Page 36 of Raven

I walk down the trail among the rocks and step onto the beach when a kneeling figure in security uniform only a hundred feet away catches my attention.

It’s that guard again. His lips silently move in a prayer, eyes closed.

I lean against the rocks and watch him.

I’ve seen this guard before, farther down the shore. He is not much older than me, probably early thirties, bronze skin, close-cut hair, and thick, dark, neat beard. It’s the first time he’s so close to my sanctuary though, and it makes me wonder how someone doing this type of work, in the current world scenario, has even an ounce of faith left.

While I face the ocean, because the water absorbs all my dark thoughts, this guy is facing away, toward some sacred place in a different country, thousands of miles away.

For a while, I watch him bowing in rhythmic patterns. Mostly out of curiosity. Also, because it somehow calms me. It looks peaceful. I would like someone to explain to me how they have the motivation to pray five times a day amidst the war going on. Five times—someone came up with that random number, and now I witness a mercenary who’s probably killed more people than I ever talked to dedicatedly bringing his prayer mat to the beach at dawn so he can—what exactly? Ask for forgiveness? Pray for world peace? I want to know what’s going on in his head.

He finally opens his eyes, catches me watching, and goes completely still, like a statue. He has the eyes of a killer. Not a cold one but a burdened one.

I push off the cliff, light a cigarette, and walk toward him.

Without hurry, he gets up, picks up his praying mat, and starts brushing the sand off, not looking at me.

The beach is definitely an odd place to pray. But it’s quiet. It’s early enough and completely empty. Maybe, he is trying to drown the voices in his head with the sounds of the ocean, just like me.

I stop several feet away and take a deep drag of my cigarette.

“Does it help?” I ask, the remnants of the smoke from my cigarette leaving my mouth and floating toward him.

He doesn’t look at me but, with the same slowness, starts folding his prayer mat like it’s the most precious piece of fabric he owns.

“Do you think your God will grant you absolution for what you’ve done?” I ask, not mocking but trying to coax him into talking.

I like to listen to people’s stories. I like making them uneasy or angry—that’s when they lose control over the words and let them spill out. Those are the best stories.

He throws me a scowl that his God wouldn’t approve of, picks up his duty belt, and, tucking his prayer mat under his arm, starts walking away.

I watch his figure getting smaller and smaller until he finally disappears into the small building that holds one of the shore’s security towers.

All guards have their stories. James, one of my trusted men, used to be a professional boxer. Nilanski used to be a triathlon champion. Skiba used to be a prison guard on the mainland for years. His record is not perfect, but he has a lot of experience in handling hostile situations and assessing danger in a room full of angry men. Hence, he is great when it comes to meetings with Butcher.

I mostly use him and several other guards when we go to Port Mrei. But lately, I take him to the Center where we sit with a surveillance team that handles the town’s security and watch the cameras, trying to figure out what possible sabotage Butcher is planning next.

Skiba meets me by the beach, leaning against his motorcycle as he smokes. He is an early bird, just like me. Several years older, taller, and seemingly no care about life besides his job.

I tell him we are going to swing by the Southern mansions.

“Siena’s?” he asks.

He is observant. He knows I visit Siena occasionally, though he doesn’t know why. I keep my own business to myself. But when we park at her mansion, there’s some strange unease about the way Skiba sharply lights a cigarette and looks away as I walk toward her door.

When I come back out ten minutes later, he studies me as if he’s trying to figure out what happened behind closed doors.

I don’t say anything, but he surprises me when he says, “So, I figured since you are after that pretty nurse, you’d be done here.”

I see.

People always create their own version of reality about others when they don’t know what’s going on. Sometimes their ideas are fucked up. Most people think they have a vivid imagination, whereas most of the time, it’s very cliche.

“What pretty nurse?” I ask, intrigued by the fact that Skiba is that perceptive.

“Maddy Wise,” he says.

I mount my bike. “What is this about?”

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