The Ink Bridge (3 page)

He had gone to Darya Ajdahar – the Valley of the Dragon – with Anwar. It was the year his father had been killed and he had needed to escape his house and its mud-walled compound. That awful stain.

They had climbed onto the roof of a battered bus, swatting flies and hunkering down among the rough bags and bunches of chickens. The Grandfather of Mountains – the Koh-e Baba – was dusted in snow so it looked like the soft lining of a cow's stomach. But the sun was a gold platter on the tablecloth of sky. Omed breathed the cool air, forgot, remembered, ate a chunk of Anwar's good bread.

When they reached Darya Ajdahar, they climbed down from the bus and walked slowly up the dusty slope. Anwar made sure he and Omed stayed between the coloured stones that showed the safe path between the landmines. The back of the Dragon was long, blocking the valley, its snout facing towards Bamiyan.

Omed's father had told him the story, as it had been told to him, and to his father further back into the past, under the bowing roof of their old house.

The Dragon had been the scourge of Bamiyan with its violent, bloodthirsty rages. It had held the valleys to ransom until the King had agreed to offer up food and camels, and a young girl, as a sacrifice each day.

Hazrat Ali, the son-in-law of the Prophet Mohammed, had stood before it as it breathed acres of fire. And with a circle of his sword, Zulfiqar, the rolls of flame became tulips that dropped to the ground at Ali's feet. The Dragon was much maddened by this impudence and reared its terrible head, screaming in anger until the bedrock of the valley shook and the sky boiled with clouds. But Ali stood his ground, and when the Dragon slumped in exhaustion, he thrust with Zulfiqar and sheared the animal down its back. With that act, Islam had triumphed among the people of the valley.

As Omed and Anwar climbed higher the rock turned white.

‘We are at the Dragon's head,' said Anwar. ‘See, these are its tears. And look here, its blood.'

Omed placed his hand on the cool rock, touched the tears, touched the blood. He brought it to his lips where it tingled, slightly salty.

‘Come, we must go higher.'

They climbed again until they were on the Dragon's broad back, where the sword of Ali had cut the mighty beast in two. Mist puckered the edges of the sky. The mountains dragged it around them like a cloak.

Anwar grabbed Omed's head, pushing it to the gap in the rock, the Dragon's mortal wound. ‘Here, listen,' he whispered.

And Omed heard it then. A soft moaning from deep within the beast. A long mournful dirge, something more awful, more heartfelt than a wail. It was the sound of sorrow, of emptiness, of loss.

Anwar had been embarrassed by the boy's tears. He had pressed a cheek of bread into Omed's palm and retreated to the nearby shrine to pay respect to Hazrat Ali. Omed looked at the bread, then at the darkening sky and his friend circling the stone and mud shrine. He slowly touched the bread to his lips and slipped it into the Dragon's wound.

Omed came to his senses in the room he shared with his brothers. His mother was sitting beside his bed ripping a sheet and sponging blood from his chin and clothes.

‘Oh, Omed, what have you done? First your father and now you. Is there no end to this? How heavy is my misfortune, Omed?'

Omed tried to answer, to comfort her, but there was too much pain.

‘What must we do now? When you are gone there will be no one to protect us from the Taliban. Is this our family curse?' Her fingers worked the cloth, tearing it into long strips, dabbing at the blood.

His sister Leyli came into the room, a jug of water in one hand, their two-year old brother Liaquat on her hip. She had wet stains on her cheeks. He reached for her hand, pleading with his eyes.
It will be all right, Leyli. I will take
care of all of you.
Liaquat looked down at him and smiled. ‘Om-om,' he said, reaching down with his small, sticky fingers to Omed's. But Leyli pulled him away and left the room. The rags that served as curtains swept inside on the light breeze and he could hear the shouts of their neighbours. How long had he been asleep? How had he got here? Had the Talib finished their sport with him?

It was then that Wasim ran in. This brother was two years younger and his mother's favourite. Sometimes it caused them to fight, this unfairness within the family. Wasim always said that Omed had been his father's jewel.
How lucky I am,
to be the favourite of a dead man,
Omed thought.

Wasim's face was red and streaked with sweat and dust. His chest heaved as he spoke. ‘They are coming, Omed. They found where we live and are seeking revenge.'

Omed swung his legs off the low bed but, as the blood leapt into his head, he almost fell to the floor. He grasped the low table and willed himself up.

Wasim pulled at his shirt. ‘Quick, Omed, we must go.'

He made for the door, the world swinging madly, light dancing off the walls. He felt his mother's fine-boned hand on his shoulder. How his father had loved those hands, sung their praises as they swept and sewed and cooked and caressed them all. In the end what did it matter, all those loves, when they could be taken so quickly?

‘Omed, my son,' she whispered in his ear. ‘I knew it would come to this. I was cursed for my happiness. When those around me saw such hardship, I felt only joy. And now it is my burden to know only sorrow. But you, my strong young son. You are young enough. You can escape. Take this money.'

She pushed the notes into his hand. He knew this money and where it was kept. It was to guard against hard times. In years gone by, his father would pull out the loose brick in the wall and pack the notes behind it.

Omed shook his head and pushed the money away. This would end his family.

‘Omed, you must take this. Without it you will die here. As a mother I cannot allow it. You must live for all of us. Is it your duty now, Omed. You are the eldest, it is your responsibility.'

But this was not a responsibility that Omed wanted. The blood of his whole family on his hands, on this dirty pile of money and the torn reminder of his tongue.

‘They are coming!' shouted Wasim. He could hear the jeeps and howling dogs and the rattle of Kalashnikovs.

‘Take it!' screamed his mother and her face was so twisted by despair that he grabbed the money and turned towards the door. He stopped to give her a final kiss, but Wasim pulled him by the arm.

‘They will kill you,' he hissed.

In front of the small window of their house, Leyli held Liaquat. Her dark eyes pierced Omed's for a moment. Liaquat began to cry and she hugged him close. She pursed her lips and with a jerk of her head bade Omed to go.

They ran.

They hid until dark in the bombed-out
chaikhana
where Bollywood movies were once played on an old television. Now there was only the smell of rat piss and piles of rubble. All afternoon they waited, hot and scared, shrinking inside a cave formed by a broken poster board and a fractured slab of concrete. Omed could hear shots from the area of the mosque, near where his family lived. The muezzin was silent.

The gossip around town was that their Tajik neighbour was a Talib spy who would sell anyone for a handful of wheat. Omed hoped it was a lie. His mother surely would have burned the bloodied bedsheets in their stove. The proof would be turned to smoke by now.

When the moon began its climb over the stone niches where the Buddhas once stood, Omed and Wasim crept out of their bunker, throwing long shadows against the cracked walls. There were only rats and dogs on the streets; no one felt safe when the Taliban were out for revenge. If they didn't find the right man, any would do.

The houses lay like row on row of bared teeth, lamps glowing behind them. They heard the sound of a child crying, a chicken woken from sleep. Every noise was a soldier with a gun and a beard and a new lesson.

Omed knew it was too dangerous for his brother to go any further with him. He pulled him by the sleeve and shook his head.

Wasim's eyes filled with tears. ‘It is not fair, Omed. I am small without you. What can I do against the Talib? I cannot protect our family.'

Omed spun him round and pushed him in the small of his back. Wasim shouted after Omed as he ran. ‘I hate you, Omed. It is all your fault! Do you hear that, I HATE you!'

But as Wasim's voice faded he heard a last desperate sob, ‘I love you, my brother. Don't leave us.'

Abu the Turk lived in a tiny mud-walled house in Qala-e Dokhtar – the Palace of the Daughter. The palace had lost its glory to centuries of war. The walls were shattered, a rusted truck formed a dark beast in the square, its head lolled forward on a broken neck. In the arches of the old caravanserai, a donkey shifted restlessly. Omed put his hand on its flank to calm it. A person moving under the cover of night was to be mistrusted. There were old guns propped behind every door.

Abu the Turk had moved to Bamiyan fifteen years before, but had never learned more Dari than was necessary. As the wars bit deeper into Afghanistan, he grew richer. His body stored fat while those around him dwindled. And if you needed anything, Abu would get it – for a price.

Omed raised his knuckles to the door made from flattened oil tins, nailed to saplings. As he knocked he heard the sound of bottles and a voice tossing a curse into the room. Abu the Turk's face appeared, his yellowed eyes roaming beyond Omed and into the moonlit street.

‘What you wish at this hour? You wish us shot?'

Omed saw the man's eyes stop at his bloodied chin.

‘You are this boy. This boy the Taliban wish kill.'

Omed nodded, for the first time seeing a new problem. Without speech, how could he hope to make this man understand?

‘I am wanting not troubles. This too big troubles.' Abu the Turk began to close the door, but Omed pushed his arm between it and the wormy jamb.

‘Go away!' Abu growled.

Omed showed him the wad of notes. At this Abu's eyes widened and he sucked his top lip noisily. ‘Welcome to my home,' he said, grabbing Omed by the shoulder and pulling him inside. He quickly scanned both sides of the street before shutting the door. The house smelled strongly of onion and lamb fat. Abu dragged a chair from the side of the room and placed it beside the table. He turned up the lamp.

‘Let us talk business,' he said rudely, not offering food or drink or the usual polite exchange of words. He leant on the table and roughed his beard with the back of his hand.

Omed cracked open his mouth to show the bloodied remains of his tongue. The cold air stung him.

‘Ha,' said Abu, ‘I will do talking for two. You need to get away, far. I have man to help. But it will take money. Much money.'

Omed held out the pile of afghani his mother had given him. They still held the mustiness of the wall. Abu grabbed the money and fingered the notes, his lips moving numbers around.

Finally he glared at Omed. ‘It is not enough. It is never enough.'

Closing his eyes, Omed pictured his death. It would not be quick like his father's. They would tie him to a car and drag him towards Kabul. Or they would hand him a stick and make him prod landmines from the tracks. The fear of that alone would make you shit in your pants.