The Rock of Hell

By Kay Hassan

It is not a personal story, it is a war novel,
displaying the memories of a thousand American
soldiers lived in the darkness of the war with me.
It is the memories of the war time, the unlivable
moments that they shared together, with all
personal ruptures midst fatal disputes of locals,
along with the world of myth, religion and unique
quality of the mens raw nature, where all key
aspects of misbehaviors explode .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465305565

Kay Hassan

Kay Hassan was born in Iraq, studied control and system, worked for State Organization of Electricity in Iraq, immigrated to Australia at the start of 2004, he lives in Sydney , Australia with his family.

Book preview

Prologue

I will pull down the Gates of Hell. upon them. And let the dead roam the countries, free. An ancient cuneiform script.

"There came Alexander the Great.

There came Marcus Ulpius Nerva Traianus Augustus.

There came Publius Aelius Trajanus Hadrianus Augustus, who built a wall runs from Wallsend to Bowness on Solawy on the west coast.

There came Avidius son of Cassius, by the year 165 who advanced into Mesopotamia, and sacked Seleucia. There came Lucius Septimius Severus Augustus and sacked Ctesiphon, and sold one hundred thousand free men into slavery.

There out of the city’s wall, north of Ctesiphon, the emperor Flavius Claudius Iulianus Augustus was killed. There came Moslems, and reduced the city of Ctesiphon to ash. There came Holagu son of Tolui son of Genghis Khan, and destroyed the city of Baghdad and took the finest women with the gold of the city to Qaragum. There came Taimur Lang, and built a castle out of skeletons at the site of the venue of Caliph’s rally. There came Ottomans and stopped the history forever.

There came George Frederick Ernest Albert, king of United Kingdom and British Dominions and Emperor of India, to learn New Caught Sullen Peoples, Half devil and half child.

There came George Walker Bush, and took up honestly The White Man’s Burden in my era or after, when everyone looked unto the sky, thinking that the chaos theory might help." Thus. the last quagmires’ bard, my sibling, had sung in ever loving memories of the ruins of Babylon and Ctesiphon and Seleucia and this Baghdad, stretching his neck under the executioner’s sword, on the last altar of the ceremonial blood shedding of the old world.

Chapter One

IN DOMOS HAIDOU

Once upon a time, there was a boy walking under the moon. He was coming down across the meadows, midst all mountain flowers of the golden heights… breathing the eastern breeze at large, hitting the night and singing for the world with migrant birds, letting himself soon to halt, by the old spring where from he started watching the milky way beyond the falling russet horizon, rhyming randomly all the heights’ dulcet odes for a little joy, for glory. He knew he was the star of wonder… the king of the night. There is nothing like me, ye stars. He screamed, walking to where lights own the glory. He dreamed of the day, but it was the end of his time.

A disgrace ghost had dreamed! He was alone, sensing the roaring history, merging a thousand dreams with lizards’, roots’ and worm’s, in a dark, humid cell. He was listening to the whispers, and waiting hesitantly for the shadows of the guards. He thought they would leave the corridor soon. It was his cell alone, and he was aware that he had waited and switched between different dreams for a long time.

With the stream of wild spirits, he would lay his head against the cold asphalt of the bed, and stay awake with his pain, rounding in his mind, memories of things past. So, at times might he put himself in the warm bed midst echoes of his brothers’ fury… sisters’ weakness, and all the destructed eyes, swinging and fluttering forward and backward, looking for his anchor, back in the old house, and on the forum of tribunes. But he had to wait, yet, there was a turn for him. He would very soon return to the theatre, through the very ancient way to Altare Dei.

He could not stop himself thinking, or let himself running out of feeling. He would just sit on the altar alike wooden structure, dangling his legs over the torture’s theater, reading furiously lustrous verses ancient lords had written on the rocks, whilst whispers into his ear were mythically hissing over and over. He thought things were blessing him. The ancient ghosts were talking. In fact they were reading things in lord’s behalf. Thus we tell you the story of Daniel, the prophet of this city and the city of Jerusalem. ‘Read.’ He said. ‘Read what, Lord.’ Said Daniel. We said. ‘Read The Writing On The Wall.’ And there, all the while he could not stop himself raving about the verses.

When the time passed, he could hear himself like a holy magus talking to fires. Shivering steadily on the ground with his darkness withered skin, hissing and murmuring the commitment to Genesis of the Sad Heights midst communists, nationalists, Moslem warriors and fanatics, listening though to the best stories God had written for man.

Trembling with Satan’s offspring’s thunderous gaze, and yet, he was hearing more whispers, reading in his ear local verses. Ezekiel, take your book, book of your Lord, book of your fathers… ascend the ruin of the lofty wall of Babylon, and there call my name until your people see the sky cart, the secret of your lord.

Occasionally, he thought, when the time comes, he would pay the tribute to all his wrecked brothers and sisters buried up there above, in the desert, and rock up the shrine of princess Amytis the Mede, daughter of Cyaxares. She would linger eastward under the trees of Nebuchadnezzar The Second, waiting for the Angels of the great prophet of Israel, they would come upon her, mocking, and she would cry. Oh, God of old lands, they have deceived Cyaxares.

He crumpled with all his ancient hoax on the ground, reading the history. In the month of Abu, god of the green land and rivers and quagmires, and gods of other towns, and gods of Kish and goddess Ninlil and gods of Hursaghalma came down to Babylon. They were being hosted till the end of the month, gods of Borisppa, Cuta, and Sipper were not among them, for they were missing the blood shedding seasons on this land.

He went back through the myths and gods’ remnants, lizard alike stretched himself on the ground, fumbling his way in the darkness. He could see everything again… he could see faces of huddling men all around the world. They were all together, lingering unconsciously, thinking of the flood, It was still His time. And His flood might be coming upon the land… all lands and all rivers. They would run before the waves of the flood, with all creatures, beasts, and all species, struggling to find a haven somewhere, pulling themselves onward alongside with Noah’s ark.

But all a sudden he woke up like a stray child, halted for a while. He had to stop his mind, Screaming. Oh, God, leave your children not, they are fallen in DOMOS HAIDU.

*     *     *

Stiffened, his mind was blank and rigid… he swore to God, never would burst into tears again, hissing all the while, in the darkness of the cell. He was hardly likely would breath the thick air of the cellar. Then, there is no use… he would wake up in the real life, upon looking up, unto Lord, The Almighty… crying and struggling to catching his breath up, hitting the ground with his head, for he was unable to bring his physical symptoms into submission, and. reveal himself after all those years of denial.

He had to confess, struggling inside the massive religion cocoon of the hectic nations, running eastward, crying. God, bless me, heading westward screaming. God bless my parents, and bless my family. Therefore, for the first time he would confess. I am a prisoner of God, and I am happy with that, infidels.

It looked quite natural, and like everyone, he was curious to learn everything about everyone, that might help him in somehow, but he had excluded everything from his mind now, living on his dream alone.

For a long time, he kept another secret, and had not told anyone of. It was the beginning… there upon, he had been digging up the ground of his cell under the broken asphalt, with his fingers, looking for an escape hole, and taking out with him everyday a handful of dust to free. He was crazy about his dream, and never gave up.

Doors were slamming shut with alluring footsteps, walking in the corridor and deep in a step, and on the very end of the route, and behind the walls. Doors were opening ajar with greedy whispers, along the night, whilst cruel guards were walking steadily in the narrow path, whispering and swearing to God. We will dismantle your bones sooner or later, traitors, infidels, Zionists. But years had passed, all through nights. They have never seen day light, where in their long waking nights, bones were reducing to ash and salt.

In spite of all his weakness he swore, in murmuring tone. I would go back home, and fight forever. He had started looking for an escape path, passionately, digging in the asphalts of his cellar with calcimined fingers and broken nails of his own. But at the end, to his surprise, he came across rolls and ancient parchment of Sumers’ and Babylon’s remains buried under the premises. He felt for awhile his time might come soon. But, in a desperate mood, he started reading, and rounding in his mind the content of the parchments ever since.

He would keep the rolls in the hole and cover them with dirt and hay, and would read them during his best time… reading and merely thinking of worries of the threatening shadows in glazing coats, walking along the corridor’s path. There had been no time for prisoners after twelve o’clock, they would be lying on the torture’s theatre.

Devils were waiting there. They would come, in random, undressing him entirely to lie down naked with all his shameful glands stretched on the wooden table, bringing his face upward, to be gazing up unto the space, where grey, solid faces would surround his big head to insult, raking his bones with a malleable lead like tools, laughing and screaming. But, now at this luxurious moments, he would read matters of religion… no matter what language they were written by, his mind was full of hoaxes and mystics of all languages, since he was born.

The ancient papyruses were mixed with bloods and bones of gods and kings and everyone’s ancestors. He had read, day and night, until he found himself becoming a great legend in the valley.

He would recall Book of Daniel upon whispers of dreadful ghosts and dull brains, struggling always in his troubled mind to read the reflection of His words on the dark roof of the cellar of Domos Haidou. At the time he switched on to converse steadily at large: He would become something out of history, he would tell everyone his story and becomes a national symbol… he would become something like stone, fossil, insects, water lilies, country roads, Medes’ Holocaust or Anfal’s of this modern ages.

After all he would try his best to gain his torturers’ trust, they might be kind to him, they were Muslims, so was he. And he would pray with them if they let him, reading heartily the Holy Quran in the same way they do.

Many years had passed, and many colleagues had died, and many new comers filled their cells, but the prison was still cold and dim. The black walls were always surrounding his head, rock alike, in the hell of sinners, but he swore to God to stay alive. Thinking first, I would lie on the cracked asphalt, fingering coiled letters of ancient verses scratched on the wall, like worms and roots, reading in each coil a history of thousand years of lies past. The lies written by mentors, priests, historians, liar prophets and others for kings. He would never blame them, they were glorious diamonds of the nation, but he was nothing. I swear to God, I am nothing. He thought sadly.

For no reason, but for they had names and bones, did they write dates of torture ceremonies, on the wall. Everything was solid and eternal. He would often feel iron frames of their ghosts, touching his wounds. He had known them through his fingers, and had fetched the history of their bloodlines. But, he was now waiting for someone, towing his corpse to the torturing theatre.

He tried, on the theatre, with every lash hitting his skin, to find a new word for his book, raising his feet up, high, too high, unto the sky, unto the eternity as high as he could, easing the torturers’ mission, smiling, trying to gain their trust, breathing with all his wrecked body at the moment they hit his feet, screaming loudly, at once, with his whole being. God… hiiit. and they would hit and they would scream furiously.’ ‘Bastard. Son of bitch’ They would laugh and he would laugh, because they were Muslims, might they have inherited holy hearts.

Having his skin stiffened in random… anger had severely tightened his vocal system. He was cruel and mad, gazing at the stiffness, writhing and howling, struggling to bring back his terrible dream. He was now waiting and groaning, underneath, on the ground with his pains, bleeding and wringing his whole body. He could see his wounds shining clearly in the darkness. They were bright and red like his sisters’ opals and they were glittering and tweeting, like sparrows.

It was at that time, when everyone from the neighboring cells felt the bastards were running late. It was the first time, and never had happened, since the day the first prisoner stepped in and never left the venue.

Chapter Two

SOLDIERS

Nevertheless, in a trembling voice, somewhere in a cellar behind the wall, in the depth of the darkness, a prisoner of the life time screamed. Where are the pigs, where are the bastards? But the scream followed by a horrible silence. Everyone waited for the consequence in a great fear, trying to stand up on his rickety legs. They were males… started roughly, in silence, rhyming their pains, perhaps in despair. In fact the man had broken the silence, and when he felt the privilege in the ecstasy’s moments, started screaming, steadily, waiting for responses. He knew the voice, it was Haider’s voice, the strangest man in the venue.

He had known him. So, he stunningly started, losing all his remaining pride, unable to believe his ear, gapping all the while, remembering the nights upon the theatre’s events, where they were lying together under the savage hands, groaning cruelly. But, the scream shook his whole dead body now. Yet, the man was screaming loudly. He called his name several times, but he was not able to reply. He thought with himself, the worst of the man, murmuring awkwardly in the air of his cellar. God damned man, never had a wise peer.

It is our turn to rule, brother, you were brave, patient and honest, have not uttered even a single word of blasphemy or ingratitude all those years… I will mention your name in front of my lords, they are exiles coming back very soon. They are kings’ descendents, princes’, prophets’, have God’s signs on foreheads. That is the prophesy, brother. This land is rising up to give the real tribute to the lord of martyrs. Haider cried anxiously, shedding real tears for his lords’ absence, and the glory they will have achieved.

I am not a politician, sir, I am a little prophet. He said, he was rude, angry… actually he was scared. Pray you, brother, do not. Haider screamed, with a chocked voice, shivering and raging, sensing the world by all his fatal ungues, erupting to crush his bones, like giant beasts of past. Everyone screamed at him. ‘For God’s sake, shush."

He had met the man on the torture’s theatre several times, lying down on their backs together, the tortures said. Haider first. Then he lied next to Haider. They talked silently, and knew each other since then… weeks ago, Haider was sad and desperate, but they gestured to each other under the torturers’ hands. We will live, brother, God will help us, I had a dream, you were in a green mantle serving in a glittering shrine in the sky, watering people from a fascinating silver grail. He said, he was inspiring the man. God bless you, brother."The man said, he looked real, with his dark eyes glittered with a red glow, growing with a great whim, and flashing all real man’s desires, warning him, indeed, for another go.

Not sooner. After all those years, out of the history, all a sudden, they heard a sharp screech, sounding steadily along the corridor, squeaking aggressively. It was not a normal voice of guards, it was an indistinct voice, screaming though like a real man, man of word, man of battlefield. They walked first, randomly, then they grouped everywhere in a unique order. In fact they looked like historic heroes, we dreamed of them, they were peers of Achilles. It is over. It is over. The prisoner jerked back, shivering on the cold ground, jolting. God, almighty, stand me. Everyone screamed. They were creeping or crawling on the rocks.

They had never heard a voice like that. They had used to torturers’ screams, wailing prisoners, swearing words and whispers of past. He was a dead corpse… woke up though, gazing through the dusk, crawling on the ground, trying to push his head through the cold bars, struggling to unlock his chains.

He looked through the suspicious corridors, with the edge of his right eye, struggling to see a sign, trying to keep his mouth shut. He heard echoes of wailing men behind the bars, rhyming, all the wile, verses in low growl with the distant thunders, breaking the long term fear they had experienced forever, and lived with its mythical cracks. Every thing was still coming from past, crippling all sensitive organs in their bodies.

Sounds of the falling statue of Nebuchadnezzar and smells of ashes and gunpowder, swords, spears, and long ugly lances, all together, waves alike lashed his skin, awaking in his body the rage of pure matters. But, the real squeakers and screamers were approaching with the steady furious wind. Not sooner, the prisoners breathed the ancient air, coming through the little hatch in the ceiling above the black porch and staircase in the corridor.

Out of flashing eyes, and biting hearts, bitterly, everyone was watching, and swinging backward and forward, in response to the appalling whispers and marches behind the walls. Gazing into the suspicious space where a cold steady wind blew upon the falling shadows, emerged with glittering phosphorous color, from the hatch in the corridor’s roof like the writing on the wall, breathing ruthlessly with a high laughter cry, sneering and squeaking with digital masks, and atomic powered eyes rays.

They breathed at once the yellowish cold sand storm of the Sumerians’ whispers. Flashes were now revealing the deformed faces and crushed heads and wrecked skeletons. They were still touching the ground with whips scorched skins, yearning for some obscure days. Then, at once, everyone screeched. God, Almighty, it is your miracle! For they had never seen so many signs and so many clean people.

After all those years, for the first time he felt the power of the wind, having again the cruel silk thread muscles of Nietzsche in his heart. Though he had kissed the philosophy Goodbye. It was a residual signs combination, had stayed within his bones’ marrow, within destructed mind, and dried limbs. The shadows were coming down the hatch. He knew at once they were west wing ghosts; agile and out of reach. He would kneel, he thought with himself, praying and crying for everything he had seen. He was still the same mountains’ beast, who was being thrown in this nonbeing under the desert’s bed, forever.

The soldiers were murmuring and swearing, midst the horrible shriek of the prisoners, unaware of what they were going through. The solders had challenged the storms and dangers under the furious sky to free them, they thought that indeed. The soldiers screamed now, clearly. It’s over, it is over, he was a Scourge of God, it’s over. They were screaming, and the prisoners were breathing and crying, out of the long terrible nights, sticking to the ground, shivering and gazing through the darkness of history, weeping and weeping and weeping.

Who are you? He screamed from his dim spot, with his weak voice. The bastards had taken his dictionary years ago. But, they were being excited to death, and their dead fleshes started moving clearly again, on the filthy floor of the hell.

We are American Marines, our commitment is to free you, sir. A soldier replied sternly, he showed the most gravity and honor he has ever seen, in the eyes of men of arms. In what year we are, Sir? He asked them, they were anxious to know the date. We are an American Marine, sir. He said again.

He was frequently, digging in his blank mind for the old stories through the ruined memories, looking astonishingly forward, and having dragged his body now, too far, looking for the features of the warriors in the Book Of Apollyon… He had been reading the very paragraph while facing the dictators’ soldiers attacking their miserable suburbs, and now he was reading the same words, unconsciously. And the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on their heads were as it were crowns like gold, and their faces were as the faces of men. And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions.

They were still rolling on the ground, looking through gray blackish tearing eyes. The ghosts were soldiers, with all features of mixture and blend of skins and bones. Having fathers and grandfathers fought each other forever.

Raising his head, narrowing his eyes against the lightened corridor, gazed steadily at the flesh and bones of Statues of Freedom, waiting for the woman of the explosive chemistry whispering to him, too, while some one was unlocking his chain, right there now. He felt the hands of a female Marine. She was stretching her hands to him, passionately. He forgot all his rolls and parchments. She showed him the way out. The roaring machinery up, started rocking the cellars, the real hell on earth.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

When he stretched his hand, and touched hers, he felt the real crack in his solid finger, for he had still the solid shell of past, feeling the glorious America in his skin.

He was still yearning, looking into the careless years… not facing his opponent at all… feeling. The thunder of the glorious Almighty had hit my land, and I became a wrecked corpse in his hell, for having dreamed to ascent into heaven, exalting my throne above the stars of God… from Isaiah-. He murmured to himself…

A blond hair soldier pulled him up with a thick rope. Soldiers were still breaking gates and bars. He was hearing screams and sounds of prisoners behind him crying, while soldiers were knocking the doors and walls down. For God’s sake, Sir, open the door. The prisoners were still screaming and breathing painfully ashes of past.

It is Doomsday, brother. The religious man Haider said, they released him, too, and gave him cigarettes and water to pray. There, at the end he said. We have different ways, brother, farewell. Haider said, the man looked now entirely different. In fact Haider left in his heart an obscure fear, he could not rid of easily.

The soldiers hauled him to the prison’s yurt, where he tried to open his eyes, but he could not see any thing clearly. There, they led him midst screams and roaring tanks. He heard, too, a giant song, sounding everywhere through great megaphones close to him, and far everywhere to the end of the world, freeing his mind into the memories of seventies.

"We will fight,

For the right

To live in freedom."

He had never heard the song. But the voice exploded his memory. He had to cry, he was anxious to see the new feeling of Paul McCartney. But a giant soldier searched his stinking clothe, and twisted the black shirt on his bones, his eyes started viewing the blurry scene around. his body but he stood under his hand putting his neck on the line, beseeching more soldiers for having mercy on him, gazing at the glittering stars in the flapping flags. He was still yearning. Yearning. The great word was engraved in his throat. And he did not know what for he was stuck to life in such a humble manner.

He was still blind and senseless, unaware how to believe himself. ‘I am a prisoner of Life Time, Sir.’ He told the blond hair soldier, but the soldier could not hear him properly, he laughed sternly. The soldier was a dull solid powerful man, he was laughing at his wrecked frame, but he had not had a heart for joke and happiness at all. He was now thinking of people hailing him outside the walls, honoring him for the first time in his life, as a long lost figure of the nation.

They huddled, beseeching the soldier. ‘Sir, Sir, Sir.’ He was the closest one, screaming. Sir. Sir. I was a prisoner of life time, Sir. But, the soldier had already intended to release him. I was a prisoner of life time, Sir. He repeated. Go, go, go, go. The soldier screamed, he was cranky, and grouchy, trying to get rid of the crowd, as soon as possible. And there, for the first time, he learnt what Who cares. Means.

They had given him a small pack of meal and a bottle of drink, with some canned food, and pushed him out side the walls… the soldier pushed him gently, and kept touching his back until he felt he was out side the walls. He had just crossed the gate’s threshold on his foot, facing the big blow crushing his heart, when, there, he heard his foot pattering on the ground for the first time, stunningly walked with his paralyzed body, he was reviving with a cold dusty breeze of the season. And soon he started breathing the dust of the desert at large.

Thereupon, after all those years, for the first time, he revealed to himself, in a clear words. "I have to be someone, indeed. Someone real." Remembering he did have a family… he did have a wife and daughters.

His lexicon had run out of the foreign language words. He had a blank mind, shivering outside the walls, under the blowing storm. How long we have been waiting for this, Sir. He told the last guard on his way. In what year we are, Sir?’ He asked, too. You ask a wrong person, we are American Marines, Sir." The guard replied confidently. For many years they kept asking the torturers the same question, but they never answered the questions.

For the last time, out of the walls of the prison, he looked back, with tearing eyes murmuring. Oh, God, how many years have we spent here? How did you allow all those to happen on your lands? I whispered to my God, and with a huge blow. I knew there was no one