Page 13 of Salute, To Bravery
Leaving the confines of our vehicle, I keep my demeanor non-threatening and my hands clearly visible and away from the firearm tucked discreetly at my side.
“We need to stay close to each other. You know this place, so I want you to take the lead. We need somewhere safe to stay for the time being,” I whisper to Rehan, my eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of threat.
An old man, his beard more salt than pepper, steps forward. His gait is steady, and his back’s surprisingly straight for his age.
“What brings you to Al-Bustan?” he asks, his voice carrying the authority of someone who’s used to being listened to and obeyed.
“We seek shelter,” Rehan responds.
Keeping my tone respectful, I add, “We mean you no harm.”
The old man takes one look at Rehan, and I can see the moment a look of recognition appears on his face. This isn’t the first time Rehan’s been here.
The man eyes us for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Amira, show them to the old weaver’s house. It’s been empty since last winter.”
A middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her hair nods and gestures for us to follow. As we walk through the village, I note the well-tended gardens bursting with late summer’s bounty and the neat stacks of firewood prepared for winter. Despite its isolation, the village pulses with life, speaking of a community that thrives in seclusion.
The weaver’s house is on the outskirts of the village. Its small front garden is overgrown with wildflowers. Inside, the air is cool, and the stone walls are thick and reassuringly solid.
“Thank you,” I say, offering Amira a grateful smile.
She nods and leaves without a word, pulling the door shut behind her.
Once alone, Rehan and I explore the modest accommodation, consisting of a single bedroom, a living area with a cold hearth, and a small kitchen. It’s a humble dwelling but perfect for our needs.
“We’ll have to keep watch tonight,” I say as I check the windows, ensuring we have a clear view of anyone approaching. “We can take shifts.”
I sit down at the small wooden table, its surface worn smooth by years of use.
“We have to wait here. They will come for us when it’s safe. I have to trust that my battalion will win the battle against the enemy. But if no one arrives…?”
“Then we’ll head for the border,” Rehan responds while pulling a chair up beside me. “Once we’re out of the reach of government forces, we’ll be able to get a message through safely.”
The reality of our situation settles over us like the evening mist outside. Our shared destiny is as uncertain as it is dangerous.
Yet, as I look around the simple room, which is to be our sanctuary, at least for tonight, I feel a surge of hope. In the quiet village of Al-Bustan, with its welcoming residents and tranquil scenery, we’ve found a brief respite from the storm that is our lives.
Walking away from a fight and leaving behind those I care for was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I have to believe they’ve repelled the attack and will come for us as soon as they can.
It’s my duty to follow orders, and at the moment, my orders are to keep Rehan safe.
“For the time being, we need to lie low. Tomorrow’s worries can wait until the morning,” I finally say, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
He squeezes back, a smile touching his lips, and for a moment, all feels right in our small, secluded world.
Chapter Thirteen.
Rehan
Istep out of the house to find a peaceful scene that clashes with the internal disquiet gnawing at me. We’ve been living in Al-Bustan for a week now, and this house is fast becoming a home I could love forever—just as I’ve come to love the woman who’s been sharing the space with me.
We have managed to get messages, via the villagers, to the leaders in the region, and they have been meeting with me over the last few days. I’ve spent many hours putting into place an agreement for peace, and I have the authority to put the proposal to Harper’s side now, but we can’t rely on radio communications. Even messages delivered by hand can be intercepted. We have to be mindful and wait for someone from the US military to contact us.
Harper joins me outside, her eyes scanning the horizon with a practiced vigilance that has become second nature to both of us. We share a brief, silent nod, an understanding that we are waiting for those who will help us find peace.
Suddenly, the serenity of the afternoon is shattered, replaced by a surge of adrenaline when we hear a vehicle approaching.We exchange a quick, determined look and hurry back inside the house.
Through the window, we watch as a military jeep rattles into the village square. Two men in battle dress alight, but the insignia on their uniforms is not immediately recognizable, which heightens our wariness. They start speaking to some of the villagers, seemingly asking questions.
