The Scarred Crescent

  The Scarred Crescent

  F Moses

  Contents

  1. Choices

  2. Compromises

  3. The raid

  4. Justice

  5. Inspiration

  6. The aftermath

  7. The Gymkhana

  8. Investigations

  9. Cooperation

  10. A trip up North

  11. Mosques and gods

  12. The day approaches

  13. Difficult choices

  14. The Press Conference

  15. Mission Impossible

  16. Twisting the arm

  17. Everyone needs a mother

  18. A new land

  19. Power of music

  20. Exploration

  21. Left no choice

  22. The long trip

  23. Acceptance

  24. The one constant

  25. The scoop

  26. Alliances

  27. Farewells

  28. Trying the other way

  29. Dilemmas

  30. The mainland

  31. Confirmations

  32. Rumi and zikr

  33. The hunt

  34. Confrontations

  35. The long night

  36. Beautiful days

  37. Hopes and disappointments

  38. Questions

  39. Declarations

  40. The volcano

  41. Duty

  42. Chasing leads

  43. The two women

  44. Vengeance

  45. A message arrives

  46. Appeals

  47. Shocks

  48. Difficult compromises

  49. The piecing together

  50. In the shade of the night

  51. Unexpected heroes

  52. The attempts

  53. Decisions

  54. Acceptance

  55. Life is not fair

  56. Freedoms taken for granted

  57. The reckoning

  58. What happens in wars

  59. Parenthood

  60. Weight of duty

  61. Purposes

  62. What's in a victory?

  63. Ashes

  64. Rubble

  65. Acceptance

  Keep in touch

  1

  Choices

  Seventy-thousand Miamians roared his name. ‘Aaron! Aaron!’

  Closing his eyes, Aaron inhaled deeply, waited for his thudding heart to slow down. Beads of perspiration trickled down his clammy face, leaving salty pathways in their wake. He readjusted his helmet, the plastered hair underneath squelching with the movement.

  I can hit the winning runs, he told himself. I will do it!

  Wild thoughts ran through his mind. There were Inquisitors in the crowd tonight. Islands of nothingness, voids of darkness. Would they be cheering his name tonight without realising they did so for a magi? If his insides weren’t a knotted mess already, he would have chuckled.

  His lungs burned and he finally forced an exhale, letting his fingers curl tight around the bat handle. The right pinkie twitched inside the glove. Lit up by the floodlights, the Mumbai Stars huddled together in the centre of Miami Oval, eleven of the finest cricketers in the world devising strategy to neutralise him.

  I can do this! His being here was no fluke — a whole lifetime of deliberate choices had brought him here. He cocked his head to the right. A gust of wind whipped the Raj’s flag on the tall pole, its green crescent fluttering like a serpent’s tail.

  ‘Six runs required from two balls,’ announced a raspy voice over the PA system in an exaggerated Hindustani drawl. ‘Men and women of Florida, make some noise!’

  The crowd roared, its clamour deafening.

  Gritting his teeth, he turned his attention back to the Mumbai Stars. The fielders ran to take their new positions across the ground.

  Shit, he thought.

  They stood closer now. Much closer. Cutting off his options to sneak a quick run through. He’d have to swing the bat and hope he connected.

  ‘Don’t over think it, mate!’ Dale Stokes, his partner on the other end of the pitch, shouted over the din. ‘Watch the ball and fucking smash it!’

  Aaron nodded.

  Grinning, Dale made the victory sign with one hand, and lifted the bat with the other as if it were a weapon instead of a length of willow. Aaron’s mouth had grown parched. He licked his lips, ignored the weight in his gut growing heavier by the second.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ whispered the voice in his ear, startling him yet again. He shook his head. Now was not the time to engage with figments of his imagination.

  As if it could smell blood in the air, the crowd bayed, howled in anticipation. This was their one chance to show up the mainlanders at their own game. Give them a taste of their own medicine.

  And he, Aaron Poudrier was their champion. Not a cricketer playing a sport, more a gladiator carrying hopes of a proud province.

  Too bad he felt like the sacrificial bull than anything else.

  ‘Just smack the ball,’ he muttered to himself, nodding at his shadow cast by the floodlights. He could do it. Would do it.

  He just needed to go back to the basics. Peel back the rowdy crowd, his frayed nerves, the holo cameras filming him from a thousand angles, and this was but another ball game. Six runs required from two balls? Easy stuff. One mighty heave of the bat, and the pink leather ball would soar into the air, sail past the boundary, land the six runs.

  An equation so simple it required no understanding of the ancient sport’s arcane laws.

  His legs shook as he bent his knees to take his stance. Damn it! He spat on the dusty pitch through the helmet’s grill.

  Dale shouted something again, but he couldn’t hear the man over the blood pounding at his temples.

  He did have other options though. He could just will his way to victory. One of the perks of being a magi. A well timed push at the bowler, and he could stumble mid-stride. A bit of benign friction against the ball taking away its venom. Watch the ball’s line of energy to line up the perfect hit.

  A nervous laugh escaped his dry lips. Using magic to cheat at any sport was work of amateurs. Doing so at the finals of the Raj Cup — with billions of souls watching his every move — was a suicide wish.

  Shooing away the distracting thoughts, he turned his focus to the bowler standing forty yards away. Yaseen Khan, all six and a half feet of muscle and sinew glowered back at him, his green jersey straining at the seams — unlike his own blue and white jersey draped loosely around him.

  A cold shiver ran down his spine remembering Yaseen’s reputation for fracturing ribs.

  I can do this. After all, Dale had survived the previous three balls, hadn’t he? Even sneaked a run thanks to a lucky miscue. Dale had smiled at Aaron when they’d changed positions, as if bequeathing him the honour of striking the winning runs.

  Yaseen bared his teeth, threw the pink leather ball up in the air, caught it with a casual outstretched hand. The crowd hollered. Aaron’s breath caught, and he swallowed a thick lump of saliva.

  Yaseen threw the ball up one more time. If this was an intimidation tactic meant to scare the opposing batman, the damned thing was certainly working. Aaron shook his head. What was wrong with the crowd anyway? Shouldn’t they be booing the big, mean fast bowler from the mainland who intended to deny them their victory?

  But no, like all other masochist crowds, they too longed to see the world’s fastest man tear into batsman — even if the victim was one of theirs.

  He shook his head again, tapped the crease once with the bat, then slipped into his batting stance. Lifelong training kicked in. Keep the bat’s back-lift low to counter the express pace. Watch the ball all the way. Don’t swing, time your strokes.

  He didn’t have the luxury of following good habits. Just a choice that needed to be made. He raised the bat up high, exposing the wicket behind him.

  Yaseen spat to his side, ran a hand through his long dark hair. Then leaning forward, he began his run-up. A jumble of distracting thoughts went through Aaron’s mind. How would the spectators see this moment throughout the Raj? The fierce lion loping towards the gazelle? A raging Goliath tearing into the trembling David? A mounted knight mowing down hapless infantry?

  Focus! Aaron forced his hands to remain still, watching Yaseen grow bigger each second.

  A metre away from the popping crease, Yaseen leapt high in the air. A grunt filled the air, the crowd screamed in orgasmic pleasure. The thick shoulder rounded through its motion. The leather ball exploded from his hand, catching the glint of the floodlights for the briefest of moments.

  An out-swinger! Gritting his teeth, Aaron brought down the bat hard, aiming for the area just to the right of his off-stump.

  A rush of wind whooshed through the bat and his pads.

  Instead of the satisfying thwack of wood smashing into dense leather, the wickets clattered behind him.

  The world froze to a standstill. He didn’t need to turn around to see the shattered mess of his wickets. Yaseen let out a primal scream, punched the air. His outstretched arms reached out to the heavens as his teammates rushed in to celebrate. A chorus of boos and groans rang out from the seventy-thousand disappointed souls.

  ‘And that’s out!’ came the announcement on the PA system. ‘What a ball from the fast bowler! Now the Atlantis Warriors need six runs from one ball.’ The boos grew louder. ‘Can they do it? Frankly, I have my doubts, and good money riding on the Mumbai Stars.’

  Ba
t dangling limply in his hand, he began the long walk towards the pavilion. Yaseen turned around to jab a finger at him, other fielders joining in with jeers of their own. He kept walking, letting the catcalls, the jeers, the boos, melt into a universe of shame.

  He had failed. Again. And of all the times to fail, he had chosen the absolute worst. Made a real spectacle of him.

  If there was a silver lining, it was that the terror of the moment was over for him. His vigil had ended.

  At the boundary rope, Roy Gorrick bumped fists with him. The incoming batsman stood next to an advertising board with a picture of a scowling Ali Ellison. The ticker next to the name read Vote for your self — vote for a Floridian — vote for Ali Ellison in the Raj Presidential election.

  Aaron forced a smile. ‘Good luck, mate!’ Roy grinned. Unbuckling his helmet’s strap at the chin, Aaron pulled the helmet down over his forehead, hoping to disappear from the glaring cameras. Wishful thinking of course when two billion people watched his walk of shame.

  ‘Idiota!’ shouted someone from the crowd. The cry was joined with jeers.

  His feet quickened. Raj Marines in their khaki uniforms and members of the Miami Police Department in front of the advertisement hoardings stood a little straighter as he approached. They may have been on duty to prevent terrorists from striking the stadium, but in the moment even they could sense a more immediate threat.

  ‘Ever learnt how to grab a bat?’ came another voice.

  The world was growing misty. If he didn’t fear tripping, he’d have liked to keep his eyes shut lest they leaked. Biting his lower lip, he jogged the last twenty metres to the player’s tunnel, a sanctuary away from the buzzing crowd.

  ‘Don’t feel too bad. Yaseen’s the best of the best!’ said one of the attendees inside the tunnel. Aaron nodded curtly, not missing the pity in the man’s grey eyes. Leaning against the wall, he faced an exhaust vent, let the warm air blow against his hot skin. He could stay here forever, or as long as it took for the world to forget him.

  He was the guy who couldn’t pull it off. Again. The perennial failure. If there was a class of chokers, he’d stood firmly in first place. What was he thinking anyway of dreaming up a life that beings like him didn’t deserve? He was an abomination. A magi. An aberration against the divine. A pariah denied the lottery of life. When did a man like that ever become a hero for the common man?

  Tears, warm and salty ran streaked down his face. He didn’t turn from the vent. What would his few friends say to him afterwards? No doubt, it’d be more scorn disguised with kind words. Abigail would click her tongue, her ponytails bobbing. Walt and Mortimer might thump his shoulder before resuming their bickering. Big Hugo would probably offer his usual platitudes. And Oliver, his brother magi, would just stare at him with his big, questioning eyes.

  He blew his nose, then stepped away, began climbing the stairs. No one turned his way when he walked into the pavilion. His teammates in their blue and white uniforms and the support staff in blue overalls crowded the terrace outside, leaning from the balcony, shouting and cheering.

  He stood in the corner for a long moment. Eric Tactus, their captain, finally glanced his way. ‘Better luck next time, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. Eric waved him over, a kind smile on his square-jawed face, and reluctantly he walked over to the terrace.

  A hundred and fifty metres away, the Mumbai Stars stood in another huddle. More tactics. On the other side of the pitch, Roy and Dale conferred with each other, practising shadow shots against the imaginary ball.

  Breath caught in his chest. There to the left was another Inquisitor — walking in the opposite direction.

  ‘We can still do it,’ Eric said, wringing his hands.

  ‘True,’ John, their wicketkeeper batsman replied. ‘It’s cricket! You never know till you know.’

  Aaron looked down at his hand terminal. The news agencies were playing a replay of how he had gotten out. He blinked. His bat had been miles away from the ball. A closeup focused on his face. His eyes were squeezed shut. He groaned

  When he looked up, the fielders were taking their positions again, Yaseen walking over to his bowling mark. He swallowed. By losing his wicket, he had done everything to ensure the Mumbai Stars remained undefeated the entire season. Claimed yet another Raj Cup.

  Roy tapped his bat at the crease, nodded once at the bowler, and assumed his stance. The crowd fell silent. He glanced at the wall screen beside them. A life sized Yaseen rubbed the ball against his thick thigh, a smirk on his face.

  Aaron gripped the iron railing with a death grip. He still had the power to wipe Yaseen’s smirk away once and for all. All he needed was to jump into the void for a moment, and impose his will.

  And then the Inquisitors would have him for dinner.

  Yaseen leaned forward and began his run up, the long black hair flowing behind him. A sense of déjà vu struck Aaron as Yaseen grunted, jumped in the air. The ball exploded, almost too fast to follow with naked eye, just like it had before.

  Roy swung hard. Just like Aaron had. Straight down, showing the maker’s logo.

  The sense of déjà vu crashed.

  The stadium rang out with the thwack of willow clobbering leather. The ball shot up in the air. Cries went across the stadium as thousands of eyes trailed its flight. Up and up it went, the fielders running underneath it. Aaron stole a glance towards Roy. The batsman stood frozen in his stance. No need to run for runs. Either the ball would make it, or it won’t.

  The ball made it. Landed a good ten metres past the boundary rope and into the shouting crowd.

  Aaron stared in disbelief. They’d done it. Roy had gotten the six runs they needed. His teammates whooped, jumped in the air, smacked each others’ backs. Even his. Surprising how much is forgotten in triumph.

  Eric pulled him into a bear hug, letting go only to grab another teammate. The crowd around them was a roiling ocean of blue and white, its clamour drowning the announcer. Fireworks crackled in the night air, lit up the skies overhead in dazzling patterns.

  In a daze, Aaron followed his teammates down the tunnel and onto the ground. One by one, they shook hands with the dejected Mumbai Stars looking just as shell shocked as he felt himself. Yaseen didn’t meet his eye, offered a limp handshake.

  At the sight of their champions, the crowd broke out into a frenzy, flags and banners and a sea of jumping arms as far as the eye could see. Someone waved the star spangled banner — an old yet risky symbol.

  A media cloud enveloped them, led by a tall man in a bright green sherwani suit. ‘Follow me, please,’ he said, motioning them towards the dais being placed in the centre of the ground. Four young men carried forward the Raj Cup, thirty pounds of solid gold, glittering a million colours under the fireworks. ‘You boys certainly pulled off a miracle. Much against my predictions,’ said the MC in his perfect Hindustani.

  ‘We’re the better team, mate,’ replied Roy with a grin, thumping Eric on the back.

  Smiling, Aaron took his position beside Roy as they waited for Jared Huffman, the Governor General of Florida and other dignitaries of the Raj to ascend the dais.

  ‘More the devil’s luck than a miracle, I say,’ rumbled a deep voice behind him. Aaron’s feet froze, his soul crying out in terror. He’d been swept up in the moment to keep an eye out for Inquisitors.

  Aaron turned his neck. A tall stocky man with dark eyes and a thick moustache covering the upper lip smiled at him. An Inquisitor of the Raj. Aaron forced himself to remain steady. The tall man adjusted the black Fez over his head, offered him a thick hand. ‘Congratulations! You guys did well.’