Paddling against the wind was hard, but as I slugged my way back towards the beach I felt some of the stress begin to melt away. Despite the weather, I found myself enjoying the rush of speed as I slid down each swell. That’s probably why I didn’t see the rogue wave that knocked me over.
The world spun. A wall of water rushed over me. Instinctively, I jammed my paddle down and wedged it into the reef. One of my hands lost its grip. I fell sideways, my hand smashing into the coral. The wave pulled the boat sideways. I screamed as my hand grated across the coral like a hunk of cheese. Water rushed into my mouth. I began to choke. A swell lifted me up and I somehow managed to grab the paddle with my bloody hand. But it was too late. I felt myself rolling over. I paddled frantically in a futile attempt to keep the boat upright. In a second, the swell would fall and I would fall with it, head first into the bottom. So with all the strength I could muster, I pushed my paddle back in a long, sweeping stroke. Then, leaning back, I swung my body hard to the right. It worked. I was upright again.
Leaning over the side, I coughed up a lungful of water. At some point, my coughs turned into laughter and it took me a second to get the joke. God had just offered me a chance to get off of the Council and I didn’t take it.
I walked slowly back to my hut through the pouring rain. It was coming down in sheets now, blowing almost horizontal with the wind. As I passed in front of the dining hut, Mohamed poked his head out and yelled, “Aron, my friend! You will catch a cold out there.”
I just waved and kept walking, but Mohamed opened an umbrella and ran after me.
“What are you doing out in the rain?”
“Just coming back from kayaking.”
He looked incredulous. “In this?”
“I get wet kayaking, so what difference does a little rain make?”
He must have seen the blood dripping from my cut hand. “You’re injured.”
“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”
“It is more than a scratch and you know it. Come on.” He tugged on my arm. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated.
“I insist,” he said tugging at my soaked shirt. I didn’t have it in me to argue, so I went with him.
We walked past the old swimming pool that now served as a cistern for the island’s water reserve. A couple of smart people had converted the three-tiered swimming pool into a water treatment plant. Rainwater was collected from across the island and hauled to the upper pool where it made its way through a series of two filtration waterfalls before ending up in the main reservoir at the bottom.
We continued along the path, walking past fruit trees and the vegetable garden that was planted in the old soccer field. It was the only place on the island with soil deep enough to sustain agriculture. On the other side of the field was Mohamed’s infirmary. We walked onto the porch and Mohamed closed his umbrella, leaning it against the wall. I followed him inside.
“Mango juice?”
“No thanks.” I said. “Water if you’ve got it.”
“Mango juice is better for you. Here, try some.” Mohamed grabbed a small plastic jug and filled it with a thick, orange liquid. He handed it to me. “Here… drink.”
“Really,” I said. “A glass of water is fine.”
Pushing the glass into my hand he said, “Mango juice will help protect you against staph infection.”
I had never heard that before. True or not, I knew better than to argue with Mohamed about the miraculous power of mango juice. So I took the glass and smiled politely before taking a sip. It was like drinking syrup. Not the kind of thing that hits the spot after paddling through a storm. “Mmm,” I choked out. “Thanks.”
Mohamed rummaged through some plastic containers and seemed to find what he was looking for. “Please, please… sit.” I sat down on one of his wicker chairs. He sat down next to me. Then leaning over, he began to bandage my hand.
“So, how is it going?” he asked.
“I can’t complain.”
He smiled. “You know what I mean. The Council. How is the Council going?”
Stalling to think of a tactful way to answer, I took another sip of the syrup and immediately regretted it. After forcing myself to swallow, I said, “It sucks. Ahmed doesn’t run a very tight ship.”
I winced as he poured some of his moonshine over my hand. “This may sting a little.”
“You’re supposed to say that before you pour it over the cut,” I said.
“I am sorry,” He said. Then, as he began wrapping my hand with a cloth bandage, “So Ahmed is causing you problems?”
I shook my head. “He’s causing everyone problems, but I can deal with him. I dealt with him and his cronies when we were building the communications hub on Male.”
He finished bandaging my hand and then sat back. His expression changed. The smile was gone. “Just be careful. This time will be different. He was nice to you back then because he needed you to complete the IICN. He doesn’t need you now.”
“Nice my ass! He was a pushy, pig-headed, stubborn son of a bitch.”
His smile returned. “He is that… and more. But he is also dangerous, so be careful.”
The stress that I had lost out on the water had found its way back into my neck and shoulders. I rolled my head from side to side until my neck cracked. “Thanks, Mohamed. I’ll keep that in mind.” I looked at my hand and wiggled my fingers. It hurt, but not bad. “And thanks for patching me up.”
“It is my honor.” He smiled. “It is the Islamic way. We must always help the injured.”
“Tell that to Jamal and all of his murdering jihadists.”
From the expression on his face, I knew I’d crossed the line.
Why the hell did I say that?
“I’m sorry, Mohamed. That isn’t what I meant.”
“You said what is in your heart and the heart speaks only the truth. But I know your words were not aimed at me.”
“No… of course not. I’m… after what they did on Embudu and Makunudhoo… I don’t know. Look, I probably should go.”
I started to stand, but he put his hand on my shoulder pushed me back down. “Please, my friend, sit. It is not healthy to keep this anger inside of you.”
I sat back down, but looked away.
Mohamed broke the silence. “It is natural to feel anger when something like that happens. And it is understandable that you direct that anger at the source of those attacks. But you must try to separate how you feel about the pirates and the religion that they hide behind. Jamal and his followers are fanatics. That is true. But they are no different than the New Crusaders.” I looked over at him and he continued. “The unthinkable atrocities that the New Crusaders carried out in the name of Christ did not make Christianity an evil religion.”
Memories of the stories my grandmother had told me about the vigilante groups called the New Crusaders flooded into my head. She had told me that after the Islamic terrorists blew up over a hundred high schools in the states back in 2018, a bunch of holier-than-thou shitheads went around killing anyone who looked even remotely Muslim. The damned president and congress argued about what to do and in the end did nothing. Thousands of innocent people were slaughtered. I couldn’t remember the exact number. Fifty thousand? One hundred thousand? It was enough to force the military to stage the first coup in American history, although the history books called it an intervention.
Mohamed was right. Religions didn’t kill people. People killed people. And sometimes those people hid behind religion.
I said. “I’m sorry… really.”
Mohamed stood up and smiled. “We must sit down and have a long discussion about this someday when you have more time.”