“I do not need plunder,” he breathed.
“Nor I.”
“I am weary of following this Englishman. Let him go. He must suffer the fate that Allah has ordained for him.”
Hakeem nodded his approval. All thought of joining Aurens and his raid on the Turkish trains had left him. They were very far from home, and he wanted to get as far from this place as he could. In truth, he was terrified, and he had seen the same fear in the eyes of his elder brother, though he would never speak of this aloud. It was unseemly. It was unholy.
It was wrong.
Part IX
Retraction
“I have set my life upon a cast,
25
Whether by chance or great good fortune, Paul’s quiet presence on the roof of the officer’s coach was not noticed as the train made its way inexorably north. He passed a moment of anxiety when the train went through another small outpost. Several of the buildings at the station there were high enough to spy him from an upper window, but no one seemed to be looking. He remained utterly still, appearing no more than a vagabond stowaway to any who might see him. One soldier did make a passing glance as the train rolled through its last depot before Minifir. The mail bags had been thrown from a box-car while the train was still moving, and the soldier gave Paul a curious look. Apparently he had seen such stowaways before. A lone Arab hardly seemed worth the effort to raise an alarm. It was an insignificant trespass and nothing came of the incident.
Paul clung to his precarious post, cold and wet; still shivering from the night and taking little comfort from the occasional fingers of sunlight that filtered through the dark gray clouds. The train made its way north, and he soon spied a telltale rise in the ground ahead, which resolved into the looming shape of a double hillock. They were approaching Minifir at last! Kilometer 172 lay nestled in the lee of these inconsequential hills, though Paul knew they marked the outermost edge of a twisted Nexus Point of history. The Meridian of Time would pass beneath their unknowing watch, like the rail line, and lead on to events of overwhelming significance.
Who would have thought that the fate of the Western World would be decided here, he mused. What was it? He strained his eyes against the gloom, as if he could ferret out the telltale sign of the Pushpoint that was nestled in the tumbled folds of those hills; as if it might be glowing with significance and impossible to miss. Was it a thing, an object, or merely something Lawrence or Masaui does, that unleashes the wrath of the Holy Fighters years hence? Then his thought returned to more immediate matters. At their present speed those hills could not be more than an hour away. How could he act to spare this train? All his hopes rested on this single chance, he realized. The train had been making frequent stops to move coal forward from the tender to the engine. It often slowed to a near crawl on any upward grade they encountered. Paul gambled that, as the train approached the higher ground at Minifir, it would slow enough for him to leap from the roof. If I don’t break a leg, he thought, I just may have time to slip away and do something—but what?
His heart raced and he tried to fend off that awful feeling of rising anxiety in his gut. It had to be something with the charges Lawrence laid, or the wires. He had to find a way to get ahead of the train. Oh, God, stop this thing for me! Burn that coal. Do something! Lawrence had lookouts on the south hill by now. The raiders were already taking their positions, ready to cast their pent up anger and frustration at the train in reprisal for the failed mission at the Yarmuk Bridge, the same anger and frustration that would eventually lead to the Palma Event. I’m riding a death train, he thought. If I don’t get off I’ll be completely exposed to fire from the hills above when Lawrence ignites his charge and derails the locomotive.
The minutes rolled past, each one marked by the barren spike of a sun-bleached telegraph pole, and the Meridian of Time seemed to be strung between them, extending forward and backward from this point with awful certainty. He had to cut that wire. It was the only thing he could think of now. He had to get off this train and run ahead to find and sever the buried nerve that would fire the explosive charges. It was imperative.
The train pulled on, chugging and panting up a gently rising grade. It began to slow perceptibly, its engine wheezing along with the added effort of the climb. It was as if he had passed some imperceptible event horizon, and was falling toward the hungry void of a black hole. Each moment seemed longer than the last as the train continued to slow. Time was stretched out thin, with impossible suspense, and he could do nothing but wait, hoping for the moment he knew must be here for him. Then it came. The engine belched and came to a halt, very near the base of the southernmost hill. It was time.
His senses sharpened in response to the flush of adrenaline in his system. His heart raced, pumping blood to animate his cold, stiff limbs. It was now. He struggled up, burdened by the sodden, muddied robes of a sheikh. He managed to perched himself on hands and knees. If he jumped now would the Colonel see him? What about the two guards?
He started to move, as quietly as he could, to a place on the roof where he thought he would have the best chance at escaping unseen. Then the harsh sound of the Colonel’s voice came to him from the back of the coach. The man was up and yelling something at the two guards that had been posted on the outer porch. They responded with quick movements, jumping down and running forward toward the stalled engine. They were probably carrying orders or questions from the Colonel, Paul knew. He froze, terrified, while the men ran past the car. He was afraid they would cast a casual glance and see him poised on the roof like a rain drenched cat. Thankfully, they were too eager to obey their officer, and sped away without incident.
Paul caught the aroma of burning tobacco and realized that the Colonel must be savoring one of his cigarettes as he stretched his legs on the other side of the coach. He could not just sit here, he had to move. Gathering his resolve, he edged to the side of the coach and peered down to be certain the Colonel had not wandered to this side of the car. You just have to throw yourself in sometimes, he thought, but he knew if he jumped from this height the sound would certainly be heard. Then he was saved by the high pitched squeal of the engine as it vented steam and smoke. Without a second thought, he plunged over the edge.
The ground came up hard and fast and he tumbled on the stony bank, taking a painful fall. His lanky frame shuddered, but he was not seriously hurt, save for the jab of a sharp flint on his left shoulder when he rolled down the bank. The engine hissed to silence, but the noise of the venting had been enough to mask the sound of his fall. He surveyed the ground, crouching low and edging back from the rail line to seek cover in the undulating terrain. Now he was thankful for the threatening, overcast sky. A brief squall of rain was sweeping in, and it would keep heads and faces tucked away inside the train. There were many open cars crammed with Turkish soldiers near the front, but he was far enough away to have a reasonable chance of hiding.