by Phil Halton
A few hundred yards from the village that surrounded the madrassa, the motorcycle pulled to a stop, with the trucks stopping close behind. Ghulam Zia leaned the bike on its kickstand and dismounted, pulling his weapon off his back with practised ease. He glared at Pahzman with a look of utter distaste. “Where is he?”
Pahzman kept his eyes low as he muttered an answer. “He always sleeps inside the madrassa, with the boys.”
Ghulam Zia’s men began to gather around him. “Do they post a guard?” asked Ghulam Zia.
“Perhaps at night. I don’t really know,” replied Pahzman.
At a signal from their leader, the men began to stalk slowly through the brush up to the top of the hill. As Ghulam Zia turned to follow them, Pahzman grabbed at his sleeve and held him back. “You haven’t told me why he is being arrested. I told you he is not the murderer.”
Ghulam Zia brushed Pahzman’s hand off his arm with the barrel of his rifle. He leaned his face very close to Pahzman’s, his voice low but full of contempt. “A man sleeps alone every night with forty young boys and you can’t think of why Nasir Khan wants him arrested? We will arrest the boy, as well, but the Mullah is the root of the problem.”
“But it was only the boy who has committed a crime. It was the boy that killed Jan Farooq.”
Ghulam Zia pushed Pahzman away and began to move up the slope with long strides. “You were paid, fool. What do you care what happens now?”
Ghulam Zia and his men moved swiftly and quietly up the hill toward the madrassa, passing through the terraced fields surrounded by their low walls. They moved carefully, half of the group advancing at a time, until bound by bound they were among the houses that surrounded the madrassa. Ghulam Zia knew the way and so led the others to the dusty white building that housed the Mullah and his school. They spread out in front of the gate, some men watching the top of the wall while others looked either way down the narrow alley. Such was their skill that they had reached the outer gate without having made a sound.
Ghulam Zia gestured to one of the men, who pushed gently on the heavy wooden door. It was unlocked, and it swung slowly inward on its hinges. The man held it open while the others skipped inside to wait by the door to the classroom.
The man closest to the door held a hand grenade, his finger already tense against the safety ring. He looked to Ghulam Zia for a signal, ready to throw it into the room. Ghulam Zia paused when he saw the single pair of sandals on the ground in front of the door, and he frowned. He placed a hand over the grenade and shook his head.
The Mullah sat perfectly still in intense concentration, his lips moving silently. The others were asleep around him. He opened his eyes at the sound of shuffling feet.
Standing in front of him on the other side of the garden was Ghulam Zia, holding Lala Chai by the scruff of the neck. Fanning out behind him were armed men whom the Mullah recognized from Nasir Khan’s house. Pahzman stood nervously to one side.
Before the Mullah could speak, Ghulam Zia fired a short burst from his kalash into the air, waking everyone with a start. Rashid was on his feet in seconds, his rifle in his hands. Seeing the men, he kept it pointed low. Everyone else was frozen where they sat, not daring to raise themselves any farther.
Ghulam Zia’s eyes were cold and opaque, addressing his words to no one in particular. “We have come to arrest the boy-murderer and the mullah who keeps the stable of bacha bereesh.”
The boys and men had awoken with a start, and they peered back from the interior of the garden where the jumble of walls and the darkness partially concealed them. “One of them must be the boy you’re looking for,” said Pahzman.
Umar spat toward him. “Traitor.”
Keeping an iron grip on Lala Chai, Ghulam Zia pulled a long knife from a sheath tucked into a sash tied around his waist. “Enough,” he said. He pushed the knife up against Lala Chai’s throat, the tip drawing a bead of blood. “Mullah, we are a lashkar. You and the boy-murderer are under arrest. You will be taken back to Nasir Khan to be tried for your crimes, as is our way. Come with us, and no harm will come to this one or the others.”
Lala Chai struggled for a moment and then whimpered as Ghulam Zia’s grip tightened further. All eyes were on the Mullah.
The Mullah was still seated where he had been meditating. He ignored the armed men, and instead looked Lala Chai in the eye. The prayer beads clicked through his clenched fist at a furious pace, but otherwise he was still. He hesitated a long time, weighing his thoughts and looking at the boy. When Ghulam Zia saw his eyes soften, he knew that the Mullah would surrender; his grip on the boy’s neck lessened imperceptibly.
The Mullah’s voice was hoarse as he spoke. “And did not Ibrahim offer his own son Ismail in sacrifice?”
Before Ghulam Zia could respond with a further threat, the Mullah dove to one side and snatched his kalash up from where it lay on the flat stone. Ghulam Zia hesitated for a moment in surprise before pushing his dagger through Lala Chai’s throat, tearing it horribly and ripping the flesh until the blade emerged from the other side of the boy’s neck. The boy’s shout was quickly stifled, turning to a ragged gurgle as a sea of blood washed over his chest and down his legs. Ghulam Zia’s eyes widened, and his grip on the dagger tightened, as he saw the Mullah steady himself and swing his rifle barrel up to point straight at him.
The Mullah poured a long burst of fire through Lala Chai and into Ghulam Zia, driving them both to the ground. The bullets made a wet ripping sound as they tore through both bodies and thudded into the mud-brick wall behind them. The garden was suddenly alive with screams and firing. The young boys stayed hidden as best they could, while the others snatched up their guns and fired into the moonlit silhouettes of Nasir Khan’s men from wherever they had been crouching. Only Faizal hid his face in his hands and cowered on the open ground.
Umar focused his first burst on Pahzman, whom he wounded badly in the leg, dropping him behind one of the low walls and out of sight. Rashid scampered backwards behind a jumble of stones and was firing fast, deliberate shots, aiming to take out the armed men one by one. Wasif held down the trigger of his weapon and raked a long burst across all of the men in front of him. The vicious gunfight lasted less than ten seconds. The ruins gave the Mullah’s followers good cover, while the men standing exposed behind where Ghulam Zia had fallen were soon cut down by the Mullah’s men, whom they could barely see.
The Mullah held up his hand and shouted: “Enough!” The only noises in the sudden silence were the moans of the dying and the whimpering of the young boys. The silence extended to the houses surrounding the garden and the madrassa and into the night beyond. No one ventured forth from his house. Every compound gate remained locked tight.
As Umar searched through the jumbled garden, he found two young boys dead, sprawled on their backs, hands clasped together. The remaining young boys from the madrassa had gathered together in the back of the garden, crouching behind each other. One had a minor wound in his leg, but the rest were uninjured.
“A miracle it wasn’t worse,” declared Umar as he checked on the boys and began to bandage the wounded one’s leg.
Asadullah Amin came running into the garden breathing heavily, gripping his kalash in one hand and pulling his wife with the other. She wasn’t wearing a chador, but over her shoulders and face she held the patu that she had been sleeping with, leaving a narrow gap for her eyes. Asadullah Amin and his young wife looked around in shock at the carnage that filled the front of the garden, but said nothing.
Rashid walked toward the heap of dead and dying men, firing a few shots from the hip when he saw movement. Umar left the boys to join him, working from the other side of the garden. He was about to fire when he suddenly stopped and instead reached into the pile of shattered bodies and pulled Pahzman to his feet. The man collapsed to his knees as he was yanked forward, one leg covered in blood. He wailed piteously and pleaded with his hands, crying: “Mercy!”
Umar knocked him down with a quick hit to the
shoulder with the butt of his kalash. “Tell us, cousin, what were you doing here with these men?”
Pahzman rolled over onto his back and raised his hands in supplication. “I … I came to warn you —”
Umar leaned over and ground the barrel of his rifle into Pahzman’s wounded leg. Pahzman howled and tried to roll away, but Umar kicked him and he rolled back into place. “Lies!” howled Umar.
Rashid sauntered slowly over to stand above Pahzman as well, taking a position by his head. “Don’t lie, cousin, we can see that you were with Nasir Khan’s men.”
“No! They made me come with them,” whimpered Pahzman.
Umar kicked him again. “They made you? With what? With money?”
Faizal held a wad of cloth over his ear, which bled profusely from a graze that left it looking ragged and torn. “To think that I once called you a friend,” he said.
The Mullah ignored this discussion as if he were in a trance, walking past Pahzman to lift the broken body of Lala Chai from where he lay pinned under Ghulam Zia. The Mullah’s shalwar kamiz quickly became soaked in blood, but he paid no attention. He carried the boy to the round, flat stone where he had been sitting, and lay him gently down, straightening his limbs and shutting his eyes with a gentle stroke of his hand.
The others watched the Mullah, expecting him to take charge and give direction. But he was entirely focused on the boy and lost in thought. Finally, Umar spoke to the Mullah in an urgent tone. “Mullah, there may be more of them coming. We need to leave. Now.”
The Mullah gently pulled on Lala Chai’s kamiz, straightening the bloody material from where it had gathered high above his waist. He gave no indication of having heard Umar speak, keeping his back turned and his focus on Lala Chai.
Umar stood behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need to find somewhere to hide, while we make a plan. We cannot stay here.”
The Mullah looked up at him sharply. “Do you still believe that our plans mean anything? Have you lost your faith in God?”
Umar hesitated.
The Mullah straightened and turned to face the others. Covered in blood, his face a sheet of pain, he spoke in a low voice that was hard for them to hear. “Isn’t it obvious, my friends?” he asked. “God is the Creator of all plans for all men. We must simply do what is right: that which is the will of God.” His eyes pleaded with them to understand his words. “He has set us on a path that we must accept, no matter how difficult.”
Pahzman still lay on the ground, moaning pitifully. He turned as best he could toward the Mullah, holding out his hands again. “I can help you! Nasir Khan has asked me for information about you. I can trick him. Lure him to you.”
The Mullah smiled thinly at Pahzman. “You would do that for me?”
“Yes, Mullah. I am your servant.”
Rashid saw the Mullah’s expression change. “You do not become a pious man by betraying those for whom you betrayed us,” said the Mullah. He looked up at his followers. “This man and his promises are worthless to us, even more so as the help of God is near.”
The Mullah fixed his gaze on Rashid. “Is our cause just?”
Rashid nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
The Mullah looked at the others. “Is he the only one who believes this? That our cause is just?”
“No, Ma’alim,” said Asadullah Amin. “We all believe it.”
“Is the cause of the enemy unjust?” asked the Mullah.
“It is,” said Wasif, his voice loud enough to carry to the nearest houses.
The Mullah stepped up onto the flat stone, Lala Chai lying at his feet. “Then why should we be humble in our religion? For our cause?” His eyes shone brightly, and he began to roar. “We are the servants of God, we do not disobey Him, and so He will make us victorious.”
Umar shouted: “Takbir!”
All of the others shouted back in unison: “Allah-u akbar!”
The Mullah gestured all around, at the village and the fields and the valley below. “Here, we have built the House of Peace. It is the House of God, and has room for all of His children.”
Pahzman quietly rolled over and tried to get up onto his knees and elbows. Rashid, who felt the man move, kicked him and sent Pahzman rolling away in pain. Umar turned at the sound, his rifle in his hands. He tore off the empty magazine and snapped a fresh one in place. He cocked the rifle in a fluid gesture, stepping forward, and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. Umar fired one round into the back of Pahzman’s head. The sharp crack of the rifle echoed across the village, and the impact drove the man’s body forward to the ground with a dull thud. Dark blood pooled quickly in a circle around his smashed remains.
The Mullah watched this unfold impassively and then began to speak again. “Brothers!” he shouted. All eyes snapped back to him as he pointed down the valley toward Kandahar City. “We have built this House of Peace. But out there, all around us, until all men submit to the will of God, shall be the House of War.”
“Takbir!” shouted Umar.
The men and boys shouted themselves hoarse, repeating the words over and over.
“Allah-u akbar!”
“Allah-u akbar!”
“Allah-u akbar!”
The convoy drove north along the road that cut through the valley, Rashid leading on the motorcycle. His eyes scanned the pastures on either side of the road for threats, but he saw nothing. The rest of the men and boys were packed into the back of the pickup trucks taken from Ghulam Zia, crouched low and huddled together against the cool night air. The Mullah refused a seat up front, instead sitting in the cargo bed with his back against the cab of the truck. He gripped the edge of the truck with one hand and with the other he steadied Lala Chai, who lay wrapped with the other two boys in a bloody shroud beside him.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 22
Rashid led the convoy off the highway. The motorcycle and the two trucks that followed began to roll slowly through the rough countryside. He picked the smoothest route he could, forcing them to drive a winding path around rocks and other obstacles. The grey morning light around them cast no shadows and gave little warmth.
The Mullah had not shifted from his seat beside Lala Chai throughout the journey, his hand resting lightly on the boy’s shroud, which was thickly crusted with dust and blood. Around him sat his students, packed closely into the bed of the truck. The Mullah’s eyes were wide open but unfocused as all the others dozed.
The bed of the second truck was also crowded with boys. Asadullah Amin sat beside his bride, holding the patu over her modestly. Wasif sat by himself, surrounded by boys, at the tail of the truck bed. Faizal had been dozing beside Asadullah Amin, but he woke as the truck turned off the road and began to bump across the rough ground. He turned and raised his head over the cab of the truck, craning his neck to see where they were going.
“I have been thinking,” said Faizal to no one in particular. “I must speak to the Mullah. I have something that he needs to hear.”
Wasif sneered at the older man. “Do you think that he is waiting for your advice? You heard him yourself. He is leading us to do the will of God! He doesn’t need the help of a chaiwallah.”
Faizal turned away from the others and closed his eyes again. “As I recall, it was good to be so young and so sure of oneself.”
“I am not sure of myself,” said Wasif. “But I am sure of this: There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.”
Faizal did not reply, and they rode on in silence. In time they came to a black felt tent pitched in the middle of a large field, surrounded by sheep. The vehicles stopped a respectful distance away and Rashid called out to the Kochi that he knew were inside. “Asalaam aleikum, cousins!”
A man stuck his head out of the tent flap. He sized up the visitors for a moment before standing up in front of the door of his home. In his hand was a rifle that looked old but well cared for. “Wa aleikum salaam.” He said nothing further, watching and waiting.
&
nbsp; Rashid called out again. “Do you have tea or food for visitors?”
“We are poor and have little, but what we have we will share.”
Rashid looked at him doubtfully. The man stuck his head back in the tent for a moment, and shortly afterwards a boy came out from behind him, carrying a teapot and a stack of glasses. The man watched them carefully as the boy came over to Rashid.
“We are looking for Gol Kochi,” said Rashid.
The man simply pointed farther up the valley. Rashid nodded and took the short glass of tea offered by the boy, drinking it with a quick flip of his hand. The others did the same as the boy offered glasses up to them, only the Mullah abstaining. When the pot was empty, the boy stood back. Rashid turned the motorcycle around and began riding to the north, the two trucks bouncing along behind him. They came to tent after tent, spread out over kilometres, each surrounded by livestock. In every case, they were pointed farther up the valley and into the foothills of the mountains surrounding the Hazarajat.
After a dozen stops and many glasses of tea, the convoy found a small cluster of Kochi camped together. Standing outside, as if waiting for them, was Gol Kochi. Rashid stopped a short distance away and looked back for the Mullah. Everyone else remained where they were seated, but the Mullah climbed down and walked past Rashid to greet the old Kochi.
“Asalaam aleikum,” said the Mullah.
Gol Kochi embraced him tightly. “Wa aleikum salaam. I hope you are well. I hope that your house is strong. May you not be tired. May you be strong …” Gol Kochi broke the rhythm of the usual statements as his gaze lingered on the truckloads of boys behind the Mullah. “What tragedy causes this?”
“I will explain,” said the Mullah. “But we come seeking nanawatai.” The Mullah dropped down onto his knees with little ceremony, offering his kalash in one hand to Gol Kochi. Performed by anyone else, the gesture would have looked overly dramatic. The Mullah imbued it with quiet dignity.