Ashes and Light

by Karen L. McKee

  He aided her onto her horse, her bad leg hanging over the heavy, carpet-patterned saddle pad, sweat in little beads on her brow. She patted the neck of the little mare she had begun to call Anaargórrey—after the small pomegranate that was the same ruddy color as the horse’s sun-faded coat.

  Carefully, he lifted her foot to the stirrup and heard her swift intake of breath.

  “You’ll carry me safely today, yes?”

  She stroked the mare’s neck and the horse’s ears twitched. Michael liked that about her—the way she opened her heart to the animal. Too many treated them as machines.

  Mounted on his trusty brown gelding, he led off down the slope for the flatter ground in the valley bottom. Less chance of being seen and less chance of a stumble and fall. The horses were surefooted little beasts, but even they could falter in the rocky terrain.

  The air became stifling, the landscape caught in a pause in the war between the Asian and Indian tectonic plates that had thrown up these mountains. Sweat ran down his neck from under his turban. Khadija seemed to sway in her saddle, as if the heat sapped her strength.

  “You doing okay?”

  Her gaze flashed green-gold. “Would you stop! I can go on as long as you.”

  Temperamental woman. He avoided her as his horse picked its way through the debris of ancient pebbled alluvial and dead scrub. He’d bought the little animals thinking of Khadija, but truly it was him that was thankful of the beast now.

  His side didn’t seem to be improving. He’d avoided Khadija’s help, and had seen the striping peek out from under the bandage when he washed in the river two nights ago. But rest was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Opening the wound to allow it to drain as Khadija had suggested would only make him more prone to infection.

  Better to just have her administer the antibiotics daily and pray for the best. But then, no deity would help a man like him. He carried too much death within him.

  The daylight faded as the sun fell below the scoured edges of the western mountains. It sent fingers of light skyward, pointing towards Allah. Or perhaps Allah reached for them. Rumi would write of the gold beams as the power of lovers yearning for each other, man yearning for God. So Rumi had felt when he met his teacher—a man so holy and learned it was as if Rumi instantly attained awareness of his connection to something greater.

  Michael eased the growing stiffness in his side. To find that connection—it was every man’s desire. Until the man gave up hope. Perhaps that was why Rumi was not so favored in Afghanistan any more.

  The base of the mountain they followed began to twist westward to the river and Michael reined in to study the landscape. The way the earthquakes had re-carved the glaciated landscape, there was only this path towards the river and the road. A mountain slope blocked their way southward.

  “We could use the water,” he said, laying his hand on their almost-empty water skin as Khadija came alongside. He studied the scoured slopes for the enemy. Nothing moved but the wind along the distorted mountain shoulders.

  His horse sidled under him, restive at the river-scent. The animals had gone without drink since yesterday. Khadija soothed Anaargórrey, making a small song of her name. “Ana, Anaa. Anaargórrey.”

  The mare’s large ears flipped back and forth. Michael’s solid gelding stomped his feet.

  “They have to drink some time. Just let me go first.” He urged his horse into a jog towards the narrow pass between the two ragged slopes. Khadija’s mare followed eagerly.

  Late afternoon shadows hid the details of the slopes. Anyone could lie in wait amid the boulders and scree and he’d have no way of knowing.

  His shoulders itched as he stopped the horse at the path to the roadway. There was no foliage except dried scrub grass along the river’s high-water mark, no cover, just the narrow track that posed as a road and the river beyond.

  He looked up at the sky, deepening towards evening and saw the wheeling form of a peregrine against the blue. Something was amid the stones that had caught the bird’s eye.

  He scanned the hillside. Nothing moved—not even the normal trickle of stone. Then why did he have this sense of watching? He’d learned over the years to listen to this sense. Had the old shepherd told someone?

  He’d said he was returning back to the hills with his flock, but he’d been a garrulous fellow. Drawn to their fire and the chance for conversation, he’d told them.

  If Hashemi’s men had camped nearby, it was likely they’d heard news of a man and woman traveling south. Michael unslung the rifle from his shoulder.

  It was Anaargórrey who decided enough with caution.

  The mare drove her head down to loosen her reins, and then leapt in three great bounds to the river, ignoring Khadija’s protesting yank. The mare waded in, plunged her nose deep, and sucked deep draughts of water. The sound carried loud in the air.

  Against his better judgment, Michael urged his horse forward. The mountains threatened to the east. He placed himself between the slopes and the woman. They were sitting ducks, but they had to have water. Skin crawling, he dismounted to fill the water skin. One good shot would have him dead.

  The full water skin slopped as he tied it to the saddle. He started to mount—more difficult as his side grew worse.

  Crack!

  Anaargórrey squealed.

  His gelding jumped. The movement caught Michael before he could throw his leg over the saddle.

  His foot slipped through the stirrup. The gelding tore the reins from Michael’s grasp. He grabbed for the pommel, the gelding’s mane. Anything to stop his fall, anything to stop from being dragged.

  His fingers caught the saddle pad and he threw himself across the animal’s back, grabbed for the reins to bring the animal’s head around.

  Another shot.

  Anaargórrey screamed and went down on her haunches, throwing off her rider.

  Khadija screamed as her mare toppled, slammed into the edge of the river. Her forelegs thrashed. Red spray filled the air as she fought to rise.

  The bullet must have found her spine. The horse’s screams filled the air. Khadija rolled to her knees by the mare’s head. Pain and confusion filled her face.

  Another bullet sprayed gravel. Michael hauled on the gelding’s reins, turning his horse back. The river ran red with the mare’s blood.

  “To me!” he roared, startling Khadija to her feet. She limped towards him.

  Another bullet hit the water where she had been.

  Get her out of there, just get her before she was shot. They knew he wouldn’t leave her. They knew if she was wounded it would slow him more.

  He spurred the gelding, grabbed Khadija’s waist, and hauled her in front of him even as he twisted the gelding’s head around. Just go.

  A bullet slammed past his head.

  He leaned forward, the horse’s mane streaming into his face, Khadija fighting in his arms. Down the road at a gallop, then cross the river. Clatter of hooves. Spray flashing gold. A scramble up the far bank, then ramming his mount right at the mountainside.

  Up. Up. Just get them up and the breadth of the mountain between them and those who pursued.

  The little horse lunged up the hill, great heart, carrying them both to safety as the day died around them. Khadija sobbed in his arms.

  At the crest of the mountain spur he glanced back. The red mare still fought in the river shallows. Three men slipped-slid down the hillside to the road. A cloud of dust heralded the arrival of two Jeeps from farther north.

  He looked southwestward. A pall of smoke caught the last sunlight. Ghowrayd Gharam. He had made it almost that far, but they would be watching that town now. Watching and waiting.

  And there was still three quarters of the journey to go.

  Chapter 25

  They shot Anaargórrey.

  The wind off the night-bound mountains blew cold, catching the dust from the horse’s hooves and tearing Khadija’s eyes. She shivered in her still sodden scarf and jalabiyya. Even the pet
u around her shoulders was not enough to warm her, but her chador had been such a sodden mess carried it across her lap in hopes it would dry. She tried to focus on the heat from the horse beneath her—not the man’s arms around her.

  They shot Anaargórrey.

  Somehow it was worse than the wound in her leg. Anaargórrey was innocent. Her little pomegranate mare had nothing to do with the war waging between the West and Islam, but she had paid like so many in Afghanistan.

  So many innocents. So many dead—like those in the market—like Yaqub. It made no sense when surely Allah had intended them all to live.

  Anaargórrey had had such a soft eye, was so full of trust. Her coat had been such a rich red in the sunlight and her muzzle hairs had tickled against Khadija’s palm.

  She died because they wanted him.

  Her breath hiccupped and Michael’s arms tightened around her. His breath brushed her cheek and stirred the ends of her hair where they fought free of her head scarf. If she turned her head, she would see his lips.

  She shivered and looked up at the stars.

  They and the almost-full moon were the only light. The mountainside gleamed black and luminous grey, the largest stones silvered like the edges of bones. The footing was hard to see—full of the remains of glaciers and the broken stone from earthquakes, and yet Michael kept going, had given the gelding its head, so the wise animal picked its way across the slope.

  Its passage sent pebbles down the hillside in a clatter that reminded her of gunfire. It seemed to echo off the mountainsides, or else it just caught in her ears. Just as the rifle shot that had killed Anaargórrey had seemed to echo forever.

  It hurt to think of the little mare’s struggle, and how she—Khadija—had just abandoned her to those men and death. So frightened, and Khadija had just left her to die.

  Her breath hiccupped again. Please, not tears. The wetness in her eyes was caused by the dust—not grief. Not another sign of weakness.

  Suddenly Michael’s arms were too much, too strong, too safe. They stopped her from breathing. They stopped her from being what she needed to be. She should have run to Hashemi. She should have pulled Michael Bellis from his horse to demonstrate her devotion to revenge.

  Owner of the Day of Judgment

  Let me live your straight path,

  not the path of those who earn your wrath

  nor those who go astray.

  Allah, she had shown she was nothing less than a traitor! She yanked free of Michael’s arms, but he caught her again.

  “Damn you! Let me go! I need to walk.”

  He released her as if burned and she threw her good leg over the horse’s neck and slid down before Michael could rein in.

  Pain shot through her, but she ignored it. She stumbled up the slope, needing to see where they were after the hours of riding. She needed to rid herself of this sick feeling. If she was true to her mission, she would never have been carried away, would have found a way to kill her captor, would have at least worn her chador at all times. The face of James Hartness flashed in her head. His body. Her shame.

  She tripped, fell to her knees and scrambled up.

  “Khadija.” Footsteps behind her—man and horse. She scrambled ahead, slipping on patches of loose stone, almost running when the ground felt more solid. She had to get free of this man, free to find her honor again. As things were, Mirri and the others would never name her honorable. Hashemi would see to it. And he might do worse.

  “Khadija?” Louder.

  If she could get to the ridge she could see. Michael had said that a town lay not far away. If she could make it there she’d find a way back to her father, find a way to mend things with Hashemi.

  “Khadija!”

  A hand caught her shoulder and swung her around, just as her tears won free. Allah, don’t let him see.

  “I’m mujāhid—I give effort in the faith.”

  She gasped the name for warrior, but knew she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

  “I am Malalai—I give everything for my country.” She turned her face away, hoping the darkness would shield her, but he only stepped closer and caught her other shoulder.

  “Khadija. I work for this country, too. And for faith. We’re all seeking.”

  “Stop it!” She yanked loose. “Stop it with your gentle voice and your gentle hands and your questions and gentle understanding. I don’t want to know you. I don’t want to listen to you sleep across the fire. I don’t want to listen to you quote Rumi and point out wild flowers on the slopes. I don’t want to be near you. Your kind caused my brother’s death.”

  He froze as if struck and she stumbled across the hillside, making for the black edge of the ridge across the night sky.

  He caught her as she reached the top, as distant fires told her there was some form of settlement spread in a broader curve of the river. His hand pulled her around, so her weak leg gave.

  She fell against him and her scarf slipped back, freeing her hair. It caught in the breeze, even as his arms went around her, his warmth found her, and he steadied her.

  “Khadija, I’m so sorry. I know you shouldn’t be here. What is it you do want?”

  His voice was a low growl. In the darkness his pale eyes seemed lost in a sea of dark emotions she had never seen there before. He stood so close, her world narrowed to his fierceness, to his warm arms around her, the scent of him. To the curve of his lips. To the question he’d asked.

  To kill him? To go back to Hashemi? To be with her father? To hold to her faith? Warmth and a home and honor.

  Home and safety would be so much simpler, but they came without honor.

  Still, the scent of him, the hold of those strong arms, they sent her honor away like the dust on the night wind.

  Those pale eyes seemed to rest on her face as if they could wait for a hundred years, a thousand years. As if they had waited forever, and she was what they had waited for.

  Her breath came too fast. She felt dizzy, caught in those eyes, falling into those eyes pale as an Afghan morning sky. She reached up. Stopped herself when his gaze flickered, but it solidified, held on her, still waiting, and suddenly the flat of her palm and her thumb were tracing the hard angles of his face, the edge of his mouth.

  How long had she wanted to do this?

  His lips found the edge of her hand, even as his eyes held hers, even as he waited. A man who had waited so long could wait a little longer, but she could not.

  She stepped into him and the safety of his arms folded around her, drew her into his chest, so her head rested against the strength of his shoulder. He kissed her hair, ran his large palm over her head.

  His breath was warm on her skin and suddenly she was crying full out, the sobs choking her.

  “Khadija.” Her name was almost like a hymn on his lips. “Why are you crying?”

  The truth was there were too many things. Her father, her faith, her fear, her unwanted feelings for this man. She had tried to be a woman of Islam, a woman of the law, and yet here she stood in a kofr man’s arms—Michael’s arms, she corrected herself.

  “They shot Anaargórrey.” She managed to choke the words out, knowing they were inadequate—as much a failure as she.

  Chapter 26

  She trembled in Michael’s arms, a frail leaf the wind would tear away. As if the earth shook and she was torn loose and left spinning in air.

  The question was, was this real, or just some act she used to lull him. But lull him to what? She hadn’t attempted to betray him since her mad run in the field.

  He inhaled the scent of her hair and closed his eyes. Precious, yes. Mohammed and Yaqub had known it.

  Yaqub’s love for his sister had been deep. Michael had waited a long time to meet her after listening to Yaqub’s many tales of his brilliant, passionate sister safe in England. And he—after meeting her he’d hoped this slim, strong woman would see him as something other than the enemy.

  But he was a romantic fool, not too unlike Yaqub
. It had gotten Yaqub killed. The Khadija of his dreams was just a woman he’d created. Like him, the real Khadija was willing to use another person in the interests of the Great Game.

  Still, she was warm and in his arms, and her soft sobs drilled into his dead heart. Her normal stoic strength made this breakdown all the more tragic.

  All for a horse.

  He ran his palm over her head, his fingers catching in the smooth flow of her hair. Smooth, like her skin was smooth. Her lips were so close he could take them. In her vulnerability he might even own her body. Then, no Afghan man would want her. He lowered his head to inhale the sweet scent of her neck and knew he would never be free of the tenderness it evoked. Then he eased himself back.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  Her lips quivered, full and inviting.

  He would be honorable regardless of what this woman was. Honor was his armor in an agent’s dishonorable world. It was all he had.

  And the Hui woman? You treated her so honorably? Hell, he barely remembered her name. Maybe he fooled himself. Maybe this was just a way to comfort himself on this journey. She was here, why not have her?

  Because she was Mohammed’s daughter, Yaqub’s sister. Because she was Khadija and deserved better. Because when he dreamed of her, the nightmares went away. He turned her to the gelding.

  “I want to be long past Ghowrayd Gharam by morning. We’ll rest during the day,” he said and let the wind come between them, then helped her mount.

  At least his arms were around her as he urged the horse downhill towards the distant firelight. Khadija might be vulnerable, but she was also strong, just as this land was strong—even with the faults that ran so deep beneath the surface. Something fine and feminine and alive and beautiful as the Creator’s names of beauty. The Koran spoke of Allah as being formed of both masculine and feminine, his essence as the female Beloved, and his worldly face of Creator and Sustainer as his masculine side. Surely that was why a man and woman came together, to unite as a form of embracing Allah.