Companions of Paradise (22 page)

“She was poor,” his great-aunt whispered. “She had to work. But you must listen to the rest of the story.

“The city was both rich and beautiful. The carved gate to the palace had been polished until it glowed, and the gateway itself was inlaid with precious stones.

“A sumptuously dressed gatekeeper looked Muballigh up and down.

“ ‘I have come to see the king,’ said Muballigh. ‘I bring a message for his ears alone.’

“The gatekeeper clapped his hands. When a poor old man appeared, he pointed to a grand, nearby building. ‘Take this person to the palace,’ he ordered.

“ ‘The Vizier,’ he said loftily, turning to Muballigh, ‘will decide whether or not you will be allowed into the king's presence.’

“Muballigh followed the old man across inlaid courtyards and down painted corridors until he came to the king's Vizier, who lounged on a priceless carpet, surrounded by attendants.

“ ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, curling his lip at Muballigh's travel-worn clothes. ‘How dare you enter the king's antechamber?’

“ ‘I bring a message from my king,’ Muballigh replied patiently, ‘who rules the land beyond the Kingdom of Despair. The message is for your king's ears alone.’

“ ‘Very well.’ The Vizier toyed with a thick rope of pearls around his neck. ‘If your message proves to be as important as you believe it is, then you will escape with your life. But if it is as trivial as your appearance indicates, then before evening your head will adorn a spike on the palace wall.’ ”

“Why was he going to kill poor Muballigh?” Saboor demanded in a stage whisper. “He was only doing what his king asked him to—”

“Quiet.” His great-aunt held a finger to her lips. “Like Muballigh's message, this story is for your ears alone.” She glanced about the sitting room, taking in a group of soporific old ladies with thin quilts over their legs, and some children playing with a tangle of colored threads. “If the others learn that I am telling it, I shall have to start from the beginning.

“Muballigh was frightened by the Vizier's threat,” she continued, “but he bravely followed the slave into an inner room. There, lying on a pile of brocade cushions, was the king. He was fat as a baby, and covered from head to foot in jewels. Slaves fanned him with enormous feather fans, musicians played, and young female slaves danced before him.

“ ‘I have no need of messages,’ he announced, when Muballigh told him why he had come. ‘But for all I know, yours might amuse me. Speak.’

“Muballigh leaned over him.
‘True happiness lies only in the faithful heart,’
he murmured in his tenderest voice.

“The king threw back his head and laughed aloud. ‘I have never heard anything so funny,’ he gasped, wiping his eyes. ‘Happiness lies in the, what did you say, the faithful heart?’

“He slapped the nearest eunuch on the back, then collapsed onto his cushions. ‘I'll tell you where happiness lies,’ he choked out. ‘It is here, in this very room.

“ ‘What,’ he crowed, gesturing about the sumptuous chamber, ‘could make a man happier than to have defeated his enemy? Do you see these slaves who fan me? They are the sons of my brother, the King of Despair. These dancing girls are his daughters. My lands are tilled and tended by his people so that my own subjects do no work. All this wealth and happiness comes from one thing alone, my cleverness at defeating my enemy.

“ ‘Go your way, young man,’ he added, mirthfully, ‘and give your useless message to someone foolish enough to believe it. Throw him out,’ he ordered the guards, ‘but spare his life, for he has told me a fine joke.’

“Before he knew it Muballigh found himself lying in a heap outside the palace gate.”

“Poor Muballigh,” whispered Saboor.

“Sorely disappointed,” Safiya continued, “he took the road leading to the next kingdom, but soon, too discouraged to travel any farther, he sat down and dropped his head into his hands. At once, a voice came from a tall dead tree nearby.

“ ‘Now that you have wasted your message on the King of Greed,’ said the bird, ‘will you return to your home?’

“ ‘No, Bird,’ Muballigh said sadly.

“ ‘If you wish for my help,’ it added, ‘you need only tell me the secret you carry.’

“When Muballigh did not reply, it flapped its great wings and flew away. Soon it was only a speck in the sky almost too small to see.

“And that is all for today.” Tired of speaking, Safiya sighed and leaned gratefully against her bolster. An instant later, she sat up, frowning.

Small, miserable sounds were coming from the child.

“Now what is the matter, Saboor?” she inquired.

“I want to go ho-o-o-me.”

She drew him to her and stroked his face. “We will go home soon. Very soon.”

“I want An-nah.” His tears dotted Safiya Sultana's
kameez.
“Why is everything so sad, Bhaji? Why is poor Muballigh all alone? Why does Abba not bring An-nah home from Kabul?”

“Tch,” Safiya clucked. “Your Abba is leaving soon for Kabul. Inshallah, he will bring your An-nah home safely.”

But the child would not be comforted. “And why,” he sobbed, “is Muballigh alone? The bird keeps going away, and—”

Safiya sighed.
“Hai
, Saboor, it is only a story. But since you will not stop weeping, I suppose I shall have to tell you the rest of it.”

November 15, 1841

I
t will not be long now.” Zulmai the merchant hitched his jezail on his shoulder and surveyed the heap of tents, piles of furniture, oil lamps, and other supplies lying before him on the dusty ground. “I expect to have twenty more
yabus
and a dozen mules within fifteen days. By that time that caravan I spoke of will be at Kohat, ready to leave.”

“Fifteen days?” Hassan gestured impatiently at the busy caravanserai that boiled around them. “Why should it take so long to find pack animals? I see camels and ponies everywhere. Why can we not buy camels, and join some other caravan that is leaving earlier?”

“Those kafilas are not taking our route,” Zulmai answered patiently, “and we cannot use camels, for a camel will not climb. As for the delay, everyone is traveling at this season. The mules and yabus in the market are thin and overworked. Fresh ones will not arrive for another ten days. But do you really want that many?” he added doubtfully. “Surely you do not need all these extra tents and—”

“I want them all,” Hassan Ali Khan said decisively. “Who knows what we will find when we reach Kabul? There may be women and children who need our help.”

Ghulam Ali looked up from the bale of rezais he was tying. This heap of baggage, with its thick carpets, heavy bolsters, and satin quilts, was easily as lavish as that of the Tajik wedding party he had joined on his way to Jalalabad, but it was fitting that Hassan should travel in luxury. After all, he was a rich man on his way to Kabul to collect his wife and bring her home.

If Hassan Ali Khan were traveling with his own family instead of an Afghan merchant, if his beautiful Akhal Tekke horse were white, not gray, and if his wife were a veiled stranger instead of the woman who had braved the violent streets of Lahore to save his life, this might be a wedding procession, and Hassan the groom on his way to take possession of his bride.

Of course when they arrived, there would be no one to put flower garlands about Hassan's neck as they did in the Punjab, or greet him with hospitality and respect.

“We will carry all our food,” Hassan went on. “I want to avoid the villages on our route. There is no point in risking shortages along the way, and I want us to draw as little attention as possible.”

Zulmai nodded a greeting to a man leading a shaggy camel. “As you wish, although you will be far from invisible with that horse.” He raised his voice over the commotion around them. “There is always the risk of thieves and raiders.”

Hassan shrugged. “That is why we are joining all those other people, and bringing our own guard.”

“Does Governor Avitabile know you are leaving for Kabul?” Zulmai asked.

“If he does not, he will find out soon enough. His spies are everywhere. I am sure that even now we are being watched.”

“And you do not think he will take revenge on you for insulting him and defying his orders?”

Hassan smiled. “My friend, Avitabile is not an Afghan. When he learns we have outplayed him by removing Saboor from danger, he will move on to his next game, his next victim.”

Zulmai nodded. “So now,” he said thoughtfully, “we have only to rescue your family in Kabul.”

Hassan nodded absently, his fingers seeking something hidden in his clothes.

TWO DAYS later, Mariana's munshi took his usual place beside her chair and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Muballigh,” he told his small audience, “followed the road out of the Kingdom of Greed, past gardens and fields, all tended by slaves from the Kingdom of Despair.”

His voice still sounded hoarse after three days of illness, but it was not the state of her teacher's health that caused Mariana to fidget distractedly while he spoke.

During the night, someone had blocked the irrigation canal outside the rampart walls that had supplied the cantonment with water for more than two years.

After discovering that the tank was dry when he tried to make her morning coffee, Dittoo had fought his way through a crowd of several hundred people to a small irrigation channel outside the walls of the Residence compound, where he had managed to scoop up a few precious buckets full—enough for coffee and to boil the rice for everyone's lunch, but not enough for any other purpose. This morning Mariana had barely even washed her face. Had anyone, she wondered, thought of a survival strategy for the British force until General Sale arrived to relieve them?

Munshi Sahib cleared his throat. “After many days of traveling,” he continued, gesturing with fingers whose nails were uncharacteristically dirty, “Muballigh came to a third kingdom. This kingdom was easy to identify, for unlike the previous two, it was both rich and poor, and its people were both happy and sad. As he traveled through it, Muballigh saw rich gardens, heavy with ripening fruit, and meager, poorly kept ones. In some villages, women laughed around the well; in others, beggars crouched hungrily in the doorways.

“As he gazed upon this new country's rolling hills and bright rivers, Muballigh longed more than ever to return home, and to see the face of his wise old king.”

A tragic, familiar-sounding sigh floated in from the corridor. Mariana understood Dittoo's feelings. He, and probably Yar Mohammad, must ache to be in a safe, familiar place far from Kabul. But unlike them, she could not say where she belonged, or even where she would be welcome. The servants could describe every stone and brick of their ancestral villages, but for all that Mariana felt desperately homesick, she could not call anywhere her real home.

She could not long for Sussex and spinsterhood, or for some nameless Indian cantonment where she would live with Harry Fitzgerald. All she wanted was the tantalizing, unreachable Qamar Haveli. It was not home, but it was the only place she longed for….

“Muballigh,” the munshi continued, his voice roughening, “followed the road leading to the king's palace. As he trudged along, he saw an old man resting beneath a tree. Beside him lay a basket filled with raisins, almonds, pistachios, and other dried fruit.”

“The old man motioned for Muballigh to approach him. ‘I see, messenger,’ he said weakly, ‘that you are on your way to meet the king. I was going to see him myself, to give him this basket of dried fruit, but I can carry it no farther. Do me the kindness of delivering it to him. I cannot pay you for this work, but you may eat as much of it as you like.’

“Happy to oblige, Muballigh lifted the old man's basket onto his head and continued his journey. When at last he reached the palace gate, he found a smart-looking man standing guard.

“The guard returned Muballigh's greeting. ‘I see,’ he added, ‘that you are dressed as a messenger, but you are carrying a basket like a peasant. Which are you, if I might ask, and what is your business here?’

“ ‘I am indeed a messenger,’ replied Muballigh. ‘I bring words for the king's ears alone. This dried fruit is a gift from an old peasant I met upon the road.’

“ ‘The king is not here,’ said the guard, ‘and so your message must wait. But if you leave the basket with me, I will see that his family receives it.’ ”

Munshi Sahib looked tired and wan, but he seemed determined to continue his story. His health should have improved, thanks to the resourceful Nur Rahman, who had ventured into the city three days ago with Yar Mohammad, a purse full of Mariana's rupees, and a borrowed donkey, to buy a sheepskin cloak for the old man, and a dozen quinces to stem his cough.

“Yar Mohammad looked exactly like an Afghan,” he had told Mariana excitedly. “As before, he pretended to be speechless, so no one was surprised at my bargaining for the cloak and the fruit. We were very careful with the money,” he added, then smiled, his heart-shaped face alight. “We have brought you potatoes and onions, and pomegranates from Jalalabad.”

If they went on another of those adventures, Mariana promised herself, she would ask for sweet red carrots and small, dried apricots with their seeds still in.

“As Muballigh handed over the old man's gift,” Munshi Sahib was saying, “a little boy came running from inside the palace.

“ ‘Oh, Guard,’ he cried excitedly, seeing what was in the basket, ‘is all this dried fruit for me?’

“The guard smiled. ‘It is, O Prince,’ he said affectionately, ‘for you and all your family.’

“ ‘But since I am the eldest son,’ the little prince added hopefully, ‘may I have some now?’

“As he looked down at the child, Muballigh knew what he must do.

“ ‘Peace be upon you, little prince,’ he said, tenderly. ‘I have a secret message for your ears alone. I will tell it to you if you will promise to live by its wisdom for the rest of your days.’

“ ‘Oh, yes,’ the child replied eagerly, for more than almonds and figs, he loved a secret.

“ ‘Then here it is,’ said Muballigh. ‘Remember that the secret is yours alone until you choose to impart its wisdom to others.’

“His face radiant from having carried the secret for so long, Muballigh leant over the little prince.
‘True happiness,’
he whispered,
‘lies only in the faithful heart.’ ”

Faith.
Mariana saw it every day in her munshi, who showed no sign of disturbance, even in this dangerous time. Were Haji Khan in her teacher's place, she was certain, he would be no different. She envied them both.

“The little prince looked into Muballigh's serene face, his eyes shining. Then, forgetting the basket of fruit, he ran back into the palace.

“His work done, Muballigh turned away from the gate. As he readied himself to travel to the next kingdom, a rushing sound came from above his head.

“In an instant the great bird stood before him. ‘O Muballigh,’ it said, ‘you have delivered the message well. The prince will, indeed, find true happiness.’

“ ‘But how do you know my name?’ Muballigh asked in surprise. ‘And how have you come to know the secret message?’

“The bird cocked its ugly head. ‘That message has never been a secret,’ it said, ‘and it never will be, although it flourishes best when sealed in an innocent heart. The wise cherish it, and disclose it only to those whom it will truly benefit. The unwise, as you have seen, treat the message as useless and the messenger as a fool.

“ ‘Come, then,’ added the bird, turning its back and spreading its ragged wings. ‘Come, faithful messenger, for you have earned true happiness for yourself. It is time for you to return home.’ ”

Home.
Snuffling sounds came from the corridor. Mariana glanced through the doorway. Nur Rahman and Dittoo were weeping.

Munshi Sahib rocked back on his heels, staggered briefly, and then, before she had time to cry out, or Nur Rahman could rush to his side, he collapsed gently onto Mariana's carpet.