Peace

By Matt Buttsworth

Peace is a novel about a man obsessed with words and visions who believes that when he has the right words he will be able to change the world. His chance to change the world comes when a nuclear bomb is exploded by Iraqi terrorists in Vienna. But the world does not want to be changed and reacts violently.
By the end of the book nothing remains remains the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Buttsworth
• Release date: Mar 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458081520

Matt Buttsworth

Dr Matt Buttsworth is an Australian author and an international politics commentator.He is the author of Polarshift, an indepth historical analysis of India, China and the Rise and Fall of the West. He is also the author of Genghis Khan and the Creation of the modern world as well as of other historical and political analysis works, including the thought provoking political/economics analysis article China versus the US - the Challenge to the World Trading System.Fictional published work includes the historical novel on Zheng He, about the life of the famous Chinese navigator and admiral also known as Cheng Ho, as well as of a number of short story collections including The Cyclist.Dr Matt Buttsworth is currently writing a novel on the Portuguese discovery of the sea route to India.

Book preview

Peace

A Tale of the Latter Days

By Matt Buttsworth

Copyright 2011 Matt Buttsworth

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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ISBN Number: 978-1-4580-8152-0

In the Beginning there was the Word...

....The Child of Light and the Child of Darkness.

Table of Contents

The Voice From the Desert Came

The Storm

Gaia

Sydney 1981

At 11am precisely, Jonathan Small stood up, snapped his pencil in half, and walked out of his office.

He was never to return.

Uzbekistan USSR 1992

They stood, two thin ranks of brown-clad troops on a plain that stretched flat as far as the eye could see. In front of them row upon row of freshly dug graves outnumbered the living. White prayer flags fluttered gently in the breeze, the religion of another age, another country, but still there nonetheless. Overhead flew an eagle - alone, slowly circling the isolated crowd. Major Asjek Soubatai stared at its shadow, looked up and shivered. It was the Great Eagle of the Steppes - a sign of greatness, of destiny. Why did it have to appear now, today of all days? And here? He turned back to his troops, the graves behind him.

Men, comrades, friends, he began quietly in a quavering voice. They fell, but we did not fail. We could not have fought harder. We could not have fought better. Properly led, allowed to fight the way we wanted to, we could have won, but... He paused, the sun glinting on the steel helmets and bayonets of his men. We were betrayed. There was a low angry murmur from the troops. Major Soubatai turned slowly back to face the waiting graves. One day comrades, he vowed firmly. You will be avenged.

As he finished his vow, the Eagle wheeled and flew westwards disappearing quickly over the horizon. It was as though it had been listening.

Ten minutes later Major Soubatai returned to his car.

Go now, he commanded emotionally in Uzbek.

The driver did nothing, not understanding a word. Soubatai scowled and then repeated the command in Russian. The car roared away Northwards, journeying eventually to Moscow. In the back Soubatai stared blankly forwards, his rage focused on the driver. They were the first words that Soubatai had spoken that day in Russian.

Part One

The Voice From the Desert Came

Tibesti Iraq December 1996

Dakhil-Allah el Kadhi, formerly second in command of the Fourth Brigade of the freedom fighters of the Southern Kurdish Liberation Army, stood perfectly still in the doorway of hut 14B2 warily watching the flood-lights sweeping back and forth in front of him. He glanced back at the six other men waiting nervously behind him in the gloom of the barracks. They were ready. It was strange. After one and a half years of cautious preparation - of planning and plotting, of torture and starvation - the time had finally come and all he could feel was hate.

All the suffering, all the sacrifices of their war, all their naive hopes of finally attaining independence, had been a cruel joke. As soon as peace had been declared, if `peace’ was what you call it, the real war had begun - the extermination of the Kurds. And this time the bastards had nearly succeeded.

The Iraqis had massacred them, gassing them in their thousands during the long retreat, while their Iranian allies had done nothing, and the bloated, myopic infidels of the West had sat hypnotized in front of their television sets watching sport while the genocide continued. Who did he hate most? The Iraqis? The Iranians? The television watchers of the West? No, he hated all of them. Throughout history the Kurds had always stood alone, had always been betrayed by everyone. Now their turn had come. They would help themselves. In six minutes and fourteen seconds the escape would begin and then, if Allah willed it, vengeance would finally be theirs. All of the dead, all the suffering of the War, and of its terrible aftermath would be avenged. The World would feel their Wrath.

A light tap on his shoulder interrupted Dakhil’s thoughts. Motlog and Ferraj were standing next to him.

Do you have the maps? asked Dakhil a final time, turning his head towards Motlog, ignoring Ferraj.

Yes, replied Motlog in a slightly bored though still compliant tone. He had been asked the same question over a dozen times before in the last three hours. Surely Dakhil would have learned to trust him by now? After all they had been through together?

You are certain Drubbi will cooperate? whispered Dakhil relentlessly - going through the inquisition one final time.

Yes, with the right amount of persuasion.

Good. Good. The plan must work. And then the weapon will be ours.

Dakhil’s watch reached 10.26. A blanket of clouds covered the few remaining stars that still shone in the leaden sky. The wind picked up, a roaring tornado that drowned out all other noise.

Now men, commanded Dakhil, trying to take advantage of the sudden storm. Run!

Thirty-eight seconds later they reached the wire - three thin, jagged, razor-sharp talons blindly clawing the darkness of the night. Searchlights played slowly across the ground in front of them. Dakhil shivered with fear, sweat clinging to his skin, trickling down the side of his face. He was paralyzed with fear. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. He could die, petrified, now, but he would not allow himself to. They had to escape. Had to. 30 more meters. 30 more meters and they would be safe. For the moment. There was the click of wire cutters. The light was coming. 25 meters away. 20 meters. 15. 10. There was another click. And another. The wires were cut. Motlog el Awar crawled through the hole in the fence, wriggling like a snake. The others followed, the six of them. They ran to the next fence, the searchlight now prowling blindly behind them. Useless. Harmless. They went on. Motlog cut his way through the second fence. The third. They were through. One of them quietly cheered. Dakhil-Allah clamped his hand savagely over the man’s mouth. They were not free yet. They were still too close to the camp. When he finally released his hand there was no sound.

They crawled on carefully over the open ground, trying to dodge the weight-sensitive alarms that had been scattered across the plain and to avoid all of the infra-red beams that cut their way invisibly through the air above. They had bribed one of the guards to find out where they were.

All around them they could see the rotting bodies of those who had not made it - who had been shot by machine-gun fire or blown apart by mines. The stench was terrible. The Iraqis had left the bodies of the dead to rot where they had fallen, believing that the half-decomposed corpses of the failed escapees would act as a deterrent to the few prisoners who still remained alive in the vast shell of the camp. Dakhil shuddered. He wondered if the other men really understood the suicidal nature of the plan they were about to undertake? None of them would survive. Still, anything was better than the inevitable slow death that awaited them in the camps. At least this way there was the hope of revenge. Of vengeance. Of blood paying for blood a hundred-fold.

Allah Akbar!

For an instant Dakhil’s eyes gleamed through the darkness of the night. They were the eyes of a rabid wolf.

They reached a ditch and began to run bent-double along it for the next two hundred meters as it led away from the camp. The searchlights were a long way behind now - over half a kilometer. They crawled out of the ditch. Ferraj had to be helped out. He was shaking uncontrollably; his body racked by repetitive spasms. Another case of diphtheria thought Dakhil. He would die soon, just like all the others had died. Still, they would help him onwards while they could, and bury him when they had to. They had known each other for too long and been through too much together to do anything else.

Dakhil waved his hand through the air. Silently they halted. The minefield was ahead, the fourth and final barrier that surrounded the prison camp, trapping them inside. Dakhil dropped down onto his hands and knees, nervously chanted a prayer to himself, and then put his left hand centimeters forwards into the minefield. If the plan was wrong he would be the first to die. They crawled on in single file, a gap of twenty meters between each of them. The guard Dakhil had bribed had told him that the minefield had been laid according to a standard pattern. Amidst the chaos, a one meter wide path led through the field - a one meter jump to the left every forty-eight meters. They had to jump with it. A compass carried by Dakhil ensured that they were crawling forward in the prescribed direction of 317 degrees true North.

Dakhil inched his way forward. Every centimeter seemed like a meter. Every rock an eternity, a lifetime away. He forced himself to choose a rock ahead as a target to be achieved, reach it and then keep crawling onwards towards the next. One hand forward and then the other, desperately hoping that he would not feel the touch of a detonator. Death. So close. Waiting to embrace him. To blow his entrails apart. To come so far and to die now. No, he couldn’t. There was too much to do. He crawled onwards. The prison camp was now almost two kilometers behind. Dakhil shuddered, quaked, and forced his body to be still once more. Now was not the time to fall apart. He was shivering not from cold but from fear. He laughed bitterly to himself - at least it was not diphtheria. That was something to be grateful for. That and the lack of a moon. The night was pitch black. That was not a matter of luck though. The decision to time the escape with the absence of the moon had been made months ago.

Boouggghhhhhh!!!!!

A mine exploded behind him. The earth heaved. There was a roar, a blinding flash of light shattering the darkness, shards of shrapnel whistling overhead. Ferraj flew through the air, somersaulting, crashing into the ground. Blood. The shattered remains of his left leg bled profusely. The rest of his leg five meters away. Ferraj began to scream - an agonized animal scream of overwhelming pain and imminent death. Dakhil motioned sharply with his left hand. Motlog crawled quickly away into the darkness of the night, his knife in his hands. The scream was replaced by a low gurgling sound as the throat was cut. There was silence. No one said a word. They had all agreed before the escape attempt began, that they could not afford to carry or to leave behind any wounded. The Mission was too important. No one though, had expected Death to come so quickly. It was a bad omen.

Motlog hurried back up the file towards Dakhil - the bloodied knife still in his hand.

He was smiling.

Dakhil-Allah el Kadhi grimaced. The suicide pact had already come into operation. For how long could they survive?

Insh’Allah.

May his sprit be committed to Allah and may he reach Paradise. May he enjoy the fruits of Paradise.

Allah Akbar!

Dakhil cursed. He had known for days that this was going to happen, feared it, and yet he could do nothing. It was destined.

The escapees remained frozen on the ground, hugging the Earth. Each of them lay perfectly still, waiting for the sirens to go off, for the dogs to be released and for the Hunt to begin. Incredibly, nothing happened. The guards at the camp must have either all been asleep or thought that an animal had set off the mine. It had happened before. Dakhil didn’t try to understand. They had been lucky, that was all that mattered. Allah had been kind to them. He smiled. They crawled forward again.

‘Keep going,’ whispered Dakhil to himself. ‘Keep going.’ They had to keep going. Ferraj was dead. Keep going. He repeated the words endlessly to himself, as though simple repetition of the chant would somehow get them out of the minefield alive. He shuddered. Wept. Ferraj. Dead. NO-O! They had known each other for over fifteen years - fought together, been captured together. And now he was dead. WHY?!? They had been following the plan correctly. What had gone wrong? Iraqis!!! They couldn’t even lay a standard minefield accurately. The idiots. And yet they had been massacred by them!?! Dominated by such imbeciles for decades! And by other idiots for hundreds of years, for millennia. Kurdistan had never existed. He would never be able to accept that.

He stopped for an instant - paralyzed. Perhaps they had been given the wrong plan? Been betrayed? No. That was impossible. If they had been given the wrong plan they would not have made it this far. None of them would still be alive. It must have been a random mine. An accident. A single mine laid by chance or malice in the hope of catching people like them. They had to believe that it was just a mistake in the pattern. They had no choice. They were still in the middle of the minefield. Random movement would be certain death. They crawled on.

Ten minutes later they reached the edge of the minefield. Now they were free. Dakhil wiped a drop of sweat off his brow and allowed himself to smile properly for the first time that night. Freedom. Vengeance. They loped away into the distance, shadows flitting noiselessly across the ground, disappearing into a grove of trees.

They had made it.

Lake Eyre Central Australia 1981

Jonathan Small shivered, coughed and slowly arched his back - every muscle in his body stretching and then contracting. Then the complaints began. He was getting old. He was also trying to wake up. He yawned, rubbed his arms together, kicked his blanket off onto the baked red dirt and then stumbled across to the embers of last night’s fire, trying delicately to nurse them back into life.

It was dawn. The blood red sun rose over the horizon with the beauty that only a desert dawn could bring. The red sphere hanging alone in the sky - pure, virginal, untainted by the horrors and tragedy of the Earth below. It was also freezing. Jonathan continued shivering. He started jogging on the spot, trying to get his circulation going. It was unbelievable, but he had forgotten how beautiful and how cold a desert sunrise could be.

The campsite was at a place with no name which did not even exist on any of the few maps of the area. Only the Aborigines had once had a name for this place but they had long since disappeared, leaving the desert for the mission settlements and the cattle stations which they had since taken over under the State Labor Government land rights policies of the mid-1970's: leaving for the free food, for the dole money and for the alcohol. Only he, Jonathan Small, was left, and he was only visiting.

He surveyed the horizon - slowly. There was not a single stain of human existence to be seen on the vast plain other than a solitary gravel road carving its way Southwards like a ruler across the flat, dry, red plain: the mechanical, unbending straight-line geometry of the bulldozer.

Jonathan Small was content. This campsite was as far from the rest of humanity as you could get. Eight hundred kilometers to the South were the waters of the Great Australian Bight and further Southeast, the distant civilization of Adelaide. Due West, stretching endlessly across the plain were the flooded waters of Lake Eyre shining and shimmering in the clear, soft sunlight of the dawn, flocks of ducks and geese gently paddling across the waters of the inland sea, the croaking of the frogs, the screaming galahs and jabirus. All live - all living for the moment, but it was an illusion, for the reality was that the country was desert and had been so for millennia. It would remain so forever, except for that brief moment once every thirty years or so, when the storms reached the stony heart, the Magician waved his wand, and the rain fell in torrents, transforming the parched inland heart into a vast inland sea, shining and alive, until the water finally disappeared, evaporating, vanishing into the parched, baked red dust of the desert.

It was for this momentary illusion that Jonathan Small had come. He had seen it first, once, when he was a child and his grandfather had taken him there from his home in Broken Hill to witness the miracle, and now, thirty years later, he had returned to see it again. But in truth he had never left, for this was his place, and had been so ever since he had first been there. The one spot in the world where he felt completely alive and whole, where he felt at peace.

It was the place where his soul lived.

Jonathan Small himself was a slim man, thirty-three, with brown hair and compelling eyes that seemed to look straight through you to the horizon and beyond. He had spent most of his life dreaming, lost in unknown eddies, and as a consequence he was distrusted by many people who thought that he wasn’t all there, not the full quid, but he had survived so far regardless of what they thought.

He stoked the now growing, flickering flames of the fire, the billy softly simmering. The campsite was a simple one - a single dirty, grey old army blanket that he only used for camping, a frypan, and in the distance his ute. His only concession to creature comfort was a three centimeter thick self-inflating camping mattress. He’d been using it for years whenever he went bush. It was unthinkable for him to go camping without it.

The billy boiled. He poured his cup of tea, breathed over it, and then had a long, slow sip, relaxing completely, losing himself in the elixir of the drug, trying to disappear into the beauty of the dawn. Why had he come? Why had he dropped everything, quit his job, and disappeared, retreating back into the womb of the desert, trying to truly find himself for the first time? Why now?

Jonathan looked up sharply. He’d heard something - a faint roar in the distance disturbing the peace of the bush. A red plume of dust was heading straight towards him across the flat red plain. A car. Who the hell would be coming out all this way to see him? No one would be coming up that road by accident. It led nowhere. That was why he had chosen it. The cloud of dust grew, took shape, and a car emerged. His eyebrows arched in surprise. It was his own car - the Toyota. The car he had left Carol.

He crouched silently on the ground, motionless, like a trapped rabbit, wanting to disappear, to escape, to run, but knowing that there was nowhere to run to. Waiting helplessly for the bullet which would inevitably follow the spotlight. The car stopped. A pair of well-heeled legs got out - legs that he had once known well. Jonathan did not stand up.

Hello Jonathan. How are you?

Jonathan did not reply. There was silence. Still Jonathan did not move. He did not know what to do, what to say. What did you say to a wife who had walked out on you over nine months ago?

Are you going to offer me a cup of tea? asked Carol insistently. Is there somewhere I can sit?

If you wish.

She nodded. He pointed to his left.

There’s a rock over there if you want to sit down. I don’t think that there will be too many ants.

His former wife made her way delicately towards the rock, glancing disdainfully around the campsite. Broken bottles, open empty tins, that horrible, dirty sleeping bag. The smell. It was like an Aborigine’s camp. Had she really made him sink that low? Caused this collapse? The bush was a world that she could not understand and had no interest in. She brushed the rock hopelessly with her handkerchief and then reluctantly sat down. The ants crawled on regardless. Some made it onto her handkerchief and crawled up towards her arm. She tried to edge away from them.

Why did you do this Jonathan? Did I... She hesitated. Drive you to this?

Possibly, he replied brutally. Probably not. I came here to think. It’s been building up a long time.

About what?

The ideas. The ideas in my head.

Oh. Her face froze in a barely-concealed look of uncontrollable contempt. Them.

She hated those ‘ideas’. All of their married life she had been plagued by them. She’d only ever been able to possess half of him. The rest had always belonged to those ridiculous ideas. He cared more about them than he did about her. He was obsessed with them. It was infuriating to live with a man who could lose himself in a trance for weeks, for months, and then snap out of it and act as though nothing had happened. Worse still, there was never anything to show for it. The ideas never led to anything, never led to money or to a successful career. They never led anywhere. Until now. And who wanted to live in the bloody desert?

When she had questioned him about the ideas, all he would ever say was that he had been thinking and she was locked out of the Magic Kingdom, never knowing what was inside. That was why she had left him.

Yes... Them, replied Jonathan savagely. They matter.

To who!?!

To me!

There was silence again. They had nothing more to say to each other. They had reached the end long ago.

Jonathan, I came here to ask you back.

To what? To see you and Raymond carrying on? Living together in our house? No thanks.

Raymond was the Chinese man that she had left him for. He was not as exciting as Jonathan, but then he was everything Jonathan wasn’t. He was there. He was whole. He was hers. He was also practical, sharp, and a successful careerist. And he knew how to make money. He had been Jonathan’s boss at work. He and Jonathan had been friends for over ten years. That was, until Carol.

No, you don’t have to see that. We’re living in his house now. You can live in the old house - alone. I will visit if you want me to. Look, they want you back at work. Raymond’s gone to another division - a promotion. It’s a different department. You don’t have to see him at all if you don’t want to. They respect you at work; they respect the work you have done. You can’t just ruin yourself out here.

Ruin myself. Ruin myself! exploded Jonathan, beside himself with rage. "You call this ruin! What was our life together?!? You don’t know me at all. You were never interested. All you wanted was the prestige, the fruits of my career. Well, for your information, I am happier here than I have been for years, far happier than when I was with you! At least out here there’s no lies, no pain, no trivia. No moronic routines of the day.

Out here I can think. For the first time in over ten years I can think, really think. I can feel the words beginning to flow, to pulse. The Words, they’re...

Johna-than! screamed Carol. I have had enough. Don’t you dare talk to me about ideas! About words! All you care about is the Words! All you’ve ever cared about is the Words! What about me? Don’t you care what people are saying!?!

Jonathan’s face turned to stone.

Is that the only reason you came out here? To quell the gossip?

No!

Really?!? What was it then? The alimony?

"No, forget it. I’ve got more money than you anyway. You don’t owe me a thing. The settlement’s finished.

Why did you come then? he asked more calmly.

Because I was worried about you. I wanted to know that you’re alright.

Jonathan stared at her - the pain seeping from his eyes, only bewilderment remaining. A wave of doubt swept through him. She could be telling the truth.

I’m fine.

Jonathan?

Yes?

Carol gazed at him - tenderly, whispers of the once real magic still existing. Was this what he truly had been waiting for all those years? Perhaps their time together had only been a hiatus in his life - a cocoon from which he was now breaking free. It was not her that had left him. He had forced her to go, leaving her long before, only a hollow physical shell remaining.

Do you actually think that those ideas, the Words that you have been waiting for, will come?

He stared back at her with clear, certain eyes.

Yes, I’ve been waiting for them all my life.

She nodded. There was silence. The closeness had vanished and the barriers were re-emerging.

Jonathan, I accept what you’re doing, though I think it’s stupid. I accept everything is over, but its nine hours back to Broken Hill and I can’t face that drive now. Would you mind terribly if I stayed the night?

Jonathan sat quietly staring at the ground, flashes of pain cannoning across his mind.

Fair enough, but you won’t be sleeping with me. Put your sleeping bag over there if you like, that is if you have one?

She nodded.

Jonathan walked over to the ute, withdrew a spare sleeping mat and tossed it over to her.

Here, he said, in a forced attempt at tenderness. You might be more comfortable on this.

Carol smiled. Jonathan turned his back and walked away into the surrounding bush. He did not return until nightfall. In the morning Carol left. A red plume of dust retreating back into the distance, disappearing as rapidly as it had come. Few words had been spoken.

Jonathan was in a state of shock, staring blindly in the direction of the retreating station wagon, ignorant of the quiet peace that surrounded him and of the flies crawling over his back and face. It took him almost the entire morning to stop shaking, and calm down, to be able to try once more to lose himself in the solitude of the bush. Escape was not easy.

He sat