troy, the blade still on her."
Mobius furrowed his brow, "If she was buried with it then how . . .?"
"She was exhumed, presumably by Artemisia the first, a female advisor to Xerxes. Xerxes was the ruler of Persia at the time, modern day Iran."
The curator of the small museum stepped up behind the two men. "You know your history, young man."
Ian winced inwardly, unsure of how much the old man had overheard. He had been so transfixed by the painting he had not heard the elderly curator slip up behind them. The man's English was halting, so Ian replied in Arabic, "Thank you, it is kind of you to say so."
A wide grin spread across the man's wizened face, "You speak Arabic!"
Ian nodded to the man, "My Master had me schooled in several languages. I am certain he would be interested in obtaining this portrait. Is it for sale?"
Mobius moved away, unable to follow the rapid conversation.
The curator narrowed his eyes, studying Ian intently, "Perhaps. Though the price would be rather steep considering the paintings importance to the history of the area."
"Do you have something I may write upon?"
The curator stepped away, returning a moment later with pen and paper in hand. "Here, you may write on this." He handed the paper and pen to Ian, still looking at the younger man curiously.
Ian wrote down Kenneth Irons name and private telephone number including the international dialing prefix. He handed the pen and paper back to the elderly gentleman, "I am positive he would love to hear from you regarding this. He is capable of meeting your price as well, I feel."
The old man smiled and nodded at Ian before thanking him and retreating into another room. Ian looked around and spotted Mobius gazing at a large urn. He tugged at his friend's sleeve, "Time to go."
Mobius sighed and followed Ian outside. Both men were surprised to find how much time had slipped by while they had been indoors. Early evening was upon them and having skipped lunch they agreed to find somewhere to get dinner.
After they had dined at one of the fine restaurants in the Kuwaiti Towers, they made their way back to their hotel. Mobius showered while Ian spoke to the concierge about having the book he had bought for Tomas shipped home. Mobius had just stepped out of the bathroom when Ian returned to the room.
"Do we want to go out again tonight?" Mobius looked at Ian who appeared rather wearied.
"You can if you want, I'm showering and then heading to bed. Long day."
Mobius nodded and twirled his towel, snapping it at Ian's legs, "Wimp." He laughed then admitted, "I'm pretty beat too."
Ian undressed and headed in to shower. Mobius heard the water come on and laid down in the bed, enjoying the feel of the Egyptian cotton sheets against his body. He was asleep before the water ever stopped running.
Ian came out of the bath to find Mobius sound asleep. He moved quietly about the room, careful not to wake his friend, and gathered up clothing that had been tossed down, tidying the room before climbing into bed himself. He laid with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, for a while awaiting the dreams that he knew surely would come.
He sniffed at the air, he could tell his quarry was near. He could smell the scent of the beast. He gripped the spear in his hand a little tighter and headed into the shallow stream, washing away the scent of his passing. He had not gone far when he spied the tell-tale flash of tan fur in the scrub brush. He hefted the spear aloft and with a quick motion of sinewy arm muscle hurled it directly at his target. The spear hit true and the beast went down.
He began to step towards his kill when a strange thing happened, a black shadow appeared on the sun and began to creep slowly in front of it Fear gripped his heart and he turned and ran towards home, his kill forgotten.
Deep within the recesses of a cave, he found the people he knew and loved huddled around a fire. Some were trembling, others weeping quietly. They had gathered here for safety, obviously, unsure of what was transpiring. The earth shook violently causing a hush to fall over the assembly. When the tremor had ceased there was arguing over who should go out to look. An old man stood and walked toward the exit. There was mumbled approval. If the old man were to die, it would be less of a tragedy than if one of the young people were lost. The young and healthy ones would be needed more to protect the group.
What seemed like hours passed. He sat beside the woman that would be his mate soon, an arm around her, assuring her that everything would be all right even though he wasn't entirely certain of that. At last, the old man returned, much to the relief of everyone. In his hands he held a large rock. He stood in the center of the group near the fire and everyone pressed in close to see.
Looking at the rock, his arm still around his woman, he could see that it was mostly black, burnt looking even. What disturbed him most though was the glowing red center of the rock. It seemed almost alive.
The rock was proclaimed a gift from the gods by the elders and would be placed in a sacred spot. The elders deemed that only a pure woman would be given the charge of guarding the stone. Much discussion went on before the oldest woman in the group came to stand before him and his soon-to-be mate. Sorrow was etched onto her face as she informed them that they would not be given the opportunity to pair as they had chosen. His mate-to-be was now the Guardian of the Stone and would be required to remain pure. Silent tears traced down his cheeks and he removed his arm from about her shoulders and stepped back from her, bowing to her even as tears flowed freely from her eyes and sobs wracked her form.
The unchanging cycle of moon and sun continued. Sunsets and sunrises came and went and the dark shadow that had been on the face of the sun had been gone for many days. He had gone to see her several times, always in the company of an elder, to bring her food and furs. She had changed somehow. He could see it in her eyes. She still looked at him with longing, but there were dark circles under those beautiful orbs as if she had not been sleeping well. She was nervous and jumpy, fear seemingly her constant companion now. He watched her as she ate, longing to hold her, to comfort her in some way, but it was not allowed.
Another cycle of the moon had passed when he found himself washing his body in the stream near the entrance to the caves. Dark fingers of clouds crawled across the moon, a terrifying reminder of the thing that had blackened the sun, bringing the rock and stealing his love. He thought perhaps he would dive down and tie himself to the bottom of the stream, allowing his life to flow away with the cold water. Before he could find something to carry out this plan, his attention was drawn to the cave mouth. His woman, for he still thought of her as such, stood just within the cave, the sacred rock in her hands glowing bright red as if it were on fire. Fearing for her safety he leapt out of the water and ran to her. Surely she would be burnt if she continued to hold the stone as it glowed. He reached her quickly, his long powerful legs closing the distance easily, and reached to take the stone from her before it blackened the flesh of her hands. As his hands closed over the stone he saw what was to be, as did she. Together they cried out. People came running from all directions at the noise. Together they spoke of what the living stone had said.
Ian woke in a cold sweat, his eyes flashing open, terror still gripping his heart. Realizing where he was with relief, he sat up in the bed rubbing his face with his hands. He pulled his legs from the tangled sheets and sat up. Mobius was not in the other bed, but a moment later Ian heard water running in the bathroom and realized where he must be. Today would be the last day they spent in Kuwait City and Ian did not want to waste a minute of it. He rose from the bed and walked across the room to bang on the bathroom door, "Speed it up, baldy!"
"Hold your horses, boy. I'll be out in a minute," Mobius called back through the closed door.
Ian couldn't resist ribbing his pal a little more, "What's taking so long in there? Trying to grow hair?"
The door opened and Mobius appeared in front of Ian. He held a razor in his hand and there was shaving cream still smeared on parts of his head. "Trying to get rid of it, smart ass." He held the razor out to Ian, "Here, make yourself useful and get the back for me."
Ian laughed and took the razor, motioning for Mobius to head back into the bathroom.
Bright morning sunlight poured down upon the pink marble steps of the hotel as Ian and Mobius came out the front doors. They hailed a cab and soon found themselves at the front entrance of the largest library in the city. They spent the next few hours browsing the available tomes and reading at the large long tables. A growling stomach alerted Ian to the fact that they had skipped breakfast. Reluctantly they left the library and headed to the Kuwait Towers.
The Kuwait Towers, comprised of three unique towers and the most famous landmark in the city, afforded them a wonderful view of Sief Palace, the Emir's residence. They went down from the two-level observation deck on the upper globe and found the restaurant housed there. After a hearty meal, they caught another cab and went to the northern shore of the city.
Walking along the shore the pair encountered fishermen mending nets and a few kids rollerblading. Several women, covered head to toe in burkhas, sat on a bench watching the children. A speedboat roared out of the harbor, fetching some foul looks from the fishermen. Several old dhows, Arabic fishing boats, bobbed in the wake of the speedboat. A fishing shui sat a little further out in the harbor, two men on it casting a net out into the water.
Ian and Mobius made it back to the hotel a couple of hours before checkout. They decided to make use of the outdoor swimming pool before they had to leave. Making their way down to the pool they found it relatively empty, surprising given the heat of the day. Both men swam several laps, enjoying the cool water. Floating on his back, Ian stared up at the sky. He let his thoughts wander and they eventually came to rest on the possible future Bladewielder, Sara Pezzini. He was almost certain that she would wield the blade now, having seen Septima in a dream and Myrene rendered in oil. They both shared her features much as the frozen body of Elizabeth Bronte did. Thinking of Septima caused him to think of her veiled warning, but the thought was quickly forgotten as Mobius snuck up on him and dunked him. Mobius action started a small water war as Ian was dead-set on revenge. Laughing the pair splashed water in every direction, causing the lifeguard to wonder if there was going to be any water left in the pool.
Checkout time was nearing and Ian and Mobius packed their belongings, both men falling silent as their vacation neared its end, their thoughts turning inward. Ian picked up the tab for their stay, as he had promised he would, and they left the hotel both saddened that their hiatus from their normal routine was over.
Four o'clock found both Mobius and Ian on a bus headed towards base camp. Both back in their BDU's they were surrounded by a mother dressed in a burkha and several small children as well as other passengers, both male and female. Their transport from the bus station, a driver from the motorpool behind the wheel of a jeep, was waiting on them when they arrived.
The trip from the bus station to base camp was uneventful, but upon arrival they were unable to immediately locate any other members of their unit. Finally they decided to visit the field hospital in hopes of finding Hewitt Preston. As they entered, they were greeted by a silver-haired gentleman in a lab coat, "Nottingham and Mobius?"
Both men nodded in reply, exchanging confused glances with each other.
"Excellent, the rest of your unit is already here. You are just in time to begin the scheduled drug therapy," the man smiled, giving the impression that he was eager to treat them.
"Sir? We've been on R&R. What scheduled drug therapy?" Ian looked cautiously at the man.
"The therapy was ordered by the DOD in conjunction with medical technology acquired from Vorschlag Industries. Please go on inside and the nurse will see you settled in." He nodded to each man and took his leave of them.
Mobius and Ian shared another look, this one a look of concern, before entering the second set of doors.
Ian watched as the clear fluid collected in the drip chamber of the IV before making its descent down the tubing and into his arm. The needle had been inserted into his arm at the brachial vein and taped in place after the area had been cleaned with alcohol. The needle had pushed some of the alcohol in from the surface of the skin and it burned like mad. To make matters worse, the antiseptic smell of the place was nearly enough to nauseate him. He tried to remain still and just relax until it was over, but there were too many distractions. His mind kept turning back to the subject of Vorschlag Industries and Kenneth Irons. Irons had raised him, provided for him, had him educated and trained in the martial arts. There had always been books to read, language tutors, and fine art to appreciate. All the things that most people would consider part of a privileged life. Most people except for himself. He knew the truth behind how he had been raised. Treated as nothing more than a servant his entire life, here he now found himself subject to another of Irons' whims. He sighed heavily, his eyes traveling to the IV tube again. The needle still stung but it wasn't as bad when it had first gone in. Then it had felt like a sword being plunged into his arm. He hated needles. A sword. The word swirled around in his brain, triggering a memory. There was something he knew he should remember . . . the needle had felt like a sword . . . no, not a sword, a lance.
Ian looked around and, not seeing anyone nearby, sat up quickly. He pinched off the flow from the tubing just behind where the needle entered his arm. His heart was beating wildly and he was in a near panic. Septima had warned him, but he had not listened carefully enough. He wondered how much of the drug was already coursing its way through his body. He looked around furtively again and using his teeth bit a small hole into the tubing. Some of the fluid escaped onto his lips and he spat. Thinking quickly, he doubled the tubing and held it between his teeth until he could reach his canteen. He unscrewed the lid off the canteen and held the tubing so that the liquid would flow into the canteen rather than his arm. He hoped none of the staff would come to check on him anytime soon. As the drug dripped into the canteen he couldn't help but think what a waste of perfectly good Kool-aid. Small sacrifice compared to what he might face otherwise though.
Nearly fifteen minutes had gone by and the IV bag was almost empty. He watched the last of the clear liquid gurgle down into the drip tube and, with a sigh, released the tubing from the position he'd been holding it in. He screwed the cap back onto his canteen and hooked it back to his belt. He thanked his lucky stars they'd been late arriving and hadn't been forced to remove everything before beginning the drug therapy. The resilient plastic of the tubing moved back into shape, the small hole he'd made in it nearly invisible as the tubing straightened out. The last few drops of the drug flowed into his arm just before the nurse came in. He feigned sleep as she removed the needle from his arm and placed a cotton ball over the injection site, holding it in place with a strip of tape. As she left the room, a man was entering with a cart, the same silver-haired man they had encountered earlier. Ian listened to their interchange as they stood in the doorway.
"He has been administered the full dosage of psychotropin in a 1500ml saline IV. He was sleeping as I removed the IV as were some of the other patients."
"Very good. See to the last one then and we'll proceed with the next step."
Ian watched, his eyes narrowed to slits, as the man pushed the cart in and removed a set of goggles attached to a small electronic device from the cart. He felt the man gently nudge him and pretended to awaken. He decided appearing confused was the best course of action.
"Hmmm?" Ian opened his eyes and rubbed them groggily.
The man checked his clipboard against the chart hanging from the end of the bed. "Sergeant First Class Nottingham?"
"Yes, Sir."
"We're going to have you watch a little video. First we'll secure you to the bed in case the goggles should trigger a seizure and then we'll put these goggles," he held up the black goggles with the video screens a few inches from each eye, "on you and get started. Is there anything you'd like to do before we get started?"
It took Ian a moment to realize what the man was asking, but when it sank in he answered affirmatively, "Yes, Sir. I'd like to go relieve myself if it is not a problem."
The man helped Ian up and escorted him to the facilities. Once alone, Ian unscrewed his canteen's lid and poured the contents into the commode. He put the empty canteen back on his belt and then finished up. He was escorted back to his room and then strapped to the bed with thick leather straps. The immobility was annoying, but not nearly as much as the images flashing before his eyes once the goggles were in place and turned on. Tiny ear-pieces transmitted sound to him, the whole experience rather inescapable except by sleep. When he finally did start to nod off, it was sensed by electrodes within the headpiece, which measured brain wave activity, and he was delivered a nasty shock. He quickly decided sleeping was not an option.
The images he was receiving were violent in nature, some sexual, some just barbarous. Scenes of brutality and senseless savagery, some cartoonish even, flashed on the mini twin screens. The narrative that accompanied the images did not really seem to go with such fierce scenarios, but were phrased almost poetically, some philosophically. He felt anger rising within him and fought to hold it down. He found he could unfocus his eyes to avoid watching the vicious scenes, but nothing he tried could drown out the audio portion. He managed to circumvent it some by thinking of song lyrics, but some of the words still leeched in.
The next few weeks brought daily sessions with the goggles, which Ian had grown to despise. His contact with other members of his unit was limited. Even Mobius kept his distance, seeming to be more inhuman with each passing day. Even though they slept in the same tent, Ian may as well have been alone. The least bit of teasing of his friend only brought confused stares, or worse chastisement in the form of snippets of poetry from the dreaded indoctrination tapes. Ian had finally decided that silence was the best route to take. At least by remaining silent he could have the company of his tent-mate without hearing thinly veiled metaphors. Silence also kept his little deception a secret by disguising the fact that his thought processes were not akin to those of the rest of the unit.
The letters from Irons had stopped coming. Ian was certain that meant that Irons was aware of what had been done to his unit and assumed that Ian would not be in a mind to comprehend or even care what a letter from home would say. He did get a thank you letter from Tomas, but he hid it away in his footlocker and read it when no one was looking.
Depression was setting in at an alarming rate and Ian found himself wanting to sleep much more than normal just to avoid facing what had become of his friends. There had been times during the last weeks that he had sat in the mess tent surrounded by his unit, no one speaking, when he had wanted to do nothing more than excuse himself and go sit in the tent and sob. He couldn't afford the luxury of that even though as it would only serve to draw attention to himself and point out differences that would be extremely costly if noticed.
He felt so isolated and was beginning to think he would reach his breaking point within a matter of days when he accidentally overheard a conversation between two members of the 181st on his way to the latrine. The younger of the two men mentioned something about "Dear Abby boxes." That was all Ian needed to hear before he took off for the mail delivery counter.
He entered the large tent expecting a line. When he found there wasn't one his heart sank, surely if there wasn't a line that meant all the boxes had already been distributed. He sighed and began to head back outside when a voice stopped him.
"Hey Mister? You need to pick something up?"
Ian turned to look at the man standing behind the makeshift counter. The man's hair was stringy blond and well past regulation length and his OD jacket wrinkled and frayed. The spot where his name tag should have been was merely a darker patch of fabric, the name tag missing. He shrugged and replied, "Not really, I was just hoping there would be some "Dear Abby boxes" left."
The older man nodded, his thin lips pursed. "That Abby she does a lot of good." He turned and looked over his shoulder at the many rows of metal shelves. "Let me see if there are any left."
Ian smiled, even though he was certain the answer would be negative. He doubted there would be a single box left as they were highly coveted items. Every time "Dear Abby" ran an article about servicemen stationed abroad and how even though there was not a war going on currently that those men and women doing their patriotic duty deserved as much recognition as those that served during wartime, care packages came flooding in. There were never enough to go around though and only those that showed up as soon as they arrived got one. Ian sighed and started to leave.
"Hey look what I found!"
Ian stopped and turned back to the counter. The man had returned bearing a large box in his arms and smiling, his large eyes twinkling.
'You're kidding?! There was one left?" Ian was dumbfounded.
"It appears so. Looks like this one came out of New York," the man said, inspecting the postmark.
"Thank you so much, Sir."
"Enjoy it." The older man smiled and walked off between the rows of shelving.
Ian took the heavy package and headed back to his tent. Luckily, Mobius was nowhere to be seen. Ian sat on his cot and just looked at the package a few moments before opening it. He could hardly believe his luck. Something from home, New York even. He smiled and used his knife to slit the packing tape open. Lifting the flaps of the box he was delighted to find that someone had packed it with gaily-wrapped presents.
Tearing the paper off the first present he was thrilled to find a paperback novel. It wasn't his normal fare, but new reading material was highly prized. He found himself torn between reading it right then and continuing to explore the contents of the package. He decided on the latter and put the book under his pillow.
The next item he pulled out was deceptively heavy. Casting aside the colorful wrapping paper he found a box containing several packets of pre- sweetened cherry Kool-aid. It was almost as if the person who had so carefully made this care package knew him personally. He simply stared at it a moment before glancing around furtively and hiding it away in his footlocker. Cherry Kool-aid was a cherished item, but pre-sweetened cherry Kool-aid was even better.
The next box he opened was full of homemade chocolate-chip cookies. He could tell they were homemade because the edges were uneven and the bottoms slightly burnt. He smiled. That would make them taste even better, knowing that someone had taken the time and effort to bake them. He bit into one, munching happily, as he opened the next box.
Several packages of instant noodles, mixed in with two cup-of-soup containers were revealed as the box lid was removed. Ian smiled and put them to the side, amazed at how thoughtful the person who had put this package together was. Another small box contained disposable razors and a package of cough drops.
There was only one small box left in the package and Ian was hesitant to open it, thinking perhaps he should save it for when he needed his spirits lifted. Curiosity won out though and he opened the thin flat present to find a package of photographs. He took them out and studied them one by one. His benefactor had sent pictures from around New York City. He put the last picture, a shot of Central Park, back in the package as a tear slid down his cheek. He leaned over and put the photos in his footlocker with a heavy sigh. As he sat back up and began to tidy up the wrapping paper and packaging, a small white envelope slid off his cot and hit the ground. He bent and picked it up, sliding a finger underneath the flap to open it. He took out the letter and read its contents.
Dear Soldier,
I recently saw a letter in Dear Abby's column that prompted me to send this package. I've been alone a large part of my life and I know it must be lonely over there and that you must get homesick. I wanted to write and let you know that your efforts are appreciated and hopefully send a few things you might enjoy. I've included some pictures of my hometown, New York City. Anyway, hope you like the goodies and that you come home safely.
Sara Pezzini
Ian sat looking at the letter disbelievingly, his hands shaking. Was it possible? How many Sara Pezzinis were there in New York? He put the letter into his breast pocket and went to find a phone. Luckily there wasn't a line for the one phone at the PX. He had his international calling card numbers memorized and quickly dialed NYC information. The operator informed him that of the four Pezzinis listed only one was listed as Sara. The other three names didn't even begin with S. He thanked the operator and hung up, still in a mild state of shock. He rushed back to his tent, which was still vacant thankfully, and took the letter out and re- read it. He took the pictures back out of his foot locker and studied them again, this time more carefully. Sure enough, a picture of the Macy's storefront showed a reflection of Sara. He was certain it was her now, her slim figure and long brown hair showed clearly. He put everything away, almost reverently, and simply sat on his cot. His fingertips rose to his lips, he had eaten a cookie prepared by her hands. A smile broke slowly across his face. Come home safely, she had written. He vowed at that moment that he would indeed come home safely. Suddenly he felt as if he could endure anything. He strode out of the tent, his heart lighter than it had been in years. He was certain that somewhere in New York someone very special waited, even if she didn't know it yet. It was only a matter of time and he would do everything within his power to make sure he was at that meeting. He stared into the early evening sky. Here in the desert with very few lights, billions upon billions of stars shone down upon him and he smiled.
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