ISRAELI HEAT
by
DJ HARDY
No portion of this book may be copied without written consent of the author. All rights are reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places described in this work are purely fictitious and from the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
word count = 106,389
double spaced page count = 533
Chapter 1
The distant hills, dry shrubs, the ever blowing wind that produced eerie sounds, it all spoke of emptiness. For a moment the sun made the hills dance in his eyes. The stifling heat evaporated whatever moisture foolish enough to expose their minute drops on his exposed skin. Even the leathery skin of his face knew enough to stay covered. Every drop of water that stayed inside his clothing meant surviving until they found water.
After weeks of trudging south through this God forsaken country he felt exhausted.
Now the hills danced in his mind. He knew all the signs. They had to find water.
The chief of the Wongos blinked his eyes and shook his head to clear his mind. The dancing stopped. Marou then wiped his eyes. The crumbling black shale outcrop to his right magnified the heat of the Southern Sudan. Sharpening his vision he caught sight of shimmering white-topped mountains. The snow covered tops lifted, dropped, vanished, and reappeared in the rising heat. Suddenly the images bloomed larger than life; the Dongotons. Safety now lay in sight, maybe 100 kilometers away, yet perilously far. Spirits lifted he felt momentarily confident and hopeful. The terrain will soon grow richer with life.
Two days ago the shrub country his people traveled through became speckled with dried trees. A few even carried green leaves. He knew the region received some rain. This carried hope. It was nothing like the dry winds, sand, and blowing dust they traveled through during the last four weeks. In a few more days these sparse grasses and trees will become thicker, taller, and greener. They also must be close to the river. Once I get everyone across the riverbed I'll have less to worry about.
Turning to the north he studied the dust cloud rising on the horizon. That worried him. It also seemed larger - closer.
Returning to the south, he studied the animal trail they followed and checked the position of the sun. Everything, including the mountains verified that they traveled the right path. A notch in the distant hills to his right looked natural, not man made. It might be river cut? Can they be this close? If so, tomorrow will bring safety.
Right now, he and his people had to survive this day. The sun baked the ground and he pitied the few souls who fled their homes without proper covering for their heads.
The crumbling black rock under his feet captured his attention. His mind went blank and his body swayed. A few moments later his thoughts cleared and he steadied himself. The heat and lack of water took its toil on everyone. He raised his hand and noticed his dust covered dark skin blended in with the scrub brush and baked soil.
His son, Gahza, came alongside him and held his arm. Marou thought of the notch in the hills. He forced his saliva-starved tongue to loosen and whispered. "Give them the last of the water. Two swallows. Let them drink it all."
Marou's eyes locked onto the son of his old age, before saying, "Make sure no one drinks someone else’s portion; just two swallows - no more."
"If they drink that much, Father, we will have nothing left."
Gahza's protest correctly diagnosed the dilemma they faced. "We have two hundred souls who need to survive this day," the old tribal chief said. "We are very close to the river, maybe the border. Tonight we may have plenty." He looked down at his people clustered in the shade of the few trees that dotted the landscape. "Give them the water." He'd wait until everyone had a meager swallow of water before taking his. Quietly he hoped there'd be some left over when it came to his turn.
Stabbing at the black shale with his sandal he decided to encourage his people. Ten meters away sat a flat-top outcrop that rose two meters higher. Turning to his aide who stood behind him, he whispered. "Give me the staff." He then climbed the boulder and reached toward his aid.
The aid uncovered the ancient symbol of authority and handed it to his chief. Marou's fingers gently and firmly grasped the carved wooden pole. Two intertwining golden serpents with their heads facing outward topped the staff and shined brightly in the sun.
His fingers roamed over the spiral history of his tribe. A three fingers wide span remained uncarved at the bottom. Above the smooth area, the inscribed sections told the history of three thousand years of clan authority.
With the majestic staff held high for all to see, Marou had trouble standing steady. Gahza appeared by his side. His strong arms gave strength to his father. Holding his son’s arm with one hand, he said quietly as he wavered again. "A chief and his son must not look weak in front of the people. I pushed them hard today,
"You pushed yourself too hard," Gahza said.
"I fear that evil is very near."
Marou's eyes glanced back at the dust cloud.
"You are like this rock," Gahza said. "You will always stand steady and tall to give encouragement to them and to me."
"They trust me, Gahza. Help me not to fail them."
"You are more than my father; you are my chief. I will always be with you."
Marou looked down from the outcrop. His face revealed the strain of command and seventy-years of life. He managed a smile and tugged at his son's arm as Gahza started to back away. "Stand with me so all will see."
As he gazed down at his people, his heart ached for the relatives, friends, and neighbors who fled the village with him. "Fifty days with little food. Now I give them dust to drink."
The chief shielded his eyes from the blazing sun, searching the northern horizon.
"There it is," He pointed at the tan cloud shimmering in the heat. "There, toward the north."
"I see it," Gahza said. "It has floated above the horizon for ten days. It follows us. It cannot be the army. They would have caught us days ago."
The old chief sighed with the frustration of not knowing as he looked down at his villagers. He spied Yolli, his wife of fifty years. She stood strong helping the weak and the children. Lifting the staff high above his head he waved to encourage her.
"It has been four days since we sent a runner to investigate," Gahza said. "Maybe another village follows our tracks."
Marou heard the hope in his son’s voice and saw the innocence in his eyes. "I fear that our scout has been killed. It is Colonel Nimeiri and the tall white man. I curse them after what they did to our village."
The chief slid his fingers over the strings of knots tied to the tribal staff. One string of knots represented each name of those who died fighting for the village. "These twenty-seven will never be forgotten." A second, longer, string represented the days of their flight. He turned toward the south. "Soon, we will be safe. We will be free of the butchers."
"We chased them from our village, Father. We can do it again. This time we have rifles." Gahza raised high the captured AK-47 he picked up from Colonel Nimeiri's panic stricken men.
"Yes. We drove them out. But you saw the hatred in that jackal's eyes. The only thing he understands is to kill all who reject his authority and faith. I fear those who refused to leave with us have been destroyed, along with our village."
Gahza smiled. "My eyes still see the face of that butcher. We fled for our lives, but I will always treasure the memory of Wongo Springs. We will return."
Marou rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "When this evil passes, as all evils do, we will surely return." The northern winds shifted and the old chief sniffed a familiar scent. He studied the notch between the hill and the trail to the south. "Water! I think I smell water. Do you?"
Gahza turned and inhaled. "I smell it too. We made it."
"Not yet. I think we have three to five kilometers to travel. But it is close. Quick give everyone the water. Tonight we may cross the river." He turned back and studied the dust cloud floating above the northern horizon. "It seems larger and closer. I think a game is being played, but for what purpose? Are we a mouse on a salt field? Let us hope the hawk does not appear."
Gahza pointed at the trail they followed. "Father, this path seems much too new. Is it possible that we missed the one you told us about?"
"Perhaps, but every time I sent a man to search for it, the rumble of a distant battle frightens him and forces him back."
"Is it possible we are being herded?" Gahza speculated.
"Once we get across the border, it will not matter. The rebels will welcome us, and we will be free." Marou studied the distant Dongoton Mountains and felt his spirit revive. "Come, we must continue. Rainfall, good soil, freedom, a new life awaits us."
Marou's eyes followed the path south and spied a distant ridge. He heard about a ridge from traveling merchants. It lay just across the border. For sure the river lies close by.
"We are almost there," he called to encourage his clansmen. "We must not stop until we reach freedom!" He waved for the tribe to start moving again. They needed water. In another day the very young will begin perishing. But the smell, the ridge, the notch, everything pointed to abundant water.
The women lifted large bundles above their heads as the men carried the tribe's meager food supply, those that could not walk, and hundreds of empty plastic water jugs. Following the people, young boys prodded a herd of fifty starving cattle. With great optimism, everyone expected the animals to provide the wealth to begin life in a new land.
Marou smiled as he spoke through parched lips. "Tonight we will swim in water." He looked down at his feet and saw his shadow to his left and back. Seven hours of daylight remained. He again searched the south and his eyes stopped at a long sliver of brown that sat almost hidden by the shrubs.
"The river!" he yelled with relief. "We are closer than I imagined." The sliver of brown poking from behind the bushes represented the dried riverbed. The river also signaled the gateway to rebel held territory. The sight gave life to his limbs. It lay a mere three hundred meters away.
At this time of year, he thought, the river will be nothing more than a wide strip of hard-crusted sand. Just below the sand, protected from the heat, there will be mud. Below the mud there will be life giving water. It has to be there. He can smell it. While he lets the cattle drink muddy water, everyone will dig farther up stream for themselves. The water will energize us for the journey to Sogondy Lakes, fifty kilometers farther south.
The thump-thump beat from approaching helicopters shook him from his rejoicing and he turned toward the north. Three black locusts, dots in the sky, grew larger. The beat of rotor blades grew louder, and without warning, a string of bullets raised dust plumes behind the cattle.
The hawk has arrived.
He spied Gahza running and waving instructions. "Hurry!" Marou cried. "Get everyone across the river!"
The emaciated cattle moved first as frightened children slapped them with branches. Ahead of the cattle, in one mass, men, women, children, turned and ran in terror toward the river. Marou watched them suddenly stop.
"Get across," he yelled, hoping they heard him. "You'll be safe. The army never goes past this border." He pumped his arm up and down to signal for them to go.
Bullets struck the shale below his feet. Silhouetted against the blue sky in an act of desperation, he waved his people on with the staff held high for all to see. Plumes of dirt rose among the cattle and two cows collapsed, bellowing in pain. The he saw a villager flying into the air.
"The machine guns are in range!" he yelled. "Get to the other side. Water and safety await you. Run!" His heart skipped a beat when his wife waved to him then led the way down the slope. His son appeared helping those who could not walk. He too vanished over the side along with the rest of the tribe and cattle.
Rocket fire exploded between Marou and a few stragglers, producing a shower of rocks, shrubs, and sand. He knew the explosions prodded his people more than any words he'd speak.
Marou jumped from the boulder as strings of bullets sent dirt leaping skyward on both sides of the outcrop. It is time to flee. Slipping and tumbling he sacrificed his body to protect the staff. Reaching the bottom, he ran.
He imagined a mass a hundred meters wide of tribesmen and cattle slipping down the embankment onto the hard crusted riverbed. Bundles of clothing spilling as villagers ran for their lives. Children would be stopping to help the elderly pick up a few meager possessions.
Tripping over a bush his eyes spied a faded sign with skull and crossbones. It lay hidden and almost buried in the dirt. He gasped at the barely readable warning in Arabic: "Mine Field."
"Stop!" he cried as he struggled to his feet and forced himself to run, his warnings lost in the thumping roar of the approaching helicopters. He made it to the river's edge in time to see his villagers and cattle halfway across the wide riverbed running in a mass one hundred meters wide. Sprouting up from among the people puffs of dust erupted, flinging villagers to the side.
His eyes settled on a mother grasping her child. Both lay withering in pain on the sand. The sand around her legs turned crimson red. The child rolled from her arms and lay still. A rapid series of explosions pulled his attention back to the mass fleeing destruction into destruction. Endless eruptions of brown puffs killed people and cattle.
"Yolli," he yelled as his old eyes searched for his wife. The dust, explosions, and chaos made it impossible to find her. Marou glanced across the river, pleading for help. Surely the rebels will help.
He watched in horror as a long string of buried land mines exploded at once and caught the leading wave of men and cattle in a swath of whizzing metal. The people turned and ran parallel to the riverbank. From beneath their feet, detonating landmines flung people and baggage into the air. Marou collapsed to his knees and cried as the last detonation echoed off the hills. Few survived the crossing. On the distant riverbank, a rebel soldier waved the survivors toward his position.
Marou frantically searched the carnage. He never found his wife and son. The dead and dying lay strewn across the riverbed covered in dirt. All lay intermingled with dying cattle. Great patches of sand turned dark from the blood. A few of the dying villagers dragged their bodies forward to a final resting-place. He closed his eyes and wanted to cry. No tears came from his parched eyes. He buried his forehead in the dirt. All around him the sounds from approaching helicopters grew deafening.
Sand blown by whirling helicopter blades stung his head. The burnt smells from explosives, flung by the man-made whirlwinds, singed his nose. As the helicopters quieted, he again heard the cries of the wounded. His hands covered his ears to block out the sounds. A familiar face appeared by the nearest helicopter. Marou murmured, "The butcher."
A tall white man dressed in desert fatigues jumped from the second craft. He held a rifle. Four more white men and five Sudanese soldiers formed a protective shield. The white man stopped and waited for the butcher.
Marou's eyes burned as Colonel Nimeiri walked toward the white man. The Colonel adjusted his beret and cleaned his sunglasses as he studied the carnage.