Elliot Ackerman - Dark at the Crossing

“And who is this?” asked Athid.

Jamil said nothing. Instead, he reached into the bag Daphne carried and presented the box of baklava. “It’s for you.”

“And who are you?” asked Athid.

“He’s too young to fight,” Daphne blurted.

Jamil fixed his eyes on her. She turned away from him.

“Is that why you’ve come?” Athid asked Jamil, who glanced a last time back at Daphne. Haris took a step toward her, grabbing her elbow, steadying her. She had brought Jamil, now she couldn’t let him go.

Athid spoke gently to Daphne: “He’s old enough. Men younger than him are fighting.”

“And dying,” interrupted Amir.

“And dying,” said Athid. “But at least they fight and die, instead of just die.”

“I came to fight,” answered Jamil.

“Good,” said Athid. He reached down and set his hand against Jamil’s shoulder. Bashar poked his head out of the satchel. Athid set him on the ground, and the pup jumped up on Jamil’s leg. “He likes you,” said Athid. “Why don’t you run downstairs with Daphne? Take the dog with you and get us some tea.” Athid looked at Amir and Haris. “The three of us have some business to discuss.”

Daphne clutched the bag of baklava to her chest. The five thousand was in it.

“The business you have to discuss is with her,” said Haris. “It’s her money.”

Athid buried his hands in the pockets of his field jacket, letting out a heavy breath. He cast his stare at Haris and then sat in the chair Amir had changed behind. “Did the Americans teach you that? To give women control over your affairs?”

Perched on the foot of the bed, Haris turned away from Athid.

“You see,” said Athid, “he doesn’t like it when I talk about the Americans.”

“It’s her money,” said Amir, sitting next to Haris on the bed.

Daphne crossed the room. “It’s fine,” she said. From the bag of baklava, she pulled out the banded stack of bills. She rested her hand on Haris’s shoulder. He faced her, and she placed the money in his hand. “You take care of this.”

Haris nodded up at her.

“Jamil, come,” said Daphne. He scooped up the pup, and she took the boy by the arm, leading him downstairs, to where they’d get a tray of tea.

Amir shut the door behind them.

Leaning back comfortably in the chair, Athid laced his fingers across his chest. “She’s quite something,” he said to both Haris and Amir. The pair ignored Athid’s comment, resentful of the power he held over them. He was quiet for a moment, watching Haris. Then Athid eased forward and began to speak the names of places: “Haditha, Nasiriya, al Qaim, Haqlaniyah, Ramadi—”

He became silent.

“Nasiriya and Ramadi,” said Haris.

“I fought the Americans at both,” answered Athid. “With them, you were against my cause but had none of your own. Perhaps that’s why you’ve returned here.”

Haris looked back, blankly. He felt Amir staring at him, as if he awaited an answer, some alternative to Athid’s logic. With elbows balanced on his knees, Haris slumped deeper into himself.

“When we first met,” Athid added, “you wanted to join with the Free Army. Now you want to join with the Daesh?”

“I am against the regime,” said Haris. “That hasn’t changed.”

Athid shook his head, holding Haris’s eyes with his. “If you make this crossing, you’re not against the regime but with us. We’ll help you get your friend to Aleppo, but our cause will become yours. If you feel differently, I caution you to stay on this side of the border.”

Haris didn’t reply. He was coming.

Amir stood, stepping into a corner of the room, creating distance from Haris. “Your cause,” said Amir, nearly spitting the words, “a caliphate to toss our world into the Dark Ages.”

“Dark Ages?” said Athid. “Turn your eyes to the country you left. These are the Dark Ages.” Retrieving the box of baklava, Athid placed it on a rug in the room’s center and sat cross-legged, gesturing for Haris and Amir to join him. Slowly each did and Athid served them each a piece. For a moment they ate in silence.

“The Prophet predicted all this,” began Athid, as if from a place of intimate knowledge. “He said it starts with the boys, writing and speaking of a new future in the streets.” Athid stopped and looked at Amir for a moment. In that look, it seemed Amir and the democratic activists of the revolution’s first spring were the boys Athid referred to. “The message spreads, breeding outrage and a war fought by the men. This is what we see now. In that war, an Islamist army rises, uniting to destroy all others. Then a tyrant is killed. This is Assad. His army will fall. Afterward, among the Islamists, there will be many pretenders. The fighting among them will go on.”

Haris listened intently, but Amir’s attention wandered to the baklava. Licking his fingertips one after another, he seemed unconcerned with Athid’s prophecies.

“You know all this?” Athid asked him.

“It’s all happening right now,” said Amir, picking another piece from the box. “The infighting, the rise of the Islamists, how does that end?”

“The Syrian people thirst for an Islamic State,” answered Athid. “After so much war they want justice. Once Assad falls, when there is fighting among the pretenders, a man will come. He is a common man, but he will have a vision. In that vision, God will tell him how to destroy His enemies, bringing peace to all peoples. That man is the Mahdi.”

Haris stared at Athid without a word.

Along his sleeve, Amir wiped the sweet pistachio syrup from his mouth. “Where do you think they are with our tea?” he asked Haris.

“You can’t imagine these events,” said Athid.

“Daph’s been down there quite a while,” Amir continued, ignoring Athid.

“You think poorly armed as we are, we can’t defeat Assad and his backers?”

With a sharp jerk of his head, Amir stared back. “It’s not that.”

Athid continued: “Our weapons don’t matter as much as you think. Even Albert Einstein predicted what’s happening now. He said that the Third War would be a nuclear war, but that the Fourth War would be fought with sticks and stones.” His gaze settled on Haris. “That’s how we beat you in Iraq, with sticks and stones. Whether we are helped or not, this is how we will create our Islamic State, even with the powers of the world against us.”

“So the plan is to wait for the Mahdi,” said Amir.

“He walks among us now, a simple man of the people, the true redeemer.” Athid swallowed a piece of the baklava in a single bite. “But you don’t believe me?” he asked Amir.

“I believe that you believe this.”

“What will you do if all I’ve said comes to pass?”

“If the Mahdi comes?” asked Amir.

Athid nodded.

“That means there will be a peaceful and just Islamic State?”

Again, Athid nodded.

“Then I’ll return to my home.”

“And, like a prodigal son, you will be welcomed,” said Athid. He grinned ear to ear, leaned forward, and laid a heavy arm across Amir’s narrow shoulders.

Daphne pushed the door open, carrying a tea tray with both hands. Bashar ran figure eights around her ankles. Jamil hurried ahead of them, setting the hourglass-shaped cups onto saucers and placing one in front of each man. Daphne offered sugar. Amir took a cube, while Athid waved it away. “It is written,” said Athid, “that the Prophet never took sugar in his tea.”

Amir placed an extra cube in his own cup.

Jamil and Daphne finished serving and sat on the floor as well. Bashar crawled into Jamil’s lap. “Has everything been settled?” Daphne asked.

Haris and Amir both glanced at Athid, uncertain about the answer.