Ruminant, by Carol Caffrey

Janan sheltered underneath his father’s stall, swatting the flies off the meat.  The earth was cool there.  He hoped the caravan would come soon.  Would Mirzal’s voice have deepened in the past year, like his own?   Music blared from his father’s radio.   It was the best radio in the village; his uncle had been to Jalalabad to buy it. 

Last night he thought he’d heard the clink of the camels’ harness and the hushed voices of the tribesmen but the morning revealed no sign of them.  It must have been something else.

The approaching waves of dust made Janan sit up but it was just the American trucks.  The caravan was probably waiting for the soldiers to pass, as the camels wouldn’t like the noise.   The biggest one, the one Mirzal called Genghis, would look down his nose at the clatter they made.  The camels had seen many travellers, many warring tribes, in their long lives.  Did not Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great pass this way?  Some said even the Buddha himself had travelled this road. 

The trucks bounced towards the village, rolling through the potholes and craters.  “Hey, kid! Catch.”  The soldier, walking ahead of the trucks, threw him a bag of sweets.  Janan wondered if Genghis would like Yankee candy. 

As the patrol disappeared over the hill the boy heard the sounds he’d been waiting for.  He ran up to his nomad friends, carrying some sweets in his hand.

“Mirzal, welcome! I have something for Genghis.  May I?”

“Hello, brother.  Well, let us try one.”

The beast scooped the offering from Janan’s palm with his lips.  When the explosion erupted, darkening the sky, Genghis closed his eyes against the dust.  He continued chewing, his great jaw moving from side to side in the fleeting silence.

BREATHLESS, by Carol Caffrey

The girl ran through the dunes, the sand sinking beneath her panicked feet.   Her muscles ached with the effort of the climb, and several times she had to stop herself screaming as she tumbled, losing nearly all the ground she had gained.  She could hear the sea on her left, and the occasional screech of the gulls, but it had been several minutes since she had been able to catch sight of the water.  She had lost her sandals several hundred yards back and the torn strands of her tee-shirt flapped in the wind as she ran.

She knew she was losing ground, but forced herself onwards.  Surely she would come within sight of other people soon?  Where were the day-trippers who had crowded the pavements earlier that morning?  The children who had poured out from the train station into the fairground?  The dog-walkers and kite-flyers?  She took a moment to look behind her and saw her pursuer calmly descending a sand dune she had slid down not a minute before.  Had he seen her?  Gasping with fright, she launched herself once again into the desperate bid to outrun him. 

The next dune gave her a sight of the sea.  Her shocked gaze took in the fact that the tide had come in, cutting off her escape route that way.  She spun around, trying to spot the shortest way back to safety.  With a whimper she headed for where she thought the path lay, oblivious to the marram grass tearing at her shins.  There!  Surely she couldn't be wrong?  Wasn't that the faint strain of the hurdy-gurdy?  

Suddenly she heard a grunt behind her and realised her pursuer was almost upon her.   Almost crying with relief she recognised the  hollowed-out patch of burnt grass that signified the beginning of the path back to the road and threw herself into it. 

"Den!" she cried in triumph, and laughed as her brother threw up his hands in defeat.  "Ok, you beat me to it this time, but admit it, I had you scared, didn't I?" "Not even for a second," she lied.   

Copyright  © Carol Caffrey.

A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC, by Carol Caffrey

Laurita loved the desert at night.  Bristling with life, it sang of the infiniteness of things.  As she sat under the Joshua tree she sometimes believed the nocturnal rustlings were the sounds of her ancestors, returning to Avikwa’ame, the Spirit Mountain. She pictured Mastamho as he drew a line in the sand which became the Colorado River and saw the mud from its banks become the mountains.   

Once, the Mohave Indians were known as the Aha Macav, the people who live along the water.  Laurita supposed she was more Mexican than Native American, whose tribes had moved between camps in the vastness of the desert.   But wasn’t that what she, Raul and the little ones had done for years, following the work as one mine closed, then another?  Well, the niños were not so little now, and there would be no more wandering. 

Ai-ee, enough of this wool-gathering, she decided; time to go home.  Creaking a little, Laurita swung herself into the family’s ancient jeep.  It’s a good job my backside has plenty of meat on it, she thought, as the jalopy bounced along the arroyo.  Soon, if the Gods were kind, the rain would come, and the cracked, dry bed would overflow for a few precious days.

“Gabriela, are you there?”  Laurita whispered, as she rattled the door handle of her little home.  She’d forgotten her keys again and didn’t want to waken Raul if he’d managed to sleep.  Where was her daughter?   “Gabriela? Open up!”

“Momentito!”

Laurita stared at her husband in surprise as he opened the door. “Raul! What are you doing up?  Where is Gabriela?”

Raul smiled at her.  “Come sit by me.”  He patted the couch.  Laurita, still puzzled, sat down gingerly beside him.

“Gabriela is in bed, fast asleep.  She was tired after the concert.”

“What?  She went?  I told her she couldn’t go.”

“I know.”

“I told her to stay here and look after you until I finished work.”  Laurita clenched her hands in dismay. 

Raul picked up a piece of paper and gave it to her. “I know, but I had a good day, querida.  I told her you’d changed your mind and said she could go.  Here, read her note.”

Laurita unfolded the paper: Mama, I had the best time.  Thank you.  I love you.

“Oh.”  She smoothed the paper and held it to her breast.  “She hasn’t said that in a long time.”

“I know.  But she does love you, you know.”

Laurita smiled at him.  “Not too much pain today?”

“No, I told you, a good day.”

“Yes,” she breathed thankfully, “a good day.” 

Outside the wind chimes sounded in the quickening breeze. 

Copyright  © Carol Caffrey.

IT HAD TO BE YOU, by Carol Caffrey

He had to have her.  It was as simple as that.  Consumed by her beauty, he thought of nothing else for days on end.  He forgot to sleep, eat - even to wash - and spent his time devouring her image and planning their time together. 

He arranged his courtship with military precision.  The accidental brush against her in the coffee shop, a contrite offer to replace her spilt drink, some light-hearted banter followed by a coincidental meeting at the theatre later in the week.  Then, a lunch or two at the tennis club, the occasional film or gallery opening and, finally, an intimate dinner, cooked to perfection at the best restaurant in the city.

It was a faultless campaign, but their time together always ended on her doorstep.    She did not invite him across her threshold, nor could he lure her into his lair.  Always, always, he was kept at a distance.  What was the matter with her?

Then one day, and then another, he saw her with someone else.  He could not believe his eyes.  Such betrayal, and with someone so unworthy of her, so unworthy of taking his place.  Long-haired and unkempt, what could such a foul creature offer her that he could not?  He, who was so much more deserving?  Consumed with rage, he planned his revenge as meticulously as he had planned his wooing.  

The attack was swift and deadly; a dark street, a powerful car and he was gone from the scene without being noticed.  Day after day, he watched as the people came and went to her apartment; the police, friends, the funeral undertakers.  He forgot to sleep, eat - even to wash - and spent his time planning how he would comfort her and devour her with his love.

Copyright  © Carol Caffrey.