Crowd noise behind him. Adem turned to see the people make a path for the accused, looking shocked but not frantic. Almost like he'd been drugged. Leading him by his arm into the center of the square was Jibriil.
Following him were two men, one carrying a metal table like you'd find in a hospital. The other, a chair. In Jibriil's free hand, a plastic shopping bag. The men set up the table, the chair, and Jibriil led the convicted man over so he could sit down. Speaking softly in his ear, to which the man nodded, did as he was told. Adem could imagine what Jibriil was telling him: It's alright. You'll be punished, won't feel a thing, then forgiven so you can get on with God's work. What else could you tell a man about to lose his hand over a few extra pieces of bread?
As the guilty man was prepared, the holy man who had handed the machete to Adem placed his hand on his back, led him in slow steps to the table and chair. The crowd closed in, shrinking the circle. Jibriil backed away, revealing the thief's arm being tied off with a tourniquet. His hand rested palmside up on the table. One of the men assisting Jibriil took the bag from him, pulled a syringe from it, and held it up to the sun. Tapped his finger against the side, plunged just so a drop bubbled out and ran down the needle.
He wiped a cloth across the man's arm. The alcohol smell hit Adem's nose. The needle slipped into the man's arm near his wrist. He flexed his fingers. Small sounds coming from him, not quite crying, not quite whimpering. Pathetic. Much calmer than Adem would be if they switched places.
Time passed. No one in the crowd said a word. A surprise. Adem expected shouts, jeers, but it was much the same as the stoning. Silence. Respect. Then why did they bother to watch? It was a horror show. They claimed to be the more civilized religion, right? Not even the American devils used public punishment as a spectacle anymore. That had faded away at some point in the twentieth century. Prisoners had the right to accept their time behind thick walls, no prying eyes, or in antiseptic execution rooms with only a select few on the other side of the glass.
Here? Why did they flock to see this behanding instead of going to work, taking care of their homes, playing football, cooking, laughing, praying? Like an American car wreck. In spite of the suffering out in the open, it was hard not to watch.
Adem didn't understand the injection at first. What was the point? But as the men poked at the hand, testing for a response, he realized that they didn't want screams and blood. They didn't want carnage. They wanted to please Allah. So they found the least painful way they could to do this while still making sure the message got through. Never take bread without asking.
Jibriil held the man's numb right hand high, made sure all of the crowd got a good look, before he set it down again gently on the table.
Adem wasn't even going to get a practice swing.
Another of the clerics spoke into Adem's ear. "They will mark the best place to strike. You bring it up over your head, keep your eye on the mark, not the blade. Let it fall heavy with a little force behind it. Don't think too much. It has been sharpened so fine that a child could do this."
"But what if it doesn't come off?"
"Do what I said, and you won't have to worry. It's been taken care of."
Adem stepped up to the table. Glanced at Jibriil, who winked at him. Glanced at the convicted man. Head turned the other way. Eyes tight. Waiting.
Adem took a deep breath. Cleared his throat, gagged, placed his free hand over his mouth. Easy, easy. Just do it. Nothing to fear.
Once lifted, there was no turning back.
Adem arced the machete over his head. Held it a moment too long. Knew as he was coming down with it that he was off, pushing too hard. Flinched his shoulders. The blade landed with a clang, shaking the table. Adem had closed his eyes without realizing. He looked down.
Three fingertips, two on the table and the other on the ground flecked with sand.
The guilty man began breathing fast, heavy, wheezing. He'd looked too.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Adem lifted the blade again. Slung blood over his head. Came down again. A better blow, but only half a cut. The man tried to lift his hand. It wobbled, dangled. Adem grabbed his arm, pushed it back against the table, fit his blade against the remaining attached skin and muscle, and sawed his way through. The guilty man screaming the whole time. Shrill and painful.
Jibriil held the man in the chair by his shoulders. Leaned down and whispered in his ear some more. Whatever he said calmed the man immediately. Adem stepped back as the two attendants came forward and began bandaging the stump. Another look at the severed hand-a ragged cut, too much loose skin left over. Too much blood.
The clerics and military men turned back and forth between the guilty man and Adem. Animated talking. Shocked eyes. Then the man with the white beard raised his hand chin high, spoke loudly and got the others' attentions.
"He did as we asked. He did the best he could. No one can fault him." Turned to Adem, reached out.
Adem walked to him, dropped the blade along the way. The cleric took both of Adem's hands in his own, never mind the blood. Kissed him on each cheek.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Adem bowed his head to the holy man.
"No, no. It is I who am sorry. You did the right thing. Blessings on you, son."
Another embrace, Adem staining the man's robes with the blood.
The murmuring of the crowd raised in volume as they dispersed. They said things like, "Awful. Just awful" and "It's bad enough to take his hand, but to humiliate him like that…" and "Imagine if that had been someone's neck."
As the clerics took their leave, Adem turned to the men working with the convicted. The blood had flowed more, with a pool of it now on the table, spilling over into the dirt. Jibriil stood back, arms crossed. Adem walked over, stood at his side.
"What's wrong?"
Jibriil shrugged. "Maybe the heat. Maybe he's a hemophiliac. I don't know. But they can't stop him bleeding."
The men shouted, frantically waved at soldiers who were standing around like Adem and Jibriil. Finally, a truck rushed down the road towards them, parted the remaining crowd and screeched to a stop. The attendants grabbed a cot from the back, laid it on the ground, then forced the man out of the chair. He refused to lie down. He held his stump as the men fought to control the bleeding, making a bigger mess. They finally got him to stumble towards the back of the truck. Helped him into the bed. He started out by sitting up, but then slipped out of sight as if he'd fainted. The truck sped off, kicked up dirt clouds. Left Adem and Jibriil staring at the blood-covered chair and table, both of which had been knocked over, turning the dirt dark.
Jibriil clapped Adem on the shoulder. "Still, all in all it was a good job. You did what you needed to do."
"Is he going to die?"
A grin. "Some things are out of our hands. All we can do is-"
"Yeah, I know. God's plan, God's will, all that."
"Hey, it got us this far."
Adem wiped his hands on his pants. What had he done? How did he know this guy didn't have AIDS or Hep or worse? Like Ebola, all those crazy jungle bugs. Wiped some more. Seeping into his pores now. "Water. I need to wash the blood off."
"Okay, yeah. That's good. Let's do that."
They headed off. Adem wasn't certain, but it seemed as if the soldiers weren't laughing at him quite as much. At least today.
Jibriil said, "Good news. Thanks to that, you're coming along with me tomorrow."
"What's tomorrow? Where are we going?"
A smile. "You'll see. Try to get some time in on the gun today."
The gun. His AK. Struggled to keep the bullets from spraying like a crazy fountain at the water parks in the Dells. Jibriil telling him he needed it. Shit, he was heading into combat.