John Schettler - Nexus Point

Then Jabr launched himself on a lengthy explanation of mercy and compassion, the two virtues at the very heart of his faith as a Muslim. Paul could see that he artfully dodged his question, and sighed heavily, listening to the treatise on the Koran as politely as he could. It was beginning to dawn on him that he was certainly being held a captive here. His jailers could not be more pleasant, but the whole scenario suddenly had the stench of ‘hostage’ about it.

He recalled that there was a long tradition of hospitality in the Arab culture—even amongst enemies. If a man ate from the table of an Arab, or tasted of his salt, then he could not be harmed, and would even be treated with great deference and respect, as one would treat an honored guest. The custom had deep roots, dating back even to the time of the Crusades when the knights of Christendom were set in open warfare against the Arabs in the Middle East.

At the outbreak of the Arab revolt in the desert that made T. E. Lawrence so famous, Feisal was visited by the Pasha of the Turks. Here the Arabs had their oppressor at their mercy, but Feisal would not besmirch the hospitality and honor of his house. The Pasha was accorded a sumptuous dinner and allowed to leave unharmed. There was something to be said for character like that, he thought. A pity that the virtue was lost in modern day terrorist cells. The treatment of captives had not been kind over the last twenty years. But what did they intend to do with him? Did they think to bargain for ransom? No, these groups were financed well enough without that. Besides, who would pay?

In the end, Paul was frustrated and gave up his effort to make the call. Jabr finished his coffee and slipped quietly away with a promise to come again in the morning. Now Paul lay upon the soft silk-covered cushions, dozing in a dreamy sleep. Some time later he awakened to the familiar scent of jasmine, and caught the rustle of someone padding quietly through the door in the lacquered wood lattice at the back of the room. It was Samirah.

The woman glided to his side, eyes averted and the hint of a blush upon her cheeks. The dark curls of her hair were gleaming with oil, and a single white flower adorned her head. As always, her gown fell loosely from her shoulders, and she was nearly naked beneath it, her breasts softly shadowed in the dim light of a lantern, her legs painted by the wavering of the flame. A garland of silver circlets hung about her neck, catching the light as she settled on a cushion next to Paul. She was bearing a small tray with a simple spouted brass pot and a porcelain class. Another of her potions, thought Paul, remembering the night he first awakened here with Samirah at his side.

He glanced at the pot, his thoughts leaping ahead with anticipation. No doubt it contained some mild narcotic. These people have been plying him with small doses of some delightful liqueur each night. The taste was bitter sweet, and its effect was very pleasant, a shroud of enveloping warmth followed by keen sensitivity that left him feeling exhilarated. Then Samirah would sidle close to him, loosening his robes. She would wet her hands with oil and explore his lean body in ways designed to compliment the drug quite nicely. The long night was deeply satisfying for him. Samirah would shed her gown and stretch out next to him, her smooth body pressed tightly against his while they slept.

For all his misgiving about being held a hostage, he could think of much worse treatment. Yet he felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of Jen, the grad student he had been living with this last month. He had been helping the poor woman sort through her confusion over the consequences of the mission. Now, here he was consorting with this Arab beauty in the night, in Syria, of all places, which is where he surmised this place to be.

Samirah never spoke, at least not with words that he could understand. Yet the language of her body was clear and obvious across all cultural barriers. She meant to give him pleasure, undoubtedly at the behest of the leaders of this group, and she played her role with a skill that left Paul exhausted when she was through, wanting only sleep and the last warm embrace of her body next to his. Perhaps they meant to kill me with kindness, he thought. It was said that you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but he had little doubt that the other leader, the one they called the Sami, might prefer harder methods. What did these people want from him? Why were they holding him here? When would he get a chance to contact his friends at home?

He watched while Samirah quietly set the little tray she had been holding down beside a pillowed cushion. She reached for the small brass pot, and Paul saw that her hand was shaking slightly as she poured a thick liqueur into the porcelain cup. It had a scent akin to kahlua, yet with something added—probably hashish, Paul guessed. Samirah poured, her hand unsteady, almost quavering, and Paul wondered if she was chilled. The lower rooms where he was quartered became very cold at night, and the sun had long since set.

He leaned up on one elbow to take the cup but, as he did so, he sensed something wrong with the woman at his side. The light from the oil lamp revealed a trace of wetness on her cheek, and Paul saw the glistening trail of a tear there. She was crying!

As if aware of his attention, Samirah turned her head to one side, but Paul could see that she was only pretending to tend to the pot of liqueur, averting her face from him.

“Samirah?” he said. “What’s wrong?” He knew she would not understand his question, but his tone of voice carried the meaning clear enough.

She turned to him. Eyes bright with tears, and a squall of pain darkening her softly contoured features. She seemed to be struggling with some emotion, her lower lip quivering as she fought for control. Then, in a sudden motion that surprised Paul she reached out with her slim brown arm and batted the porcelain cup away, spilling the sweet, dark liqueur on the flagstone floor. Before Paul could react to that, she lunged at him, her arms embracing him as she wept.

For the hundredth time in this strange encounter, Paul found himself inwardly wondering what was going on. It was clear that Samirah was deeply moved by something. Her arms tightened around him, pulling him close, and her lips sought the nook of his neck where she kissed him softly, tenderly, with an affection that seemed driven by the turmoil within her. It was as if she was trying to say goodbye, he thought. His heart leapt at a sudden sound. There was a dry scrape as the wooden door creaked open and he heard the whisk of metal being drawn from a leather scabbard. Someone else was entering the room, a shadow advancing on them with weapon in hand.

The shadowvaulted across the room, prompting Paul to tense up with sudden anxiety. He instinctively rolled to his side to shelter Samirah, who lay upon him, in harm’s way. A fearful revelation pulsed in his brain and made him realize that this was the end of the long hospitality he had enjoyed here. He extended his arm, to ward the intruder off but, to his great surprise and relief, he saw the face of Jabr Ali S’ad illuminated in the ruddy glow of the lantern.

Jabr rasped something in Arabic, and Paul felt Samirah’s soft body tense up. She moved at once, gathering herself and drawing her robes tight about her slim body. “Come, Do-Rahlan!” Jabr’s whisper carried the weight of great urgency. “You cannot stay here this night. We must move quickly!”

He spoke to Samirah again, somewhat harshly. Paul saw how he eyed the stain of the spilled liqueur. How could he berate the woman for that? Yet, Samirah was clearly shamed. Her head lowered, face streaked with tears. Paul had the distinct impression that he was missing something in the equation, but he sensed the danger and rising tension in the room. He started to move, reflexively, pulling his loose robes tight and tying them off with a woven sash. As he stood up he turned to see Samirah, hastening away through the opening in the wood lattice. Jabr’s dark eyes followed her, but with little warmth.