History's Shadow I: Legends Born (Tahir Edition) #Wattys2014

Chapter Seven - Tahir (1/2)

“Hello?” he called. “Can anyone hear me?”

His was the only voice heard over the soft crackle of flames. His blue eyes squinted into the black smoke snaking through the small village. He hopped through the window. The roof was caved in; rubble blocked the doorway. The stench of death was strong to his sensitive nose, and filled his mouth. He spit to get rid of the repulsive taste, but found little relief. Begrudgingly, he rifled through the scattered debris.

Home after home, it was the same; corpses picked over by scavengers. Some burned nearly to ash, most already rotting from the desert heat. The sun was fading, and so were his chances of finding any survivors.

He rubbed his chest; the burning sensation was returning. He ignored the discomfort and the squawking of vultures, and tuned his ears for any sounds of human life. It was barely audible, but it was there. The raspy, labored breathing of a survivor. He tossed pieces of fallen roof with a bit more zeal.

“Have hope! I am coming!” He dug deeper into the rubble, following the source of the sound. The debris moved ever so slightly; the ragged breathing came louder. With one final heave he uncovered two bodies, a small boy with a woman draped across his chest. Shards from the roof pierced her back. The blood was dry. The man squatted down and touched her face. Despite the heat, her skin was cool and stiff. The boy struggled to breathe under her weight. The man carefully lifted the woman and took the boy’s hand. The child gratefully clung to his rescuer.

“You are safe now,” the man said, patting the boy’s back.

Between coughs and sobs, the boy nodded his acknowledgement. He wasn’t sure if the man was speaking another language or if his head was too confused to understand. It didn’t matter; he welcomed the embrace as he cried.

“Come now,” the man said, kicking debris out of the way. “Let us go outside to talk.”

“What about my mother? You have to help her, too,” the boy said through tears, pulling the man’s hand.

“I am terribly sorry child. It is too late for her.”

The boy looked back at his mother lying amid the destruction. The fine fabric of her once golden shayla was torn and stained with blood. Her soft, black hair, usually tucked under her shayla, was light brown from the dust and matted to her head. Her clothes were always clean and she often scolded him for not keeping himself well kept. Now she was dirty; her clothes were torn. She wouldn’t stand to be seen like this, especially by a stranger. Tears welled up in his eyes. He clung to the hope that she was only hurt, injured from the collapsing roof, that maybe someone would come to help and she would be all right. She had long stopped moving; he felt the cold seeping into her body as he lay helpless beneath her. She was dead. He cried and turned his face away from death.

“Come,” the man repeated, leading the boy away.

The boy jerked free and knelt beside his mother. His hands trembled as he brushed the sand from her hair and straightened her robes as he knew she would have liked them. He didn’t know what else he could do; he just rocked and cried. The man allowed him a few moments more to mourn before placing his hand on the small shoulder. The boy wiped his face and hushed his sobbing as best he could, then allowed the man to lead him out of the house through the window.

The boy stared wide-eyed at the destruction, the air stolen from his body.

“I cannot explain what happened here. I arrived only a short while ago.” The man’s words still seemed jumbled, but became clearer as he spoke. “I do not believe there are any more survivors.”

“I don’t understand. I thought it was just our house that, that…How did this happen?”

“I am not certain. Let us sit over here,” he led the boy to a fallen date palm by the river.