Fatma and her children lived in a walled off square in a corner of the tiny courtyard behind the Frenchman’s house. A small hibachi, two cooking pots, and one lonely dilapidated green plastic lawn chair sat in front of the opening to the home.
Inside several faded rugs stacked one on top of the other served as beds. A small chest covered with another old rug, was the only bit of furniture she had. François helped, by the look of it. Tins of food poked out from under a rug in one corner along with a couple of boxes of medical supplies. T- shirts and jeans hung on nails protruding from one wall. It was crude, but it had a warm homey feel.
Shrouded in her burqa, Fatma rose slowly, holding her children protectively behind her. The children whispered and giggled as they peered out from behind the protection of their mother’s body.
“This is a dream,” Fatma muttered under her breath. “A dream.”
“But—” The taller of the boys began a protest. Fatma hushed him with a stern look.
“You’re too perfect to be real, too … your clothes … no burqa.” Slowly she reached out, and then let her hand fall.
Fatma stared. The children whispered.
“The boys were in the streets today,” Fatma said. “I didn’t believe the wild tale they brought home. But Monsieur Durocher said yes, it was true. He even promised to show me pictures. And now. You are here.”
Fatma gestured for her guest to sit on one of the piles of rugs. She removed her burqa and signaled to her children to sit with them. She was a short woman, solidly built with a broad face warmed by a quick, genuine smile. The children huddled close to their mother, their eyes round and large.
Conversation with Fatma personalized everything about conditions in the country. Questions erupted unbidden, many that only a woman could answer. Answers from Fatma that chilled to the bone. Yes, people were arrested for having foreign visitors in their homes. Yes, women doctors had been shot after operating and saving the lives of Spinda soldiers; fine for a woman to save their lives, but to be in the presence of a man not a relative … Yes, even in an operating room. Yes, women stoned and beaten to death. Yes, acid thrown in the faces of unveiled women. Yes, limbs chopped off for theft or less. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Fatma was a doctor specializing in pediatrics. She feared for her sons. Mohamed was ten, Faroud eleven, and both would soon be targets for recruitment in the Spinda army. The boys looked glum as she spoke.
“Your daughter?”
Alyia was sixteen and wanted to be a doctor like her mother. With no hope of formal education, not even the basics, this was a dream that would never come true. She, especially, had to be kept hidden from the Spinda lest she be forced into marriage with one of them. Alyia shivered as her mother spoke. The beatings and atrocities committed by some of the Spinda on their wives were often much worse than the stories. Fatma knew. She had attempted to treat a number of the victims.
She gulped back tears. If Fatma didn't cry, how could she?
“I do not worry for myself,” Fatma said. “My worry is for my children. Without Monsieur Durocher they would have died of starvation long ago. Yet, living in hiding, in this limbo with no chance for education, is almost worse. What will become of them?”
The silence stretched until it seemed the very air would snap.
“What will you do next?” Fatma asked. “You stopped them today. Will you be able to stop them forever?” Her voice was low with suppressed emotion.
“I have a plan and I could use your help.”
“Me!? What can I possibly do?”
“You can come to the square tomorrow with your daughter and lead the others.”
“How?”
*
“The things humans do to each other boggles the mind. No wonder the Guardians want something done.”
Elspeth shivered, moved closer to me and gripped my arm. She wasn’t cold. It was never cold in the Guardian world. “I don’t understand why they waited so long.”
“I’m there now with my Little Soldier. We’ll clean up the place.”
“Does your Little Soldier have a name?”
“She will have many names. I call her M.”
“She’s strong. Forcing herself to be so for the others. For herself too. I hope her plan works.” I noticed Elspeth cross her fingers behind her back.
“It will.” My poor Little Soldier was in an agony of anticipation. What if her plan didn’t work? What then? Surely she knew by now that any plan of hers would work. Hadn’t her first experiences taught her that? I mean she was intelligent and clever; she should have known… But, then she hadn’t met me—yet.
*
“I know there are pockets of resistance to the Spindas in hiding. How do I contact them?”
“Leave that to me.” Fatma smiled for the first time. Her eyes shone. She looked hopeful, and beautiful. “We women have an effective network system. I’ll get a message to Mustafa. He was steadfast in his fight against the communists and still is in the struggle against the Spinda. He is the most respected leader in hiding.”
They studied the sketchy map François had spread out on the table. Fatma pointed out the general area of Mustafa’s camp on the fringes of the Northern Plain, and traced the route with her finger. Winding narrow roads. An eight-to ten-hour drive with a reliable vehicle. Did they have such a vehicle? No, but there would be one at the Spinda outpost. Could they get word to the men? Yes, Fatma said. Had she not explained the communication system? She sounded a bit put out. M stumbled through an apology.
“But, will they come?” François asked. “They can’t refuse my request.” M said it like it was the naked obvious truth, but Lord only knew what would happen. She paced the room, her mind churning for ideas. “At least, I don’t think they can.”
M turned to Fatma. “This is what I want you to tell them. They must—”
“It won’t work. They won’t come based on a message alone; it is too dangerous for them. And even though they will have heard about what happened here today, they will need to see you for themselves.”
“But we’re running out of time and I need Mustafa here by noon tomorrow.” M looked at the map again. If François could find her a truck… If she drove all night… “Please prepare the men for my arrival.”
Fatma’s eyebrows rose. “Nothing, could prepare them for the shock of you.”
François grunted. “Ca, c’est sûr!”
“Maybe a plane or helicopter?”
Fatma shook her head. “They will hide at the sound of approaching craft and it will alert the Spinda at the outposts.”
“Fuck! There has to be a way.” M slammed her fist on the table. Fatma jumped back, her eyes wide.
M patted Fatma’s shoulder awkwardly and returned to pacing.
“I need those men here tomorrow. I have to get to them.”
Her feet lifted a fraction from the floor and she was in mountainous terrain. Transported from there to here. She looked around wildly, terrified and thrilled at the same time. “Good God! I control the travel? What did I say? What did I do?”
*
“Wow!” Elspeth clapped her hands. “Yves, this is so exciting.”
“Yahoo!” I shouted and punched the air.
“Look at you.” Elspeth grinned. “My little brother letting loose.”
I hooted and hollered. Yes, I admit freely that I lost my cool, made a whole lot of noise, jabbed the air with my fist and held my hand to Elspeth for a high-five. Undignified and unacceptable behavior of course, but hot damn, M was good. She’d figured it out.