An End to Ordinary History: Comments on a Philosophical Novel by Michael Murphy

Author:Michael Murphy [Murphy, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781453218914
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2011-06-07T06:00:00+00:00

17

IT HAD BEEN TWO HOURS since they left the paved road from Tashkent, and their driver, a middle-aged Uzbek who knew each turn of the trail, had parked their Russian jeep to let the motor cool. Fall climbed a rock to survey the valley below. He could see no sign of life between this ridge and the distant horizon. The dry yellow hills stretched some twenty miles to the west, turning red as the sun set behind them.

“We are on the edge of the desert,” Kirov said. “Nobody lives within a hundred miles, except for a few sheepherders.”

Fall stamped his feet for warmth. “How do you get up this trail when it’s raining?” he asked.

“You don’t. In the winter, our people go for months without supplies. That is a time for fasts and vigils.”

Kirov and the driver got back in the jeep, Fall taking a seat behind them. With a lurch they started up the hill.

“He has driven this road for twenty years,” Kirov shouted. “You “have nothing to fear.”

They climbed a narrow gorge in the jeep’s lowest gear, the wheels spinning at times in loose sand. Looking back, Fall watched the valley darken. Not a single light marked a human dwelling. After ascending for fifteen minutes, they reached a sandy plateau. “There it is!” Kirov said, pointing to a hill some two miles distant. “You can see its minaret.”

The ancient retreat stood silhouetted against the dark blue sky, a tower, and parapets. Kirov reached across the driver and blinked the headlights twice. He repeated the signal and a light from the tower answered.

The driver found a trail along the plateau’s western edge. Looking up, Fall saw a vulture high above them, its wings ablaze in the last rays of the sun. They were a thousand feet above the valley. Sandy wastes stretched in darkness toward the red horizon.

After this treacherous drive, Fall’s excitement had given way to fatigue. He gripped his seat as they negotiated another incline, hoping they would soon reach the mosque. Kirov, though, felt a growing peace. Despite the wind and the roar of the engine, he sensed the presence he had known since his boyhood, the stillness in which this wild country seemed to hang suspended.

They passed between two boulders and stopped. Directly above stood the fortress walls. Then, to Fall’s amazement, a wooden gate swung open, revealing a Soviet flag illuminated by the light of two torches. The bearded man who held it waved them on, lowering the Hammer and Sickle toward them as they passed. “We are still Soviets,” Kirov said. “Please bow in return.”

Though the man could not see him, Fall bowed as the gate closed behind them. Four bearded figures dressed in Uzbek robes greeted Kirov with embraces. Bowing toward Fall and the driver, they began to unload the supplies that Kirov had brought from Tashkent.

The courtyard they had entered was sixty yards long and forty yards wide, and was enclosed by walls that rose some thirty feet above them. The air was heavy and still, though the wind outside was howling.

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