Osh, Kirghiz Soviet Socialist Republic, Soviet Union – June 1990
From his rocky perch, high in the foothills south of the city, where the Ak-Burra river flows from its canyon, he watched as Osh burned. Columns of rolling smoke bled into the sky, the blackened horizon punctured only by the embers of incinerated homes being lifted to the heavens. We will be safe here, he had told his wife, and she had believed him.
For days he had watched the city destroy itself; a dusting of gray ash now covering the trees that guarded his apiary, his refuge. He looked north, towards the city, another bright dawn absorbing it from the east. A small curl of dust hung in the air at the base of the canyon. The man raised his hand, shielding his face from the glare. The dust inched into the foothills, mounted riders flashing among the thinning trees. He ran to his hut.
The cacophony of their approach reverberated through the forest; the hammer of the horses’ hooves, the cry of snapped branches, the crack of whip on flesh. The specters burst from the low brush surrounding his camp; no more than mere boys. Breaking into the clearing, the riders, four of them, hauled on their reins, slowing themselves into an ambling crescent around the man.
The wooden handles of their rawhide whips were tied loosely around their wrists, drawing his eyes towards them. He knew these boys, knew of their families. They had come, before all of this, to buy his honey. Perhaps once, not so long ago, he would have even been welcome at their tables.
He stood. The dust of their arrival heavy in the air, blinding, choking. His wife crept from their hut, limping slowly, her hand gripping the unstable door frame. She cried out, calling his name. He turned his head, keeping his eyes on the boys, and told her to get back inside.
In the silence of uncertainty, the man slowly looked into their faces. Two held his gaze, the others wilted, their eyes flickering downward.
“Have you come for honey?” he asked, though he knew they had not. He wanted them to remember when they had come before and had dealt with him as a man, as a human.
The younger ones wavered, looking askance; the façade of their resolve settling on unstable foundations. They can be broken, he knew.
He opened his mouth to release the words that hung in his throat, a voice to humanize, when an unexpected sting of a whip danced across his face. As he was thrown to the ground, the words were distorted, morphing into a feral grunt. Another whip snaked across his back. His skin split. He leapt, pulling the boy from his horse, tearing the whip from his wrist. Indecision, shed like a useless skin, fell way. The boys, sensing blood, turned on the man. Whips sung through the air, a swarm of braided leather bringing the man to his knees.
Weakened, the bloodied man crawled away. As he tried to reach the sanctuary of his hut, his fingers dug into the loose soil. There were boots on his path: a dismounted rider, his face hidden by the sun. The man’s ribs exploded at the kick. He collapsed and curled into a fetal position, while hands kept ripping at him, pulling him, twisting his arms behind his back. Bound like a sheep to slaughter, he was dragged into his hovel.
The sickening crunch of a cracked jaw silenced his wife’s screams; a firm punch cut short her hysterics and broke loose her front teeth. She crumpled, falling to the ground, as blood spilled from her mouth. Her hand flew to her face, unable to staunch the flow as it poured onto her chest, drenching her shirt.
The man opened his eyes, the light streaming into his hut. The riders ripped the blood-stained shirt from his wife, stuffing it into her mouth as she fought, struggling in their grasp. The man tried to stand but was hurled back onto the floor. Wrestled onto his side, one of the riders knelt on his head, a hand clamped on to the back of his neck, forcing him to watch as they raped his wife.
He cried out, but she now lay mute, the fight beaten out of her as the boys took their turns with her. The man raved, cursing them, calling out the names of their mothers and wives before one of them grabbed his scalp, yanking it backwards. A whip slipped around his throat, choking him until an enveloping blackness took hold.
The afternoon light fell across the man, drawing him from the darkness. The riders were gone, but he heard the stamping of horses just outside the door. They would not be far he knew. His wife curled into the corner and wept quietly. She had wrapped her bloody shirt around her body to cover herself. The man nudged closer and lay beside her, feeling her warmth.
They returned, as the man knew they would. The thrill, whatever it had been, had since drained from their faces. The man knew that he and his wife where victims, victims that could not be left behind. Bloody hands of evil deeds would need to be cleansed with even worse ones. A rider drew a short knife, cutting away the bindings around the man’s legs. The riders hauled them to their feet, tying them to the pommels of two of the horses, the rope bound tightly around their wrists. His eyes raging, defiant, he looked at each of them in turn, but none would meet his gaze.
They razed the hovel first, the flames dancing as the dried thatch blackened and collapsed. The riders led the man and his wife upwards into the hills, where the canyon walls grew steepest. The riders moved slowly over the loose rocks so that the man and his wife could walk without being dragged, sparing what little dignity they hadn’t already taken. The riders, their heads downcast, had their backs to the man. No one spoke. A branch snapped unseen in the forest around them, setting the boys on edge. A rider disappeared into the woods, returning shortly, a slight shake of his head setting the column in motion again.
Near the crest of the gorge, the trees and vegetation disappeared, leaving only patches of grass kept short by the herds of roving sheep and goats, a promontory of smooth rocks overlooking the river below. The man and his wife were cut loose from the horses and pushed towards the sloping threshold. Behind him, one of the boys was crying, their voices distant, indistinct.
He held his wife’s hand and whispered to her about all the things they had loved in life.
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