MUSTAPHA

               When Mustapha had fallen from the cliff he managed to hold on tight to the Bosnian. The journey to the crashing waves below felt like it had taken forever to complete. The two men hit the waves and were separated immediately. Mustapha could barely breathe; he was winded badly by the fall into the freezing sea. The water around the Anglesey coastline rarely rises above 12 degrees; without the aid of a wet suit, hypothermia is never far away. He plunged beneath the surface of the waves; the impetus of his fall dragged him deeper and deeper. He felt like his lungs would explode any second and he kicked desperately to reach the surface.

             As he finally broke the surface he sucked in fresh air deep into his lungs. He was coughing and spluttering as he tried to get his bearings.  He was 200-yards from land on either side of him. The steep black cliffs at the bottom of the mountain looked impossible to climb. The waves crashed against them rising 20-feet up the sheer rock before falling back into the ocean. He would be broken like a piece of driftwood if he attempted to reach the mountain. He turned gasping for his breath all the while and looked toward South Stack Island. The tall white building of the lighthouse itself, which looked so small from above, now towered above him. The rocks looked sharp and treacherous and the waves pounded against them. He would be ripped to pieces in minutes if he tried to exit there. His muscles started to cramp in the freezing water, his wounds already felt numb. He lay on his back and tried to float; he had no more energy to swim. Consciousness started to fade and darkness crept into his vision. The huge black cliffs seemed to reach up to the sky. He thought he could see a young girl dressed in a white dress up on the headland far away. She was waving to him and he thought he could see her smiling; `it looks like Yasmine`, he thought, as he passed out.   

          Rasim Janet crashed into the water at high speed. The young Ahmed was above him and seemed to be driving him deeper down. His lungs screamed at him to breath. The bullet hole in his shoulder stung as salt water entered his flesh. He kicked wildly trying to reach the air above. Desperation gave him strength and he drove himself upward to the surface. The enormous swell of the Irish Sea lifted him up and down. He could see no sign of Mustapha. He looked toward the lighthouse and quickly decided that to try and leave the ocean there would be suicidal. He turned toward the mountain and started to swim. The swell was helping his progress by pushing him toward the cliffs. He was now directly below the suspension bridge that crossed 150-feet above him from the mountain to the island. He was losing his strength rapidly as he tried to swim to the cliffs. Rasim looked up at the steep rock face that loomed above him and he wondered how he was going to climb it even he did make it to the rocks. He pushed himself harder; he would not give in now. Rasim had weathered horrific times in his fight against Christianity; he could not be defeated now, and he kicked harder toward the rocks. A glint of metal caught his eye. It was dull not shiny, but it was metal none the less, and as the waves receded he saw it again. It was a rusted metal ring that would be used to tie up a boat, fixed to the rock face. He swam toward it, the swell aiding him, and as he approached the cliffs he saw the smooth rounded shape of ancient steps cut into the rock face. The steps climbed the cliff zigzagging toward the bridge. The steps had been cut when the lighthouse was built. They serviced small boats that were used to ferry the builders and architects with their materials to the island. God had saved Rasim from the nightmares of Bosnia, now here he was helping again.