marked the extremity of the cultivated garden. Four men were there, with rifles. They fired.
The targets were a lentils can at the base of a dried-out thorn tree, and further back one that had held cooking oil wedged between stones, then far beyond, a fuel drum. Some bullets shook the targets, some caused little dust spurts near to them and the whine of ricochets. The man and Caleb could not speak, had no common language, but another came to Caleb's side and, with a guttural accent, translated the hero's words and Caleb's answers.
'Do you shoot?'
'I have never tried and no one ever showed me.'
'It is a gift from God, not taught. A man who shoots is a man who respects himself. Do you have respect for yourself?'
'I've never done anything of value to get respect.'
'A man who shoots well is a man who can fight. A fighter has supreme self-esteem. He is valued by his friends, trusted by comrades, loved.'
'I wouldn't know—'
'You would not know because you were never given the chance to be valued, trusted, loved . . . I was given such a chance.'
'To shoot?'
'To fight. I learned it close to here, against the Soviets. We ran, they followed us. We ran further and still they followed. We hid among rocks, they lost us. We were quiet as mice, they went past us. They stopped. We could shoot at their backs. We killed all of them - we killed all of them because we were fighters and born to it. .. and then we were valued and trusted and loved. Does my story frighten you?'
A great plunging breath. 'I don't think so - no.'
'It is precious to have self-esteem. Would you look for it?'
The breath hissed from his lungs. 'Yes.'
Caleb was given a rifle. He had never held a firearm. The translator had slipped away. He was shown, the sign language of the claw, how to hold it. The four men had stood back. Only Caleb and the Chechen had been at the fence. The whole hand had adjusted the sight. He had fired. The rifle stock had thudded against his shoulder. The can had toppled - his breathing had been steady. The sight's range had been changed. Caleb had seen the cooking-oil tin dance in the slackening light - his squeeze on the trigger bar had been constant. The sight had been altered. The fuel drum had rocked
- he had lowered the rifle and turned to receive praise. On the Chechen's face he saw grim approval. Away beyond the garden's fence, far above the targets, a hillside was spotted with boulders, cut with little ravines, and at the summit was a precarious hanging rock.
The Chechen had the rifle and pointed the barrel at it.
Caleb had understood. He had dropped off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He had torn the seat of his suit trousers on the barbed wire as he had gone over the fence. He had run. He wore shiny shoes, polished for a wedding, that slipped on the rock surfaces, gave him no grip. At first there had been shots above him.
He had hugged rocks, had crawled into the clefts. The firing had become less frequent. His suit trousers had ripped at the knees, his shirt was sweat-soaked, dirt-smeared. He had reached the top, bright in the last of the sun. Exhilaration had swamped him. He had stood on the hanging rock, his arms outstretched, in triumph . .. and he had come down, sliding, stumbling, and making little avalanches of stones. The dream had been near to the waking moment when Fahd had killed it. Since the scenes of the dream he had never again worn suit trousers, a suit jacket, a clean shirt with a tie, polished shoes. He was a chosen man. At the fence, when he reached it, the Chechen's claw had gripped his shoulder and held him close, and he had known that - an Outsider - he was a man respected, and wanted.
Through that evening he had sat at the feet of the Chechen; Farooq and Amin had not come near him. In the morning, before dawn, he had left with him. He was the Chechen's man. It had been the start.
He was called. The dream was finished. He was the member of a family, and there had never been a family
The targets were a lentils can at the base of a dried-out thorn tree, and further back one that had held cooking oil wedged between stones, then far beyond, a fuel drum. Some bullets shook the targets, some caused little dust spurts near to them and the whine of ricochets. The man and Caleb could not speak, had no common language, but another came to Caleb's side and, with a guttural accent, translated the hero's words and Caleb's answers.
'Do you shoot?'
'I have never tried and no one ever showed me.'
'It is a gift from God, not taught. A man who shoots is a man who respects himself. Do you have respect for yourself?'
'I've never done anything of value to get respect.'
'A man who shoots well is a man who can fight. A fighter has supreme self-esteem. He is valued by his friends, trusted by comrades, loved.'
'I wouldn't know—'
'You would not know because you were never given the chance to be valued, trusted, loved . . . I was given such a chance.'
'To shoot?'
'To fight. I learned it close to here, against the Soviets. We ran, they followed us. We ran further and still they followed. We hid among rocks, they lost us. We were quiet as mice, they went past us. They stopped. We could shoot at their backs. We killed all of them - we killed all of them because we were fighters and born to it. .. and then we were valued and trusted and loved. Does my story frighten you?'
A great plunging breath. 'I don't think so - no.'
'It is precious to have self-esteem. Would you look for it?'
The breath hissed from his lungs. 'Yes.'
Caleb was given a rifle. He had never held a firearm. The translator had slipped away. He was shown, the sign language of the claw, how to hold it. The four men had stood back. Only Caleb and the Chechen had been at the fence. The whole hand had adjusted the sight. He had fired. The rifle stock had thudded against his shoulder. The can had toppled - his breathing had been steady. The sight's range had been changed. Caleb had seen the cooking-oil tin dance in the slackening light - his squeeze on the trigger bar had been constant. The sight had been altered. The fuel drum had rocked
- he had lowered the rifle and turned to receive praise. On the Chechen's face he saw grim approval. Away beyond the garden's fence, far above the targets, a hillside was spotted with boulders, cut with little ravines, and at the summit was a precarious hanging rock.
The Chechen had the rifle and pointed the barrel at it.
Caleb had understood. He had dropped off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He had torn the seat of his suit trousers on the barbed wire as he had gone over the fence. He had run. He wore shiny shoes, polished for a wedding, that slipped on the rock surfaces, gave him no grip. At first there had been shots above him.
He had hugged rocks, had crawled into the clefts. The firing had become less frequent. His suit trousers had ripped at the knees, his shirt was sweat-soaked, dirt-smeared. He had reached the top, bright in the last of the sun. Exhilaration had swamped him. He had stood on the hanging rock, his arms outstretched, in triumph . .. and he had come down, sliding, stumbling, and making little avalanches of stones. The dream had been near to the waking moment when Fahd had killed it. Since the scenes of the dream he had never again worn suit trousers, a suit jacket, a clean shirt with a tie, polished shoes. He was a chosen man. At the fence, when he reached it, the Chechen's claw had gripped his shoulder and held him close, and he had known that - an Outsider - he was a man respected, and wanted.
Through that evening he had sat at the feet of the Chechen; Farooq and Amin had not come near him. In the morning, before dawn, he had left with him. He was the Chechen's man. It had been the start.
He was called. The dream was finished. He was the member of a family, and there had never been a family
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