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Rug of War
A Guest Quarters story
by
T.J. Mino  Down, under, up, loop under and back up through. Down, under, up, loop under and back up through. Each Persian knot was another miniscule detail snaking through the warp and weft of her sorrow and hate. Each knot bound them together forever.
Shirla's hands worked automatically. She had tied millions of knots in her life...hundreds of millions. Her nimble, nubby fingers danced to create patterns from the chaos of wool. The design was already laid out in her head, her eyes trained to break everything down to geometric basics, the easier to render them in her rugs, rugs that were sought the world over for their beauty and power.
Screams shattered the silence, cries of pain and shock. Shirla didn't react. She knew they were not real. Not in the present anyway. They were the screams of her husband, her son, even her precious little princess. Echoes of screams that were, they were not memories, at least not all of them. She had not been present to witness some the first time around but she knew the screams had occurred. She knew how they had died. *** "It's here, sir."
Anatoly Karpov glanced up from a book. Behind his assistant Demitri two men carried what appeared to be a log wrapped in dark plastic. Anatoly smiled. "Excellent. Excellent. Have them bring it into my study. I want to have a look."
He led them through the heavy oak doors and indicated they should display it in the center of the room, directly in front of his imposing mahogany desk. As they worked Anatoly sank his considerable frame into the sinfully soft leather swivel chair on the other side. He turned toward the wall and window behind him and sighed contentedly as he always did. His gaze did not linger on the view of the lush park across the way but on the wall.
General Anatoly Anton Karpov, hero of the Soviet Union, rich and powerful—never forget powerful—scion of the new Russia. The highest military and civilian honors decorated this wall, some actually earned, others purchased with money, favors, blackmail or all three. Photos of Anatoly with the most powerful men of both the Soviet and "democratic" governments as well as international celebrities were interspersed with war trophies such as a bronzed tank shell and the mounted AK-47 rifle presented him by his troops in Afghanistan. General A.K. they'd called him, brutal and efficient as the weapon itself.
"Sir. General?" Demitri had been a sergeant under his command and sometimes lapsed into the old honorifics. Anatoly came around the desk then stopped.
"Wonderful." He took a moment to absorb it all. "Are those attack helicopters?"
"I believe so, General."
"Incredible. Jet bombers, tanks, AK-47s and if I'm not mistaken those are minefields among the opium poppies. Such detail, it hardly seems an Afghan, it has the intricacy of a Persian."
The rug fit perfectly in his study. What an excellent addition to the memories and memorabilia of his time in that Stone Age country. When he'd first been ordered to Afghanistan as a colonel he did not want to go but he was a soldier and did his duty. It was there he discovered the only true release he had ever known. Supervising interrogations of "enemy combatants" had been strangely thrilling. Once he started conducting them himself, however, he discovered the overwhelming joy and addiction of power over another. His most treasured war mementos, ones used to induce very personal sorts of pain, were kept in his soundproof "playroom" through the locked door to his left.
"Demitri, I want to arrange something special for tonight. Call Madame Olenska. See if she has what I like in stock." *** Here a brown knot adding to the bulk of a Soviet tank, there the red of an opium poppy...things that had helped take away all she had loved. Shirla's home was gone, her family as well. All she had left was the anger and the pain. And perhaps revenge.
She looked out over the scraggly landscape surrounding her new home. No, not home. This was where Shirla existed now. This was the place where she would eek out the rest of her time on this earth. Home was a thing of the past.
This rug bore little resemblance to those her family had woven for centuries. The traditional patterns and dye secrets that had been protected by countless ancestors were of little use to her now. They had known nothing of mine fields, helicopter rockets, AK-47's, jets. The Soviets had introduced these things into her world, a place that at one time consisted of the simple pleasures of family, cooking, praying and, of course, making the rugs for which her family and village were renowned. That world was now rubble and even though the invaders had left years ago there was nothing for Shirla there anymore.
But this rug was the most important she'd ever worked on and it would also be her last. Every dye, every knot, every wool strand had been made with her own small hands. She would allow no one to help. It had taken over a year and once it was completed Shirla would never tie another Persian knot again. There was no point. *** "I'll take my scotch now, Demitri. And my other nightcap?" "She's waiting for you in your study as ordered, sir." "Is she up to muster?" Anatoly asked. "I think you'll be pleased." "Excellent. Bring the scotch to my study and some vodka for her."
"Yes, sir." Demitri headed for the kitchen.
Anatoly entered his office and there she stood with her backside resting against his desk. She was indeed young, fourteen or fifteen, and slight but showing some wonderful small bulges in the breast and hips of her skin-tight black dress. Her lips were full, her face exquisite and unblemished with only the simplest of makeup to highlight her developing beauty. Lush black hair fell to her shoulders. She was the very image of his young mother, as he'd seen her in pictures before she'd ever had Anatoly, pictures he kept displayed in his playroom. He wanted her to see that he had the control now. The girl's stare was probably meant to be confident and suggestive but Anatoly could see the fear trying to hide behind those emerald eyes. That's what he was hoping to see, something he could build on. Madame Olenska knew his tastes well. This was perhaps the finest girl she'd sent him. He did not turn and said nothing when he heard Alexi enter, place the drink tray on the octagonal table by the entry and quietly close the door as he left.
"Your name." It was a command, not a question.
"Petrina." Her voice quivered slightly. Anatoly licked his lips.
"Petrina, have a seat there while I get our drinks," Anatoly indicated the dark heavy wooden chair which had been placed in the center of his new rug. It faced his desk with its high back to the entrance.
Anatoly grinned as he poured the girl a healthy glass of icy vodka from the silver shaker Demitri had prepared. Three fingers of scotch, neat sat in a fine crystal tumbler. The bottle of eighteen-year-old Highland single malt stood next to it in case needed.
He handed Petrina her drink and sat down behind the desk sipping his scotch. She gulped the vodka nervously as Anatoly asked her about herself, her background. Her glass was soon empty and Anatoly, ever the good host, got up to refill it from the shaker.
Soon Petrina became more visibly relaxed thanks to the vodka and casual conversation. Anatoly encouraged this carefully. He could care less about the girl's particulars. He was waiting. Once the sedative in her drink took hold and he had her bound by the restraints hidden in the arms, legs and back of her chair he would revive her with a stimulant so she could be fully aware for what was to come.
His mother, a whore by trade as well, had thought she knew how to hurt Anatoly and he had agreed with her until he'd learned there was an exquisite art to it beyond beatings and cigarette burns. His lessons in Afghanistan would be put to good use. He would show her what pain could be.
The house staff, except for loyal Demitri, had been given the night off. He could play to his heart's content even outside his soundproof sanctuary. He would use his favorite toys, currently hidden in his top desk drawers, to christen the new centerpiece of his trophy room. Blood, sweat and tears would wash out of the wool.
Petrina's eyelids drifted shut and the glass fell from her hand. Anatoly crossed to her and knelt on the rug, reaching out to touch her face like he used to as his mother slept in an alcoholic haze. A scream shook the room. The scream was his. *** Shirla's people knew how to put power behind a curse. They'd been doing it for thousands of years since before the Greeks were philosophizing or Alexander the Great visited these lands. They had given names to demons and dark forces before there was a means to write them down.
Shirla invoked this knowledge even as her fingers created complex patterns in the rug. Intention was crucial. She focused fiercely on what she wished, her thoughts intensified by the materials she had used in dyeing the wool. Her blood and tears mixed with traditional pigments as did the blood of Sabrina, her daughter, blood Shirla herself had collected as it poured out of her little princess' dying body. Even then she had known she would seek revenge one day. That day was finally here and the rug was nearly complete. Soon it would be on its way to Russia as a "gift" for the monster most responsible for her family's suffering. *** Demitri sat comfortably in the main living room listening to Tchaikovsky's Manfred Symphony in B minor. Shouts and screams came from the direction of Anatoly's office ruining the sound of soaring strings. This was to be expected. He used the remote to turn up the volume as he took another sip of fine brandy. *** Anatoly could not understand what was happening. He was back in the interrogation room of his headquarters in Kabul and something was terribly wrong. He was tied to a chair in the center of the concrete floor, a position he had never experienced. Into the small circle of darkness created by the single overhead light stepped...Anatoly Karpov. This Anatoly was a bit younger and definitely more fit but it was undeniably him.
His other self barked an apparent question in Russian, at least Anatoly thought it was Russian, but for some strange reason he couldn't understand what was being said. The younger he yelled again but how was Anatoly to answer if he could not understand the question?
A sinister smile engulfed the other's face and he stepped over to a small wooden table. Some of Anatoly's favorite shiny toys littered its surface but instead of the usual thrill of pleasure upon seeing them, he felt something foreign...fear. As his doppelganger lovingly inspected several wicked-edged knives and produced sparks from cables attached to a car battery, Anatoly realized what was about to happen. Only he would be on the receiving end.
A tiny Afghan woman with tangible hate in her shadowed eyes stood next to the table. She watched and kept watching, unblinking and unmoving, as the other him worked and incoherent screams issued from Anatoly's frothing mouth. For hours, maybe even days his body shuddered with spasms of pain and he soiled himself before his heart eventually gave out. *** Anatoly was alive. Not just alive but running joyfully across the barren landscape. He could not remember feeling this carefree since he was very young. He giggled like a child, skipping now. He noticed a toy horse lying on the ground next to the road. As he bent down to pick it up he saw a tiny Afghan woman watching him intently. She seemed so familiar. And then the world exploded. *** Shirla saw Anatoly Karpov vanish inside a cloud of reddish brown dust made up of sodden dirt and blood. The toy bomb was a favorite trick of the Russian soldiers. "Get them when they're young," they'd say and laugh.
She heard Anatoly's screams but felt nothing. They were so unlike the heart-rending cries her daughter had produced after the mine blew off her arms and most of her face. Shirla had rushed to her and cradled Sabrina's mangled body as blood gushed out in great waves. She died in minutes that took a lifetime.
Shirla calmly watched as Anatoly Karpov suffered through the deaths of everyone she had loved then hundreds, perhaps thousands more of those she had not known but Anatoly's soul also had to answer for. It may have taken an eternity or a few moments. Time had no meaning here, wherever here was. *** Fortunately for Petrina the sedative kept her blessedly unconscious while Anatoly writhed on the rug screaming his lungs out. His mind and spirit were not in the room but his body was and it felt everything the others did. Eventually it could take no more and lay motionless. Hours later Demitri shivered at the fear still evident in the general's wide open eyes and the silent scream of his grimacing mouth. He pulled the edge of the rug over the body to cover the ghastly sight. Shirla's final work served as Anatoly's death shroud when his corpse was discreetly removed later that night. *** Shirla died at the same moment as Anatoly but with a harsh smile on her lips. The cost of such a powerful curse always involved a puissant sacrifice; it was the most important ingredient. Shirla gave her life gladly. She only prayed she would see her family again. END  T.J. Mino is a theatre director and fight choreographer whose work has been staged at The Goodman in Chicago, Shakespeare’s Globe in London and the Edinburgh Fringe as well as theaters throughout the U.S. His background also includes work as a bodyguard and genetic researcher. Rug of War is his first published short story and he is currently completing work on his first novel, Blood Rose. He is nomadic and presently makes camp in Seattle, WA.
Story and image by T.J. Mino, Copyright 2009 |
