Dorothy Mcintosh - The Witch of Babylon

“She still doesn’t think we’re serious.”

“Maybe she genuinely doesn’t have the information.”

“She knows. Just do it.”

The man took aim, trying to judge where a blow might cause the least injury. The rock glanced off Hanna’s shoulder with a soft, ineffective thud.

“You were trying to spare her!” he shouted angrily. “Shim, show him how it’s done.”

A giant of a man stepped forward. Instinctively, the smaller fellow shrank back, having seen first-hand the damage his companion could inflict. The goliath bent stiffly at the waist, picked up two stones, and whipped them full force at his target.

Hanna screamed. Her body jerked when one of the stones smacked into her face and the other tore into the soft tissue of her abdomen. After this wounding, all sense of time and place drifted away.

As if in sympathy with her agony, the light appeared to change. The sun turned burnt orange; the sky, an unnatural ochre. In the fierce heat the ground seemed to ripple as though a giant serpent wound beneath its surface. The atmosphere grew weirdly still but for a faint buzz, an electric frissoning of millions of sand particles gathering together.

The men looked north. “A shamal wind,” one of them said. “Look at that.”

It appeared as though a mountain had suddenly formed on the flat horizon. At first the shape was just a dim bulge, but it grew rapidly before their eyes. In minutes a wave of sand hundreds of feet high became visible. It rolled toward them like a massive tsunami. Quick flashes of blue lightning forked through the reddish dust. The Arabs called the wind Kamasin , derived from the word for fifty—because when they’re strong, such storms can last for fifty days.

They bolted, knowing that it would be nearly impossible to outrun the wall of sand. The smaller man stumbled and fell onto a sharp protruding rock. A stab of pain gored his knee. He raised himself up, clutching his injured leg, and staggered forward. The other two had already reached their battered GM pickup. They threw open the doors and climbed inside. The engine started up.

“Wait!” the small man screamed. “What are you doing?”

The truck doors banged shut; its tires spun on the sandy ground. The driver reversed. The wheels gained traction and the truck turned toward the south. The small man forced his legs to race, ignoring the wrenching pain. He stretched out his arms like a beggar pleading for mercy. The truck’s high beams flicked on, the glare momentarily searing his eyes. His last words were drowned out by the roar of the motor and the gathering storm.

Hanna, on the edge of consciousness, caught a fleeting sense of a new wind on her face and the first assault of fine particles of grit. She drooped against the post like a broken doll, the stirring of her scarf a herald for the oncoming storm.

Part One

THE GAME

For, lo, I will raise and cause to come up against Babylon an assembly of great nations from the north country: and they shall set themselves in array against her; from thence she shall be taken:

Their arrows shall be as of a mighty expert man; none shall return in vain.

And Chaldea shall be a spoil: all that spoil her shall be satisfied.

—JEREMIAH 50:9–10

One

342 West Twentieth Street, New York

Saturday, August 2, 2003, 10:30 P.M.

In the weeks since the accident, I’ve kept away from the constellation of friends who knew and loved my brother, Samuel. If our paths did happen to cross, they managed to say, “It’s a miracle you survived, John,” in tones suggesting the opposite.

I wore that one dark moment on the highway like a red-hot brand.

To avoid any more chance meetings, I arrived at Hal Vanderlin’s party deliberately late, hoping the crowd had already melted away. I wouldn’t have bothered coming at all but Hal had proved elusive lately, not returning my calls or emails. He still owed me a significant amount of money and this party was the one sure chance I had of finding him.

As a child I’d spent hours exploring the Vanderlins’ townhouse, losing myself in the dim labyrinth of its halls, opening doors to silent rooms. Most retained furniture from a bygone era—chairs upholstered in burgundy damask and framed with carved walnut, handmade lace on the arms and headrests. Wardrobes, bookcases, and desks gave off the aroma of camphor and old mahogany. A ghost house. That’s how it seemed to me then.

Of all its chambers my favorite was one I called the vanishing room. A large, open rectangle on the top floor, to a boy it looked immense. Two huge mirrors hung on facing walls. If I stood dead center between them I could see myself telescope away to nothing. When I tired of those solitary games I’d run out through the kitchen to the back garden, a jungle of trees and overgrown shrubs. I’d sharpen sticks and tie lengths of string to make bows and arrows then lie in wait for a Cyclops to charge out from the bushes or a giant to swing down from a tree.

Even these innocent recollections seemed tainted now by Samuel’s death.

By the time I walked into the party, only the serious hangers-on were left. Among them, Professor Colin Reed had zeroed in on a woman with white-blond hair and china-blue eyes who I assumed had just graduated and was therefore fair game. Tight pants and a clingy silk shirt showed off her firm, fit body.

Reed headed off, to get drinks I assumed. As I was looking around for Hal she caught my eye. I sent her a smile back.

“I’m Eris,” she said when we were close enough to hear each other.

“John Madison.” She moved a little nearer to me.

“Are you with the bride’s or the groom’s party?” I asked.

I noticed her eyes widen when she laughed. They were a mesmerizing blue, so intense I wondered whether she used those contacts that enhance eye color. “Yeah, it’s funny,” she said. “Sometimes these university parties do seem as deadly as your second cousin once removed’s wedding.”

“You’re at NYU?”

“No, an MIT grad. You?”

“Columbia. But some time ago. Hal and I go way back. We’re childhood friends and lately, business associates.”

“Isn’t he a professor?”

“Yes. I’m an art dealer. He’s sold some art objects through me.”

“An art dealer. That’s exotic. You must be a millionaire then.” She chuckled to show this was just a tease.

“Millions of dollars pass through my hands. It hurts always watching them end up in someone else’s bank account. Should have gone into hedge funds.”

That produced another grin. “So you’re a friend of Hal’s?” she asked.

“My older brother and his father were friends. Samuel would always bring me here on his visits, and whenever Hal came home from boarding school or summer camp we’d spend time together. He didn’t have a lot of other friends here in the city. How do you know him then?”

She didn’t answer me and I saw her flick a glance across the room. Reed appeared in the doorway, his bushy fair hair that seemed to stand up vertically from his scalp, somewhat skewed, his reddened nose suggesting this was far from his first drink. He shot daggers at me from where he stood. A signal he was not amused by my monopolizing the object of his affection.

Normally I’d stand my ground, but I had to find Hal. “Sorry I can’t stay and talk.” I pulled out my business card and handed it to her. “I’ve got to see Hal. Give me a call if you’d like to get together for a coffee or something sometime.”