Khyber Run (19 page)

We were indeed invited in. It looked like the living room of a private home, with pale blue walls and wicker chests lining one wall, and a carved wooden room divider hiding all but the top arch of an interior doorway. They'd spread a heavy golden carpet with a pomegranate design woven into what would be the red squares if it were a giant checkerboard. Plush and unmarked, it looked like no foot had ever set on it, much less field boots like ours.

I folded my legs to sit near the edge closest to the door, with Oscar close beside me. Might as well be modest instead of claiming too high a place and be scorned for arrogance. The driver stood off the carpet behind us, plainly on guard. The officer took a proffered footstool half facing us. The corporal sat facing him, claiming a higher social rank than Oscar and me, but not by much.

We all shook hands with a nervous man in a checkered turban and a navy blazer over a tightly buttoned western-style gray silk vest.

An elderly servant brought a tea tray of dark wood, elegantly carved, with polished brass handles that matched the carpet. He tiptoed across the carpet to place it in the exact center, then scuttled away.

The nervous man poured tea and served white cubes of
halwah
. The tea had enough sugar to taste like heated syrup. The halwah was even sweeter. The nervous man raised his cup. “Long life and happiness."

The officer raised his. “Peace and wealth to your house."

"Peace and happiness to the guests,” offered the corporal.

My turn? I touched my heart to show sincerity. “Safety and peace to this house and all herein."

I hoped Oscar took his cue. Beside me, he spoke in English. “Live long and prosper."

I choked on my tea. Oscar thumped me helpfully on the back.

A door opened behind the divider. From behind it, with some bustle and a brief whispered exchange, came an older man who seemed to have dyed his beard with black ink. His very bushy eyebrows remained white, like fuzzy caterpillars over his eyes. The nervous man brought him a footstool, set it in the host's place facing the door, and thanked him effusively for coming home so soon. We all stood and shook hands with him too, reiterated the round of good wishes, then resumed our places on the carpet.

The old man had carried in the scent of fried food. With the sweet stuff sitting unaccompanied in my stomach and the smell of mutton fat that wouldn't go away, that added scent was nauseating. I told myself the tea would settle me, and I sipped it determinedly.

The officer and the old man expressed mutual delight and honor in meeting one another, then explored the possibility that the old man's brother had attended school with the officer's father. They concluded, regretfully, that no such connection existed.

More tea was poured and slowly consumed. Or I made a point of consuming it slowly. It's not like I could politely ask to use the bathroom if I filled my bladder with tea.

Perhaps an hour oozed by. At about the same rate, pins and needles oozed up my foot and calf.

It turned out that the young corporal was a cousin of the nervous man, and that both had been raised by their uncle, Ink-beard, after being sent away from the Shuravi-occupied zone as infants. It also turned out the cousins did not get along well. Not surprising, given that the younger cousin was a common soldier while the older did some kind of white-collar work that left his hands smooth and his nails perfectly trimmed.

The soldier seemed rather pleased to have brokered a meeting between his officer and his family.

On the third cup of tea, the elderly man asked what had prompted the officer and his guests to grace this house.

Finally! Time to get down to business. My American spirit sighed with relief. My Momand spirit cautioned it was too soon, though. I shifted my haunches to a less uncomfortable position on the hard floor and pretended to take another sip.

The officer looked at me and emptied his cup. It was refilled. He took a sip of his fourth cup and seemed to only then remember he'd been asked a question. “These two young men, sir. They claim to be of your wife's
tarbur
."

He'd married my cousin? Was she behind the screen? Which one? Nerie? Mariam? Bibi? Laila? Sharbat? I realized I was staring at the carved wood screen and jerked my gaze to a neutral spot. The teapot. Then I looked at the old man and bowed.

Clouded eyes under white brows moved from me to Oscar at my side and back to me. “Descendants of the Tiger?"

"I am Zarak, son of Abdul called Rund."

The nervous man went to the edge of the screen. After a whisper, he looked at me. “Please name the oldest sister of Mahmoud."

Which one was Mahmoud? And how should I know who was his sister? Unless they were my age, I didn't know any of the girls’ names. Wait, there were two Mahmouds, at least. I couldn't address the person behind the screen, and the nervous man was too close to her. I met the old man's intent gaze and spoke to him. “I would ask if you mean the younger Mahmoud, called Bad Shoes, or the older Mahmoud whose brother tended my father's herd. In truth, however, I could name no sisters of either."

"Speak of she who watered the flowers."

My mind went blank. I had no idea who'd watered Grandmother's flowers.

Ink-beard studied me and made a gesture.

"Speak of the dragon."

Dragon? The paryan's terror? The one that killed Beowulf? Smaug? Then I remembered, and smiled.

The old man straightened up, looking affronted.

I dropped the smile. This was serious business. “In my mother's favorite poem, he lived by the sea. He danced in the autumn fog with the children of Honilee."

The old man lifted his cup and looked at me over the rim. “Speak of your father."

What would the tarbur have seen of my father? Very little, I supposed. He spent his time teaching, or reading to us boys, or rolling a ball for the little ones while talking with Mom. “He was an educated man, gentle and quiet. He taught history at the university in Kabul. When he came home from the city, he brought students, and they worked his fields. When those students moved on, more came from nearby. He had weak eyes, so he was called Rund. He was shot."

"Speak of his horse."

"His favorite was a tall gray stallion. When the stallion lost an eye, they said
Rund rides Rund
."

He looked back at the screen. More whispering. The nervous man cleared his throat. “Are you the boy who read always?"

"No, that was my older brother, Hamid. He was called Talib. I was the roof climber, the Wezgorrey."

He cocked an ear to something I couldn't make out and nodded. “Speak of the little boy's eyes."

"My youngest brother's eyes are as unremarkable as my own. The boy just older than him would be Mohammed, whose eyes are the exact blue of our grandmother's special poppies."

"Why?"

The skin on my face tightened.
How dare you ask
? “Because God willed it so!"

Ink-beard blinked rapidly, and in the silence I realized my error. An honorable man does not snarl at an honorable woman, however indirectly. I bowed low over my shins, pressing my face into the faintly musty golden carpet. “Please forgive me, sir, for raising my voice in the presence of your family. I have no compensation to offer now, but if I live and if you give me your name, I will bring you the colt of a mare to give weight to my apology."

"Please, think nothing of this!” The old man glared over his shoulder toward the screen. “The question was not appropriate."

Calling it inappropriate implied a deliberate insult, but I'd bet he didn't mean to say so. His face paled rapidly, as if he'd just figured that out. He didn't volunteer his name.

The officer rose. “We have interrupted your day and importuned on your hospitality to an unforgivable degree. May you be safe and prosperous."

The old man touched his heart. “May your journey be safe and pleasant."

We were leaving. But we couldn't. Not when behind that screen was someone who knew where my people were. Who might know. Wait, wouldn't the old man or his wife have arranged the marriage?

I struggled to my feet, forcing a grace to my muscles, and was grimly amused to realize Oscar didn't have any weight on one of his feet. “Please, sir. Where has my khel moved?"

He looked at me from under those eyebrows. “Go to the center of town. At the well, face north. You will see in the distance a flag tower that appears to rise just to the left of the peak of the black mountain. Go west toward the barracks, crossing over the paved road, and you will find a goat track. Now when you look north, the flag should exactly line up with the peak of that mountain. This is how you know you have found the correct track. The track winds like a drunken goat but leads past the flag tower to a blue mosque where, inshallah, you may obtain further guidance."

Blue is the color of heaven, Grandson; it comes forth when the potter bakes salt into the tile.

My excitement tightened my throat, until I was sure it would choke me. I pictured myself fainting into Oscar's lap. That did it. I sucked in a long, deep breath. “How far, sir? A day? Two days?"

"Forty or forty-five kilometers, I believe, if you had a helicopter. Sixty, perhaps, as the track winds.” He hesitated, plainly searching for words. “Hide yourselves along the way, especially as you sleep, for some of the people you will pass among are kafir. Others might be hungry enough to behave as kafir. Particularly, avoid the young. They are as savage as rats."

I touched my heart, thanking him. After all these years, street directions. Home was only two days’ walk. The mental image of that flag tower pulled me, like an open bottle pulls a drunk.

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Outside, the officer smoothly wished us a safe journey and said he was most happy to have given us a ride this far. Which meant we weren't getting arrested but also weren't getting a ride back to where our horses and saddles were. I'd be lucky to get our packs and weapons back out of that truck.

Oscar, standing on one foot and shaking the other, should have looked to some degree comical. Instead he looked like he was contemplating violence. But that was a great way to become a martyr, nothing more.

I thanked the officer for the ride and for carrying our packs and weapons—the burden of which we would relieve him now.

He said the long arms were very fine weapons indeed. Perhaps enough to cover the fine for crossing the border without documentation.

How courteous of him to establish the parameters of the bribe we'd need to get out of his sight. I could commence haggling by asking him if he was sure he was a Muslim, to demand so dear a price, but Pakhtunwali was older than Islam and demanded that I gift a man with anything he admired without restraint.

My little carbine was perhaps a fair price for being allowed to cross without repercussions, but sniper rifles like Oscar's were handmade, tailored to the individual, and if a man Oscar's age lost his rifle, he'd spend the rest of his military career parked at a desk. Oscar's weapon and career weren't mine to barter. So I agreed that they were very fine weapons, and in the same breath offered to purchase the long arms from him for the price of two fine young mares currently stabled at the communications hut west of here. The horses were worth rather less than our weapons would fetch in the right market, but might be sold much more quickly in any available market.

The officer slid his oily smile across his face and said he would sell us the carbine for the two mares.

If we could keep one weapon, it had to be Oscar's rifle. But I couldn't let on how valuable it was because then we wouldn't be able to afford it. Instead, I offered to let him keep some of the ammunition along with the mares.

He paused, peering into my eyes, clearly weighing my words and calculating how much he might profit or lose out of this. I didn't know how risk-averse he was, and that gave him an advantage. But he didn't know what to think of me, either.

At my back, Oscar bristled, but held his silence. I wasn't sure how much of this he caught, but somehow he had to play along, had to trust me.

I whispered, finally, that I would never forgive any man who stood between me and badal.

The officer moved closer, as if sniffing me, his garlicky breath hot on my mouth and chin.

An American would have moved back or pushed him back. I stared straight into the depth of his eyes. I could swear extravagant oaths, but I didn't know what would impress him and what would go too far.

Badal
. Wasn't the one word enough? We were talking about the man who killed my baby brother Sorrow, who'd ridden my shoulder as I'd ridden our father's. My laughing little brother Ben, who'd wheedled money for that skateboard out of what I'd been saving for our trip home, who'd worked long hours in return for short riding lessons and then fallen asleep at the dinner table. Who'd become a man I didn't know. A man I would never know.

The officer snapped a sharp order.

The young corporal handed us the long arms, unloaded, and our packs.

If we were lucky, they'd dropped the ammo in the pack. I would probably have done the same if I planned to arm a man I'd stolen a horse from. If I was Pakhtun enough to have given back the arms.

The officer saluted smartly. “Your shells and knives are inside the packs."

"No doubt,” I said politely and saluted back.

The truck left, stirring as much dust as an earthquake would before I had time to rewrap my shemagh.

I set out toward the cluster of rooftops that would be the town. “Once we have some distance and a degree of privacy, we can see what that smooth-talking pirate left us."

"Roger that.” Oscar's tone was alarmingly clipped.

I cut my step to walk beside him. “How much of that did you follow?"

"Later. I don't like them knowing where to find us."

They had directions to my khel. Was Oscar saying he didn't plan to go there? “My home, my family, are two days’ walk away. We can pick up horses, money, supplies—even a guide, maybe."

"'Sure, we'll help. Inshallah, bukhra.’ Stopping there would get us nothing but spies and delays. The plan is to hurry to an ambush point—"