Praying Hermit by Rebbeca Duffy
Written on the Soul Writer Membership
(inspired by the September Gnostic Caves Soul Writer Workshop 2022)
Rashid thought of himself as strong, probably fitter than average. He played football now and again. Every so often, he ran from the po-po, or a kid from another gang. But scrambling up a mountain, with a forest fire practically up his backside, well, it was a bit different. He leaned over, coughing – probably the smoke had got into his lungs. He was alone, as far as he could see. His body stung with sweat, which seeped into the cuts on his arms and legs.
He could see across the valley to other mountains, but they drifted in and out of sight, sinking into the mist, or the smoke. It was hard to tell which. There’d been fires on the moors, back home, but not like this. The least you’d expect of a fire was that it’d keep you warm, but this was stifling, monstrous.
Now he’d stopped scrambling, he was well nesh. The wind clawed at his bruised and battered body. Bangladesh, colder than Coulson. Who knew? He was still coughing; his breath was wheezy. He looked for somewhere to rest, out of the wind. There was a kind of cave, gouged out of the side of the rock, a large hulking piece of rock near the summit of the mountain. He crawled into it, exhausted. At least he could rest a little, recover his strength. He sat down in the recess. His feet were cut and bleeding from the sharp stones he must have been walking over on the way up – he hadn’t felt them at the time.
The ground was dry, sandy between the rocks. Here and there he could see burnt trees, scorched all the way to the top, their few remaining branches reduced to sticks. Perhaps they’d been struck in a storm. Or burnt in other fires. Next to his toes, was a tiny blue flower, growing out of the rock. Now he was sitting, he could see them everywhere, clumps of those little flowers, beaten and bent by the wind. A line of large ants crossed the sand in front of him. He shifted back further away from them. Away from the gusty smoke, the air was easier to breathe, and didn’t sting his nostrils. He gulped at it hungrily, his chest still heaving with effort. He felt his calf muscles and shoulders soften, just slightly. Then more slowly. Just keep breathing, he told himself.
He realised that even on this mountain, this sharp edge of grey, smoky, death, he did not feel afraid. At least he could escape from a fire. He hoped. In Coulson, there was nowhere to escape to. There would always be Devon, mithering him outside his house in his souped-up Astra, the engine running. Always the threat of a knife in his arse if he failed to show for a pick-up. Or the knock on his door in the night, the po-po ransacking his bedroom. But no way anyone could find him here – even he didn’t have a clue where he was. It came to him then with a sudden raw clarity, that his parents were right to leave him behind, in the middle of a jungle. Not that they knew there’d be a fire like this.
He closed his eyes and remembered the ‘before time’. Before Big Mo took him under his wing, got him selling little packets on the estate. Serving his apprenticeships, before he was moved onto the trams. Ramadan in the ‘before time’, breaking the fast in the community centre. Playing football. Watching TV. It was hard to remember the ‘before time’, even though it had only been a few years ago. Because when he started, it was a world that disappeared completely. There was no going back.
He would pray. There was nobody to see him here. His mother was not there to embarrass him, to kiss him, and announce him proudly as her son, the devout Muslim. No uncle to mither him for not doing it properly. Just him and this mountain, the flowers and the ants. He shifted to his feet. He had no mat, he could hardly perform a cleansing ritual, and couldn’t remember the words, only ‘Allah Akbar’. So it would not count of course. But maybe the benevolent One, who had guided him safely so far, and brought him to this mountaintop shelter, could get him down again. Back to some warm clothes and a brew, and some of his aunt’s food.
Kneeling on the floor, his forehead in the sand, he fell asleep.