Companions of Paradise

by Thalassa Ali

  “I will take your advice,” Hassan replied, “but first I have work to do. Can you tell me the whereabouts of the British fort?”

  The old man regarded him seriously. “If I were you,” he said, “I would avoid that accursed place. You, who are from India, should give it a wide berth.”

  Hassan thanked him, remounted his tired mare, and rode away through the tall caravanserai gate.

  He found the road leading to the cantonment choked with heavily armed men and boys, who stared at him as he passed. As he approached the walled fort, a foul smell filled the air.

  The main entrance was tightly closed. No sentries stood outside. He dismounted and hammered on the great doors, but there was no response. After riding all the way around the cantonment's outer wall, looking in vain for an open entrance, he stationed himself at a discreet distance from a promising-looking secondary gate. When at last it opened to let out a man leading a donkey, Hassan spoke urgently to his mare. Ghyr Khush sprang at once to a gallop, but they arrived too late.

  Before the doors closed firmly in front of him, Hassan had looked briefly inside to see a dozen men staring out at him, raw fear on their faces.

  “Shut the gate, shut the gate!” they had cried, as if their lives depended on it.

  His luck was no better on the second day.

  “Did you find what you were seeking?” the old tea seller asked, when Hassan returned to the caravanserai.

  “Not yet, father,” he replied politely, “but I will continue to try. Perhaps,” he added, “you can give me information about someone who lives in the city.”

  MARIANA AWOKE to daylight, and the sound of household bustle outside her room.

  Fearing she had overslept, she put her feet over the side of her bed, put on her slippers, draped herself in her shawls, and went outside.

  Sunlight fell into the small courtyard in front of her, brightening the coats of the tethered animals and glinting in the icy ground. A servant woman in leather boots climbed the stairs, a water vessel on her head. Rosy-cheeked children darted through a doorway.

  Something drew Mariana's glance upward. The fierce old woman from the previous night stood at an upstairs window, studying her.

  She caught Mariana's eye, and disappeared inside.

  Perhaps she was the matriarch of the family, who held the power to decide who should live and who should die. If so, what was she thinking?

  A moment later, a young girl arrived and conducted Mariana to the upstairs room. There, luxuriating in the warmth from the brazier and closely observed by a pushing crowd of children, she drank hot green tea and ate sweet porridge with ground meat in it, and a piece of Afghan bread.

  As she finished her food, male voices shouted from the rooftop.

  Someone had arrived.

  Mariana hurried into her chaderi, then, together with the flock of children, she rushed out into the main courtyard in time to see the heavy outer doors of the fort swing open. A moment later, her uncle rode inside, accompanied by a nervous-looking groom leading a second horse with a sidesaddle on its back.

  They were alone. Uncle Adrian dismounted and stood uncertainly, his eyes roving the courtyard.

  She dashed across the snow and flung her arms about his neck. “Uncle Adrian,” she cried, “I am so glad you have come! But where is Aunt Claire?” she added, frowning toward the gate. “Where are the servants?”

  He held her away from him, and peered through her latticework. “Oh, Mariana, it grieves me to see you in native costume.” His voice trembled. “Tell me, have they hurt you?”

  She stared in surprise. “No, not at all. I had a hot bath last night, and a lovely dinner. They have given me my own room. They have promised to send us to India in a day or two.”

  He released her shoulders. “You poor little fool.” He sighed.

  In spite of the cold, his face was slick with perspiration beneath his top hat. Newly clean herself, she now realized that he gave off an ugly, sweetish smell. His hands were grimy. His cough sounded dry.

  “These Afghans will demand money for your release. If we do not pay them an enormous ransom, they will slaughter you like a lamb.”

  “Uncle Adrian,” she said carefully, wondering if desperation had affected his judgment, “they have granted us asylum—”

  He waved her to silence, and glanced over his shoulder. “Do not make another sound,” he whispered. “I shall try to persuade them to turn you over to me.”

  Mariana drew herself up inside her chaderi. “I am not a prisoner, Uncle Adrian. I am a guest. These are Pashtuns. Have you forgotten the code of Pashtunwali?”

  He blinked uncertainly.

  “Please, Uncle Adrian,” she begged, her chin beginning to wobble. “If you do not bring Aunt Claire and the servants, they will all die. It was for their sake that I took the chief's stirrup in my hand and begged for his protection. For their sake.”

  His gaze focused. “And which chief is that?” he asked, his voice sharpening, his eyes boring into hers. “From which of our enemies have you treacherously begged for asylum?”

  She dropped her eyes to her snow-caked boots. “This fort belongs to Aminullah Khan,” she whispered.

  “But please, please listen to me,” she added, now crying in earnest at the sight of his face. “Everything we learned about their code of conduct is true. Why should Aunt Claire or Lady Macnaghten or Lady Sale die because of the stupidity of our generals? Aunt Claire is my mother's only sister. You can go back and do your duty if you wish, but how can you let her die?”

  His face was set. “It is a matter of honor.”

  He nodded to the groom. The man stepped forward, leading the saddled horses. He was going to take her away.

  “No, Uncle Adrian,” she sobbed, flinching from his reaching hand. “If you leave now, the asylum will be broken. They will shoot you in the back.”

  As she spoke, a door in a nearby building flew open, and Aminullah Khan started toward them. He limped slightly, and his left arm hung at his side, as if he did not use it very much, but from his manner, it was quite clear that he was master of the fort, and everyone in it.

  He smiled as he drew near, the planes of his face losing none of their harshness. “Forgive me,” he offered, a hand over his heart, ignoring Mariana who sniffed wetly at her uncle's side. “I have only now heard of your arrival. Please come inside where it is warmer. We will have tea.”

  He waved his good hand toward the same building where he had disappeared the previous afternoon. As he did so, other men came from inside, joined him, and offered their own greetings.

  Exhausted, filthy, without even a knife, Uncle Adrian stood no chance against the ten heavily armed tribesmen who smiled encouragingly and pointed to the brick building and its open door.

  Before he walked away with the men who had cut to pieces both his superior officers, he threw Mariana a single, anguished glance.

  “Whatever they ask you, remember to tell them the truth,” she called after him, “the truth!”

  She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her chaderi, hunched her shoulders, and started toward the women's quarters.

  Whatever happened now, her uncle would suffer.

  Even if he reached India safely, his troubles would be far from over. The Governor-General would never understand why he had abandoned his post at such a critical time. No one would believe that he had become trapped in Aminullah's fort while trying to rescue his niece.

  There would be a humiliating investigation, followed by demotion, perhaps even the loss of his pension.

  She waited jumpily for two hours in the upstairs room before more shouting came from the rooftop. She rushed downstairs once more.

  Uncle Adrian must have eaten something, for he looked less haggard than before, but she had never seen him so miserable. He stood beside Aminullah Khan, looking on wanly as his household servants filed through the gate and into the fort.

  Already inside stood a carved palanquin, its twelve bearers crouched around i
t, muffled in their shawls.

  They had come. Mariana looked eagerly from face to face among the crowd. All the servants were there: Yar Mohammad, standing protectively by Aunt Claire's palanquin, Dittoo, with his hair sticking messily from his turban, old Adil, the Bengali Mug cook with his knives in a leather bag, the cross-eyed silver-polisher and the sweeperess and her daughter. All huddled nervously together, along with a score of others.

  “Adrian? Are you there?” Aunt Claire's plaintive voice called from the palanquin. “Where on earth are we?”

  Mariana frowned, searching the courtyard. “But where are Lady Macnaghten and Lady Sale?” she asked. “Where is Lady Sale's daughter?”

  Surely they had been invited. Surely they would not have missed this chance to get out of Afghanistan. Lady Sale's daughter was expecting a child…

  He shook his head. “When I saw there was no escape for either of us from this fort, I sent for your aunt and the servants, fearing to leave them alone at the cantonment. But how could I ask the other ladies to come? I had promised Sir William,” he added bleakly, “to look after his wife.”

  AN HOUR later, Mariana stood guard outside the door of the bathing chamber, a fresh set of homespun clothes and Aunt Claire's musty gown and underthings bundled together in her arms.

  Sounds of splashing came from within.

  “Are you there, my dear?” her aunt asked tremulously for the third time. “I do not wish to find myself alone and naked, in a fort full of Afghans.”

  “When you are ready,” Mariana said through the door, “I will hand you the clean things Zahida has brought for you.”

  Later, sounds of struggle came from inside, accompanied by heavy breathing. Mariana imagined her aunt pulling up the unfamiliar, baggy Afghan trousers and tying the drawstring around her ample middle, then pulling the loose camisole down over her head, followed by the long, matching homespun shirt.

  “Come inside, Mariana,” she cried a moment later, through a crack in the door. “Bring my real clothes. I will not leave this bathing room without my stays.

  “Shut the door!” she ordered when Mariana entered, then stood before her, resplendent in the lamplight, her large breasts wobbling freely beneath the coarsely woven cotton shirt. “Never in my life,” she wailed, “have I been dressed so indecently!”

  “You may certainly wear your stays,” Mariana replied cautiously, “but they have not been washed for more than a month. Besides, you are to wear these as well.”

  She held up a long, broad white veil and an equally generous shawl. “Both of them cover the chest.”

  Her aunt's chins quivered with indignation. “I cannot imagine what your uncle was thinking, to get us into this predicament. As long as I live, I shall never breathe a word of this experience.”

  Her uncle? Mariana shook out the veil. “Let me,” she said hastily, “show you how to wear this.”

  Two hours later, in the upstairs sitting room, Mariana sighed with relief.

  Aunt Claire had liked the dinner.

  Mariana had braced herself for an open display of disgust at the spicy dishes that came in abundance from downstairs, with flat ovals of fresh tandoori bread. Instead, she watched fascinated as Aunt Claire, after only token objections at the lack of utensils, put away many cups of tea, several helpings of chicken pulao, carrots, yoghurt, and a dish of split peas.

  The only thing she refused to do was speak to their hostesses.

  “I will not converse with these savages,” she decreed, waving dismissive fingers in the direction of the fierce old lady who watched her with hooded eyes from the other side of the table. “I will reluctantly wear their clothes and eat their food, but you must not expect me to take any notice of them.”

  She did, however, take great notice of the next course, a dish of sweet rice pudding sprinkled with pistachio nuts.

  THE FOLLOWING morning, as her aunt snored beside her, Mariana was awoken by an insistent voice outside her door.

  “Mairmuna!” called a young female voice. “Mairmuna.”

  Mariana dressed, and pulled aside the curtain. A child stood outside, pointing toward the main courtyard. Mariana nodded.

  “Get up, Aunt Claire,” she said urgently, shaking the bundle of rezais on the other bed. “We must prepare to leave for India.”

  Aunt Claire sat up blinking, the lace nightcap she had salvaged from the cantonment still squarely on her head. “Where is Adrian?” she asked sharply. “Where is your uncle? I do not like him going off and leaving us. Where is my tea?”

  “We will see Uncle Adrian soon,” Mariana replied, busying herself with her boots. “Where is your poshteen?”

  An hour later, after a hasty breakfast, Zahida put on her chaderi and escorted Mariana and her aunt to the main courtyard.

  All around them was confusion. Aminullah Khan stood near the fort's main entrance, conferring with his henchman. Other armed men milled about. Camels knelt side by side, their necks stretched out, groaning and complaining while men loaded sacks of Aunt Claire's household belongings onto their backs.

  Two of the camels had been dressed in colorful hangings. They knelt, apart from the others, waiting to be mounted.

  “We will get a new one when we reach India.” Uncle Adrian gestured toward Aunt Claire's palanquin, now abandoned on its side in a corner. “The bearers cannot carry you through the snow. Half of them are ill already. You will ride a camel, and that is that.

  “And put on the chaderi that woman has given you,” he added. “It is only good manners to do so. After all, these desperadoes may be saving your life.”

  He reached up and put a cautious hand to the folds of his borrowed turban.

  Dittoo appeared before Mariana. “Bibi,” he cried, wringing his hands, “please forgive me. They would not let me bring your morning tea. They would not even tell me where to find you. Poor Adil has been so upset…”

  Already wan and bony, he looked as if he was about to weep.

  “It does not matter, Dittoo,” she shouted above the din in the courtyard. “Afghans always keep men and women apart.”

  “But your tea, your clothes, the dusting! Memsahib's things!”

  Aminullah Khan appeared, with his supporters. “Well, well,” he said heartily, “I see that all is ready. After you join the camp I have arranged for you, I shall accompany you as far as the Sher Darwaza pass. After that, my people will escort you all the way to Dera Ghazi Khan…”

  Mariana's uncle acknowledged Aminullah's remark with a careful nod.

  An hour later, Aunt Claire let out a piercing scream as her camel lurched to its feet.

  “If I survive this journey,” she confided as she and Mariana swayed, side by side, toward the fort's main entrance, “I solemnly promise never to leave my bed again.”

  The double doors of the fort stood wide, revealing a cold, sunlit landscape beyond. Aminullah Khan rode out first on his bay stallion, followed by Mariana's uncle and a few of his men. Next came the two heavily guarded camels, the gaggle of Indian servants, on foot and with their own protecting tribesmen, and the line of baggage animals.

  The kafila turned and followed a trampled path through the snow toward the Bala Hisar, the city, and the great caravanserai to the west of Kabul, where their escort waited.

  As Mariana rode out through the gate, a small figure flew toward her across the snow. She raised the flap of her chaderi in order to see who it was, but she already knew.

  “Munshi Sahib sent me,” Nur Rahman panted as he jogged along beside her camel, his balled-up chaderi beneath his arm. “He told me there was something I had to do for you, Khanum. I wept and kissed his hands, but he insisted I leave him. I would do anything for him,” he added, “and so I have come.”

  His fringed eyes darkened. “He told me that, Allah willing, I will receive a great reward.” But when he said it, tears stood in his eyes.

  AS HASSAN rode toward the city for the third time, a caravan came toward him, traveling in the opposite direction.

>   Strongly guarded, its pace set by camels, the kafila moved at a dignified speed, taking up the width of the road. Two of the camels carried heavily shrouded female figures.

  His eyes carefully averted from the women, Hassan guided Ghyr Khush off the road. As he did so, one of them turned, saw him, and cried out.

  January 4, 1842

  Nur Rahman!” Her heart thundering, Mariana searched over her shoulder for the dancing boy among the file of servants and guards behind her. “Nur Rahman!” she shouted, not caring who was listening.

  “Behind us,” she gasped, when he arrived at her side. “A man on a gray horse!”

  She reached under her chaderi and tore Hassan's gold medallion and chain from her neck. “Give him these,” she ordered breathlessly, dropping them into his outstretched hand. “Tell him a lady wishes to see him.”

  “Which man?” the boy asked, his face bunching in confusion. “Who?”

  “He is wearing a poshteen and a brown turban made from a shawl,” she half shouted. “He is on a gray horse. His name is Hassan. Hurry!”

  The boy nodded, pocketed the bauble, and ran.

  Stiff with anxiety, Mariana swayed on her camel, hating the lengthening distance between her and Hassan, wishing she could use her sudden, fierce energy to speed Nur Rahman on his way as he raced back the way they had come, past the guards and the pack animals, along the narrow, trampled track leading to the city.

  Had the boy understood her? Had she described Hassan sufficiently?

  If there were more than one gray horse on the road, would Nur Rahman give the medallion to the wrong man?

  What would she do if Hassan disappeared, unfound, into the city?

  What if the man she had seen was not Hassan?

  “Whatever is the matter, Mariana?” inquired her aunt from atop the other camel. “Why were you shouting at the top of your voice?”

  NUR RAHMAN ran heavily, the cold air burning his lungs, his poshteen weighing on his shoulders.

  Why, he wondered, had the English lady ordered him to stop a stranger on the road and offer him the fine gift that now lay in his pocket?