by Phil Halton
“You may not see any troubles that need bother you now, but they are gathering just beyond the horizon. As you well know, these debts of honour will not disappear. Even after a hundred years, these families may seek revenge.”
“May I live to see them do so,” said Tarak, provoking laughter among his men. “Stranger, your thoughts are those of a man who lived in our grandfathers’ time.” Tarak looked around at his men, speaking more loudly. “That world is dead. The truth is that our world is ruled by the sword, and the strongest arm that swings it. This girl has been promised to me, and I will take her.”
The Mullah bristled. “This world is truly not as you describe,” he said. “In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, and on behalf of her family and her people, you must leave this girl alone.”
The bandits were silent for a moment, uncertain that they had heard him correctly, but then they roared with laughter at the Mullah’s audacity. Tarak was stunned. He mockingly leaned back as if swooning and in shock. “In the name of Allah?” he asked. “You come here alone, unarmed, not to ask me something, or beg me for something, but to tell me your will?”
One of the bandits who’d pushed the Mullah into the compound turned to the other, smiling. “I knew this wouldn’t be boring.”
“I serve only as a reminder of God’s will.” The Mullah looked around at the armed men in the crowd. “One way to measure a man’s fear is by the number of guns that he keeps. You would appear to have much to be afraid of.” The Mullah held his empty hands out in front of him. “I, however, am unarmed, as I trust in God, and therefore have no fear.”
The men around them had grown quiet again, waiting to see how their leader would respond. Tarak’s eyes bulged as he tried to find the right words, but then he burst out in braying laughter. His men joined in, but the Mullah was silent. Tarak had tears in his eyes when he regained his composure. “I’ve not had a surprise like this one you’ve brought me in years,” he said. Tarak leaned toward him conspiratorially, “You say that you are not interested in the girl. Maybe this will be to your taste.” Tarak waved his hand, and a man pressed play on a blocky Soviet-made tape recorder.
Tinny music crackled from its speakers. The bandits craned their necks toward the doorway of a nearby building to see the entertainment begin. From behind a curtain emerged a young dancer, dressed in the clothes of a girl, with heavily rouged cheeks and bells tied around his wrists and ankles. The dancer moved slowly backwards toward the crowd, swaying suggestively until he came to a stop in the centre of the semicircle. He made a slow and dramatic turn to face Tarak. As he turned, it was the Mullah’s face he spied.
With incredible speed, the boy launched himself forward, howling and scrambling at the air with his hands. He landed on the Mullah, trying desperately to tear out the man’s eyes with his fingernails. Before the Mullah could turn his head he found himself looking into the eyes of the boy from the checkpoint. The crowd of men leapt to their feet and moved back in confusion; the dogs in their cages went wild. The Mullah grabbed the boy by the wrists, quickly gaining control of him. He pinned the boy’s arms to his sides and lifted him off the ground. Before the boy could break free, the Mullah managed to toss him roughly onto the bloody soil.
The boy’s eyes were wet with tears of frustration as he got back to his feet. He turned to Tarak and shouted: “Kill him! I want him killed!”
Tarak stood up and moved toward the boy, putting a protective arm around him. His face was dark, his voice low. “Ah, now I understand. You’re the one from the checkpoint.”
“Yes,” said the Mullah.
“Didn’t you receive my gift?” asked Tarak. “I boxed it up carefully for you.”
The boy, his face smeared with makeup and tears, began to plead with Tarak. He reached up to the bandit chief and stroked his beard with his small hand. “Please, please, let me kill him. He hurt me. I want to kill him.”
Tarak’s face remained dark, and he jabbed a short finger at the Mullah. “Stranger, whoever you are, go back to your fly-shit village.”
The boy punched Tarak ineffectively in the stomach and stormed off, crying.
“And tell the villagers that once I am married again, I will be coming back for them,” said Tarak. “And that they will pay for your insolence.”
“We will call a jirga to settle this,” said the Mullah. “You will be fighting against the world.”
“To hell with your Pashtunwali.”
The Mullah’s jaw clenched, but he managed to spit out one word: “Insh’allah.”
Tarak turned away from him in contempt. “And if I ever see you again, I will let the boy kill you. And then I will feed your body to my dogs.” Tarak walked away, disappearing inside one of the buildings.
The crowd stood facing the stranger, their mood ugly, but not one of them dared to touch him now that Tarak had told him to bring a message back to the village. They knew that this was how Tarak worked. Fear was better business, sometimes, than killing. The Mullah surveyed them for a moment before giving a slight nod and turning his steps toward the doorway of the compound.
The Mullah placed each foot with a purpose, lengthening his gait to get away from the corruption of the place as quickly as he could without running. The metal gates of the compound slammed shut behind him with a clang, but he did not turn around. He saw now that this stretch of the road was littered with shell casings, a scattered carpet of tarnished brass and steel. Once he was out of sight of the garden walls he stopped. Looking up at the sun and judging the time, he swallowed his feelings and took a few deep breaths. Certain that the intention in his heart was pure, he began to prepare himself to pray.
Tarak lay back on one of the doshaks that had been rolled out on the floor of his room. He could hear the slow and steady breathing of the boy nearby in the darkness. The air was hot, almost stifling, and he could not sleep.
Picking up a kalash from the floor, Tarak went outside. A few men sat by the gate, supposedly on sentry but mostly smoking from a chelam. The water pipe bubbled noisily as each man drew deeply on the sweet smoke before passing the hose to his right. The bandits rose to their wobbly feet as Tarak approached. He asked for a few coals from the chelam for his own pipe, but they insisted he take the whole thing; they would prepare themselves another. He accepted the obsequious behaviour for what it was, and grabbed the tall chelam around the neck with his free hand.
Tarak went back to his own building and climbed a rough wooden ladder to the roof. Positioned so that it would catch the cool breeze was a bed made from ropes strung over a wooden frame. He lay down and took a long pull on the chelam. As he had suspected, it was chars, not tobacco, that they had been smoking.
Tarak imagined the slight body of the boy sleeping below, his smooth skin free of scars and blemishes. Had his own skin ever looked that way? Certainly not now, after two decades of war, or whatever this was. Survival. Life. He blinked.
The day had started well. But then came the loss of his favourite dog. And the arrival of the Mullah. Pashtunwali be damned, he should have killed him on the spot. Elders and preachers had always tried to tell young men what to do, claiming it was about honour or some damned thing. Most of those men are dead now, he thought. The only thing that gives you the right to do what you want, and to tell others what to do, is force. Some people will say that it is money, but force can get you money, while money alone won’t give you the strength to overcome those who want to take it from you.
Tarak thought back to what his father had often said: You can’t buy a man, you only rent him for a time. And men get big ideas that have to be cut down before they grow too big. Dogs are easier to manage, but men are handled just the same. Use one hand to feed them, and one hand to hit them. Show them both from time to time. Keep them hungry enough. And never show fear.
Tarak saw that the Mullah didn’t show fear, either. That made him dangerous. But not for much longer.
CHAPTER 6
The Mullah walked along the side of the roa
d, a fine shower of dust blowing over him as he strode, head down. He looked up and squinted at the distant horizon. A motorcycle was approaching, moving fast. The Mullah stopped and planted his feet firmly on the earth, readying himself for whatever might come.
The motorcycle stopped a short distance from him, and the rider unwound his scarf to reveal his face. He looked young and pampered, his face soft and a little puffy. “I’m looking for the mullah who fights bandits,” he said. “Travellers in the chai khana down the highway said that he had gone this way.”
“I’ve seen no holy men fighting bandits,” said the Mullah.
The young man looked doubtful. “My uncle wishes to speak to this mullah. Are you this man, by chance?”
“Who is your uncle?” asked the Mullah.
“Nasir Khan,” said the young man. “He’s at a wedding in a village near here.”
The Mullah frowned. “Nasir Khan? The famous mujahid?”
“The same,” said the rider. “Are you the mullah or not?”
“Forgive me,” said the Mullah. “I am he. I am less trusting of others, as of late.”
“We mean you no harm,” said the rider. “My uncle is an admirer of yours and wishes only to speak with you. I have been sent to find you and take you to him.”
Seeing him more closely, it was now clear to the Mullah that he was barely a man. His beard was wispy and his hands and face were soft, like someone unaccustomed to work. The Mullah climbed on the back of the motorcycle and the young man drove it in a slow circle, bringing it around to face the other way and then quickly accelerating.
“Where exactly are we going?” shouted the Mullah into the youth’s ear.
“It’s not far,” he shouted back, swerving a little as he turned his face toward the Mullah so that he could be heard.
Rashid carried a few pieces of naan in one hand and two glasses of tea in the other as he walked back to the checkpoint. “Breakfast,” he said simply, handing Umar some bread and one of the glasses.
“They’re late again,” said Umar, watching the boys’ distant figures walking down the mountainside.
“They likely had trouble organizing the younger ones again,” said Rashid with a shrug.
“I need to revise the schedule once more,” sighed Umar. “Perhaps if we split the shifts?”
Rashid said nothing, having heard Umar’s concerns many times already. He focused instead on his breakfast, softening the days-old bread in his mouth before trying to chew it. The tea was fresh, at least, and he savoured each slightly bitter sip, content to be alive and fed for another day.
Umar stood facing the track up the mountainside and shouted when the boys came within earshot: “You’re late again!”
Wasif and Amin increased their pace, covering the last part of the distance to the checkpoint at a jog. Amin sat down almost immediately after he arrived, his legs sore from the walk down the mountain. He eyed the bread that Umar and Rashid were eating enviously.
“You’re late,” repeated Umar.
“We had to feed the boys, and there was no wood for the fire,” said Wasif, shooting a reproachful look at his brother.
“I didn’t collect any wood because I was here at the checkpoint,” said Amin quickly.
“Have you already eaten?” asked Umar.
Wasif’s face reddened. “We used the last of the beans to make daal, and there was not enough for everyone.”
“You’re both here now,” said Rashid, “which is what matters.” He picked up his rifle and handed it to Wasif, pulling the action back a little to show the boy that it was loaded. “I’ll bring some more bread and tea for you, and then the checkpoint is yours while we sleep.”
“Has the Mullah returned yet?” asked Wasif.
“Not that we have seen,” said Umar.
Both Wasif and Amin glanced down the empty road.
A few minutes later, with bread and tea starting to fill their bellies, the boys were seated comfortably within the shade of the low stone wall of the checkpoint. Neither Umar nor Rashid had left yet, and talk returned to the subject of the Mullah.
“It has been two days since he left,” said Wasif. “We have to follow him and find out what has happened.”
“That will leave us even weaker here in the village,” cautioned Rashid. “It is not yet time to panic.”
“But what if he needs us?” asked Amin, his mouth full of bread.
“You are not yet such a man as to be indispensable to him,” chided Umar. “He will return, and our focus should be on ensuring that all is in order when he does.”
“Like what?” asked Amin.
“Like ensuring that someone supervises the boys, and that I get some rest,” said Umar as he stood and stretched. “I will walk up to the madrassa now,” he said, looking to Rashid to see that he concurred.
“I will meet you there later this morning,” said Rashid.
Umar took his time leaving the shade at the checkpoint, the heat of the sun already making exertion unpleasant. Rashid sat with the boys, shifting his position to take advantage of the diminishing shade.
“There is much to do, and few of us to do it,” said Rashid. “Why didn’t you bring Isa down from the madrassa?”
“He’s not there,” said Wasif. “Wasn’t he on shift with you last night?”
Rashid slapped his leg. “I’ve not seen him since yesterday,” he said. “The last thing we need is to be another man short.”
“Maybe he ran away,” said Wasif. “He hates work.”
“He does little enough of it,” said Rashid, “so I don’t think the tasks we put on him would have driven him away just yet.”
Amin sat silently, his fingers twisting the tail of his shirt, ignoring the conversation about Isa. Rashid watched him for a moment before asking, “Amin, have you seen where Isa goes when he is not here?”
Amin’s head snapped up and his face reddened. He began to stammer out a reply before he was cut off by his brother.
“Do you know something about this that you didn’t tell me?” demanded Wasif.
Amin looked back and forth between Rashid and his brother, uncertain what to say.
Rashid put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You can tell me what you know, my friend. I’m sure that it didn’t seem significant until now.”
Amin nodded, giving a sidelong glance at his brother. “I saw him visit the house on the edge of the village once.”
“That’s all?” asked Wasif.
“That’s all,” said Amin.
“Well, it’s worth asking if he is there,” said Rashid. “Wasif, stay here with the rifles. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Wasif nodded, hefting one of the kalashes up into his arms. Rashid stood, bent down quickly to knead the muscles in his left leg, and then gestured for Amin to lead the way. Wasif watched them go for a moment before walking out into the middle of the road, alert for any cars that might approach.
Amin led Rashid down a rutted pathway along the side of a field, heading toward the village houses inside their heavily walled compounds. When they reached the last house, set slightly apart from the others, he stopped, gesturing at a green wooden door set into the mud-brick wall. It hung slightly askew on its hinges, but was firmly barred shut.
“This house is the one that I saw him visit,” said Amin.
Rashid stepped past him and struck the door heavily with his fist. He waited for a moment, listening, but hearing no sound of movement inside, he pounded on the door again.
“We are looking for our friend Isa,” he called out, hoping that someone inside would hear him.
“Wait, wait,” replied a man’s voice from inside the compound. They could hear something heavy being dragged across the yard, and finally a man’s head appeared over the top of the wall. He was young, but with a heavy beard that grew so thickly on his face that it started just below his eyes, and Rashid recognized him as one of the local farmers who frequented the chai khana. “What do you want?” the farmer asked.<
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“Salaam,” began Rashid, “and my apologies for disturbing you, cousin, but we are seeking our friend Isa.”
The bearded farmer looked at him doubtfully and said nothing in reply.
“He’s a skinny man with long hair,” said Rashid.
“And he talks too much when you don’t want and not at all when you do,” added Amin. Rashid hushed him with a wave of his hand.
The farmer looked uncertainly at the boy and then back at Rashid.
Rashid held up his hands to show that they were empty. “As I said, we come in peace, and only to find our friend.”
The farmer gestured off to one side with his head as he climbed off the ladder behind the wall. “Go to the door of the hujra, over there.”
Rashid and Amin walked around the corner of the compound where there was another door, this one much older and thicker. They could hear the sound of a rusty bolt being slid aside, and a rustling noise as whatever else that was barring the door was pulled away. When it swung open, it revealed a tiny courtyard, shaded by an old sheet.
“Come in,” said the farmer, pulling the door open.
Rashid stepped over the high lintel and ducked at the same time, followed quickly by Amin. Inside, they saw that the courtyard had a small sitting platform covered in carpets and round, threadbare pillows. Stretched out on a heavily embroidered mattress was Isa, eyes shut, fast asleep.
“Wake up, brother,” said Rashid. “It is past time to be awake! The day is slipping by!”
He stepped up onto the platform to give the unresponsive Isa a shake. His hand hesitated in midair, and instead of shaking Isa awake, he turned to face the farmer, his expression dour.
“How long has he been here?” he asked.
The farmer looked panicked. “Only since last night,” he said.
“And how often has he been here before?”
“Four, perhaps five times,” he said.
Rashid reached over Isa, lifting a ceramic plate off the carpet with both hands. On the plate was a short glass lantern and a thick wooden pipe with a large metal bowl. He slipped something off the plate into his pocket, and then passed the plate to the farmer, who took it in his hands without looking Rashid in the eye. “Put this away where he won’t see it,” said Rashid.