The Hero of Kaddar

Among the many towns of the civilization of its time, Kaddar was a lush and prosperous village with more than an average number of citizens. The rolling green hills extended well beyond the town’s exterior, full of ferns and chir pines. In the fields, farmers’ mornings were spent with long, anxious hours of seed-planting and crop-tending. All along the interior of the valley of hills were clay buildings densely packed and stacked on top of each other like a crowded room, their tops flat and their windows square. The streets were full of life with markets and people, fruit and vegetable stands, and snake charmers combining the music of their flutes with the chatter of the people. There was the smell of grilling, fish, wet greens, curry and spices, flowers, lavender and oils, sweat, salt and herbs, and heat. Priests and their followers prayed to carved stone statues of the Goddess. Gorgeous dancers in Kaddarian dresses, blue or pink or green with intricate gold designs of swans or butterflies, waved around their sashes and scarves and kept their faces low in their shawls as they gracefully swayed around the streets. Citizens lined up to get water at the wells, children heaving the bucket up with a pulley and rope they would carry back to their mothers and fathers. Night and day soldiers with spears and helmets roamed the streets, catching thieves snatching pouches of coins or closing down stands based on suspicious activity. Apothecaries with their knapsacks full of items and remedies for any known disease offered their services to passersby. Monkeys picked on food from the ground, fighting the swooping shikras for it. Beggars put their hands together for anyone, their beards long and scruffy. The heat was powerful, the sun mesmerizing and impregnable in the clear blue sky. 

To sixteen-year-old orphan Rashem Sumara, as to most young men who have enough of an ego to think so, his heroism was beloved by the town of Kaddar. The sword and shield were his tools, but the cape was what truly labeled him as the hero he believed to be. He believed Kaddar needed him. All around there was crime and cruelty, and he was this beacon of light shining on the darkness of the village. Rashem was fit and strong, taller than many kids his age. He had wild, curly black hair, brown skin, big muscles yet a slender frame, aligned teeth--how he loved himself! His greatest feat, to him, was lifting a massive boulder from the ground in front of everyone at the town square to show that he was, indeed, strong enough to be a hero. He could not join the military yet because he was too young, but he wanted to show he was more than capable of already joining. On most days he liked to pose in front of the village on the highest hill nearby with his sword and shield. He’d raise his scimitar high and have his rectangular shield faced forward, his bronze armour, chiseled at the chest and abs, glinting in the sunlight, his majestic red cape billowing in the wind dramatically. He would think, I am beloved by my people. The people of Kaddar. His creed was simple: Be a hero for Kaddar because who he was inside was a hero.

Every day he’d walk down the slum-like street where he lived, where he had come to know the children. All younger than him, they ranged from tiny to small, skinny to fat, dark to brown. Boys and girls of various ages that played soccer rain or shine. That, or sometimes tag, or sometimes hide and seek. These little children ridiculed him and his hero creed. “Your cape makes you look funny,” they’d say. Or, “You can’t wield a sword for your life!” For the most part, Rashem ignored these comments. They never got to him. Especially Mira’s, a fourteen-year-old girl, one of the oldest of the bunch, who always seemed to show up at the worst times and scold him. He could not allow her comments to get to him because these two have been locked in a teasing battle since early childhood, and that would mean surrender. For years when  they were younger, she teased him that she was taller than him by a mile. When he hit that growing peak age, he skyrocketed above her and she’s been bitter about it ever since. All the labour he did for the farmers, pulling yokes along with cattle, heaving ropes over pulleys, or delivering sacks of basmati rice made him very fit. Nowadays, he flaunts his muscles in front of her and smiles and winks because he knows she hates him and his “hero stuff,” which she had nicknamed herself. But make no mistake, the two absolutely despise each other. “You look stupid, doing all the things you do,” would be a typical thing Mira would say to him. “No one cares about your hero persona. You aren’t anyone’s saviour like you think you are. And no girls come flocking to you like you think in your head.” Rashem would only laugh and stand in front of her, putting a hand up to their almost a foot-sized height difference. “So much talk for a shorty like you!” She’d scoff and chase after him, “Get back here! I’m not done with you yet!” He’d be laughing the whole run around town.

With no mother or father figure in his life, Rashem frequently talked to the wise village elder who lived not too far from the hut he built himself (with the help of other builders of the community, but he would never admit that a hero such as him relied on them). His name was Pranit Laghari, and he was about ninety years old, or so others claimed. He did not know his age himself. He was a small old man in an uttarasanga, balding with remnants of pure white hair, never without his walking stick. Rashem always inquired him about the townsfolk and their attitude toward his heroism. The boy was not oblivious to their disapproval of him. “Pray tell, babuji,” he’d ask, “why does Kaddar hate me? Why do its citizens dislike my heroic feats and brave rescuing of other people?” The wise elder had a complex relationship with Rashem, in which he was part of the crowd disapproving of his behaviour, but at the same time he wanted to help the boy understand something he did not. The old man would say, “Why do you think you are a hero?” Rashem would take a second to think but would have his answer quick: “I am strong. I am fast. I have a sweet sword, a hulking shield, shining armour, and this marvellous red cape on my back that truly signifies I am a hero.” Pranit would shake his head. “You must try harder, Rashem. You must try until you get it.” Rashem would interpret this confidently and dutifully. I need to do more, he’d think. I need to lift more boulders to show my strength. I need to flog more thieves in the town square where everyone can see to show my sense of justice. I need to save more, help more, do more to earn my hero status. If I do enough hero things, they will believe I am a hero, like I do. I must do all these things because I am a hero, and they must see that.

He took the advice to heart. In the town square when citizens would gather around a dais to listen to a public speaker ranting about the kingdom’s current leader or snake charmers and dancers performing a show, he’d jump onto the stage, do amazing sword spinning tricks, show off his muscles, and flaunt his red cape. “Am I a hero now?” he’d ask. Booooo, the crowd would say, throwing tomatoes at him. One day on patrol, a worker carrying baskets was almost crushed by a rolling boulder down a hill. He was there just in time, stopping it in its tracks. Then, with all his strength, in front of the eyes of the many people watching, he heaved it up over him and showed them a true miracle of brawn. “Look! I saved this poor, innocent man! Am I a hero now?” Booooo, the crowd would say, dispersing and ignoring him. When the annual fighting tournament happened and he climbed his way to the top, defeating his opponent in the finals by sweeping him off his feet with his sword, he stepped over him, put his sword at his chin, his shield on his chest, made sure his red cape was all over his face, and said, “I am the strongest there is in Kaddar! I can protect everyone in this village! Is this not enough for you people? Am I a hero now?” Booooo, the crowd would say. Rashem would look crestfallen. What would it take to please these people?

“Get off that man! You won already.”

“You’re only a hero because you want to be one!”

“You’re a fraud! No one believes you are a real hero!”

“I did not know people could get this insincere, so pathetic.”

“My son can’t lift half of what you can but has a heart worth ten times of yours.”

“I can show you!” said Rashem. “I will be better, I promise! I am a hero, I tell you. I will learn eventually how to please Kaddar!”

He would then go home, put his weapons aside, hang his armour and cape, and pull his knees to his chest against the wall, on the brink of angry tears. A desire for validation so strong, he would stay here and contemplate about how he could prove himself to the people of Kaddar. Was it something that could be learned? Was it innate? He needed to solve this mystery or they would not love him, and the glory of being a hero was all that mattered to him. It would earn him a status beyond anyone else’s, and it would really irritate Mira. The thought left a smile on his face as he went to sleep.

Then one day, everything in Rashem’s life changed forever. Beginning a few months ago, the neighbouring Asarians and their hierophant of a leader Dhaos Khan had been getting unruly near the borders of the state of Kaddar. For days on end they’d set up military camps at the edge between the nations and send horseback rider scouts over the border and train their army in the ways of the spear and bow. Lately they have been conquering and pillaging nearby towns and leaving nothing but fire and destruction in their wake. Men and women and children left in the dust of their burning homes, impaled, ravished, dead. Such concerning news left Kaddar worried for their future and survival, but being a strong state, matters of defense were already being prepared and its citizens lay in a serene fear like the calm before the storm, an anxious peace against a horror darkly approaching like Death’s scythe. But having not reached Kaddar yet, Rashem paid no attention to their advance. When they came, no one was ready, especially him.

For such a brash and promised protector of Kaddar, the people of the town were swept in a hazy whirlwind of ash, fear and death faster than Rashem could put on his cape and go outside. The Asarians were strong, numerous, and swift. They had attacked in the dead of night, and Rashem stirred awake to the smell of smoke and to the sounds of people shouting and screaming. He blinked away sleep as he took sight of his own roof burning. Out his window he saw the Asarians rushing and striking innocent people and capturing the women. Before Rashem’s very eyes, the town he had grown up in and loved all his life was crumbling down. 

He was deathly afraid to go out and fight. Instinctively, he dove under his bed of hay and tried to hide. He went low and covered his head with his hands, trying to stay as quiet as possible. His blood turned cold and his heart pounded in his chest. He listened to the sounds outside. “Where are our brave men, sworn to protect us?” he seemed to hear the people chant. “Where is a saviour when you need one? Where is a warrior with a heart courageous enough to fight for us? Where is a champion to lift us up in times of need? Where? Where? Where? Where is Rashem, the Hero of Kaddar?”

When the dust settled and the fog of night arrived, the town was silent and the blazing fires went out. There were no more Asarians marching in the streets. Rashem had still not been found. He got out of the hay and peeked outside. When he saw the way was clear, he stepped outside, surveying his surroundings. The pride of Kaddar was shattered like glass. Everywhere he looked, there were the carcasses of his people, under rubble, covered in soot and dirt, face-first on the ground or on their backs so he could see their faces. Rashem sobbed at the genocidal horror, a desolate and empty feeling growing in his heart. He longed to do something--anything!--to make up for his inaction. Foolish me, he thought. I am a coward. 

A blessing came when he heard the moan of a young child underneath some of the rubble. This was the Goddess giving him a chance, from above. Rashem threw his arms up into the air, muttering a prayer, shouting his thanks at this opportunity of redemption, but also for saving the life of this child, of which he was desperate to rescue. As if on cue, thunder boomed and droplets of rain began coming down, light for now, but would turn heavy later. He needed to move fast. He searched the rubble for the child, following the sound of his painful cries. He dug around clay, dirt, and dead bodies until he finally found him under his parents, who had thrown themselves on top of him to protect him. He lifted the child from the ground and put him on top of his back. The child was too dazed to understand what was going on, and possibly in a state of shock. Such atrocious pandaemonium would instil this sort of panic and fear in a little child. Then, before Rashem could think further, he heard the crying of another child somewhere near. This time a small, younger girl, also half-awake under the ruins of buildings. Rashem rushed to her and picked her up too. Then, another groan ten steps to his left. Another to his right. Whether a true miracle from the Goddess, or the Asarian soldiers had been morally conflicted in killing children, what mattered was that they were alive, and he needed to save them. He needed to save them all.

So, as the night went on, as the sky grew darker and the moon dimmer behind the clouds, and as the rain grew into a roaring downpour putting out any remaining embers on wooden beams, Rashem picked up the surviving children and carried them off to a safe spot in the woods which he had to walk a worthy length away, one by one. He placed them all with their backs against the trees past the edge of the forest where he was sure the Asarians would not find them. Sometimes he carried two or three at a time, sometimes four or five. There were dozens of them. He imagined their weight as the weight of the boulders of which he could miraculously raise above his head in front of the Kaddar populace. If he could do that, it was imperative to transfer that strength in carrying these children, whom, with all his heart and will, he wanted to survive. He gritted his teeth through the rain, wading through wooden beams jutting out at him and jagged rocks threatening his balance. Lifting with all his might, willpower, pain. Many times he almost passed out, but he always forced himself awake. These children depended on him. No matter how tired he was he could not stop.

The last child was a small surprise. It was Mira. She was moaning for anyone to help. “Papa… Mama…” She caught a drowsy glimpse of Rashem, standing above her. “Rashem…?”

“I am here, Mira,” he said, lifting her onto his back. She groaned in exhaustion and pain, coughing as he did so. She wrapped her arms around him, smiled, and went back into her dazed coma. “You’re safe now,” said Rashem. “I know what you’ll say, Mira. I was a coward for not coming out sooner. For not fighting. I let Kaddar down. I let you down, most of all. I won’t let anyone hurt you anymore, I promise.” As he carried her to the safe haven in the forest, he remembered all the times they’d fought or argued or were mean to each other in their childhood. How she told him they were enemies, not friends, yet they played together almost every day. And how, despite being enemies, he thought about the triviality of such matters when faced with the genocidal campaign of a mad ruler who had terrorized their village. Differences must be put aside, he had to save her. That was what mattered. And he pondered this deeply--he had to save her not because he had to prove his heroism to Kaddar (all its people are gone now), but because he loved her, he loved the children in his village he played with, he loved the citizens of Kaddar, he loved Kaddar. There was nothing left to prove, there was nothing left to do for the sake of doing. Perhaps in all normal days Rashem and Mira would bully each other for fun and laugh, but when Kaddar is razed he will carry her to safety. When the world is gone, it comes down to doing what is right.

After placing Mira with the other children in the forest, Rashem heard the voices of Asarians in the town. He looked at all the children unconscious in front of him. He looked at Mira, her breathing slow and raspy, chest rising and falling with each one a heaving effort. He made a decision. He could not allow the possibility of the Asarians finding them at all costs. A distraction was necessary. He ran out of the woods and straight into their waiting army, catching their attention in the firelight of their torches, surrendering. One soldier shouted to the others, ran up to him, and knocked him out.

When next he awoke, he was in a dungeon cell with an old man, captured by the enemy as a prisoner. Much to his surprise, the old man was Pranit. The wise village elder spoke to him as soon as he saw Rashem, whose head was lowered, conscious.

“I saw what you did,” he said. “I saw you carry the children. Mira on your back as well, like she was an old friend.”

“I did what I had to.”

“She’s your enemy. She’s made it her goal to be rude to you every day.”

“She has a life, like anyone else.”

“Why did you save those children? There are no riches at the end of the tunnel for doing so. No glory, no people to cheer for you.”

“None of that matters. They were children with lives that needed saving. And I had the power to save them.”

The old man smiled. “I am proud of you, hero.”

Rashem lifted his head to look at him, his eyes lighting up like the dawn of a new beginning of humility and understanding.

#

They were rescued days later by reinforcements sent by the kingdom. Parties were sent to scour the town for survivors. Rashem, exhausted and emotionally worn, had offered his arm to Pranit, and the both of them stepped out of their cells into daylight.

“I left children in the woods,” he told their liberators. “I need to find them.”

“You are weary and in pain,” they said. “You need to wait for the apothecaries. For now, you need to rest and heal. We’ll search for them.”

“No, I need to go find them now.”

“Hold, young man! Are you a soldier of the Kaddarian platoon?”

“I am not.”

“If you truly must go, you will need your weapons.”

It took a while to find them under all the destruction. With multiple soldiers and Pranit looking, they were finally found. His scimitar, long and sharp. His shield, detailed designs of lions on its surface. His bronze chest-plate. His glorious red cape. They were put on a table the soldiers had brought in for supplies. “We’ll leave them here for you,” they said. “If you still want them.”

“What will it be?” said Pranit, looking at him. He was looking at his hero belongings. He took a moment to think. He grabbed his sword and shield. He grabbed his armour, putting it on. “Let’s go find those children,” he said, turning and leaving.

As they headed toward the forest, kingdom soldiers searching for survivors and clearing rubble all around them, his neatly folded red cape laid untouched on the table, sitting there in view as its old owner walked away.

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