Mama kneels by the fire in case they watch from a distance. It is still light enough that they can see her yellow chadr. A gun fires, and another. Mama stops in midmotion, terror in her eyes.
“They’re hunting. We still have time,” I tell her. Four more reports sound.
Behind our camp we strap saddles and bedding, food and cooking pots, our one goatskin of water, and bundles of fodder onto the camels. It’s their dinnertime, and they roar in protest. I can feel the eyes of four men straining on our camp from near the canal, where they will be looking for fallen birds. We have just minutes to get away.
We leave the camels and sheep to Sher Dil, who seems to sense the emergency. He runs in large circles, barking and gathering the animals closer together. The females nudge the babies toward the inside, and soon they are in one group, alert and ready to move through the dust rising from their feet.
The panniers are padded, and within minutes we are ready, Auntie and the boys on one camel. Phulan mounts the second.
Slowly I approach the fire, and Mama and I duck into the lean-to. We cut through the wall on the other side and race to the camels. Mama climbs into the pannier with Phulan, and I leap onto Xhush Dil’s back, twining my fingers into the long, coarse curls on the top of his powerful hump.
“Uuussshhshshsh,” I hiss through clenched teeth. We have removed their bells and bracelets, and I am proud that our great brave camels rise so quickly and silently. A rush of exhilaration makes me shiver; my fear has turned to excitement. I am clearheaded as we sail silently, but for the thump of our pots against the camels’ sides, into the desert.
Spin Gul
The blood races through the veins in my throat. I want to shout with joy, feeling Xhush Dil’s powerful shoulders pump his legs against the hard-packed clay track into the desert. The sun is gone, and I search for the place where the dunes make looming gray shadows against the green and darkening sky, where we can leave the track behind.
One star winks palely, then another, and we sail between the dunes, our chadrs flying, the camels breathing hard. Sher Dil and the herd follow behind, the distance widening between us.
When we have been running the camels hard for an hour, we slow the pace. The sky is bright now, and the sand twinkles under the camels’ feet like the stars lighting our way. The North Star perches on my left shoulder, just where Dadi said it should be. The bells of the herd have been too distant to hear for some time now, but suddenly a single bell jangles wildly behind us, and a panicked bleating becomes louder and louder. Mithoo has bolted from the herd and struggles toward us in the cooling desert night.
Phulan sobs, her teeth chattering and shoulders shaking. She cradles her head in her arms, which are braced against the back-and-forth and side-to-side rocking of the pannier, where she sits beside Mama.
“Don’t worry,” Mama tells her as I pull Xhush Dil back to walk beside their camel. “They won’t come after us.” Mama strokes Phulan’s hair.
“Can you imagine Nazir Mohammad putting his plump backside on a camel?” I ask, trying to make her laugh.
“As long as we stay off the track, they’ll never find us,” Mama says, stroking Phulan gently.
“The wedding,” Phulan gasps between sobs. “It’s ruined. We’ll never be able to go back.”
She may be right. Nazir’s pride has been wounded badly, and it is unlikely he will let us get away without taking revenge.
Mama puts her arms around Phulan’s quivering shoulders.
“We did the only thing we could do,” Mama says. “Dadi and Hamir will find some way to appease him.”
But I wonder. Shutr keena, camel vengeance. It is the way of camels and men of the desert. The price will be heavy.
By now Mithoo has caught up with us, gasping and snorting, his eyes slipping wildly from side to side, showing white. I call softly to him and he falls into step beside Xhush Dil, taking up the stride of the large camel—a fast walk, his long legs lifting us up and over the dunes that shine silver in the starlight. A sliver of new moon rises like hope on the horizon before us. Mithoo’s stride is growing long and adult. He seldom nurses from the milk bag and willingly carries a blanket and water jar. But he is still half infant, half adolescent.
We hold steady at this long striding walk so Dadi can catch up with us. I worry that he’ll have been followed, that the landlord’s men will catch him before he gets away, or that they’ll go straight to Hamir and Murad to exact a price on the spot. My heart grows heavier the more I think about it.
After another hour a more immediate problem is apparent. We have only one goatskin of water, and it could be dangerous for us to go to the well at Derawar. The boys are crying for water, but I’m afraid to stop yet to rest.
“Auntie is thirsty too, little ones,” Mama tells them. “We must be brave and wait for another hour to stop. Then we will all have water and chapatis.”
Phulan is still crying, her head bent into her arms. Mama kneels in the pannier and lifts Phulan’s face, wiping her tears with the edge of her chadr.
“What will happen to Sakina and Kulsum and Bibi Lal?” Phulan wails. I haven’t thought of them. “And Sharma and Fatima?”
“Sharma and Fatima can take care of themselves,” Mama tells her. The confidence in her voice is real. “Hamir and Murad will work out something. Dadi will reach us soon. Don’t worry. We must be strong and ready to do anything they say.”
Phulan seems to take heart, and we settle down to the long, loping walk of the camels, waiting for Dadi to catch up with us.
The boys fall asleep, and the hours pass in near silence. Phulan is calm, perhaps sleeping.
The crabbed pattern of the stars of Cancer are high overhead, and the nights are growing shorter. At the fast clip we were moving when we started it would have taken just six hours to reach Derawar from Mehrabpur, but at this slower pace perhaps it will take longer. Dadi should have caught up with us an hour after we slowed to a walk.
If he hasn’t appeared before we reach Derawar, we will stop and make a camp among the dunes outside the village, and I can watch the well to see if Nazir Mohammad is waiting there with his jeep and his guns. I relax some.
I think of Sher Dil behind us, still a puppy, his body not yet grown into his broad shoulders, thick legs, and floppy ears, entrusted with our entire herd of camels and sheep. Sher Dil, the lion heart. He could not have been better named.
Our pace slows as the hours turn toward dawn, the faintest pewter line broadening on the horizon as the stars slowly dim and leave the sky as they entered it, one by one.
I must have fallen asleep, for my fingers tingle, twined tightly in the hair on Xhush Dil’s massive hump, my cheek resting against my arm. We should be close to Derawar, but I can’t tell how long we’ve been going so slowly.
A shot rings out across the desert. We are out of the dunes now, and the sound is clear and sends my heart into my throat, where it sits like a toad threatening to choke me. The camels stop as if they are one beast, and turn in the direction from which the rifle shot came, their heads high, nostrils flexing, ears swiveling. We all sit upright, silent and watching.
I whirl Xhush Dil in a narrow turn, finding the North Star where it has fallen near the horizon, and head straight toward it, leaving Derawar off to our right.
The camels hit full stride willingly, but they tire quickly, and within ten minutes a dozen camels with uniformed riders pull up beside us.
“Ho, sister,” says their leader, taking Xhush Dil’s reins. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” They are Desert Rangers. The toad in my throat disappears. I want to weep with relief and exhaustion.
“I am Subadar Spin Gul. I have a message from Dalil Abassi, sent by the Ranger post at Maujgarh. Is Abassi head of this family?” Mama nods.
“Then he orders you to return to Mehrabpur at once.”
“How can that be?” asks Mama. Our tired camels stand, heads lowered, breathing heavily. “My husband was to join us at Derawar.”
�
��We’ve just come from there to tell you he wants you to go to Mehrabpur. He says to tell you the trouble is past, and it is safe for you to return.”
“I don’t believe it,” says Mama. “He knows I wouldn’t believe it, and he would come himself. Please radio back to Maujgarh and ask them to describe the man who called himself Abassi.”
The subadar shrugs his shoulders in exasperation.
“Sister, the radio is for official use.”
“The landlord Nazir from Mehrabpur tried to kidnap and rape my daughters,” Mama says, her eyes flashing. “And if that’s how you treat me, don’t call me sister!”
“I’m sorry,” says Subadar Spin Gul. “We can’t get involved in family feuds.”
“We barely escaped with our lives! My husband was due to meet us at Derawar long before now. We never intended to go to Maujgarh. Nazir may have thought we would go there, as it’s closer. We are Cholistanis. The Rangers have always protected us.”
“I see,” says the subadar. He turns and issues orders to his men. “We will stay here with you and see that no harm comes to you,” he says. “We should have an answer back within two hours. For now you look as if you could do with some tea and food.”
Mama and I exchange looks, and it is agreed. We will put ourselves in the care of the Rangers.
“Uuuushshshshh,” I say, and Xhush Dil bends his great shaggy head, his front knees folding under him, then his back legs, and he settles with a quiet, grateful groan. My cousins are still sleeping, and Mama and Phulan take one boy each in their arms while I spread blankets on the ground for them to lie upon. I go back to help Auntie out of her pannier. In the gathering light her face is pale.
“Are you unwell?” I ask. She doesn’t reply but leans heavily on my shoulder as I help her to the quilts where her sleeping sons lie. She turns her back to me and lies curled on her side. Auntie must be very ill indeed if she is unable to complain.
Subadar Spin Gul and his men unroll tents for us—canvas tents with side walls and windows and ropes. One man has built a fire and is making tea. Another mixes flour and water for chapatis. I am so grateful, the toad threatens to leap into my throat again and prevent me from speaking, and tears burn behind my eyes.
Mama and Phulan unload the camels, leaving the saddles and cooking pots tied in place in case we should have to move again.
“You must rest here for the day,” says Spin Gul. “Your animals have been driven hard, and you need water,” he says, pointing to our single goatskin. Full when we left, it is flat as a chapati now. I gasp. What trouble we’d be in if they hadn’t found us!
Subadar Spin Gul goes to the camel to which the goatskin is tied and lifts it in the air. The sun peeps over the edge of the horizon, and a tiny golden drop slips out of one corner of the skin, which has grown dark with wetness.
“It will be easy to fix, and I think we can give you another,” he says, handing it to one of his men, who reaches into a sack on his belt and picks out a tiny piece of bitumen. He jams it in the fork of a stick and holds it in the fire until a thread of black pitch melts down. Skillfully he applies the gooey end of the stick to the wet-stained corner. He holds the corner above the fire, letting the heat dry the skin and the pitch penetrate the broken place. He then goes to the side of one of the Rangers’ camels, lifts down a square tin, and pours several cups of water into the skin. He hands it back to Spin Gul, who holds it up to the light again. After several seconds there still are no drips.
“Good as new,” he says, and for the first time I notice how like Dadi’s face his is, kind and handsome and strong in the golden sunlight that spreads its warmth across the flat desert. I could cry for his kindness, and suddenly I am very tired. But it’s as if a taut wire stretches through me, through my head from ear to ear, down my neck, across my shoulders, down my spine, and into my legs. I won’t be able to sleep until we’ve learned what’s happened to Dadi.
I have a vision of Dadi wounded and fallen, his camel having lost its way. I am working up the courage to ask the subadar if he might send a man along the way we’ve come—a tracker could follow our way easily—in case Dadi is lying in the desert.
Spin Gul’s eyes lift, and I turn to look back toward the way we’ve come. A cloud of dust shimmers, reflecting light from the rising sun as two camels race toward us.
It is Dadi and another man—Hamir? I can’t tell, except that he is tall and broad-shouldered, with a mustache and a straight back.
Before the camels reach us, Dadi jumps to the ground and stumbles forward into the arms of the subadar. Mama gasps. Dadi’s tunic is covered with blood, newly soaked through, still red but dry. I look up at the young man, who steps on the U of his camel’s neck. He wears country slippers, embroidered, with toes that curl up in a long slender strip. They slap as he jumps lightly to the ground. The camels’ sides heave and their heads hang low. A wheezing sound comes from their chests.
The young man also has blood over the front of his tunic, and his hands, too, are stained red. Neither he nor Dadi seems hurt. Both camels have broad country guns stuck under their girths. They look as if they have run full speed from Mehrabpur and are about to drop.
With a start I realize the young man is Murad. Tired as I am and sick with worry and fear, anxious as I am to know what has happened, I feel the odd turning in my belly again.
“Where is he?” asks Phulan, her voice bright with fear as she looks behind them for another camel carrying Hamir.
“Someone had to stay,” Murad says. His eyes are gentle and serious. He is very tall, with hands as broad as a camel’s foot, a strong neck, and a square chin with a deep cleft just in the center. I’ve never seen anyone more handsome.
“Whose blood?” asks Mama, pointing at their tunics, her hand open and flat. Dadi and Murad exchange a long look.
“Hamir’s,” says Dadi, still breathing heavily.
“What’s happened?” shrieks Phulan, throwing herself at Dadi. He puts his arms around her.
“Hamir is dead,” he says. Phulan sinks against him, sobbing, and he holds her for several minutes. Mama leads Phulan to the tent. Her face is frozen, mouth open in a silent, anguished cry.
Spin Gul takes Dadi and Murad away to wash, and Dadi tells me to walk their still-wheezing camels until they are cool and breathe normally.
I mourn for Phulan, then pleasure at seeing Murad steals into my heart like a guilty secret. He has grown fully into his ears. I look under the camels’ necks as I walk them, and I watch Murad wash from Spin Gul’s goatskin. He has removed his turban and tunic, and the early sunlight sparkles on the smooth brown skin of his broad shoulders.
The men leave us women to rest and grieve in the tent through the morning.
Phulan sits in the back doorway of the tent, away from where the men tend the camels and smoke cigarettes. She keens softly at first, her voice rising to a wail, then trailing off into exhaustion. She raises her arms and throws back her head with another primeval wail.
“God, my life was perfect, and you struck him down. Just when I’m happy, everything changes!” she says to the sky.
Spin Gul returns to tell us that Dadi has been on the radio with the Rangers at Yazman.
“The man who called himself Abassi at Yazman was fat and wore a silk tunic over muddy trousers,” Spin Gul tells Mama. “The Rangers at Yazman have taken Murad’s family under protection. They are trying to find Nazir Mohammad to negotiate a truce. His older brother, a landowner called Rahim, is a politician and doesn’t want trouble. Perhaps he will help.”
Rahim—“the merciful.” If he is well named, perhaps he will guarantee our safety and we will go to Yazman for the men to talk with the landlords.
Near lunchtime Auntie moans with pain. All morning she has lain motionless and, except for an occasional groan, silent. It is most unlike her. The boys have gone outside to look for Sher Dil, who should appear with the herd sometime early in the afternoon. He will have taken his time, for there are dozens of babies who must rest on
the long trek from Mehrabpur.
Mama first notices the stain of red on the quilt and calls me to her. Auntie is aborting her fetus, and there is little we can do. Mama sends me to the village near Derawar, to the unfriendly people who refused to help find a place to bury Grandfather, who spilled his blood for them. I am to find a midwife to ease Auntie’s pain, perhaps to save her unborn baby.
Xhush Dil rises stiffly to his feet, but like a soldier who knows his duty, he heads straight to the village. Dadi and Murad sit inside the Ranger post on a string cot; they wait in silence, their hands folded in front of them. Spin Gul comes out, Dadi behind him. Spin Gul directs me to the midwife’s hut.
“Isn’t there a doctor?” Dadi asks.
Spin Gul shakes his head.
Dadi leaps up behind me onto Xhush Dil’s back. There is an odd, musty smell about him that I know instinctively as the smell of the blood on his tunic. We ride to the midwife’s house, and I am grateful to see our friend Shahzada in the doorway, his tattered red fez perched sideways on his shiny brown skull.
“Abassi-sahib!” he says, pleasure lighting his crinkled old eyes as he greets Dadi.
“Shahzada, we need your help again,” Dadi says with sadness. “I should be bringing a gift to show our gratitude for your kindness when my father died. Instead I come with another problem.”
“We are brothers,” says Shahzada. “Your time to repay kindness will come in the next life, if not in this.”
The midwife is Shahzada’s sister, only slightly younger, with the same kindness and the same three long teeth as those of her brother. She listens silently as I describe Auntie’s condition, then ducks back into her mud house to grab a bag of herbs and powders. She climbs up on Xhush Dil and we hurry back to the tent, where Auntie lies now on her back, in a widening stain of blood, her eyes rolled back into her head.
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