The Supply Run

A Taxim Express Caravan Company Story

Copyright Nataraj, 12/1997

The tang of fresh blood was just breaking the surface of perception at the back of the crowd, and the level of excitement was escalating still higher. The village center was crowded with spectators, excitement in the air as thick and rich as a Sultan's perfume. The fighting sounded horrific. Some few wagers were still being made, though it was clear that the odds had been laid and settled some minutes ago. Villagers clutched their meager purses of coins, squeezing into them their hopes that their man was the sure thing this time and easy profits were but a moment away.

It was on the outer edge of this impromptu arena that Karsilama and Zenkov found themselves, rather than in the market they expected to find. Being somewhat shorter than the cluster of people crowded in front of them, the two women were unable to see the combat taking place a few yards away.

Karsilama glanced at her partner. "It seems that perhaps there is no market here on d'Oustay mornings. Shall we watch the bout?" "Um", replied Zenkov, absently hooking a shock of hair behind her left ear.

"Is that an 'Um, OK' or an 'Um, no'? I can never tell.", teased Karsilama, as she edged slightly back and to the right, left arm drifting into position to block the equally teasing backfist she suspected was coming.

Grinning at the defensive posture, Zenkov shot back, "Keep that up, little girl, and there'll be no spanking for you tonight! That was 'Um, OK'. Let's see if we can get close enough for a little blood to splatter on us."

"Ugg! You say the nicest things to your woman. Does that approach work with the men? Speaking of which, I'm certain that Guwazi will give me a little spanking if I employ my tongue around his ear!"

Both of the women laughed and relished a moment thinking about love-play with Guwazi, the Captain of the Guard of the Taxim Express Caravan, and one of the eight partners that made up the company. The company that was part business, part clan, and all love. No one of the Clan of the Drum slept alone unless they desired to do so. The cold desert nights were kept at bay by the tangle of multiple lover's arms and legs. Such a partnership was one of the strengths of the business. All the partners were more than simply business partners. They were a family, chosen over time with love and wisdom. Each member of the family had different strengths and weaknesses, but as a group they were fiercely loyal to each other and the business, and were therefor truly formidable.

Karsilama led the way, spiraling into the crowd. Her movements were so deft and delicate that the crowd seemed to part of its' own accord as though the women were not passing through it. Her years as a desert tracker and dancer lent her a preternatural grace. Zenkov followed closely enough to take advantage of the opening in the crowd, but far enough back to savor her callipygian partner. When they had reached the front of the crowd, they had almost gone fully around the circle. They were rewarded for their efforts with a ringside view of the competition.

Both of the combatants were big men, massing two hundred fifty pounds or more. Little of that weight was excess, and the bulk of muscle on their large frames balled and bunched as blows were traded. The sound of bone on meat rolled over the crowd like drumbeats. The fight, which had been going on for several minutes already, could not last much longer. Both men were big and heavy, and their fighting style evenly mixed blows with grappling techniques. They mostly used hands as weapons, using their massive legs as pistons to drive the opponent back, and occasionally to attempt a sweep of the other's foot. The blows from the fists of either of these fighters would cause devastating damage to the body of a small man or woman, but elicited only grunts and the occasional whoosh of lost breath in this match. Faces, however, were still vulnerable. Blood from split lips and noses ran freely, slicking their bare torsos. Both men fought as though they were used to defeating their opponent quickly. Their breathing was becoming ragged as each attempted to overpower the other. This fight would end soon, and decisively.

A moment of uncertain footing was all it took. The smaller of the two men slipped the slightest amount on the sandy hard packed ground. The larger man capitalized at once, using their mutual shoulder grip to his advantage. Driving his right shoulder down and in, the smaller man followed, seeming locked to the other's center of balance. As the smaller man's head drew down towards the larger man's waist, the larger man drove an elbow cruelly down into the base of his skull. It was a blow that might fell a man for good. For a long moment after the man crumpled to the ground, alive but unconscious, the only sound was the harsh breathing of the victor. Then the crowd erupted, some cheering, some wailing.

As the bets were being settled, it became apparent that the big man was the reigning champion, but many had bet on the smaller man, hoping to turn a profit on the longer odds. The comments that Karsilama and Zenkov were able to pluck out of the cacophony indicated that the big man was not everyone's favorite. He had a reputation for being needlessly vicious, and there were fewer challengers as a result.

Karsilama grinned mischievously at her companion, and spoke sotto voce. " Well, he may be as strong as a dhub, but he's slow as one too. And with none of the endurance!"

Zenkov's eyes snapped open. "Karsi, no!"

It was too late. The moneychanger who was part bet taker, and part manager for the fighter, had heard the comment over the jingle of the coins he was collecting. He stared at the small woman, taking her in with a measuring look that bespoke practice. He saw a woman just over five feet tall, weighing about one hundred fifteen pounds, with dark brown skin, long desert-bleached brown hair, and green eyes. She was lithe, built like a dancer or a runner. He was right on both counts. He coolly noted the absence of built up callus on her knuckles, and the beauty of her face. He did not see a fighter, and chose to dismiss her.

"You wouldn’t last ten seconds against a man like Jafir."

"I wouldn’t have to last much more than that to defeat a lump like Jafir. I’d be more at risk of being blown about by his huffing and puffing than getting hit by one of those joints of meat he calls arms."

"Oh Karsi! Why are you doing this?" , moaned Zenkov. "One punch and your nose will be splattered all over your pretty little face!"

"If he hits me. We could use some extra money for supplies. I’m tired of skimping at dinner!"

The moneychanger laughed and parted the crowd so that Jafir could see the woman insulting him. "What do you think, my giant friend? Two to one odds?"

Jafir was still flushed with exertion, and breathing hard, but he was already showing clear signs of recovery from his match. He had wiped away the fresh blood and was stanching the flow from his nose with a cold wet cloth. "Fortunate for you, my greedy friend, that I am not interested in beating you for your insolence. This fly is worth no more than one slap of my hand. Twenty to one is more like it!" It seemed that Karsilama’s taunting had struck deep into the brawler’s prodigious ego.

Laughing, the moneychanger set the odds at twenty to one. Very few people bet on Karsilama. Prying the pouch of money intended for supplies from Zenkov’s hand, Karsilama dumped it in front of the moneychanger.

"Fifty silver coins. Set the match to start in ten minutes. I’d hate to have people saying later that I beat him because he was still winded."

With a toss of her hair, and a flash of her green eyes, Karsilama withdrew to the shade of a nearby building. Zenkov followed.

"I know, my desert flower. You think I take an unnecessary risk. I don’t think so. He’s big, incredibly strong, and hits like a sack of bricks. But a sack of bricks takes a long time to get moving. You saw him, Zen! He’s slow and predictable. He advances in straight lines, and doesn’t retreat unless pushed. I don’t think he can touch me before I take him down." Karsilama spoke as she unlaced her boots. She continued to strip down as Zenkov replied.

"You’d better be right, lover. I’d hate to have to carry your broken body back to camp and explain how you got that way. And lost our supply money as well, which would have fed all nine of us for most of a month if we were careful. After all your baiting, that Jafir is probably shamed and angry, and that makes him dangerous."

"I’ll do all right. I did fine when it mattered for real against those bandits on the last caravan run across the desert. Plus I’ve been sparring pretty aggressively with Beledi, and he’s faster than a first-timer with an houri. And he’s damn sneaky, too! If I can hold my own against him, which I can’t quite do I admit, I can take out this Dhub herder."

At that, both women laughed and relaxed. Karsilama was right about her recent attempts to best their lover and Quartermaster. He was only a few inches taller than Karsilama and weighed about the same. His skill at hand to hand combat, especially unarmed, was unrivaled. There were few men or women in all the island kingdoms of Peligo who could match him. His dancing skill was also exemplary, and in the company of his family musicians and singers, he danced often. He always maintained there was little difference between his dancing and fighting techniques. He taught the others to fight in terms of the drum rhythms they used for dancing around the fire. His style was unorthodox, and relied not on brute strength, but rather on precision, timing, and redirection of an opponent’s own energy and inertia. It was, he said, suitable for anyone, but favored smaller body types, making it appropriate for women and children as well as men of small stature such as himself. He called the style "Qu’al Doumbek", or the Dance of the Desert Drum.

When she reached her tight raw silk undergarments, Karsilama stopped undressing. The silk was close fitting, making her unlikely to be snagged by a lucky grab, but tough, making it unlikely to rip were she grabbed.

"Too bad I can’t fight naked here like we do at home. Solves lots of problems." , she mused.

"Just what we need!", Zenkov laughed. "It might distract Jafir for a moment or two, but the crowd would be incensed. You know how they feel about public nakedness in these villages."

"Yes, I know. Weird though. I never understand it…"

"And that’s one of the things that makes you so popular at home. You never wear clothes if you don’t have to. Lucky us!"

"Um.", muttered Karsilama. "It looks like Jafir is impatient to eat dust. I best give him a moment more to get good and irritated. Or he’ll maybe mistake my delay for fear, and that’ll help make him over confident."

"Who’s sneaky?", queried Zenkov. "Good luck. Dance up a storm."

A quick hug and kiss, and Karsilama forgot about the existence of Zenkov, or anybody else. She focused her mind on herself, loosening shoulders and hips, identifying minor aches and pains to test their severity. She rotated each ankle, and her wrists, stretched her back and hamstrings. Then, drawing several deep breaths, she walked to the circle on the ground that served as the ring for the bout.

The crowed jeered her, taunting her with the various ways she was going to be hurt or killed. She ignored them all. They were not the enemy, at least not at the moment. There might be a time after she defeated Jafir where the crowd might turn on her, but she could not think about that now. She would burn that bridge when she got to it. Jafir was rested, she noted. His color was still up, so he would likely not last as long as he had against his last opponent. Perhaps, she considered, he is embarrassed by the thought of fighting someone so much smaller. His problem, she mentally shrugged. If this fight went more than thirty seconds, Karsilama knew she would be in trouble. The longer the match, the more likely he was to connect with one of those hammer blows he called punches.

The moneychanger acted as a ringmaster for the crowd. He delighted in standing the combatants next to each other so all could see the huge disparity in their sizes. Jafir towered more than a foot over Karsilama. When she was in front of him, the crowd could see significant parts of Jafir on three sides of her. He outweighed her by one hundred thirty or more pounds and outreached her by eight or ten inches. She looked like a waif next to him. Jafir was enjoying every moment, roaring and flexing his muscles. The crowd laughed. Motioning for silence the moneychanger outlined the simple terms of the fight.

"Fight until one of you is unable to continue. You waive all rights to family revenge if you are killed." This last was stated while he stared at Karsilama. She returned his stare as placidly as the dhub they used to haul their wagons. The moneychanger continued, "No weapons other than your bodies. Ready?"

Neither fighter replied, the moneychanger already forgotten. They faced each other, nodding to each other, Jafir grinning. Karsilama stared back, trying to not focus on any part of the big man. She diffused her vision, taking him all in.

"Begin!" At the moneychanger’s command, Jafir stepped in and jabbed his leading left hand at Karsilama’s face. Had the blow landed, the fight would have been over before it began. As Jafir started the metaphorical sack of bricks toward her head, Karsilama began a step to the right, moving her head first. The punch missed her by a full two inches, and she continued her movement. By the time Jafir had pulled his punch back in, Karsilama was ending her movement directly to his left, almost the same distance from him as she had been a moment ago. She waited. He turned to face her again, the grin still in place. He shuffled his feet slightly, thinking about charging her. He opted instead to jab again with his left. Karsilama responded the same, but in the opposite direction. She finished her movement directly to his right. He turned to face her again, the grin still in place, but with a hint of self deprecation coloring the edges. He was chagrined to have missed, twice, thinking that this would be a one punch fight. Karsilama waited. To defeat a much larger opponent, she needed the moment. That moment of clarity that stretches time, allowing her to see the attack, know it, and flow into her counter without having to think. If she spent her mental energy trying to anticipate his attack, she would likely walk blindly into one of his devastating punches. It could be a fatal mistake. On a man the size of the well-muscled Jafir, there were few targets a woman of her size could strike with a reasonable chance of causing damage. Any attack from her put her within his deadly reach, and therefor must be fast and efficient. She waited. She could see him as he reevaluated her, assessing various combinations he could try. She waited.

Frustrated by her implacable calmness, he attacked. The moment unfolded, and a drum rhythm began playing in her mind, just as Beledi had so often instructed her. Karsilama had time to acknowledge her disappointment. He was not nearly as good a fighter as he had seemed. He threw the same punch a third time, no doubt anticipating following it up with additional blows depending on which direction she sidestepped. He diminished her by assuming she also was a one trick fighter. As Jafir’s punch came at her face, Karsilama moved her head to the right the slightest bit. The punch rushed by, within an inch of her face. At the same time she stepped diagonally in, close along side him, with her left hand checking any sideways motion of his arm. Beat one of the drum. Unconcerned by the punch, she waited until Jafir’s arm was at its’ maximum extension before striking with the edge of her right hand. The blow was over his punch, right up along the arm, and smashed into his throat. Beat two. There was a moment of silence in the drum rhythm as her left hand grasped his extend left hand. On the third beat of the drum, she secured his hand and rolled his wrist over, bending the hand back and locking both the elbow and wrist joints. Her right palm heel, driving forward with speed and precision, broke his locked elbow on beat four of the drum. Jafir was just beginning his strangled scream from the first two blows as Karsilama moved during another moment of silence in the drum rhythm. She pivoted slightly, twisting his wrist to apply some pressure to the ruined elbow, and stepped through with her back foot, destroying his left knee on beat five of the drum. In the silence that ends the rhythm, she released his arm and continued her movement, stepping out of reach behind him. The drum silenced in her mind.

Time returned to normal for Karsilama as the moment faded. Jafir was just finishing his crumple to the ground. His breath was coming in ragged gasps through his badly bruised throat, and the pain from his shattered elbow and knee was building to a crescendo as his fall put weight on them. There was no other sound for a long moment. Karsilama stood quietly, knowing the fight was ended. The crowd had not yet realized the damage she had inflicted as she had seemingly danced past him. It had happened too quickly.

Jafir let out one long screech of intense pain before passing out. The crowed began to murmur in disbelief. One man in the front stepped forward in disgust and spit on the fallen man. The moneychanger’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish removed from water. He said nothing.

The crowd parted as Karsilama left the circle. She returned to her clothes, and Zenkov. The growing volume of conversation was giving testament to the crowd’s belated comprehension.

"Well", was all she could manage as adrenaline and emotion coursed through her system. Zenkov smiled sadly, and left her alone to dress.

Approaching the moneychanger, Zenkov heard many voices in the crowd expressing amazement at the fight. A few were just beginning to recall that they had bet on Jafir, and were therefor poorer as a result. She spoke quietly to the moneychanger. "Fifty silvers at twenty to one. You owe us one thousand silvers. I’ll accept gold if you have it."

Still somewhat bewildered at Jafir’s loss, the moneylender fell back on professional habit. He deftly counted out the winnings into a pile, a mixture of mostly silver and a little gold. Satisfied, Zenkov scooped the pile of coins into one of the sacks she had brought for supplies. It was quite a load of coin, and weighed over twenty pounds. She turned and walked back to rejoin Karsilama without pausing. "We need to leave. Right now. In a moment that crowd is going to realize that we are going to walk out of town with a thousand of their silvers. They may react badly."

Without looking back, and trying desperately not to run, the two set off for the Clan’s camp, just outside the village. The sounds of anger began to vent from the crowd. Once they had made a turn, and seemed like they were out of sight, the women broke into a trot, attempting to put a little more distance between themselves and the potential violence behind them. Perhaps the crowd would merely be angry and let it go at that, but why be careless? Most of the bettors had lost money on the bout, and more importantly had lost the money to caravaners, outsiders. The money was gone, and could not be won back during the next bout. If the village was typical, perhaps as much as a quarter of all the money in the village had just disappeared. There were likely to be a few domestic beatings tonight as enraged spouses learned what had happened to their hard-earned money.

The two reached camp without incident. They immediately called out for Guwazi, the Captain of their caravan guards. Word spread quickly to the other partners, and within moments all eight members of the Clan of the Drum were gathered together, squatting around the remains of the breakfast fire. Quickly Zenkov outlined what had occurred in the village. As one of the original founders of the Taxim Express caravan company, she felt responsible for most of what befell the business.

"Were there weapons in evidence?" The question was from Falahi, Guwazi’s lieutenant. Guwazi nodded, obviously pleased with her question.

"None that we saw.", answered Zenkov, "Except for the knives, of course." Everyone nodded. In Peligo, the jambaya was a common utility item, and nearly everyone wore one. It was an efficient fighting weapon, and often used as such.

"That’ll help. Zenkov estimated that there were about forty or so watching the fight. Since we sent six of the guard on home this morning, we have the eight of us, plus four guards. Who opted to stay and ride back to Taxim City with the caravan, Falahi, and what do you recommend?" Guwazi was good at tactics, and even better at coaxing the best performance out of his companions when the subject turned to the realm of combat. It’s why he was the Captain.

"Farukh, Dahab, Soraya, and Zafina stayed with us. They’re a good crew, and Dahab and Farukh fight better together since they became lovers." Guwazi filed Falahi’s added comment away. He was not aware the men desired one another. On more than one occasion he had noted Soraya watching Farukh from the corner of her eye. He would have to be alert for possible trouble there. Falahi continued, "My first reaction is to recommend that we pack up and push on to the next village, Sarfi Daal if my memory serves me. We have enough food and water to get us that far if we’re careful. With just twelve fighters, eleven really since Laz may have his hands full managing the dhub herd, we stand to be outnumbered by at least four to one. Lousy odds, even if they are undisciplined troops. It’d help a lot if we could find grazing for the dhub along the way. We’ll run out of feed for them first."

Guwazi evaluated her assessment for a moment. Finding it sound, if a bit scattered, he slapped his knee and stood. "Sounds like the right plan. Let’s pack up and get moving. Our welcome here seems to be in doubt." He smiled at Karsilama. "However, we can eat like royalty when we get to Sarfi Daal thanks to Karsi’s fight. That’s a tidy profit for a half minute’s work!"

The Clan dispersed, each knowing their responsibility during a load out. For a caravaner, leaving in a hurry was a fact of life. Guwazi decided to have the hired guards keep a watch out for the mob that may or may not appear. Personally he did not believe they would come, but a lot of money was at stake. People often risked a lot for money, he thought, as he watched Karsilama walk away. He trotted off to do his part to prepare for departure.

No attack materialized, and the load-out was accomplished with alacrity. The Clan was on the road within twenty minutes. During their travel later that day, Karsilama quietly told the entire story to Beledi. He listened quietly, not as lover, but as teacher and friend. She was wrestling with her emotions, and having trouble pinning them down.

"I felt so detached when I was challenging Jafir. I knew I was talking, but at the same time I was standing outside myself, observing. I never thought about him as a person. A person that I was going to have to hurt, probably badly, to defeat in unarmed combat. After it was over I felt, I don’t know, sick. He’s not going to walk for months, and it may be a year before he can even think about fighting again. I think I hurt more than his elbow and knee. And the way Zenkov looked at me after. She seemed so distant." Karsilama felt the tears welling up in her eyes, tears that did not flow even when she took bad hits or falls in practice, or was wounded in skirmishes with bandits.

"You did take more from him than the use of his elbow and knee, Karsilama.", Beledi said. "You took his qu’al, his dance of life. Fighting like that was probably how he identified with himself. It was how he saw himself at his core. And you defeated him in what, ten seconds? It will be a hard lesson for him. You both learned today. He learned that he can, and will, lose. He now has a taste of the damage he has caused to others. And you. You have learned that it can be worse to win, when the cost of winning is so high to your own qu’al. There was no honor in your fight today." After a moment to let his statement sink in, he added gently, "But no dishonor either, Karsilama. He was a brawler who made his money fighting. You were better." He moved on ahead, leaving Karsilama alone with her thoughts.

That night, as the Clan relaxed around the fire after dinner, Karsilama and Zenkov told the story again in detail. This time the telling was instructional and entertaining, as the threat of attack by a mob was many miles behind them. After the description of the fight, Beledi wanted a reenactment. Laz, at over six feet and two hundred twenty pounds, was coaxed up to play the part of Jafir. The fighters and dancers in the group took delight in his shambling portrayal of the brawny fighter. Karsilama demonstrated her chosen techniques, first in slow motion, then several more times closer to actual speed. Beledi, unable to repress the teacher in himself, jumped up and replaced Laz. The Clan spent some time evaluating the brief combat, exploring the many possibilities of attack or defense that could have unfolded. During that time, Ayoub, Laz, and Zar unpacked their drums and began playing. Zenkov and Guwazi joined Karsilama and Beledi around the fire, turning their martial practice toward dance. Falahi and Curcuna added their voices to the drums. Soon all their faces were flushed with delight, unneeded clothing was shed, and their spirits soared along with the bonfire.

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Afterword The rhythm set to motion by Karsilama in this story is a middle eastern rhythm in 2/4 time, called "Ayoub", or "Zaar". The rhythm is primarily played on a middle eastern drum called a doumbek. I added the martial techniques associated with each beat in Qu’al Doumbek, the Dance of the Desert Drum.