He did not expect a warm welcome in Jijiga, but it sufficed him to see Bisrat Ezra, a former student. It had been three years since Bisrat left the island. Moses pointed to the emblem on his uniform. “You're a squad leader. You moved up the ranks quickly.”

“Yes.” The soldier pulled back his shoulders. “And my father had nothing to do with it.”

Bisrat escorted the grandmaster to the command station – a tent in the middle of town. The commander was older than Moses had expected. He yelled feverishly at his subordinate, stopping momentarily to notice Moses. Turning away, he inhaled and barked more orders.

Bisrat gently tugged at Moses' elbow. “Let's wait a little while, Master Moses.”

Moses stepped away.

“How are things on the island?” Bisrat pretended not to hear the commander's diatribe.

“Not much has changed.” Moses lifted an eyebrow. “How about for you?”

“I'm married now.”

“Are you? Do I know the family?”

Bisrat shrugged. “Perhaps. She's from Bahir Dar.”

Moses felt the shiver as if numbness had spread over his back. His heart raced, and he hoped his expression did not betray him.

Bisrat continued. “Her name's Liya.”

Bisrat spoke well of his wife, but Moses heard only his thoughts. He wondered if there was something special about Liya. Or, more importantly, was there something special about the child she would have? What was unique about the amatrix angel captured by the two djinn? What would it carry in the quarks? Moses surmised that the quarks were more important than he knew. He imagined that the amatrix angel in custody was to deliver a highly potent purpose to a child – perhaps as vital to society as those found in Gandhi, Muhammad, or Solomon. He feared that the abstraction of quarks would affect the future-born child's purpose. But wait a moment. Moses thought his imagination had run wild.

He interrupted Bisrat. “Have you consummated the marriage?”

Bisrat hesitated. He seemed shocked at the question. “Master Moses, I respect you more than life itself, but—”

“Bisrat Ezra, it is important that you answer my question.”

“Of course, that is my duty.”

“Was she fertile?”

“I hope so.” He smiled. “I'd love for my first to be masculine.”

“And her father? Who did you say was her father?”

“I didn't.” Bisrat gleamed at the monk. “I said her grandfather was Bayissa, a friend of yours.”

Moses turned from his former student and walked to the end of the road. From there, the flat, dusty ground climbed into the mountains. The view was the same as from the Book of Asmodeus. He remembered the blood on his hands. Had he come here to die? I can't allow that to happen. He stormed into the tent. The commander's expression revealed his surprise at Moses's audacity.

Moses spoke forcefully. “You must listen to me. You are about to be attacked.”

The commander tugged at the bottom of his shirt. “You are the monk?” He stepped closer. “The spiritual man? Is that the best of your ability – to tell me what I already know?”

“You should mount your defense in the center of the town.”

“Leave the strategy to me,” the commander barked, and spittle sprayed. “I'll leave the prayers to you. We have no defense. Half of my men deserted us overnight. Mutiny is in the air. I will hunt down and hang the deserters. The Somalians can have this city.” He pushed his way past Moses and ordered men in a pickup truck.

Moses followed him out of the tent. Bisrat was stacking a closed crate of what Moses suspected was ammunition. When their eyes met, Bisrat approached.

“Did you know of his plans to abandon this village?”

“Yes. We cannot defend it. We'll pull back and find more support.”

“That is not his plan. You are to pursue and destroy the deserters.” Moses hoped to convince Bisrat to disobey the commander. “The people in this town will face insurmountable danger. We have to get them out.”

“To where?”

“Gelalcha.”

Bisrat disagreed. “The terrain is too difficult. How about Bombas? The road will make it easier.”

“Will you help me?”

Someone interrupted. “He will do no such thing.”

Moses recognized the officer whom the commander had chastened. He pointed his weapon at Bisrat.

“You cannot do this,” Moses said to the officer. “We cannot leave these people here for slaughter.” His voice grew louder. “Sons of Solomon, hear me now.”

“Do not listen to him.” The officer shifted the rifle to point at Moses. “He has come to divide us further.”

“Many of your faces I saw on the island,” Moses continued louder. “Those who are true to your oaths stand with me now. Protect the people of this village.”

Some soldiers stopped loading the trucks and approached. The officer stood between them. “Anyone tries to join this monk, I shoot.”

They were at a standstill until the commander pushed his way past a few soldiers. “What are you waiting for?” He looked at Moses and snarled. “If anyone stands with this sorcerer, he is a traitor. Shoot them all!”

Moses made a sign with his hand as if to draw a glyph in the air. Then he spoke a spell as the officer squeezed the trigger. The rifle fired, and a second shooter joined. Moses stood his ground while bullets whistled past him.

The commander yelled, “Cease fire.” He stood glaring at Moses, his eyes red and squinted. “We won't waste ammunition on them.” He stepped back and ordered his men to the trucks.

Moses turned to look at the men behind him. Bisrat had crouched, and his men had thrown themselves to the ground. No one was hurt, but the tent was ripped to shreds.

Bisrat looked as if he had seen a ghost. “If you can do that, we can win this war.”

“No, we cannot.” Moses turned sharply. “Two trucks left. Fill them with as many women, children, and elderly as possible.” He walked to the tent and inspected it. He hoped the soldiers could pitch it despite the damage. “Bisrat, my friend. Recruit as many locals as you can. We must mount a defense long enough to get these people to safety.”

He stood for a moment and watched men running in various directions. Three soldiers worked repairing the fallen tent while two others armed civilians with rifles. Other soldiers helped town elders board pickup trucks. Moses turned from them to look at the mountain range. He knew the untrained civilians would need more than guns and courage. They needed warrior spirits. He feared that when the shooting began, the presently brave civilians would run. He sighed. He needed anatel warriors, but summoning them would break Utetezi's rules.

Bisrat reported that two trucks were away, and a group of women and children had left on foot. Moses had other concerns. “Find a pig.”

“The men in my squad will die before they eat a pig.” Bisrat sounded startled at the request.

“Don't assume.” Moses stopped him before he could say more. “If your men and those you've recruited are to make it out of here alive, they will need to do as I say. Now, find a pig. When you do, tie its hind legs and string it to a branch. At the stroke of nineteen hundred hours, slit its throat and tell them to wash their hands in the blood. No sooner than the sun falls behind the mountain, your enemy will be upon you.”

“I will speak to my men.”

“Command,” Moses said firmly. “Do not speak to them. Command.” He turned to the tent. “And make sure I am not disturbed.”

When Moses entered the tent, to his surprise, someone was waiting for him – a frail man whose expression told of many sorrows. But in each wrinkle of his face – a vague wisdom projected. There was something unusual, mystical and familiar. Cao once said a man of wisdom will recognize his equal from across a crowded room. Not a single word was needed between them. Seeing the man sit with folded legs as if he expected Moses to join him, suggested that Cao was absolutely correct.  

“I smell the copper of decision on you,” he had a local accent. A strange use of words similar to Yoshi who was also from this village. “You’ve come far to stand here. Is it this you seek?” He looked at the leather pouch in front of him.

Moses approached, noticing the glyph on the pouch. “You are a deer-man?” He sat – eyes never leaving the old man’s face. He had committed to evacuating the elders of the village; never would he have guessed one was a deer-man-a butakah enemy.

The man smiled gently. “I know the butakah loathe us. My ancestor broke the vows. If he had not, I would not be here.” He paused as if he expected Moses to stand and leave.

Something inside Moses compelled him to listen. Now was not the time to quarrel over a two-century-old moral issue over celibacy.

“It's made of the same wood used for the Ark.” The man relaxed his shoulders.

“The Ark of the Covenant?”

The man nodded. “I must leave it with you. In it is a tool from the spirit world.”

“The needle?”

“Yes.” He started to hand over the relic but hesitated with uncertainty. “It has been in my family for centuries.”

Moses was still, afraid to appear anxious for the relic. He hoped the deer-man would disclose its secrets, so he listened intently.

“Since this war has stolen my sons, I have no more use for it.”

Moses accepted the relic. It resembled a pair of figs – a strange look for a needle.

“The djinni, Rhapso, made the needle from the ice prisons that float in the River of Ice-Flames. She used the aura of exorcised souls and abstracted energy from her clients to make the fabric.”

Moses was quiet, not sure if he should trust the deer-man. “What did she do with the fabric?”

“She dressed wounds, of course.” He gleamed suspiciously at Moses. “There is no need to pretend you don’t know. But I will entertain you.” He shifted and stretched his leg. “If this is used correctly, it absorbs pain, heat, and other forms of energy – perhaps a human soul if properly wielded.”

The deer-man struggled to stand. Moses assisted. “You've done a good thing here.” He grunted. Then he patted Moses’ arm. “Use it well.” He pointed to the relic with his eyes. “If you still remember who you are when this is all over.”

Moses watched the man pause before leaving the tent. He turned back, eyes scanning Moses’s hand-not in farewell, but in measure.

Moses did not know what to think of the glare. Was it remorse in parting with a family heirloom or an assessment of something unseen? Their eyes met, and Moses read more ambiguity before he slipped through the exit.  It was the first time he had ever seen a deer-man. His last words seemed cryptic; loaded with hidden meaning. Was he sincere or giving a mocking blessing as if expecting the relic to corrupt its wielder?  Rejecting the notion to ask questions, Moses turned his attention to the relic. It would be nice to weave protective garments to protect the men preparing for battle, if the needle could do so.

He sighed, and his thoughts circled to the anatel warriors. He had summoned the mercenary warriors once before. They saved him from a djinni who used depression as her weapon of choice.

It was foolish to think the anatel would freely save him this time. Free djinn, they held loyalty only to Dhakwan- their leader. He had nothing to offer, if Dhakwan asked.

Moses considered summoning an angel, but the thought soured as soon as it rose. It would take a divine command for an angel to stop two sides of men determined to skirmish. This brought him back to Dhakwan and the anatel warriors.

Moses was confident that the pig-blood bath ritual would excite the anatel general. He was less optimistic that the anatel warriors would fight Gyllo, who, if the future telling book was correct, would lead the battle. It would be a perfect distraction for her to steal it from the Deer-man. But the Deer-man was not here, and Moses was a more formidable opponent.

But if the book of Asmodeus was correct, Moses would die here. He’d suffer a fatal wound to his chest. It would be his blood covering his hands rather than a pig’s. Then, the needle and all else would be lost.

Back to Dahkwan, the sinister djinni who would likely turn against the men bathing in blood or worse, fight both sides for sport. Something changed suddenly inside the tent. The warm air became suspiciously dry as if all humidity vanished with a snap of the finger. Moses gathered he was not alone.

“I will do no such thing,” a low rumbling voice – something between a whisper and a growl struck his ears.

Moses made no sudden movements. He knew from the sound of snare drums and the laughter outside the tent that the anatel had arrived. They were already possessing bodies, energizing the men for war. Moses assumed that Dhakwan knew he held the needle. Furthermore, he believed the djinni had been inside the tent when the deer-man offered the relic. Moses went so far as to think that the deer-man had summoned Dhakwan before leaving.

“Show yourself,” Moses demanded.

Dhakwan was a shadow against the tent sheet. Aside from the elongated arms, he resembled a well-defined, muscular man. “It suits me fine to watch men die.” The djinni smelled of fresh soil. “Still, some must survive. How else would I be entertained?”

Moses lamented that it did not matter if the anatel had come to help or deceive. As djinni mercenary, he delighted in war. Men fighting men, or djinni fighting angels; neither mattered to Dhakwan. Moses regretted falling into a trap, lured by desperation to save a group of men. He should have wanted to protect them all. Dhakwan reached for the relic, but Moses snatched it and stared defiantly at the shadow.

“This is not for you.” Moses said firmly.

“And yet it calls for me.” Dhakwan answered. “I will use it better than Gyllo. And you will survive this night.”

Moses hesitated. Had the djinni read from the book? Did he know what was to be Moses’ fate? His mind clouded-he needed time to think, to meditate on his next actions.

“I will not allow it.”

How can one stop a shadow that does not fade in sunlight? The warm aura of the djinni elevated. Moses only saw the shadow moving closer to him. It engulphed him like a bath of fire.

“You already have,” Dhakwan replied and vanished.

Moses gasped. The relic remained in his hand, but he felt its emptiness-like holding a husk. Dhakwan had already taken the part that mattered. Had the deer-man know this would happen?  

Despite his growing rage and desire to chase Dhakwan to the end of multiverse, Moses stepped outside of the tent.

Suddenly, it did not matter if the villagers held off the Somali militia. It did not matter if Gyllo would lead the Somalians to victory. The fate of men is destruction by his own hands, Moses's thought. He stood and walked outside. As Bisrat approached, Moses found himself hoping for the best. Perhaps his mission had succeeded. He knew that Gyllo would not have the needle, but only time will tell her next move. Perhaps her sister would release the amatrix angel unharmed. Perhaps not.

He hoped for the best: the amatrix angel would find Liya and give purpose to her newly conceived child.  

Moses forced a half-smile that greeted Bisrat. “I hope your first is masculine.”

Bisrat proudly folded his arms across his chest. “My wife’s father is the wisest man I know – besides you, of course.”

Moses nodded. He was flattered.

“His name is Chanoch. If my firstborn is a boy, I will give him that name. I will hope he will be as wise.”

Moses half grinned. “If that happens, I look forward to his training on the island.” He shifted and turned his gaze toward the horizon, the sun had set behind them. From the darkness, he expected Gyllo and the human army’s descent.