Moon - XVIII

Section of a Novella from Tarot Blanco

Motions all radical,

every tranquility reified and nugatory.

Question unabashed inquietudes lost.

Lo, it tastes all til iambic soft.

The moon, she rises in the East. And the white-clad man saw the very sun towards the zenith and realized he was at the nadir of the earth. He looked down at his shoes they were the cheapest form of leather given to the soldiers. They were also caked with sand from the road. The road swerved on the hills because although was the mighty river which irrigated the small area of dirt. And it was dirt that fed the few inhabitants of the area. Welcome to Afghanistan. It was a dry day to end the old year, and in these lands, there was no hope for a new year that was any brighter. It was the 24th of Hūt in the year 1357, as people calculated it in the calendar they had spurred from Iran. The last month of a very sorry dying here. The outsiders used the Western calendar, whose date was March 15, 1979.

There was a breeze and it was from far away because there was Oleander its scent was woody with hints of apricots but he knew that it was poisonous. The breeze smelled of the flower, vaguely smelling of apricots in a woody kind of way. But in this riven valley, there were no shrubs for their two flower, so the breeze must have wafted over the hills.

But that is not why he trundled down the path, he was on orders from his mullah, to stop the civil law which wanted to make the farmers' home toil on the land, which was truly owned by the government. The government that was communist in form. In reality, a branch of Islam. Both the wrong kind. From all over Herat, men gathered from every patch of land and with Allah in their hearts and on their tongues grew more cold-hearted at the way the government was ignoring the old wisdom, the wisdom that had been handed down from father to son since time immemorial. Go the people of the town of Herat might speak in terms that they had read in many books, the farmers around the town had only one Book and now it compelled them to act.

He looked through the hills and could see the stone pillars ascending from the pine trees which were clustered about the city. And he quietly vowed that before this was over the whole of the streets would be underneath the mosque and controlled by the word of the true way. This he vowed by his name Poya, the one who searches.

Ahead of him was another man, slightly younger and with a look of mysticism about him for he carried on his right arm a rifle and on his left a book, and it was the Book: the holy Qu’ran, which is written in only one time that all the classic Arabs. He held both the rifle and the Book loosely between his fingers.

They walked for a while with neither speaking but then Poya made the gesture and said “Peace. My name is Poya.”

The young man turned and almost looked through him. “Peace, my name is Mukhtar. I can see that our on the same walk that I am.”

“It is the case I have been up early this morning listening to the mullah reciting the phrases which say this law is blasphemy because it takes away from the people the land that they have been given,” Poya spoke freely because he was sure that Mukhtar and he were peas in a pod. And therefore they walked southwest on a road that was not written of on the map.

Quiet passed between them and they went on until the road was flat and they could see the Blue Mosque, a holy place built by the great Šansabānī dynasty as a monument to Allah and to themselves. It was here where the towers stood but now they could see all of it. The mausoleum and the mosque aligned are side by side with rectangular walls, though of a different kind.

And other men gathered with the quiet determination. As of yet, there was no barrier, and everywhere there was peace. They turned and walked to the shrine with its sand-colored walls and ornately turquoise diamond patterns. They could see that there were several men and above them, just before the green entrance, stood a mullah with a white turban and white close preaching that today the Soviets would be thrown out and if necessary have their heads cut off for the glory of God.

There was a chant that grew in the hearts of the men, shaking their rifles over their heads, and twisting their bearded faces, it was a cry from deep in their lungs, deep in their hearts, a catechism of blood lust.

The Cascades of the words washed up on the souls of the people who heard it.

Then they scattered. Poya went with a dozen others, with the sweat of rage dripping down his face, and stopped by the first home that had Russian on its mailbox. And he took the lead, heaving as he did so, and smashed the box and then used both hands to break the door. Inside it was not luxurious but was decorated in the Russian style all white on the walls and floor, all angular in the composition of the furniture, and all lit in a way that is nothing like the sun.

Then he heard a woman’s voice saying things in a language he did not comprehend, and he cast there were others who were listening to the woman’s voice. The voice was all shrill and in that higher pitch that comes from being panicked. But then a rifle butt came down and there was no more screaming after that. He searched through the pantry and then in two the washroom. There he saw the faces of two small boys. They were frightened and hid behind the dryer.

And the rifle butt came down again smashing smashing smashing all to pieces until there was no more face to recognize and blood spattered against the walls and floor.

This then was the orgy at the end of 1357 in the last month. It crescendo when the nascent Taliban pounded down the doors to the Blue Mosque, which held the last remnants of the civil administration. And they slaughtered them all, each and every last one until no one could tell where the blood issued from.

It lasted until regular troops from Kabul came and crunched down the rabal with assault rifles and helicopters. Poya was found in a back alley street where his blood had been slacked and his lust was trying to find a hole to make him whole. No one found any body that matched the description of Mukhtar, only his Qu’ran split open to Al-Quamar, the first line which in English would be translated in pentameter hard: “The Hour has drawn near and the moon was split in two.”

Peace be upon you.