Companions of Paradise (20 page)

Major Wade had months ago abandoned his efforts to convince that Neapolitan pirate of a governor to comply with the treaty. Since then he had taken his case to every Punjabi official he could find in Peshawar, but with equally unsatisfactory results. This time would clearly be no different. The young diplomat in front of him barely looked up while he was speaking.

The man glanced briefly at the copy of the treaty the major had brought. “I know what it says,” he said wearily. “I was present at the signing.”

The major blinked. “Then you are aware of the seriousness of the promises it contains.”

“I am.”

With the exception of the mercenary governor, the Punjabi officials Wade had met in Peshawar had been Sikhs, with large turbans, carefully wrapped beards, and steel bangles on their wrists. Like them, this man was well dressed, in a loose-robed, native sort of way, but his trimmed beard and chin-length hair indicated that he was Muslim.

He was handsome, for a native. It was a pity, really, about the damage to his left hand. Major Wade, who was bad at such things, had already forgotten the name of the man's father, but there had been something about it—was it Wasif or Wazir or Wahidullah?— that tugged at his memory.

Wade glanced about him, noting the sitting room's beamed ceiling and carved inside balcony. No fewer than five servants hovered along the walls. He gave a mental shrug. This young man might be rich. He might even have influence with the Maharajah's court, but none of that was likely to help the British cause.

Whoever he was, he was no more cooperative than the previous officials had been.

Now that unsubstantiated rumors of a crisis in Kabul had begun to filter in, time was of the essence. The promised reinforcements, so important to the success of the initial British campaign, might now be equally vital to its rescue. Wade slapped his uniform gloves against his thigh, waiting for his host to say something more, but the young man only stared distractedly out of the window, his injured hand moving at his side, as if he were feeling something in an invisible pocket among his clothes.

Paper crackled faintly.

“I will take my leave then,” Wade said, a little sharply, “but I will come again tomorrow, hoping for a better answer from your government.”

Persistence, he had been told, was the only way to get anything done in India, but his ability to say the same words over and over had worn thin months before. Without waiting for the proper politenesses, he stood, and made for the door.

The young man leapt to his feet. “Forgive me,” he said simply. “As I am sure you already know, it will be difficult for me to produce your soldiers. But,” he added, half smiling as a servant held aside the door curtain, “you are most welcome to ask for them as many times as you like.”

As they crossed a neat courtyard together on their way to the front gate, the man's name came back to Wade.
Waliullah
, that was it. And now he remembered what it was about that name. Two years earlier, an English girl had ruined her reputation with a native whose father's name was Waliullah.

This could well be the same young man. He was certainly good-looking enough to attract a silly girl.

As he waited for his horse, Wade searched his memory. The fool had married him, had she not? But she had since divorced him, or so the gossip ran, and gone to Kabul to find herself a proper husband.

It must have been difficult for this young fellow to give up the honor of having a European wife. After all, whoever the girl was, she had white skin.

Perhaps he still pined for her. If she were in Kabul, he might be worrying about her, trapped up there. After all, he had stared out of the window, his knuckles to his mouth

Well, it was all to the good that they were divorced. It was pure insanity for any Englishwoman to entangle herself with the natives. People should stick to their own kind.

After he mounted his horse, Wade memorized the young man's face as he smiled his farewell.

The way these Punjabi officials came and went it was possible he would never see the fellow again. That was a pity. He would have liked to learn more about this interesting young man.

November 11, 1841

R
epeating the king's words to himself,” the old munshi recounted several days later, his singsong storytelling voice roughened by recent illness, “Muballigh the messenger took the nearest road leading out of the kingdom.”

Nur Rahman was not the only person who listened to Munshi Sahib from the corridor, for the young English lady had summoned Dittoo, Adil, and Yar Mohammad to join him. The men looked hungry and chilled to the bone as they squatted beside Nur Rahman, but still they listened eagerly, their heads tilted toward the doorway.

“Muballigh walked for many days,” Munshi Sahib continued, “past fruit gardens, emerald-green rice paddies, and golden wheat fields—until he reached the border of his own land. It was easy to see where the boundary lay, for beyond it, instead of the rich fields of his country, a great, tangled forest of thornbushes stretched away as far as he could see.

“A narrow path led away through the bushes. Fearful of what lay ahead but remembering his beloved king's instructions, Muballigh stepped cautiously onto it.

“The path was difficult to follow. Great, pointed thorns tore at his clothes. The bushes grew taller, and towered above his head. The path twisted and turned, so that he could see only a little way before or behind him.”

Nur Rahman shivered, feeling the messenger's fear and isolation as if they were his own. With only Painda Gul's bitter companionship, he, too, had been cut off from his home. Never in all those years had he had a confidant, a friend

“To give himself courage, Muballigh began to repeat the secret message aloud. ‘Happiness lies only in the faithful heart,’ he murmured to himself as he struggled along the path, ‘in the faithful heart.’

“A clearing opened in front of him. No sooner had he sat down to rest than a whirring sound came from above his head and a large bird with great, ragged wings dropped from the sky and landed clumsily before him.

“The bird cocked its head and, looking Muballigh up and down, ‘Tell me,’ it asked, ‘which spell you have been chanting as you travel through this forest.’

“ ‘I would gladly tell you, O Bird,’ replied Muballigh politely, ‘but I am forbidden to do so. My message is for the king of this country, and no one else.’

“The bird spread its ragged wings. ‘If you tell me your secret,’ it said temptingly, ‘I will carry you over this miserable forest to the king's palace.’

“ ‘Alas,’ Muballigh said sadly, ‘I would like nothing more, but I cannot break my promise to my king.’

“ ‘As you wish.’ So saying, the bird flapped away, leaving Muballigh alone among the thornbushes.”

“J would have revealed the secret,” Dittoo whispered loudly, “if only to have the bird's company for a little while.”

“I, too, would have told,” agreed Nur Rahman.

“And I,” murmured Adil.

Only Yar Mohammad said nothing.

“Night had fallen,” Munshi Sahib went on, “and Muballigh could travel no farther. He wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down to dream of his own peaceful land, where no cruel thorn trees barred the way.

“The next day he struggled again along the path. When at last he emerged from the forest, his clothes torn, his face and hands scratched and bleeding, he saw before him a great, dusty city.

“No fields or peaceful villages dotted the land, for the forest had encroached nearly to the city's high, brick walls. The city gates, open and unguarded, swung in the breeze.

“When Muballigh entered the city, he found its streets deserted. He wandered past closed-up shops and deserted-looking houses, searching in vain for someone to direct him to the palace, until he came to a large, tumbledown building that might once have been the residence of a king.

“He beat upon its great, peeling door until it creaked open a little way and a ragged man looked out.

“ ‘Peace be upon you,’ offered Muballigh. ‘I have come to deliver an important message to the ears of the king.’

“The doorkeeper shrugged, then led him across a dusty courtyard and into a small, unadorned room where a disheveled man sat on a reed stool. Had the servant not bowed deeply before him, Muballigh would never have known that he stood before a king.”

Munshi Sahib stopped speaking and coughed, a hollow, worrying sound.

His audience exchanged glances.

“He suffers from cold at night,” Nur Rahman whispered. “He has only one thin
rezai
, and it is not enough. Of course he never complains.”

“I will bring him another one this evening,” murmured Yar Mohammad.

The quilt Yar Mohammad was offering, Nur Rahman knew, was the only one he had.

“The king's clothes were poor,” Munshi Sahib went on, “and his beard reached to his waist.

“ ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

“ ‘I have come,’ replied Muballigh, ‘with a message from my own king, whose country lies beyond the forest of thorns.’

“ ‘Impart your secret quickly then,’ snapped the king. ‘I have better things to do than listen to useless messages.’

“Muballigh bent toward him. ‘True happiness,’ he murmured tenderly, ‘lies only in the faithful heart.’

“ ‘Is that all you have to say, O Foolish Messenger?’ scoffed the king. ‘How little you know! There is no happiness or faith in this kingdom, only treachery of a king's brother, who has stolen everything the king held dear.’

“Tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘Leave me,’ he wept, ‘and take your useless secrets with you.’

“Muballigh did as he was told. Directed by the ragged doorkeeper, he found a dusty road that led out of the city, across a barren plain. As he followed it, a rushing sound came from above his head, and the ragged bird stood before him once again.

“ ‘O Messenger,’ it asked, ‘will you return home, now that your secret message has been wasted on the King of Despair?’

“ ‘No, Bird,’ Muballigh replied sadly. ‘That I may only do when the message has been well received.’

“The bird spread its wings. ‘If you wish me to carry you over this waterless plain to the next kingdom, you need only tell me your secret.’

“When Muballigh shook his head, the bird flapped away, leaving him alone again.

“And that,” the munshi concluded hoarsely, “will be enough for today.”

AFTER HER munshi and Nur Rahman departed, Mariana stared out of her window.

Caught up with Haji Khan's durood, she had so far given little thought to her munshi's story, but today, aware of how raptly the four men outside her door were listening, she had attended.

But perhaps her teacher was offering all five of them a lesson. After all, he never spoke without a purpose.

Happiness lies only in the faithful heart
, he had said. But surely that was not all he had to say. In this dangerous time, it seemed perfectly childish to insist that faith and joy were the same.

All the faith in the world could not provide happiness to this besieged cantonment surrounded by hostile tribesmen, with food enough for only two days, the camels dying, the wounded lying in agony, and the native camp followers falling ill in droves.

And that sad truth did not apply only to the present. Belief in God had not spared her grieving parents after illness had carried off her two small brothers and her baby sister. Faith might have saved them from madness or despair, but it had certainly not brought them happiness.

She shivered. In just over a year, Saboor would be the same age her precious brother Ambrose had been when he died of typhoid, all shrunken and bald, his flaccid little hand in hers.

She had loved him so, her small, admiring brother who never criticized her, who never told her she was clumsy, or that she talked too loudly. Ambrose had listened, enthralled, to her stories about frogs and fairies. He had smacked his lips when she brought him ripe peaches to eat

Tears spilled over her cheeks. This cantonment was not home. Why was she not with the people she had loved the most, Ambrose, her father, Saboor, Hassan?

She wiped her face, remembering Munshi Sahib standing in her tent that afternoon at Butkhak, one day's march from Kabul. His hands folded behind his back, his face intent, he had recited from the Qur'an.

“Thou shalt surely,”
he had quoted,
“travel from stage to stage.”

She had certainly done that—traveling from England to Calcutta, then Lahore, and now Kabul, from girlhood to wherever she was now.

What would happen to her at this cold, cheerless stage?

She turned from the window and its harsh, never-changing mountain view. Months earlier, Munshi Sahib had offered her that Qur'anic quotation as an antidote to her dream of a funeral procession. Now he was relating the story of the king's messenger. Since he never spoke idly, those two offerings must contain messages for her, although what they were she could not guess.

NUR RAHMAN sighed as he cleaned Munshi Sahib's oil lamp. How, he wondered, would his dear teacher survive a siege during the bitter Kabul winter?

Villagers from nearby Bibi Mahro had come that morning with enough grain to last the camp for two days, but who knew if or when they would return. If they did not come again very soon, sixteen thousand people would be put on half rations, then quarter rations, while the British sent their men into the countryside on the risky mission of buying food.

For this lovely old man to go without a full stomach in summer would be difficult enough, but in winter it could be deadly. He was already suffering from the cold

As he reached sadly for the lamp oil, Nur Rahman remembered something Munshi Sahib had said that afternoon.

Wrapped in his cloak
, he had said, telling his story.
A dusty city.

Those words rang in the boy's imagination. He smiled. Why had he not seen that he, of all the members of this household, might travel unnoticed among the horde of armed men that now filled the dusty Kohistan Road? How had he failed to recognize that, shuffling behind the disguised Yar Mohammad, he could pass the King's Garden where the besiegers had begun to gather, then cross the Pul-e-Khishti and enter the roiling, bloodthirsty city?

Tomorrow he would put on his white chaderi. Safely, a few paces behind the tall groom, he would go to the city. There, in the leather bazaar, he would buy his teacher a
poshteen
, a long sheepskin cloak to keep out the cold.

But that was not all he would do. He would bring medicinal fruit for Munshi Sahib's cough, and live chickens for the English lady and her family. Later, he would bring more poshteens, one for everyone in the household—even for himself. He would go again and again, for sweet red Kabuli carrots, for onions, for turnips and hot bread, fresh from the bakers, for live goats. It did not matter that the commissariat fort had fallen, and that all the British food stores were stolen.

He had no money, of course, but he had only to ask the English lady. If she and her family ran short of money, he would barter. Their house was full of imported goods that would bring a price in the city.

Later, if necessary, he would steal. After all, he had stolen before. But before it came to that, he would see to the old man's comfort.

He began to sing for the first time in days, a mournful, minor air that filled him with joy. For all that he was trapped in the endangered British cantonment, he had never felt so purposeful, or so happy.

When Yar Mohammad arrived, a worn, cotton-stuffed quilt under one arm, Nur Rahman took him aside.

“As you have given Shafi Sahib your rezai,” the dancing boy said quietly, holding out his own tattered quilt, “please take this.”

When Yar Mohammad shook his head, the boy smiled crookedly. “I took an unused one from the English lady's family this afternoon. As I am sure you do not approve of borrowing, I will use it myself. And there is something I must ask of you.”