Neema

• Afrooz Zanjani, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2012

Nothing is black and white. Everything has a tree of stories behind it, stories of actions and reasoning, which set off domino effects to ultimately lead us to an event, this, is cause and effect. You can view this as fate, and believe in the concept that everything happens for a reason, or you can view it mathematically, find patterns and see the numbers, which lead to events. Either way you look at it, it would be foolish to believe that anything that happens in this world is black and white.

He was only 15 when it all began. The science, the numbers, they began to take over. He had to admit that as a 15-year-old, numbers and patterns wildly infatuated him. He was in a top math class, getting the highest ranks worldwide, and it was when he began unraveling patterns that he began to notice things that they might have wanted, or needed to keep hidden. Soon, he would be the head of a CIA Black Ops. Department, with the only thing in which he relied being the numbers, trusting that they would show him where to go.
Nowadays that trust only makes him laugh. It was as though the numbers were his God, and the patterns, his religion.

She hid in the mosque, with tears in her eyes trying to calm the boy in her arms, she was told that Neema was his name; he was inconsolable in his wailing for his mother. His clothes, and face were covered in blood, but he had no wounds. The screams of pain coming form beyond the walls of the mosque struck her like bullets, gashing through her chest. She took in deep breaths. She had to press forward. She stood, Neema in her arms and ran to the back room of the mosque. She had to get the child to safety. They could not have him.

He looked at the wall in front of him. All the pictures, the red string… all just leading to one thing. A little boy, less than three years of age. He found it astonishing how something so small, so innocent, could hold such an influence. The last heir. They had to have the boy, the linchpin that would lead to the victory of the Americans. Only thing left for him to do was to locate the boy. How hard could that be?

Ten hours had passed since she’d crawled down into the tunnels beneath the mosque with the boy. She was dragging her feet, but the child was safe, warm and sleeping in her arms. He was only a child, with no conception of politics, or war, or even his heritage. She was not alone in her belief that he had to be kept safe. But her opponents were far too powerful for her allies to stand by her side. She reached a door. Her first resting place. Her first checkpoint. She opened the door. “Biya inja beshin” she set the boy down and bolted the door shut before sitting by him. Waiting for them was the water and food which some had donated. She had no idea how many more resting spots she may have. So she did not take too much of the food or water. Only enough for Neema. He had to be kept safe. “Kojaim?” her Farsi was not that great. It had been years since she’d last lived here, but still, she could understand what he was asking. He wanted to know where they were. “Daram mibaramet yejaye behtar” she let him know she was taking him to a safer place. But she didn’t believe that. At that moment, right there in the tunnels was as safe as they would be. “Mamanam oonjast?” his words stabbed through her chest, as he asked if his mother would be at their destination.

He was still facing his wall, looking at his variables, checking his calculations, trying to figure out how he had ended up in this position when the door opened and his operative walked in.
“Sir, there appears to be no sign of the child,”
“That is not possible. How does a toddler just slip out of your grasp?”
“He was not alone, sir.”
He looked down at his patterns, “Who?”
“An asset, sir. She was not seen to be a threat until very recently.”
Ambracia. It must have been her. Who else? Who else would have the audacity to betray everything that he ever trusted in her? He felt the anger rising inside of him, a ruthless blue flame burning through a forest. She had to be killed. Punished for the treason that she had committed.
His fist crashed against the wall, “That manipulative bitch.”

For all of her life she had believed that everything happened for a reason; but for the life of her, sitting there watching Neema sleep, she could not think of a single good that would come from the death of an innocent child. What were they thinking? What had been the plan? All she knew was that the American man she had charmed had wanted to see the boy to check his heritage. “A prince of the royal throne,” she whispered to herself, “as if that means anything anymore.”

He wrote down the numbers, the patterns, over and over again. But he was missing something. Something wasn’t there. Perhaps he was missing that which was in front of him because he could not bare the thought of having to take a small child from his bed. Perhaps this was leading him to look with less effort. Or perhaps he did not want to come face-to-face with a boy who’s family he had had killed just because his numbers told him that the boy was at the center of all the issues. Did he really believe that? That this small child was the center of everything? Of course he did. The numbers never lied. No, but people do. People wonder about, setting off domino effects which he examines every day. People lead their lives, with actions they do not believe would affect anyone but them. Fools. This boy is not a linchpin now because of his own actions. No. He is in the middle of a war because of the actions of all those around him. All those with political aspirations, and ideations, including the man standing in front of the wall of pictures and red string, following the numbers and issuing orders; they did this. They set off the domino effect, which resulted in this tragedy. In the death of a family and heroism of a woman, Ambracia, who had barely any role to play, but a kind heart, who had now risked her life in order to save this child. But whatever for? If not this boy, they would find yet another linchpin. Yet another excuse for war. This world, this wall before the man, they did not only point to the boy, no. The red string also pointed to a road, a road with a mile left to chaos, and at the end of this mile to chaos, there will be no victory, only loss, tears, and regret.