The Messenger

Firfir protests sleepily as I push him off my stomach and fold back the two layers of blanket I'm buried under. He shakes his head, yawns, and hops off the sofa, his eyes sparkling in the dim light as he stretches and scratches his claws on the carpeted floor before vanishing toward the door.

Right. There was a knock at the door—the reason I woke up. I squint to find my warm flannel house shoes and hurry to slip my feet inside. It's almost dark in the living room, the light over the table off although I'm sure I switched it on earlier. Another blackout. The fireplace is barely giving light; the wood is too wet for a decent fire, and it took me half an hour to get it burning in the first place.

"Ma'am?" A low voice, muffled behind the door.

"Dawit?"

I hear the door handle creak. The door opens and when I turn my head, I see Firfir‘s tail slipping past two black feet clad in dusty sandals.

"Come inside, please."

Although he's been working here since I moved in, Dawit never crosses the threshold without prompting.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am. There's a visitor at the gates."

A visitor? I frown, bend down to pick up the book that must have fallen from my hands when I dozed off, and set it on the table. I draw my nightgown tighter around myself before straightening.

"Who is it?"

It isn't unusual for me to get a late-night call and have to make an emergency trip to the hospital. I check my mobile phone—no missed calls. If the blackout affects large parts of the city, that might also mean I've had no reception for a while. Maybe the hospital sent a driver to pick me up?

Dawit steps inside, in his usual whitewashed jeans and the checkered shirt that seems a size or two too large for his bony frame. I make a mental note to buy meat for Firfir tomorrow and deliberately miscalculate the amount, giving me an excuse to offer some to Dawit. My cat has a better diet than my guard, but the man is far too proud to accept charity.

"First I thought it was a beggar, ma'am. But... um... forgive me, he says to give you greetings from your brother?"

I whirl around and nearly drop the empty teacup I've picked up in hopes of finding something left to drink.

"Ma'am?" Dawit's large eyes fill with concern and he reaches toward me with his hands without closing the respectful distance between us. "I can send him away, it's—"

"No." I place the cup on the table carefully and tuck my unruly hair behind my ears. My fingers tremble. "No... no. Tell him to wait. I'll be at the gates in five minutes."

Dawit nods. "As you wish. But..."

I turn around, already heading toward the bathroom.

"If you feel uncomfortable... It would be better to tell him to return in daylight..." Dawit doesn't look at me as he says it.

I suppress a sigh. I also have the most cautious of all guards. Well, he probably has his reasons, and it's never been a mistake to be overly careful around here. I don't think that worry is necessary, though. I hope it isn't, at least.

"It's fine, Dawit. Just... don't let him inside before I join you, okay?"

"As you wish, ma'am."

I change into a pair of jeans and throw on a random sweater, wash my face, brush my hair, and tie it into a loose knot on top of my head. My thoughts circle around my brother and the last time I saw him, almost two years ago. I think I made it quite clear then that I want no part in his business, that he's gone a step too far in his quest to free this country. I know we both love this place where we spent a significant part of our childhood, and that's why we both came back after studying and working abroad. It became clear quickly that our opinions differ over the means warranted and suited to reach our shared goal.

Outside, the familiar mixture of scents hits me immediately. There's burning wood from the ovens in the neighboring houses, the trace of dust in the air that hasn't settled yet, the muted sweet scent of flowers as I pass the flowerbeds—barely distinguishable from the smell of rotting waste that's present everywhere in the city. The fresh whiff of the eucalyptus trees above me has meant home for a couple of years now.

Dawit steps out of the shadows when I approach the gate. He moves silently, his skin blending with the background, and I can barely suppress a surprised intake of breath as he appears before me. I chide myself for my jumpiness and wrap the oversized sweater tighter around myself to hide my nervousness, folding my arms over my chest. My brother is still my brother. I can deal with him.

My teeth chatter. I changed into a pair of boots but forgot to pull on a jacket and am already starting to freeze. The days are hot, even as we're nearing rainy season, but the nights have become freezing cold.

"Ma'am, it's too cold for you." Dawit ducks to vanish inside his hut—a single room next to the gate with walls made of mud and a plastic sheet as a roof—rummaging around in the dark before he emerges again with a jacket of his own and a flashlight. "Please..."

I take the jacket, a Western brand that's probably gone through many hands before, and put it on, smiling at him gratefully. Dawit is probably never going to stop mother-henning me, although we're roughly the same age and I've lived longer in this country than in any other. But my skin is white and my manners too shaped by Western culture for me to ever pass as a proper native. "Thanks, Dawit."

I step closer to the metal gate, listening for any sound behind it. The city, vibrant and bustling during the day, is eerily silent during the night—especially so when there's a blackout—and I can only hear the rustling of the leaves above me and the calls of a few birds in the distance. It's too cold and too dangerous for most people to be outside at this hour. Those who are roaming the streets have nothing good on their minds.

The rusty shield over the small window opening in the gate creaks as Dawit pulls it aside. I have to step closer to look through it, and for a second I'm inclined to believe that Dawit dreamed someone was at the door because I can see no one.

"Who's there?" I ask into the night.

"Ms. Snider?"

I jump a little at the low voice, then gesture to Dawit to hand me the flashlight. The weak orange beam illuminates the patch of asphalt in front of the gate, with the street lying dark beyond it, and a face—several feet lower than I would have expected to see one. It's definitely not my brother, and my heart cannot decide whether to feel glad or disappointed.

"Who are you?"

The man's eyes are narrowed slits against the light and he tilts his head down a little as he answers, a curl of black hair dangling into his face. His skin is much darker than mine but lighter than Dawit's, the light brown reminding me of milk chocolate. He's on the luckier side of this wicked world where mainly the shade of your skin determines whether you'll go to school and get a job or end up begging in the streets.

"My name is Amanuel. Kilian sent me."

"I don't know how being one of my brother's associates would make me inclined to open my door for you in the middle of the night," I retort, my voice sharper than intended.

Amanuel lifts his head a little, his lips parting into a quick grin before it's gone. "What I have to say would rather not be discussed in the open street. You have the choice between letting me in so we can talk, or forfeiting the chance to rescue your brother."

A stone drops in my stomach. What happened to Kilian? I should have known—a stranger in the night could only mean bad news. "Where is he? Is he okay? What—"

"Inside, Ms. Snider," the man hisses, sending a quick glance behind himself.

I direct the weak flashlight to illuminate the darkness behind him, trying to make out his car, but I see nothing. Only when my eyes travel up the street much farther than the light reaches do I notice dimmed headlights. I assume a driver is waiting for him.

I take a deep breath and step back from the door, nodding to Dawit. The whites of Dawit's eyes flash as they widen slightly, scared, but then he complies and goes to open the lever on the small door set inside the huge gate. The door swings open with a low squeak, only darkness visible beyond it.

"I'm sorry," comes Amanuel's voice from outside. "I would need you to open the gate."

Dawit frowns at me and I'm about to say something possibly harsh when the man appears inside the gap of the open door and I realize why his head was at a much lower level than expected. Our late visitor is in a wheelchair, the metal spokes gleaming as the flashlight beam falls on them. It's not a model like those I see regularly in the hospital, or the battered-up version one comes across sometimes on the streets, but a sleek, black, very Western model with wheels slightly tilted inward at the top. I'm familiar with the type from my time abroad, but don't remember having seen one around here in quite a while. It's the reason Amanuel doesn't fit through the small door—the frame simply isn't wide enough.

I nod at Dawit again and my guard takes a set of heavy keys from his pants pockets. He turns one of them in the large lock and pulls open one side of the gate. It moves with a screech that's deafening in my ears and my heart rate picks up. Amanuel pushes forward with his hands on the rims and comes wheeling through the opening, the wheelchair moving fast on the pavement. Dawit closes the gate again the moment he's through.

Amanuel stops the chair right in front of me and looks up, the part of his face I can make out in the dark friendlier than before when I'd blinded him with the light.

"Thanks. Hello again." He doesn't offer me a hand to shake, his gloved hands resting on the handrims, and neither do I move mine from the tight lock around my torso.

Amanuel's eyes scan the driveway and the garden beyond, as far as it's visible in the dark. He doesn't acknowledge Dawit, who still hovers in the back. A sharp wind sets the trees above us rustling again, and somewhere beyond the premises something falls over with a muffled clatter.

"Let's go inside," I propose, catching Dawit's jacket as it flutters around me again. My eyes meet Dawit's and I give an imperceptible nod. My guard purses his lips but retreats to his hut after giving me a stern look. Probably he's decided that a man in a wheelchair isn't threat enough to my physical health or my dignity as a woman to insist on keeping us company. I wonder what he thinks about Amanuel. A man clearly above his social status, but disabled—probably a contradiction in his understanding of the world.

Amanuel follows me as I turn toward the trail leading to the house. My home is small. Like most of the residential buildings here, it consists of only one floor. It has a well-kept mint-green façade, small windows protected by dark-green grilles, and a flat roof. Inside is a living room with the fireplace as the only source of heat, a bathroom, a bedroom, and a study, which I converted into a guest room. Most of the furniture was already there when I arrived; only for the table did I instruct a carpenter to build a larger and sturdier one, since I like to have company for dinner.

I listen to the sound of Amanuel's wheels to figure out if I'm supposed to shorten my steps, but he's still relatively fast, even as the pavement gives way to hard earth. I'm already one step up onto the porch when I notice my oversight.

"Um..." I turn back to look down at Amanuel, who's stopped the chair at the foot of the stairs. "I'm sorry... Can you—"

Before I can say anything more, Amanuel huffs quietly. "No." He bounces a fist against the side of a wheel and watches me with clear annoyance. "Would I be in this if I could?"

I bite back the remark that there are people who can walk but prefer wheelchairs. Although it's true in general, it's different here. Getting around with a wheelchair in a city where sidewalks are a luxury, not to mention closed sewage systems or more personal space than a shoulder's width, is nearly impossible. He wouldn't be outside in a wheelchair if he didn't absolutely have to be. Besides, with fewer overhanging trees above us, I can now get a better look at Amanuel in the moonlight, which sharpens the contours. He's slouched a bit in the seat of the chair, propped up against the high backrest, which is slightly tilted back. His fingers on the rims are curled, but they don't seem to grip. It occurs to me how ridiculous my question was, and that I should know better.

"Sorry," I mumble and wonder, not for the first time, who built the staircase to my home. It's just four steps—enough clearance for the house to prevent flooding during the rainy season, which I've been very grateful for numerous times—but it's so narrow that no two people can pass each other on it. I'm not sure Amanuel's wheelchair would fit even if I were strong enough to pull him up the stairs, and judging by the look on his face, neither is he.

A few seconds of silence pass between us, then Amanuel turns a wheel back with a palm pressed on the rim, his gaze going to the gate. "Maybe—"

"Yes, of course," I hasten to say and hurry down the steps toward Dawit's hut again. "Dawit?"

When I return with Dawit in tow, Amanuel has locked the brakes, pushed his feet off the single footrest, and sits hunched in the seat, his hips scooted forward a bit. In a low voice he directs Dawit to put one hand below his knees and one behind his back, and slings his left arm over Dawit's shoulder, fingers still slightly bent. As my frail guard lifts the much larger man out of the wheelchair, I worry for a second about both of them, but I needn't. Dawit looks like he might be blown away by the wind, but he's stronger than he seems, and when he turns and starts up the stairs, I see that Amanuel's dangling legs are relatively thin. He's probably not as heavy to carry as I initially thought.

I follow them both with the wheelchair, carrying it up the steps by its frame, careful not to bump it against the railing installed on the right side of the staircase.

Dawit waits with Amanuel at the top of the stairs for me to bring the wheelchair closer before letting our guest down into it carefully. Amanuel lets go of Dawit slowly and pushes his upper body back with his palms—first on his thighs, then on the armrests—until he's leaning against the backrest again. "Thanks," he says to Dawit, to my surprise, and my guard bows shortly before leaving us.

Amanuel bounces his feet up onto the footrest by putting a fist behind each knee and unlocks the wheels. I notice his shoulders are wide under his classy light-blue shirt, his upper arms still quite defined, but his forearms lack muscle and seem slim in comparison. His legs are clad in black dress pants, his bony knees now resting still next to each other with his feet tucked under him.

I swallow and step inside the living room, holding the door open for Amanuel. I can't have the thoughts I'm having right now. I force myself not to look at Amanuel as he wheels past me and gesture toward the couch—I figure it would be the warmest and easiest place for us to talk. I take a seat in the armchair on one side of the low table and keep Dawit's jacket wrapped around me as an additional layer of protection.

"Your guard has no weapon," Amanuel states, taking his time to look around the small room as he slowly wheels toward me. The floor in my apartment is covered with a relatively old and worn-down carpet, but it still seems to offer quite some resistance to the wheels.

"Hmm..." I say, leaving it ambiguous whether I'm confirming his observation or not. Amanuel is right, though. Dawit has no weapon—we both agreed it would be better. He's too wary of weapons to even touch one, and I don't think it's necessary. There's not much to take from me.

"Is there reason to think he should have one?" I light the candle in front of me, the room growing a little brighter with the flickering light. I have candles distributed all over the house for cases like this, when electricity lets us down again.

Amanuel parks the wheelchair between the couch and the other armchair across from mine, and flicks the brakes with his palms. "I think—"

He stops short and I catch a glimpse of Amanuel's surprised expression as I lift my head from the candle again.

"Sorry, I..." Amanuel starts, frowning slightly. "You look very much alike," he murmurs finally, speaking to his knees.

I choose not to say anything, watching Amanuel after he falls silent again.

Amanuel places his palms on the handrims and readjusts his position. He clears his throat. "Ms. Snider—"

"Rebecca is fine."

He nods. "Kilian said you lead a hospital."

I smile tiredly. My brother likes to boast. "I'm head of the Department of Gynecology."

Amanuel blinks, his chocolate-colored cheeks growing darker. "Oh..."

I figure a gynecologist isn't exactly what he was hoping for.

Inhaling, I brace myself. "Amanuel... where is my brother?"

Amanuel looks out the windows into the pitch-black darkness before turning back to me, his voice lowered. "Are you familiar with your brother's work?"

"Bringing violence to this country and endangering hundreds by rallying them around him to free it by force? Yes, I am," I answer, more grimly than intended.

Amanuel's face darkens but he doesn't retort, merely nods. "Kilian has been on a recruiting tour, together with a small group of his people, for the last few months. Everything went well until one week ago, close to the northern border... They managed to send a message yesterday. It reached me today."

I force myself to stay calm, my palms pressed against each other in my lap. "What happened?"

"He got caught in an ambush that wasn't meant for him. Foreign rebels, expecting to come across government troops. They... didn't realize. They managed to get away eventually, but three men were injured, one of them your brother."

The irony of this nearly makes me gag. Two forces with the same enemy, fighting against each other. "How is he?"

Amanuel looks at me before directing his eyes back to the table between us. "He was shot and injured his leg—one bullet remaining in his thigh. They operated on him in a small village, managed to stop the blood flow, and he survived. He's out of mortal danger, but if his leg isn't treated properly soon, he may not walk on it again."

I nod, trying not to picture the circumstances of the surgery—a dark hut in the desert, no clean water, no electricity. "And the others?"

"One was shot in the head. We don't think he'll survive the journey. The third was briefly held and tortured by the soldiers... I don't know the specifics." He blinks as he looks at me, and I can't tell if he's speaking the truth or wants to spare me the details. "That man has a high fever, probably an infection. All of them are on their way back, disguised as farmers." Amanuel's face darkens again. "We have a hospital that's sympathetic to our cause a few hours from here, but there's been a recent outbreak of malaria among the workers... they're in no state to care for the injured, let alone your brother."

I sigh. "And now you want me to treat Kilian and the others. All of it hidden from the government, of course."

Amanuel fixes me with his dark eyes. "Yes. It would save your brother from..." He stops himself and puts his hands on his knees, limp fingers curling in on themselves.

I understand without him completing the sentence. My brother would face life with a permanent disability, just as Amanuel does. I wonder if Amanuel was injured in a similar situation, shot in the chaos of rebellion and war.

Amanuel sits with his jaw clenched and does not look up.

I sigh. "If I do this... it's going to be dangerous for me as well. Dangerous for the entire hospital. We save the lives of innocents there, every day. I'm not going to throw this away only because my brother thought it a good idea to march into a war zone for recruiting!"

I got louder than intended and force my breath to slow down again.

Amanuel is silent for a while. "The one with the fever is fourteen," he then whispers, his shoulders hunching forward. He looks like he might tip forward if not for the palms digging into his thighs to keep him upright.

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. How far has my brother gone now, luring children into the fight?

Amanuel's gaze doesn't meet mine but the line of his lips is tight. Apparently he doesn't agree with my brother on this either.

My voice trembles with suppressed rage as I speak, dangerously low. "There's a small room in the hospital where I work. It's designed for women to say farewell to their lost children."

Infant mortality is high in this country, and the people coming to us are often already weak from a long journey. In some cases, there isn't much we can do.

"I think it might be possible to station the injured there without anyone noticing. And then we'll see about further treatment. There's room for two people."

Amanuel exhales a sigh of relief and smiles at me. "Thank you, Rebecca. It's... I can't tell you how much this means to us."

I get up, smoothing out my clothes. "Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you or my brother." I start walking across the room. "Should the man with the head injury still be alive when they arrive, he and the one with the fever will get the room. My brother will have to wait."

Amanuel's head whips around, his eyes narrowing. "You won't treat your brother?"

"Not when two lives are at stake, Amanuel."

Amanuel flips the brakes of his chair, shoulders straining as he turns it around to follow me. "You condemn your brother to a life in misery!"

"No, Amanuel," I say, stopping at the door and opening it to show him out. I'm sure Dawit is eager to help Amanuel down the steps and off the premises as quickly as possible. "I don't believe I do. I rescue him from one."

The candle flickers in the draft as I stand in the doorway, listening to the echoing clang of the gate closing behind Amanuel. Our goodbye after Dawit and I had managed to get him down the stairs had been curt, but he'd grudgingly thanked us both again, despite it all. I realize I'm shivering once more, this time not from the cold alone. What have I gotten myself into? How can I side with these people? But I know this is not about the violence, the politics they promote, or the glory and freedom my brother surely promised them. I'm a doctor, above all, and they need medical help. How can I deny that?

I can't give them all they need on my own, though—I know that. I go through the options in my head. Most doctors and nurses on my team have children; it's too dangerous for them to be involved. But I know just the right person to trust with a secret like this. A grim smile curves my lips as I hear a car receding in the distance. Amanuel.

Quietly, I call out for Firfir and after a while I hear his insistent purr approaching. I bend down to scratch him between the ears.

"You hungry, sweetheart? Go and catch some mice."

Firfir gives me a disdainful look, then vanishes between the bushes again. I wait, but he doesn't return and I don't see where he climbs the wall surrounding the property. I'm pretty sure he manages to sneak out through the barbed wire somewhere, but I haven't figured out where exactly yet.

The candle blows out as I close the door. I don't relight it—I'm off to bed anyway. As I lie under the covers, trying to get warm in the freezing room, I hear cats screaming in the distance. I'm almost certain one of those cries is my little rascal. He'll be all ruffled and exhausted in the morning again. The shutters clatter as the wind outside picks up and I close my eyes, knowing somewhere in the exceptional dark, my brother is coming home.