They spoke in low tones and at some point her husband looked up at Honor, his eyebrows going up in surprise, and oddly, admiration—respect—flickered through his eyes before it was quickly swept away.
Did everyone know who she was? Her panic level was beginning to overwhelm her. She could barely breathe. Only the knowledge that they were out there. Close. Watching and waiting. Hunting. And that innocents could very well be killed were Honor to be discovered, because nothing mattered to these people except their objective. Only knowing that she could be responsible for senseless bloodshed caused her mounting hysteria to be pushed back, and she walked calmly with the woman to one of the small dwellings a short distance from where her booth had been set up.
Once inside, Honor allowed herself to relax just a little. She didn’t feel as exposed in here, even though she knew she wasn’t safe and that the walls of the small abode only gave the illusion of protection. It would take no strength at all to burst through the closed door in front, so if someone wanted in here, there was nothing to stop them.
The woman quickly and efficiently gathered the items Honor had requested and then took a goodly amount of a thick paste from a bowl she kept on a shelf and carefully rolled it in layers of breathable cloth, forming a small, compact packet that Honor could easily secrete on her body or simply carry in her bag.
She had carried the items from the booth Honor had requested and helped Honor pack everything in the makeshift bag. After seeing that it was merely a blanket with the ends gathered into a haphazard knot to keep items from escaping, she made a tsking sound and left Honor alone for a moment, returning mere seconds later with a sack that was of sturdier material and had not only a drawstring to close the opening but a strap that could be worn over her shoulder, cross body, so her hands would be free at all times.
Honor looked directly into the woman’s eyes, her gaze open and unflinching as her new protector secured the bag over Honor’s clothing. She dropped any pretense because it was obvious the woman knew exactly who Honor was. And she had to know why.
“Why are you helping me?” Honor asked softly in the woman’s native language. “You risk much to go against an army such as the one hunting me.”
Anger blazed in the other woman’s eyes and for a moment she was silent before she once more composed herself and the anger subsided after a few moments.
“They are an abomination,” she hissed, betraying her outward look of calm. “They do not do Allah’s work. They are not Allah’s sons. They betray every true believer, those who know the truth. They kill their own kind. They kill those who oppose them. They kill the foreigners who only seek to give aid to our people. They do not do God’s work. They do the devil’s. They want power and glory and they want to be both revered and feared. And if they aren’t stopped, not one single person, Muslim or those who follow any other religion or belief, who doesn’t embrace their sinful ways will be spared. They will not stop at the countries and regions they currently occupy and terrorize. Even now, they expand, like a plague, bringing death and destruction to all they touch. They will send loyal servants into the world and we will see a time such as no one has ever seen before. Where no place is safe. No country is safe. The entire world will know what it is like to be here, to be one of us, and live every single day in fear of dying or losing a loved one to senseless, godless violence. And then what will we do? Where will we go? And who will stop them?”
The woman took a breath, her impassioned statement so honest and earnest that the words had spilled forth, that she barely took the time to breathe as she confided her fears—the unvarnished truth—to Honor.
“They have fooled many,” the woman admitted. “They act godly. They are well versed in the Qur’an and they are masters at twisting the holy words, making them appear to mean what they do not. Many who follow them truly believe they are doing as Allah wills, that they are serving him and will be richly rewarded for their service.
“And this group operates on fear and hatred,” she said in disgust. “Once initiated into the ranks of the group, disobedience or anything that could be construed as disloyalty is considered a crime against Allah and is punishable by death. And it is not quick or merciful.”
She shuddered, sorrow touching her eyes as though she had firsthand knowledge of the things she related to Honor.
“They are used as examples in order to keep the others in line. They are praised and their egos stroked for not falling out of line and for proving their absolute dedication to their ‘cause.’ Those who don’t are tortured horribly, and others, the faithful followers, are forced to inflict the torture as a way of hardening them. It’s portrayed as an honor to be able to aid in taking the life and soul of one who has betrayed them. In the end, when the victim has reached the end of his endurance and death is imminent, he is beheaded at a group gathering and is cursed to hell, his every alleged sin related before everyone. Then and only then is his head cut off and then they celebrate . . .”
She broke off again and glanced one more at Honor, this time more than sorrow reflected in her eyes. They were awash with tears and grief. Honor understood such grief. The kind that choked you, threatened to shut you down. The kind that made you numb and almost unfeeling except for that keen sense of loss. And you embraced it because you didn’t want to feel anymore. You didn’t want to remember.
Unable to hold back, Honor reached across the short distance and laid her hand over the old woman’s and squeezed in a gesture of comfort but also solidarity. To let her know she believed as this woman did. That Honor found the things she’d related as abhorrent as the woman had.