This is not the Stearman in the story, but it is a beautiful sketch of a biplane.
My Soul To Take
Epigraph
"...for how we live is so far removed from how we ought to live, that he who abandons what is done for what ought to be done, will rather learn to bring about his own ruin than his preservation. A man who wishes to make a profession of goodness in everything must necessarily come to grief among so many who are not good."
Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527) The Prince
"Men have conceived a twofold use of sleep; it is a refreshing of the body in this life, and a preparing of the soul for the next."
John Donne (1572 - 1631)
First 8 Pages
The country airport was matted in damp gray. The grass was soft underfoot as he opened the weathered-gray, wooden door of the hangar. With little effort, it slid sideways on the well-oiled tracks while light rain misted onto him. Drops of water fell from the roof and made perfectly clear puddles in the long-worn crevices in the ground, gouged by a thousand other rain showers that had rolled from the roof. A cool, rainy, mid-September day was the first hint of fall in the Midwest of 1968.
Inside, the hangar was dust dry, and gave the long-ago feeling of rummaging through the attic, listening to the rain on the roof. The gleaming red, white and blue airshow biplane was the treasure and stood ready, if not a bit neglected. Harry Lowe started wiping the smooth wings of the Stearman with a cloth, the excitement of sharing the sky with his old friend simmered inside. Spring steel thin, with short, brown hair above hawk’s eyes, he was a young man in between, more lost in thought than worrying about the specks he was rearranging. His nascent airline career had been nipped by a seasonal furlough and the biplane, after a flight to another airport for a maintenance inspection, was going back to work. His mind wandered across the six months he’d spent as a DC-3 copilot for a small airline based at Chicago’s Midway Airport. Their fall cuts sent him back to his first love, flying airshows. He looked forward to the winter season down south and flying the shows, especially New Orleans, but he would miss the airline.
A car arrived and his girlfriend, Tori, a stewardess, stomped into the hangar, trying to shake the rain from her shoes. He came around slowly from his thoughts and, in the dirty light filtered through the rain clouds, her face looked like a glimpse of summer sun. Tan, freckly pretty, expressive, the face was made to hold the piercing, blue eyes and the eyes to hold anyone who saw them. It had been her, the new job, new friends and a different airplane. That had been his summer and now, within three weeks, he’d be gone. She said, “Hi, baby doll. Are we going to be able to fly today?” and walked to where he was and stood on her toes to kiss him. After they embraced, Tori gave the biplane an exaggerated, arms spread hug and a sloppy kiss. “Wouldn’t want your true love to feel jealous. I’m only glad she’ll share with me.”
Harry gave a quick, mocking swipe at the vague lipstick mark on the cockpit combing. He looked outside as the car pulled away. “Looks like it’s lifting a little. We should be able to sneak up to Palwaukee. Is that Annie driving your car?”
“Yeah, she’s going to meet us up there.”
“Good. I’ll roll the airplane out and we’ll give it a try.”
The skirt of gray mist was pulling up its hem enough to fly. Harry gave the close sky another look through his airshow eyes, not his airline eyes. He slipped on a light jacket, pulling the collar up to accept the parachute and prevent it from chafing, then helped Tori strap into the front seat of the Stearman. Her tiny frame, bulky with the army surplus parachute, was still dwarfed by the cavernous front cockpit of the two-seat biplane.
"Oh Harry, do I have to wear this thing and get all strapped in? I want to stand up and look around, and I want you to do some of those rolls, where I can set things on the floor and they don't move."
"Very daring of you, my dear,” Harry pulled another notch on her seatbelt, “but I think we can have fun and be a tad safer. Just sit and enjoy, and when we get to Palwaukee I'll buzz the runway and pull up to do a couple of barrel rolls. All the things you love." He felt warm and protective toward the beautiful, young lady.
Years earlier, Harry had put his soul into rebuilding the big biplane from the ground up. It dazzled on the airshow circuit with a Pratt and Whitney R-985, 450-horsepower engine, a constant-speed prop with a huge chromed spinner at the hub and a dazzling, sunburst paint job. He pulled on the leather flying helmet and goggles, then settled his six-foot, two-inch frame into the rear cockpit, an intimate coupling, like a pistol slides into its oiled holster. From the pilot's seat, his hands fell to work on the familiar knobs and levers. He didn't need to look; he could sense everything into the correct position. For five years, this had been his home, flying to airshows, performing and moving on. On the circuit, they flew north in the summer and south in the winter, even taking occasional odd-jobs towing advertising banners and gliders.
A shrill whine of the starter brought the slow turning of the propeller. One cylinder cough-barked a puff of smoke, then another, another, and the engine was running. The living smell of the airplane, exhaust mixed with burnt number-4 oil from the airshow smoke system and gasoline fumes oozing into the sweat-leather cockpit, had a seductive familiarity for him. The damp wind from the propeller deflected from the top wing and puffed into his face. All was as comforting as the smell of line-fresh laundry. A satisfied smile played on his lips.
On the runway, the roar of full power carried him through the green-earth grass, a light spray of water spouted from the wheels. The controls came to life in the rush of air and flowed back through Harry's body. He leveled at three-hundred feet over a highway to follow. Now it was just the three of them, and a little piece of sky and the sheer joy of full, unadulterated flight.
After a short flight in the misting rain, the runway appeared next to the road he’d been tracking. Harry eased the throttle forward to full power and pushed the nose over, toward it. He flipped the smoke system on as he crossed the numbers.
In the cockpit, at the beginning of the low pass, Harry smiled. His thoughts, which had drifted again to the airline and the furlough, returned to the immediate.
Damn. This feels good. Smoke on. Just like beginning the show. Pungent, nauseating smell. Number-4 oil burning on a cherry-red exhaust pipe. I love it.
The noise rose, and the normal chug-chug beat of the propwash on wings and fuselage they'd grown used to in cruise, became a staccato drumming, then merged into a whine as the airspeed picked up. Level at five feet, then three, Harry could picture it.
Must be leaving quite a trail. Solid, magnificent, old trooper.
The bark of a 450 horsepower Pratt and Whitney radial engine at full bore brought out a lineboy and two instructors from the trailer that served as an office for the flight school. They waved as the Stearman flashed by in full flight, the sparkling red, white and blue in stark contrast to the gray world. Harry knew it was an awesome sight, trailing grand, twisting plumes of wet, misty smoke from the exhaust and little rain-soaked vortices from the wingtips. At the end of the runway, he climbed at a sixty-degree angle while reversing direction to the left and then leveled at eight hundred feet.
His mind was in airshow mode, seeing everything, feeling everything. He always talked to the airplane during a show, and it began. It was his intimacy with the airplane.
“Plenty of speed left. Eight hundred feet. No more altitude. At least we got that before we hit the clouds.”
Mild compared to my show. Hardly ever get this high when I'm performing. Look at her turning around, holding her hands outside the cockpit. The raindrops feel like BB stings at this speed. Big smile. She knows what's coming.
“Big barrel-roll to the right. Easy. One-and-a-half G’s.”
Harry was in his world now.
About the same as a thirty-degree banked turn. Up into the cloud and out again. Drops of rain draining back across the small windscreen.
“Same roll to the left. Here goes.”
I can almost feel her screams of pure joy. Can't hear anything but the Pratt.
“Level off. Get ready for a power off landing.”
The engine surged and then the airplane bucked. The first jolt threw his head forward.
“What the hell is that?"
Harry was being thrown from side to side, his upper body bashing on the cockpit, his two hands crushing the stick, throwing the rudder, ailerons and elevator controls to the stops, trying anything to make it fly. A shroud of steaming oil covered the airplane in front of him.
“Did we hit something?”
Can't get my hand on the switch. Eyeballs rattling. Can't focus. Throttle closed. Impossible noises. Engine beating itself to death.
Excruciating seconds of mechanical banging. Then, something went through the struts and supporting wires on the left side, the intricate structure holding the two wings together. The vibrating stopped, but the same structure that gave the Stearman its tough reputation was gone. The upper left wing panel fluttered like a rag in the hundred-miles-per-hour wind, and then flapped up and down with violent, heavy, mechanical motions, with bangs and snaps that could be heard well above the slipstream. He could see and hear his airplane dying in mid-flight. The left wing failed with a final slapping down and backward, pulling the center section across the front cockpit, and dragging the right upper wing panel forward and down. The control stick whacked hard against his hands and legs. Harry fought the controls with both hands, but there was no flight left in the airplane. The plane lunged into a whipping, tail-low flat spin. The mass of plane spun like it was on a drill bit. G forces pulled his head to the side. The stick and rudder pedals jammed to the stops. The broken, skewed pieces losing their delicate balance gave the Stearman the falling look of a bird shot in mid-flight.
Harry screamed through the intercom. "Jump Tori! Jump jump jump!" His thoughts blurred through his mind.
No! She's coming apart. We’re falling. Just falling. Not flying.
“Make runway. Stick jammed. No control. Damn. The wing. Damn.”
He screamed again into the dead intercom, “Jump jump jump! Tori, jump!”
Harry clawed his way out of the cockpit and stood on the remainder of the lower left wing. It was flexing up and down under his feet as the airplane whipped like a demented tilt-a-whirl. Wind and rain and noise and a flash of foreboding tore at him. He was standing in mid-air on the remnants of a broken airplane. The inevitability of being on the ground in less than a minute made him frantic.
Gyroscope. Hang on. She's trapped. Damnfuck. Under top wing.
He pulled then punched at the top wing jammed down across the opening of the front cockpit, punched and punched, and hammered with his fist. He tried to kick a hole in the side, but his sneakers were useless against the tough fabric covering on the fuselage. A sense of the near earth frenzied him. His goggles had blown off and raindrops beat into his eyes. The only noise was the gale of wind whooshing through the broken airplane structure and ripping at his clothes, making them snap. It distorted his face. He pushed and punched, but couldn’t budge any of the twisted metal. The ground rushed at him. He tried to pull Tori through the slim space left between the top wing and the back of the front cockpit, but she was frozen with fear. The blue eyes had lost their color; they begged Harry with a pallor of death. A finger at a time, his anchor hand lost its grip on the damp aluminum. The gyrating pile of airplane parts flung him loose. He made a desperate swipe as he was tossed out into the sky, but got only air.
Can't hold. Off. Pull. Chute.
At two hundred feet, Harry yanked his parachute open. It caught. He swung almost perpendicular to the ground and had a fleeting sense of the flatness and the immutability of the earth as it rose up around him. The scenery was solid. He pendulumed into a field of wheat stubble.
Manuscript Pages 296-310
In mid-pace, in the middle of his third night in the cell, the door opened and men appeared. "What do you want? Talk to me, you bastards."
Harry was cuffed and dragged, but didn't fight. Excruciating pain from his arms made his eyes water. It wasn't a long drag. It was an ominous drag. A door opened.
"Oh, shit. This doesn’t look like fun, gentlemen. I'd like my original room back."
The room was stark white over bricks. Everything was painted white, the ceiling, the door, and the walls. There was a drain in the middle of the floor and each wall had chains and shackles attached to it. There was a black cloth rolled up above each set of shackles. Harry was stripped of his shorts, tee shirt and shoes. Naked, he was affixed to a wall by a five-point shackle affair. Short of a pin through his abdomen, he felt like a bug on display. His wrists and ankles were chained and a metal half-loop closed around his neck. His back was against the wall and his tiptoes barely touched the floor. The soldiers were workmanlike about their task. Everything was going crazy, his plan was not working and panic nibbled at him.
"What the hell is going on? I want to talk to Obuku. You can’t do this."
The last shackle was tested for a solid lock and the men dropped the black curtain over their prisoner. Harry found his most comfortable position by turning his chin up as far as it would go and with his arms pulling slightly on the chains to help his toes support his weight.
And then there was the water.
It was not a great force or volume of water, just a cold, garden hose dousing his body. Within minutes it became colder and more uncomfortable.
"Why are you doing this? Why?"
The curtain was soaked and it clung to his body, like a cold, nasty second skin. It stuck to his face and made breathing difficult. The water was coming in a steady stream from above his head and his mouth filled. The lights in the room went out and, with a clank of finality, the door closed.
He screamed, "You bastards! Don't leave me like this! Fuck you, you bastards! Fuck you and die!"
The water flowed. It drizzled over him and hit the floor. There was no way to stop the pain. It was intolerable, yet had to be tolerated. A constant changing of positions helped to ease the pain on the pressure points. He shifted his head side-to-side so the water would hit in a different spot.
From under the damp cloth his voice roared through the dank, lonely room, "Kill me you bastards. Kill me dead. I can't stand this."
The longest, tortured hours of his life passed as his joints froze. Sheets of cold agony flowed through his body, teeth chattered out of control, and breathing under the wet curtain was almost impossible. It had been an eternity. The thought of being trapped like that for minutes, hours, days, even, made panic arc through his body, making the pain worse. There had to be some getaway. Self-hypnosis might work. His thoughts focused on going away. It took several tries to get it right.
This is the best position. This will be comfortable. I am relaxed. Going down the steps. Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three. Beautiful, black, carpet-covered, soft, elegant steps. Twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty. Each step with a beautiful brass number and soft, dark lighting. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen. Descending. Fifteen, fourteen. Strong, wide comfortable steps. Thirteen, twelve, eleven. I'm in the Cub. It's almost twilight. A thousand feet, descending. Nine hundred, eight hundred. A beautiful, long, green, grass, runway. Seven hundred. A clear, twilight sky. Six hundred. The colors of the spectrum soft on the horizon. Five hundred. Warm summer evening. My good sweatshirt on. Four hundred, three hundred. Low on final. The quietness of the power back. Two hundred. Calm. Day's end. One hundred. The Cub melts into the grass of the runway. I walk through the hangar with the beautiful, old airplanes and go through the teak door, with my name on it in gold. Harry Lowe. And into my special place. The soft, big couch. The good music. Heavy in my ears. A drink to be sipped when I want it.
The water turned off. Harry tensed and jumped. Where he'd hung from the shackles hurt more than he would have ever believed possible. Movement couldn't get the sting to go away. He wondered how long he’d been out, and would have given anything to rub his wrists and ankles.
"Who the hell is there? Tell me. Stop this."
Hands reached under the shroud and tied a blindfold over his eyes. The curtain was raised. He shook with the cold and the pain in his wrists was unbearable.
"Kill me, you bastards! Let me loose and I will try to kill you and you can kill me!"
Several globs of a pasty substance, like old, congealed oatmeal, were fed to him. The captor's fingers pushed it into his mouth. His jaw hurt from the shackle and it was painful to chew, but he gobbled the sustenance. Then it stopped coming.
"More.” It felt so good to eat, he begged. “More. Please. Please!"
The black curtain was dropped and the blindfold removed. The water returned. The door closed. He screamed, "Fuck you, you fucking bastards! May you rot in hell!” His voice took all of his energy and he cried. It was only a weak whimper and with the water streaming down his face, he couldn’t feel the tears.
He had no concept of time, no reference for it other than assuming the meal was fed to him during the day. It became important to him to remember how many meals there were. Every so often he would say aloud, "One." After the next meal, it would be two.
His body was becoming numb to the pain. He wondered, is it possible to go into shock and not feel the pain? Would he get used to it? He had to some extent. And then something wonderful happened. Harry was able to piss, and the warm liquid running down his legs felt incredible. They warmed and felt alive. He could feel each individual warm rivulet work its way down his leg until the stream of water cooled it. It was excellent and buoyed his spirits for a short time and, when it was over, he was sad.
Hours passed. Harry’s thoughts skewed and he mumbled, "I am Harry Lowe. I am a pilot. I have flown many airshows in my Stearman. I am Harry Lowe. I love art and good food and fine drink and literature. I learned to love them from my mother. I am Harry Lowe. I am going to die in Nigeria for nothing." Forming words was too much effort.
More hours passed, slipping in and out of consciousness. It wasn't worth sleeping. It hurt too much to wake up. Maybe he wouldn't. One time, maybe he wouldn't.
More hours passed. Through the cold and pain, his hands tingled with a funny-bone pain that couldn't be shaken out. The door opened and the water stopped.
He tried to scream but it melted into a babbling delirium. "Take me down! Take me. Take me to the river, drop me in the water.” The words faded into his mind and he could no longer hold any awareness of his situation.
Hit me. I am Christ. Finish the crucifixion. Bring on Pontius Pilot and the nail-driving five. They were my favorite group. I've got all their albums. And the Stones. And the Doors. From the Doors of perception. I perceive pain. Let me down and I will show you my pain.
More pasty sustenance was shoved in his mouth. He rolled his head back and forth against the collar, chewed by reflex and gagged when he swallowed.
The curtain was dropped and the blindfold removed.
"Please don't leave me! Please. Please. Please. Don't. Leave. Please."
The water was turned on.
"Anything! Please."
The door closed.
The interminable torture had drained him of cogent thought. There was no consciousness of ideas. His mind rambled from one random thought to another. He tried to remember, there had been four meals, but it was lost. There was always the pain and he became a single-purpose organism of survival. He made no voluntary effort to move to ease the pain; his body just did it. His mind, his will, his identity, had been laid bare by the pain and washed away with the water. All that was Harry, the goodness, the hatred, the being, went down a drain and into a Nigerian sewer.
And then the water stopped.
A loud, sweet, bass voice intoned, "In the name of God, the compassionate, the merciful- This book is not to be doubted. It is a guide for the righteous, who believe in the unseen and are steadfast in prayer; who give alms from what We gave them; who believe in what has been revealed to you and what was revealed before you, and have absolute faith in the life to come. These are rightly guided by their Lord; these shall surely triumph . . . "
So began the reading of the Koran. It was the most beautiful sound Harry had ever heard. It was a pure and white light, searing into his blank psyche.
" . . . As for the unbelievers, it is the same whether or not you forewarn them; they will not have faith. God has set a seal upon their hearts and ears; their sight is dimmed and grievous punishment awaits them . . . "
Harry mumbled, "The voice of God. The truth." And he cried. A weak sobbing was all he could muster. The reading continued a long time.
" . . . In the name of God, the compassionate, the merciful These are the verses of the Book, a glorious Koran: The day will surely come when those who disbelieve will wish that they were Muslims. Let them feast and make merry; and let their hopes beguile them. They shall learn.
“Never have we destroyed a nation whose term of life was not ordained beforehand. Men cannot forestall their doom, nor can they retard it . . . "
God's voice turned to him. "You will find this is the true way. You will love Allah."
"It was beautiful," Harry said.
"Uncover him."
The shroud was lifted and Harry squinted into the dim light. The man in the bright-white uniform was surrounded by a sunrise of light. He held a book.
The man in the white uniform said, "This is the word of Allah. You will hear it all and remember it. You will believe it and follow it."
"Please read more. I know you." Harry tried to reach with a shackled hand.
"Cover him."
"No. Please. No," he cried.
"It is necessary."
The shroud was replaced. Harry wished he could remember the name. His deep voice was beautiful.
There was no water, just the reading of the Koran.
Harry feasted on every word. It felt so powerful and beautiful, the real truth, clear and inspiring.
God’s voice spoke. "That is it. Uncover him."
The shroud was lifted again and fastened in the up position. The man in the white uniform stood before him, holding the wonderful book.
"By the grace and goodness of Allah, you will be freed, and fed, and clothed. Allah will take care of your needs. You must praise Allah."
"Praise Allah," Harry said.
"You must love Allah."
"Praise Allah."
"You must follow Allah's teachings."
"Praise Allah."
"Good. Loosen him. Take care of him."
Harry rocked his head back. "Praise Allah."
"Yes. Praise to Allah. You will be a true believer," Secretary Obuku said to himself. He laughed, wiped something from the breast of his bright white uniform and exited.
The guards unlocked Harry. The defeated pilot could not support his weight and lay on the floor crying. They helped him to sit on a chair and put a robe and sandals on him. Warmth from the cloth poured down through his bones.
"Praise Allah," Harry said.
He was taken to the luxury of a cell. In the cell there was plentiful hot tea and a tray of good food. A peaceful looking man in the basic robe and hat of the everyday Muslim, sat, waiting for Harry. "Sit. Eat. Allah has provided for you."
"Praise Allah."
"Very good. I will read. The Koran will give guidance to that which is most upright. It promises the faithful who do good works, a rich recompense, and those that deny the life, to come a woeful scourge. Yet man prays for evil as fervently as he prays for good. Truly, man is ever impatient . . . "
The hot tea eased into Harry's system like a liquid wood fire on a cold, New Jersey day. The simple pleasure of hot food and drink was a joy so pure, he was in ecstasy.
"Allah provided well. Lie down. I will read. You will love Allah."
"Praise Allah," Harry said over his teacup.
"Take these two pills. They will help you. And love Allah, he has taken care of you."
"Yes. I love Allah. Praise Allah." Harry swallowed the bitter pills with a mouthful of tea.
"I will read. We made the night and the day twin marvels. We enshrouded the night with darkness and gave light to the day, so that you might seek the bounty of your Lord and learn to count the seasons and the years. We have made all things manifestly plain to you.
"The fate of each man We have bound about his neck. On the Day of Resurrection We shall confront him with a book spread wide open, saying: 'Here is your book: read it. Enough for you this day that your own soul should call you to account.'
"He that seeks guidance shall be guided to his advantage, but he that errs shall err at his peril. No soul shall bear another's burden. Nor do we punish until We have sent forth a messenger . . . "
Harry woke many hours later. His heart was full of the glory and love of Allah. Another robed man was in his cell and asked, "How are you this morning?"
Harry had trouble sitting up, but managed. Red, nasty welts circled his neck, wrists and ankles. In exuberant tones, he told the robed man, "All I dreamed of was the glory of Allah. I can hardly remember my other life. There is no emotion in my other life. None of the pain. No importance. There is only Allah. Praise Allah."
"That is good. You will learn well. Let us pray to Allah."
The men knelt side-by-side on prayer rugs and Harry mumbled a prayer that he hoped would be sufficient. "Praise Allah. Let me revel in your love and glory. Let me know your beneficence. Let me serve you in my meager existence. Let me live the glorious life set by your example. Praise Allah."
The man in the robe leaned back and sat on his heels, and then stood. Harry followed suit, but needed help.
The man held Harry’s hands chest high and said to him, "Very well. We will start your education in the ways of Islam."
Harry moved to a woven mat and listened with rapt attention the morning through, while the man explained much of the foundation of being a Muslim. "Islam is the religious faith of Muslims. It is based on the words and religious system founded by the prophet Muhammad and taught by the Koran. The basic principle of the Koran is absolute devotion to our unique and personal God, Allah."
"Praise Allah," Harry said. Enlightenment was coming into him, like a sponge soaking warm water, and he didn’t want to interrupt.
"We must always praise Allah. But we must always follow the laws of Allah. The pure ways of Allah. Allah must be in our hearts. Our hearts must be pure of Allah. Other thoughts must leave and only Allah can be in our thoughts. You will love Allah and be willing to die for Allah."
"Praise Allah."
"The Koran is the word of God. It is the absolute truth. There is one true God and his name is Allah."
"Praise Allah."
"Allah had a long series of revelations that include your Old Testaments and New Testaments. These revelations ended with the Koran. It is the only truth."
Harry nodded and rocked, his eyes closed.
"Allah has sent many prophets to mankind. The principal prophets are Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Muhammad, the apostle of Allah. And now, Obuku."
"Praise Allah."
"There are five fundamental religious duties. We must recite the creed of Islam-'There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet.' Say it."
"There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet." Harry rocked with his eyes closed.
"Good. Next you will learn the prescribed prayers. They will be recited five times a day. Without fail. You will love to recite these prayers. Later you will learn of Ramadan, the fasting, and giving alms to the poor. You will plan your pilgrimage to Mecca and you will embrace jihad to defend Islam."
"There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet."
"We will now partake of Allah's bounty. Allah has provided us a sumptuous lunch."
"Praise Allah."
A man brought a tray with many plates of food. It smelled wonderful. Harry was full of love and happiness.
The robed man uncovered plate after plate and said, "Would you like a glass of whiskey with your meal?"
"That would be excellent."
The robed man stood and closed his books and left. The servant took the tray and two guards were called to drag Harry back to the white room.
Icy panic gripped him. "No! No! Please, no! In the name of Allah! Please, no!"
Harry wept and squirmed in the white room. The guards were impassive, not angry, not forceful, just workmanlike, as they shackled him in his old spot.
"Why? Why is this happening? Please. Let me love Allah."
The black curtain was dropped over the skinny, naked man and the water was turned on. It trickled over his skin, and hurt like white-cold, liquid razors, cutting into his bones. Harry bellowed the sound of an animal being castrated. He could not form the thoughts necessary for survival.
Four more days passed. Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred, forty-five thousand and six hundred seconds. Each second an eternity of pain and anguish lived one-by-one, 345,600 lifetimes of hell.
Rational thought left early. He could not recall anything of his past. The devastating agony relieved of his body the day before returned at once. There was no time of strength to fight the torture. Six hundred of his hell-lifetimes had passed and Harry was in worse shape than the day earlier.
"Please . . . help . . . Mommy . . . I can't see you . . . let me out . . . I can't . . . no one . . . no faces . . . why . . . die . . . let me die . . . I'm sorry . . . Daddy . . . help . . . who are you . . . I promise . . . take me with you . . . turn on heat . . . "
The delirious death chant rumbled on under the lonely, black shroud. On the wall, in the big, cold room with the hose running, an agonized human form twitched underneath a wet, black curtain.
In the midst of the hell, a full sentence came to Harry. "There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet."
He cherished it, the complete sentence. It gave his mind strength to have a thought and he tried to remember other things. The prayer was a comfort.
"Praise Allah. Let me revel in Your love and glory. Let me know Your beneficence. Let me serve You in my meager existence. Let me live the glorious life set by Your example. Praise Allah."
His mind reveled. The love of Allah was saving him. Entire verses of the Koran came to him. On the blank slate of his mind, most of the Koran, verse by verse could be remembered. It filled him with vision and hope of salvation. Each new remembrance was a triumph that brought him joy. Everything became tolerable, if he could just remember more.
The guards released him and laid him on the rough, heavy-wood, white bench in front of his shackles. His muttering was only interrupted by the occasional wince from the pain of being moved.
Every bone in his body showed through his wet, gray-white skin. He looked like a rack of ribs that had been soaked in water. Where the skin was not pulled tight, it had a sore-looking, pruned pucker. His fingertips were the worst. His genitalia had all but disappeared. In a reflection, from the water on the floor, he could see his hair and beard had grown at the same rate and covered his head.
The Holy man robed him and helped him to his room. "Allah has taken pity and saved you. His prophet, Secretary Obuku, has ordered your release."
"Praise Allah. Praise Secretary Obuku."
They walked the stone-floored corridor toward his cell. He leaned heavily on the Holy Man. Harry wore a Muslim robe and round hat. Rough leather sandals protected his feet.
"Allah has favored you. You will receive His bounty. You must never disappoint Allah again. Never go against the teachings. Never drink strong drink."
Harry grabbed the Holy Man by the front of his robe. "I have seen Him. He saved me. He loves me. I have felt His glory."
Harry cried and pressed his head on the Holy Man's shoulder and from sheer exhaustion slid to his knees where he was able to hug the Holy man's waist and cry for joy and relief.
"Allah has provided. You must love Allah and his prophets."
"I do. Praise Allah."
Harry was given the good tea and food. He was told it was time to pray and knelt on his prayer rug alongside the Holy Man. "Praise Allah. There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet. Allah has saved me and I will be his subject. Allah is wise and all knowing and has lit the path. I will walk it and spend my life in the service of Allah."
Harry felt the love and glory deep in his soul. He worried about his inadequacies and wished he knew the correct prayers. After praying, his education continued. The Holy Man began discussing the Koran, chapter by chapter.
At the late meal, the Holy Man sat on a chair and said, "The prophet, Obuku, sees a light in you. He believes you will be a good Muslim. He believes you can help in the jihad."
Harry sat on his mat, very small, eating from an earthen bowl. "I will do what I can for the glory of Allah."
"That is good. Obuku will be pleased. There is much work to do. You must learn the Koran and to speak Arabic. When you can read the Koran in the original tongue, and obey it and love it, you will be a true Muslim."
"That will be a glorious time. Praise Allah."