Companions of Paradise

by Thalassa Ali

  “You did not write,” she said, as she stretched her legs beneath the table, toward the warmth of the brazier.

  He did not reply or look at her, but as the shawls across his chest rose and fell, a wave of feeling seemed to come from him, as it had once, long before. It crossed the space between them and washed over her. Her breathing quickened.

  “You asked Aminullah Khan for panah,” he said softly, “and brought those whom you love to safety.”

  She nodded.

  What did he want from her? She would die if he did not…

  His eyes flicked away from hers. He reached into his clothes and pulled out a worn, stained paper. It crinkled between his fingers. “Do you remember this?” he asked, smiling.

  “I said too much,” she whispered, her face heating. “I did not—”

  Beneath his warm, compelling perfume lay the sharp scent of his skin. He put the letter down, and leaned toward her. “Search out a man,” he murmured as he reached to open the front of her sheepskin cloak, “whose own breast has burst from severance, that I may express to him the agony of my love-desire.”

  Love-desire. His eyes on her face, he reached inside her cloak, and, with his damaged hand, drew a slow circle on one of her breasts, then the other.

  “And though in my grief I stripped off my feathers and broke my wings, even this could not drive from my head this rough passion of love.”

  His eyes were half closed. She took his damaged hand and kissed the stump of his missing finger.

  “I love you,” she breathed. “I have loved you from the moment I first saw you.”

  As soon as she said those words, she realized they were true.

  January 5, 1842

  She awoke the next morning to see Hassan bending over her, fully dressed but for his boots. He held the gold medallion on its chain.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said, holding it out. “I must buy provisions, and a mount for your journey to Lahore,” he added, as he padded to the doorway. “Ghulam Ali and Nur Rahman will look after you until I return, as will my own servants. I will be back, Inshallah, by late morning. When I return, we will prepare to depart.”

  After the tent flap fell shut behind him, she closed her eyes.

  “Nur Rahman,” she called, “I want tea!”

  HASSAN AND Zulmai waited on their horses at the head of a file of eight unburdened mules. “There is no point in going to the city,” Zulmai pointed out. “All the shops will be closed. The British retreat is to take place tomorrow. Everyone is preparing to see the show. We should go instead to one of the forts near the Sher Darwaza. Someone there will be willing to sell us food for our journey.” “Show?” Hassan frowned. “So there is to be shooting.” Zulmai shrugged. “Akbar Khan may have offered the British safe passage, but he will never control the Ghilzais who want revenge for being cheated of their payments. And in any case, the British army is four thousand strong. It is not a merchant kafila. Fighting is an army's life.”

  “And what is that large army's condition?”

  “From what I hear, they are weak from hunger, but hungry or not, fighting is what they will do. Even if they have shown little courage in the past weeks, they will fight tomorrow. ”

  “And they will have no chance at all.”

  “None,” Zulmai agreed. “Gunmen are already waiting for them in the Khurd-Kabul pass, and in the Haft Kotal. As the army passes, more men will come, and lie in wait at Tezeen and Jagdalak. But now,” he concluded, clucking to his horse and signaling to the mule drivers, “let us stop talking and go.”

  The fort he chose was on a slope overlooking the Kabul River. It was not as impressive as some of the strongholds they had passed on their way to Kabul, but it was substantial enough, with its corner towers and high, irregular walls. Hassan and Zulmai left the road and turned toward it, then stopped a respectful distance from the main entrance, their mules lined up behind them, and waited for someone to take notice of them.

  Almost immediately men with jezails appeared on the parapet. Moments later, the tall doors were flung open, and a group of men galloped out.

  Their leader was a thickly built man with a startling red beard.

  “Peace,” he offered politely, a hand over his heart.

  His eyes drifted to Ghyr Khush, then to the unburdened pack mules.

  Zulmai returned his greeting. “We are travelers on our way to India. If you have a horse and provisions to spare, we wish to buy them for our journey.”

  The red-bearded man gestured invitingly toward the fort's open doorway. “My name is Jamaluddin Khan.” He smiled, displaying several broken teeth. “Welcome to my house.

  “For how many people do you need these provisions?” he asked, after he had settled his guests in the male quarters of his fort.

  “Forty,” Hassan replied over the rim of his teacup.

  The three men sat, shoeless, on the sheet-covered floor of a large, square room that looked onto the fort's main courtyard, where Ghyr Khush, Zulmai's mount, and all eight mules stood tethered to several trees. Teacups, bowls of dried apricots, mulberries, and pistachio nuts were in front of the sitting men. A samovar hissed outside the door.

  “And for how many days?” Jamaluddin went on.

  “Twenty-one.”

  Jamaluddin nodded. “That can easily be arranged. But first,” he said, “you must tell me your stories.”

  He turned to Hassan. “What has brought you, an Indian, to Kabul at this dangerous time? How was your journey? How long have you been here? And you, my Tajik friend,” he added, smiling at Zulmai, “how have you come to be sitting in my house with an Indian gentleman?

  “When you have finished your stories,” he concluded happily, snapping a pistachio shell for emphasis, “I will tell you mine.”

  Two hours later, empty cups and pistachio shells covered the floor. They were still talking.

  Jamaluddin tipped his red beard toward the sitting-room window. “You have a lovely horse,” he offered. “It is a long time since I have seen such a beautiful animal.”

  His face softened. “I had an Akhal Tekke stallion once. He was tall and proud, and he ran like the wind as it crosses the steppes. His name was Ak Belek, for he had a white stocking on one foreleg.”

  He sighed. “I have had many good horses since then, but I have never forgotten Ak Belek.”

  “Your compliments,” Hassan replied carefully, “have warmed my heart. But may we now discuss our needs for our journey? Is it possible for you to provide us with rice, beans, tea, and other—”

  “But why discuss business so soon?” cried Jamaluddin. “You have only just arrived. The goat was killed at noon. To cook it properly will take time.”

  He leaned forward confidentially. “You have no idea how few interesting visitors we have in wintertime. You, of course, are from India,” he added, gesturing in Hassan's direction. “As I am sure you know, people think all Indians are spies for the British.”

  “That, of course, is true.” Hassan inclined his head. “For that reason, I am pleased to be traveling with my friend Zulmai.

  “When will he cease these formalities,” he whispered, when Jamaluddin's attention was turned elsewhere, “and get to our business?”

  “We would be wise,” replied Zulmai, “to wait until after we have eaten.”

  “But that will be hours from now.” Hassan hunched his shoulders expressively. “We have been away far too long already.”

  “Do not fear.” Zulmai put out a calming hand. “Let him talk himself out. We will eat his food, and then we will be on our way with our mules fully loaded.”

  All afternoon the food came—soup, fried meat turnovers, kababs with ovals of tandoori bread. As the sun sank behind the mountains, Jamaluddin was still talking. “This is the best dish of all!” he cried, as he swept a skewer of cubed sheep's liver onto a waiting round of bread in front of Hassan. “You see,” he explained, a finger raised, “each dish must be perfectly flavored, and each must be different. />
  “Kababs are like Akhal Tekke horses,” he went on. “Each one must have its own character, but each must be of the highest quality, like your lovely mare. What did you say her name was?”

  Although his eyes had turned dark, Hassan's well-trained negotiator's body gave no hint of tension. “Her name is Ghyr Khush,” he replied.

  HASSAN'S WIRY little servant had brought Mariana's lunch. It was very simple—boiled dal, rice, and bread.

  “Hassan Sahib will bring better things to eat when he returns,” he had assured her, stepping aside while another man carried the brazier outside to refill it with hot embers. “You will see what fine food he has, even when he travels!”

  When he held the door covering aside to leave her, the air that rushed in had felt icier than ever. The visible sliver of distant sky looked heavy and forbidding.

  Nur Rahman had visited a little later. “It will snow soon,” he observed. “I hope Hassan Ali returns before long.

  “Many of the kafilas are moving out,” he added. “If they continue to leave here, the caravanserai will be empty by tonight.”

  Unsurprisingly, after delivering her letter to her uncle the previous evening, Nur Rahman had rushed to tell Mariana's servants where she had gone. Equally unsurprisingly, Dittoo and Yar Mohammad had arrived at Hassan's tents soon after his departure.

  As she sat among the bolsters, finishing her morning tea, two different coughs outside her doorway had signaled their presence.

  Yar Mohammad had saluted her gravely, then stood, tall, angular, and barefoot, just inside the doorway. He had worn no poshteen, only a mismatched pair of shawls that lay in graceful folds about his shoulders, giving him the dignity of a king.

  Dittoo, bundled into his own sheepskin, had rushed inside and taken up a position across the sandali from Mariana. “I am here to serve you, Bibi,” he announced, straightening his shoulders, and looked meaningfully at her empty teacup. “I see there is work to be done.”

  “I, too, Bibi, ask permission to travel with you to Lahore,” Yar Mohammad had added.

  When Saboor first came to her, it had been Dittoo who had pushed little balls of rice and dal into his open, hungry mouth. “Accha bacha, good boy,” he had crooned, as if he were speaking to his own son.

  She had always felt safe with Yar Mohammad.

  If Dittoo came with her now, he would again have the pleasure of looking after little Saboor. Yar Mohammad would have the joy of caring for Ghyr Khush

  She shook her head. “It is not possible,” she said, aware that her tone held no authority, only sadness. “My uncle and aunt are old, and their journey to India will be difficult. If you come with me, then who will look after them?”

  “But they have Adil,” Dittoo wailed. “They do not need another servant.”

  “Adil, too, is old and weak. You must serve them in his place. God willing, with both of you to care for them, they will live to see India again. Once they are safe, you will return to my service.

  “May God protect you both,” she concluded.

  The tall groom bowed his head, his rough turban concealing his expression. “And may Allah protect you, Bibi,” he had returned, in his resonant voice.

  Dittoo had wept.

  Before he followed the sobbing Dittoo from Hassan's tent, Yar Mohammad had raised his head and looked once at Mariana, his bony face as calm as ever.

  With luck, they would all have a safe journey. And whatever happened, at least they were out of that dreadful, stinking cantonment.

  Mariana waited uneasily, all afternoon, for Hassan's return. Tense from wondering why he was taking so long, she relaxed hopefully with each approaching footfall, only to feel her body tighten again as the passerby moved on.

  There was something unsafe about the camp.

  Ghulam Ali called on her after sunset.

  Still listening for Hassan's return, she half-heard the story of Ghulam Ali's narrow escape from the Ghilzai nomads on the road to Peshawar, and his joy at discovering Hassan at the tea shop. She nodded at his report of the return journey's high winds, thieves, and lost mules, and his loving description of Hassan Ali's silver-gray mare.

  “Yar Mohammad will be the envy of Lahore,” he had declared, his rough voice full of pride. “Everyone will know that he spends his days with the great horse Ghyr Khush.”

  At last, she had blurted out the question she had been longing to ask. “Are my aunt and uncle still here? Are Yar Mohammad and Dittoo here?”

  “No, Bibi.” Ghulam Ali's white eyebrows rose. “They left just after sunrise this morning.”

  Then they were alone. Mariana tugged her poshteen over her shoulders, went to the doorway, and moved the curtain aside.

  A raw wind whipped her hair. It was snowing.

  “It is good that they have left,” Ghulam Ali declared, “for tomorrow the British will march for Jalalabad.”

  Tomorrow. She looked out into the falling snow, imagining the British with their ragged army and starving camp followers, struggling down the narrow, dangerous road to Jalalabad and India.

  But what would happen to her tomorrow? What if Hassan never returned?

  A distant line of pack animals trudged away toward the caravanserai's gate. Nur Rahman had been correct. Of all the tents that had been there when she arrived, only three were still visible, huddled together a hundred yards away.

  A man emerged from one of them, muffled in shawls. He stopped by the doorway and stared at her.

  She backed hastily inside, took off her cloak, and pulled the sandali quilt to her chin. There was nothing to do now, but wait.

  “IT HAS begun to snow.” Jamaluddin Khan pointed to the courtyard, where white flakes fell lightly on the backs of the tethered animals. “I am pleased to see that you keep your Ghyr Khush covered with a felt blanket. That is the correct way. And since you cover her in this cold weather, I am sure you also cover her in hot weather, to keep her lean, and her sinews tight and strong.”

  “Of course,” Zulmai replied, speaking for his friend. “But since it is late, and snow is falling, perhaps we should make our transaction. We would like to return to our camp tonight.”

  “Tonight? But no! It is too late to arrange for your provisions. And where is the sense in going out in this weather? You will certainly lose your way.”

  He spread his arms. “You must accept my hospitality tonight!”

  “He desires my horse,” Hassan whispered. “That is why he is not letting us go.”

  “I agree.” Zulmai offered Hassan a hollow look. “I should have warned you not to bring her.”

  Hassan shrugged. “It is only a pity that I did not see it until now.”

  He turned to his host. “In exchange for your kind hospitality, Jamaluddin Khan,” he said formally, “and for your offer of provisions for forty men for twenty-one days, I am presenting you with my mare, Ghyr Khush.”

  “Ghyr Khush?” Jamaluddin cried, with theatrical dismay. “No, no! I could never accept such a fine gift, such a beautiful gift!”

  Hassan held up his hand. “You have offered us shelter from the bitter cold. You have killed a goat for our entertainment. We are brothers now.”

  He smiled without bitterness. “My wealth, Jamaluddin Khan, is your wealth.”

  “Ah.” Jamaluddin sighed happily. “In that case, my brother, I accept. Tomorrow morning I will furnish you with the two best mounts this house has to offer, and also its finest food: live chickens and goats; almonds, pistachios, dried figs, and dates from my stores; rice, flour, and beans; sugar, tea, salt, and spices.”

  His eyes turned dreamy. “And as for Ghyr Khush, I will never raise my voice to her. I will let her gallop over open spaces as she was born to gallop. I will feed her with my own hands: eggs, mutton fat, barley, and quatlame, the food of her homeland. I will cover her in all weathers with layers of fine, felt blanket, and I will love her as I once loved my beautiful Ak Belek.”

  Arguments had raged in the cantonment for days about how much artillery
should be taken on the march, and how to get the army across the many rivers on the road to Jalalabad. In the Khurd-Kabul pass alone, it was rumored, the narrow road would cross the stream no less than thirty times.

  “The six remaining guns,” General Elphinstone finally declared, “belong to the Crown. On no account must they be left behind. We are abandoning too much valuable property as it is.”

  His arm strapped across his chest with a filthy bandage, Harry Fitzgerald shook his head as he received his instructions. “The artillery bullocks and horses are already half starved,” he objected. “They will not be able to pull the guns through those steep defiles. And what if Afghan snipers—”

  “Do as you are told,” he was ordered. “Or, at least, begin to do it, since all orders are being countermanded within the hour.”

  “Guns, property!” Fitzgerald muttered later that afternoon, as he inspected his bony, shivering artillery horses. “Have they even thought of these animals? Have they even considered tents, or food for the men?”

  “THE RETREAT is now set for tomorrow,” Lady Sale announced that evening to her daughter, Charles Mott, and Lady Macnaghten, as they sat on her stiff-backed chairs around a fire that did little to warm the room.

  Lady Macnaghten nodded. “I have made up my mind what I am taking with me,” she said decisively.

  Her voice, a full tone lower than it had been before her husband's death, held no hint of coquettishness. The three shawls she wore together over her head did not flatter her. “I cannot ask the coolies or the servants to carry many of my household belongings, and so I shall bring only my bed, my warm clothes, shawls, and rezais, and all the dried fruit from the Residence pantry. Thank goodness the servants have winter boots.”

  Her voice trailed away.

  Charles Mott laid a hand on her arm. “I shall remain at your side, Aunt,” he said gravely, “and see to your safety.”

  “We shall all stick together,” Lady Sale agreed.

  Lady Macnaghten smiled. “Indeed we shall. And we shall reach Jalalabad quite safely. I am sure of it.”