Companions of Paradise (11 page)

Even Painda Gul, may he roast for eternity in the fires of Hell, had shared his meals, morsel for morsel, with Nur Rahman.

Nur Rahman had not mentioned his distress to the old man. Instead, a few months ago, he had simply waited for his opportunity, and stolen four small mutton chops from a butcher in the bazaar. He had cooked his ill-gotten treasure with a few cloves and black peppercorns and a stick of cinnamon bark slipped from the Englishman's kitchen. When they were done, he had offered them triumphantly to the old man.

Munshi Sahib had looked, unsmiling, at the plate, then at Nur Rahman's flushed face. “My dear child,” he had said, “you have not gained this food with your right hand.”

The smell of the meat had filled Nur Rahman's senses and brought water to his mouth, but the old man's words had cut him to the heart. He should have known that the great Shafi Khan would never put stolen meat into his mouth.

“We must not let any food go to waste,” the old man had said. “Take it outside and feed it to the poor. They are innocent. Eating it will do them no harm.”

Nur Rahman had wept as he held out his fragrant offering to a ragged child. Penniless, he could find no remedy for the niggardliness of the English people, no delicacy to be cooked for his beloved benefactor, who had counseled the Englishwoman to save his life, who now allowed Nur Rahman to sleep outside his door, and to prepare his morning tea.

Later, the old man had chided him gently, saying that food for the body was no more than that, and that the best food of all was food for the soul.

Food for the soul.
Nur Rahman stole a glance at the Englishwoman. What, he wondered, was written on the small roll of paper that lay hidden in her clothes? Did it contain the secrets of Paradise? He would give anything to know what he must do to gain the Garden, where all sins were forgiven.

As much as he loved his gentle old man, he could not help wishing that the famous Haji Khan had given
him
a little roll of paper.

September 24, 1841

T
he reason you cannot understand these verses, Bibi,” Mariana's munshi explained the following day, “is that they are written in Arabic.”

“And I must recite them in Arabic?”

He shook his head. “Only the prayers must be recited in the original Arabic. These lines may be read in your own language, although of course Arabic is better.”

When he first entered the dining room for her lesson, she had hesitated to tell her teacher of her secret visit to Haji Khan, fearing what he would say. In the end she had realized that it would be wiser to tell the truth.

When she had, he had offered her no reproach, only a silent, appraising look.

She stared at the little page, now unrolled on the dining table, its corners weighed down by her inkstand and a candlestick from the sideboard, its surface covered with unintelligible handwriting. What did it say, this talisman from Haji Khan's trove of papers?

Line by line, her teacher translated Haji Khan's paper into English. Line by line, she copied out his dictated words, growing more and more disappointed as she worked.

Haji Khan's verses did not describe the durability of love in the face of obstacles, or explain the necessity of abandoning a lost cause. They did not hint at the urgent, veiled question that had pestered her as she sat beside him in his dark, perfumed room.

Baffled, she pointed to the paper. “What does this mean, Munshi Sahib?”

“It is a
durood
, Bibi, an invocation of Allah's blessings upon the Prophet Muhammad. In offering a durood, the reciter brings Allah's blessings upon himself. Some duroods also protect the reciter from the promptings of evil, or from those who might do him harm.”

“That is interesting, Munshi Sahib, but why has Haji Khan given it to me?”

“I cannot say.” He frowned. “Did he give you any instructions?”

“He told me to recite what is written on this paper eleven times, morning and evening.”

“Then I suggest you do it.”

“Impossible, Munshi Sahib. I cannot do such a thing.”

Her teacher shrugged. “If that is because you are Christian, I remind you that Christians, like Jews and Muslims, are
ahl-e-kitab
, People of the Book. They recognize the same prophets, the same laws. Haji Khan is known to have traveled very far along the Path to Peace,” he added. “If he has suggested that you recite this durood, he has done so for a reason, although what it is, I cannot say.”

“He is also blind in both eyes,” she pointed out. “The cupboard behind him was full of identical rolls of paper. He could easily have given me the wrong one.”

Her teacher did not reply. Instead, he reached into one of the pockets of his long snowy shirt and withdrew a string of carved wooden beads. A silk tassel hung from a single large bead on the string. “These are for you, Bibi,” he said, as he laid them carefully on the table. “If you choose to do what Haji Khan suggests, you will need to count your recitations.”

In her bedroom an hour later she stared into space, Haji Khan's paper in her hand.

The answer will come to you of its own accord, at the proper time
, he had told her. He had also invited her to return.

For all that he had said little to her, he had been a compelling presence, sitting white-eyed before his guests in that close little room. He had known at once that it was she, and not Nur Rahman, who had a question to ask.

And yet these verses offered her nothing.

If he
had
meant to give her this durood, why had he done it? What did he think would happen if she did as he had told her?

She had longed to learn mystical secrets from the moment she had met the Shaikh and his powerful sister, but it had never occurred to her that to do so she might have to stop being a Christian. That she could not do. It was one thing to study Oriental mysticism, but it was quite another to forsake the Church of England.

She could not imagine what her vicar father would say if he learned of the durood, or even of the beads that now lay hidden in the pocket of her gown.

But as alien as those verses had sounded upon her lips, and as strange as Munshi Sahib's beads had felt in her fingers, she was certain that together they offered her a doorway into some beautiful, unknown place.

The doorway beckoned. It was her choice to enter it, or pass it by.

“IT IS perfectly apparent to me,” Sir William Macnaghten said quietly the next afternoon as he sat in Babur Shah's memorial garden, “that if London wishes to save money, they should cut expenditures somewhere else.”

The English party had returned to Babur's tomb to enjoy one more outing before the weather turned cold. When Macnaghten and several political officers moved away from the others to a quiet grove of trees, Mariana had followed them and seated herself nearby, her back against a tree, straining to hear their conversation.

“This entire region is open to us,” Sir William went on. “With only a few more men we can take Bokhara in the north
and
Herat in the west.”

“Sir William,” Mariana's uncle replied cautiously, “have you considered our lines of supply? They are dangerously long already, and easily severed by insurgents in all those narrow passes.”

“We should perhaps take the Afghan point of view into account,” Charles Mott added, with uncharacteristic confidence, “especially that of the chiefs of the country and the religious leaders—”

“But,” Sir William went on, ignoring both remarks, “the government has insisted that I cut back expenses, and I have done so.

“General Sale's First Brigade will return to India next month. They will take the short road east, through Jalalabad. I have also cut the annual stipend for the Eastern Ghilzais by half. If the saving from these measures proves insufficient, then Shah Shuja will have to give up some of his little luxuries.”

Mariana held her breath, waiting for her uncle's response.

“You have done
that?
” When Adrian Lamb replied, his voice was filled with dismay. “You have cut the payment to the Ghilzai tribes who control all the passes between here and Jalalabad?”

“Oh, Uncle William,” wailed Charles Mott. “I really wonder—”

“I have done it,” Macnaghten said decisively. “Of course they kicked up a row about the deductions from their pay. One of them tried to protest, but Sir Alexander handled him very well. It will do them no good to complain,” he added. “And if they lift so much as a finger against us, they will be trounced for their pains, the rascals.”

“By General Sale, on his way to India?”

“Precisely. After all, he will be traveling through their country.”

Mariana heard her uncle clear his throat. “I am sure you are aware, Sir William,” he said cautiously, “that Akbar Khan has come down from Tashkurgan in the north. He is said to be traveling toward Hazajarat, west of here. Are you certain he is not conniving against us with Ghilzai chiefs such as Abdullah Khan and Aminullah Khan? Those two men give all the appearance of being both dangerous and very much against us. I fear there may be a pattern of revolt, all instigated by Akbar, if we do anything to—”

“Mr. Lamb,”
Sir William snapped, “I am tired of your incessant croaking. We are in no danger at all. With the exception of one or two little uprisings, this country is in a state of perfect tranquility.”

The ensuing silence from Mariana's uncle spoke volumes.

“Why has Sir Alexander declined to come today?” Uncle Adrian inquired as the three men passed by Mariana on their way to the table where the lunch was being laid.

“He said he has urgent business in the city,” replied Sir William.

Urgent business indeed. Still leaning against her comfortable tree trunk, Mariana pictured the voluble, excessive Burnes in the bazaar, ridiculous in his Afghan disguise, starting back from her in surprise, the leer wiped from his face.

Repugnant as that moment had been, Nur Rahman's later remarks had been more upsetting. How could Burnes, with all his experience in Central Asia, have risked the rage of powerful Afghans by soliciting their women in the marketplace, and successfully, too, if Nur Rahman were to be believed? And what of his lackey, the cowardly Johnson, the man now responsible for Shah Shuja's treasure?

If an Afghan's honor requires revenge
, Munshi Sahib had told her,
he will exact it, whatever the price.

As she rejoined the others, Mariana glanced around her at Sir William's guests and his pretty wife, who offered him a private little smile as he reached across her for the wine bottle.

Burnes and Johnson were a danger to them all. She should report them, but how would she ever explain her own presence in the Char Chatta Bazaar, disguised as an Afghan woman?

Since their arrival, Uncle Adrian had gathered a number of paid informers from various parts of the country. Mariana had seen them often—men young and old, wearing the dress of various tribes and regions. They always entered the garden by the front gate, then spoke quietly to her uncle on the verandah.

Surely they had told him about Burnes's activities. But, she realized, just as surely, he had discounted their stories. After all, an informer is paid to provide interesting news.

“I shall never tire of this view.” Lady Macnaghten sighed from her folding chair at the table. “Kabul has proved to be everything I had hoped for, although I must admit I am quite surfeited with grapes. I find myself pining for a nice, sour English gooseberry.”

Aunt Claire nodded beneath her parasol. “And I do not care if I never see another melon. Mariana, tell Adil to bring me a glass of water.”

“But,” General Elphinstone added, grimacing as he lifted his swollen leg onto a straw stool, “nothing can compare to the brilliance of the light and freshness of the breeze, especially here on this mountainside.”

Lady Macnaghten laid a hand on her husband's arm and pointed toward the Persian inscription over the mosque's marble entrance. “You must translate that verse for us again, William,” she said happily. “I find it so very affecting.”

He cleared his throat.
“Only this mosque of beauty,”
he recited in a sonorous tone,
“this temple of nobility, constructed for the prayer of saints and the epiphany of cherubs, was fit to stand in so venerable a sanctuary as this highway of archangels, this theatre of heaven, the light garden of the God-forgiven angel king.”

“Ah,” General Elphinstone sighed, “how well they were able to express themselves in those days! It is difficult to imagine the Afghan savages of today being capable of such eloquence.”

Savages.
Mariana gazed down at the winding Kabul River and the orchard-filled Chahardeh valley beyond, imagining the starched, neatly bearded men she had seen in Haji Khan's room. She had not spoken to them, of course, but she had no doubt that for all the weaponry and reputed violence of the Afghans, Kabul had its own poets and scholars, scientists, doctors, and learned men.

Why was it so difficult for her people to accept that simple fact?

“It is no wonder that the Emperor Babur fell in love with this country,” Uncle Adrian observed. “If he were as good a king as people say, then he deserved to rule this beautiful land.”

She nodded her agreement. With its clear, crystalline light, so different from the damp luminosity of England and the dusty haze of India, Afghanistan was indeed beautiful. What a pity her own people had forced upon it that sour, nervous Shah Shuja and his swaggering followers.

The snow on the distant mountain peaks turned from pink to violet as the afternoon progressed. As the valley below the garden took on hues of ochre and gold, Mariana wished Hassan and Saboor could see it with her.

She sighed. Perhaps her second letter would reach Hassan safely.

She pictured Ghulam Ali trudging along the road from Kabul, with its rocky outcroppings and rushing streams full of rounded pebbles, his loose cotton clothing stained from travel. Was he at this moment crossing a mountain meadow perfumed with aromatic grass, or climbing a hillside covered with wild lavender and thistles?

When would he cross into India?

His unusual appearance might prevent him from being recognized immediately as a servant of the British. That might be a good thing. He still carried his long-bladed Khyber knife, did he not?

If anything happened to the courier who had helped her rescue Hassan the night he was wounded, and who had later hurried after her from Lahore, Hassan's carefully wrapped gold medallion hidden in his pocket, she would never forgive herself.