Ashes and Light

by Karen L. McKee

  Ahmad released Mohammed’s hand and his fingers dug into the paper bundle, seeking the control he had lost these past few weeks. The package held the blue burka.

  He could not, would not, believe this bundle was the only piece of Khadija, of his family, left to him. His daughter would not leave him like this. But perhaps she was no longer his daughter.

  That sent a cold knowledge through him. He had lost sight of who she was and had become blind in more than his eyes. She had come back from England no longer his studious daughter who would burst into peals of laughter so easily—finding joy even in dry text books. Instead she was serious—and full of anger? Or was it fear?

  It had seemed as though she even blamed him for Yaqub’s death. In truth she might be right. Yaqub had wanted to return to England to work, but Mohammed had asked him to stay to aid their country.

  Always a dutiful son, he had. And he died.

  Mohammed huddled in his guilt as the Jeep engine roared and the driver urged the vehicle out the house gate and down the Feyzabad street to the gravel track that passed as a road. From the rear of the Jeep, beyond the cigarette-smoking soldiers who provided security in his war-torn country, came Zahra’s excited whispers and Hamidah’s calm voice, silencing her.

  Why he’d agreed to take the girls to Kaabul, he could not say. Perhaps they would fill the emptiness in his house. Perhaps in this small way he could fool himself into believing everything was all right. But Hamidah’s meeting with her betrothed was really just a way for Ahmad Mali Kahn to deal with his guilt that Mohammed’s daughter had been lost while guesting at his home.

  In truth, it was probably Aisha who urged this. It left Ahmad alone with his wives, and old Fatima alone with Aisha. Even blind he could see what happened and how Aisha ruled her husband. There were currents running deep in that household that could affect more than the medical care available in Feyzabad. He’d heard rumors of attacks on foreign medical workers, though Ahmad denied it. He hoped the flood of women’s emotion would not be the final thing to drown his old friend.

  “So what will you do when you return to Kaabul?” The driver asked as the Jeep bounced over the potholes and the wind through the open window carried the river scent and the dust of wheat fields in full harvest. The bleating of sheep reached him, the flocks coming lower as winter neared. So much life and he was not part of it.

  “Report my findings. Arrange for more supplies to be sent.” The road ran westward, the sun heating the Jeep from the back.

  “Aacha.” The man hocked and spat out the window. “I’d not want to do this journey all the time. It’s hard on the vehicle. Hard on the bones as well.”

  Was his daughter only bones? Where were they now? Had she been killed and left to rot away? Was she prisoner somewhere, waiting for ransom? If so, why hadn’t they contacted him? There was nothing he wouldn’t give for her.

  But Khadija held for ransom made no sense. The whole thing made no sense. Why were the women on the road? Aisha had said they went for a walk, but Aisha had proven herself a woman who would rather lay about and let others walk for her—“her pregnancy,” she said. Yet there had seemed to be something that drew Aisha and his daughter closer.

  “Khadija,” he whispered.

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “I just think of my daughter. Khadija.” After her disappearance everyone was afraid to say her name. Except for the filthy gossip they thought he didn’t hear in the house and the hospital.

  Well, he knew Khadija. She would not harm their honor. Hadn’t their worst fights been about Yaqub’s death needing revenge, about honor and shame for the family? Khadija might have spent time in the West, but her Afghani pride ran as deep as the earth and as high as the sky.

  No, she had not run off; something had happened to her after she wandered too far from him in Feyzabad. In Kaabul, she had begun wandering far, as well. Before they left for this trip she had often disappeared to visit her friend, Mirri, and the young man, Mizra, had made clear his intentions to marry Khadija. But the Mirri who had come to visit was not the bright-eyed girl he’d known before. This Mirri had concerned him for her open dislike of foreigners, though she admitted never meeting any. And Mizra – he might be the brother of a friend, but he was far too traditional to be a husband to Khadija.

  Mirri’s irrational thinking made no sense. It made less sense for Khadija to befriend such an illogical girl or even allow Mizra’s attentions. But they were signs he should have seen. Thinking back, there had been so many.

  Mohammed clutched the burka to his chest as the Jeep careened around a curve. He might not be able to get anyone to search for her in Feyzabad, but truly that was just where she had finally disappeared. He needed to understand her. In Kaabul, he would seek to understand her and what she had become involved in—he had the connections there to at least begin the search.

  Kaabul, where she had begun to fade away.

  Chapter 33

  The village at the edge of the river had no name. Beyond it, the high mountains ranged back towards the Pakistani border. Perhaps, Michael considered, he should give up his mad dash for the Panjshir and go that unexpected way. It would, however, mean a further two-week delay over mountains and held the chance of arrest, or worse, at the border. And rumor said the bloody Pakistani border guard was in league with the Taliban.

  Soon. Just leave the woman here and move on.

  The town disappeared behind the mountain slopes as he guided the horse down a ravine. His chin brushed the top of Khadija’s head. Something had changed with her since her dousing in the river—something that made her as changeable as the wind in the mountains, as uncertain as shifting ground. Everything she did was suspect.

  He had respected her anger when he’d dragged her away from Feyzabad. He had hoped she might have stopped hating him after she’d first kissed him. It had felt like an honest kiss; he’d seen the confusion in her eyes. But now the staged little display of her body, the way she pressed herself against him—there was something awkward and untrue in it. He knew he could have her if he wanted. The question was, at what price?

  Plus there were all her questions now, when previously she had only watched and waited for a chance to escape.

  He inhaled the soft scent of her and wished, again, he didn’t harbor these suspicions. Let her return to Mohammed and if they met again, it would be with all the etiquette of Afghani ways as a safe barrier between them.

  The town came into view again and Michael reined in. The village was nothing more than a string of red-brown, mud-brick buildings strung along the road close by the river. Other structures clung, almost invisible, to the hillsides, but the village’s flat roofs gleamed in the harsh sunlight. A small copse of stunted aspen shed golden leaves that the wind scattered around the hooves of a string of donkeys tethered in front of one building. The chai channa, most likely. Those places drew visitors and residents alike.

  Beyond the donkeys, in the shade of one of the buildings, sat a Jeep bearing Afghan military markings. Michael felt a little stir of excitement in his gut.

  The reins slipped through his fingers and the gelding dipped his nose, searching for grass amid the stone.

  A military Jeep carried soldiers or dignitaries. Such vehicles usually had radios—usually with good range. He might not be able to reach Kaabul, but he might reach Feyzabad and send out a warning.

  “Allāhu akbar.” God is great.

  “What is it?” Khadija looked up at him, then followed his outstretched arm as he pointed.

  “What do you see?”

  “A ragged town. A few donkeys.”

  “A Jeep, Khadija. A government Jeep. We may be able to meet both our needs—you for escape, me for a radio.”

  “Radio?”

  “Come on.” He dismounted and pain shot into him. It took a moment to catch his breath. Then he helped Khadija down.

  His side had gotten worse, dammit. Awareness of it ate like a worm inside and he had no time to deal with it. The anti
biotics weren’t helping. The hashish he’d traded for in Baharak eased the pain a little, but he knew it just masked the thing eating at his side and made his reactions slower as well. A dangerous combination.

  “We’ll leave the horse here, and check things out.”

  “But you said it was a military Jeep. The soldiers will help us.”

  “Maybe.”

  Years of caution stopped a headlong run into the village, even though things looked hopeful. Getting into the town would be no problem. It would be the getting out that could kill him—if things were not as they seemed. Still, if he could leave Khadija here, it would be a blessing. If he could get access to a radio, then Allah truly was great.

  “I’ll get you down to the road. You walk into town and ask for help. These are honorable people. They should get you back to Feyzabad. I’ll take a less direct route and if all is okay, I’ll meet you in the chai channa.”

  Her gaze met his as she pulled the chador over her head. There was fear there, but she nodded. The hint of her eyes beyond the lattice was an enticement he would not have thought possible. What was it about this woman and her contradictions?

  He led her down the last of the defile, helping her through the slippery gravel, and out on to the road. She looked up at him.

  “Thank you, Michael. My father will honor you for your care.”

  Michael studied the hints of her eyes through the veil and thought there might not be anything more seductive.

  “Perhaps,” he said and turned back to the mountain hating the suspicions that ruled his life. Perhaps the old man did not know what his daughter had become. Or perhaps Mohammed Siddiqui was no longer a friend. Hidden amid the boulders, he watched her start towards town. He should just carry on southward, but the chance of a radio was too much.

  Soon. Getting the information out was the priority. Then others could take over the task of stopping the plot.

  For all he knew, the war could already have started, though he had watched for the contrails that would write such a disaster on the sky. So far, all he had seen were the liners on the few commercial routes that dared cross near Afghani airspace.

  He headed cross country, swiftly traversing the slope, boulder to outcropping to boulder, using the grey of his petu to help him blend with the landscape. When he emerged from the defile, he was even with the southern end of town and close by cover offered by the copse of aspen.

  He crouched amid the trees. There was little movement in the town. Occasionally a man would come out of one of the buildings and head to the chai channa. A thin, brown dog got up from the shade of a building and repositioned itself in the sun.

  The sound of voices brought Michael’s head around. Behind him, the trail to the mines wound into the hills, and a string of donkeys laden with dusty burlap bags and carrying cinder-covered miners threaded down into town.

  This was his chance. Michael stepped out of the trees and hailed the men. He came even with the lead donkey and its old-man rider.

  “How was the neeli?”

  The man glanced at him. “Aacha, it has been a good start to the season. Allah himself heated our fires so the earth released the jewel to our hands. Neeli—the best of indigo color. I had not thought the mines would give such gifts so early in the year. It will bring good money for dowry for my son’s bride-to-be.”

  The garrulous miner patted the bags under him and laughed back at his companions. The five men had the look of sons, all with the same long nose and narrow-set eyes as the father.

  Knowing sometimes the best hiding place was in plain view, Michael walked with them into the village. The men stopped their beasts outside the chai channa and stood discussing their profits—a bad habit when they had yet to sell their stone and the Pakistani traders were well known for driving hard bargains.

  Michael slipped past them to the Jeep, the shadows of the building hiding how he scrutinized the vehicle. Typical army issue, but with only the bare bones of equipment: a medical kit clamped down in the back, many metal boxes of ammunition—some left open in plain view. Poor practice. Plain seats, with the springs showing through, a bare metal dash with a vacant bracket where the radio should be.

  “Dammit, work with me.”

  He looked to the heavens and then back at the miners. They had quit their self-congratulations and were entering the chai channa. Best be with them if he wanted to be unremarked. At least his weeks in the hills had left his clothing as worn as theirs.

  Five long strides brought him to the door, just after the miners. He caught its edge, but it yanked from his hands and a figure slammed into his chest.

  Frightened eyes framed in black cloth met his. Then Khadija pushed him back into the street.

  “Hashemi,” was all she said.

  #

  He just stood there!

  Khadija pushed him again, looked over her shoulder. Did anyone notice? Inshallah, they would not notice.

  The door thumped closed behind them and Michael grabbed her by the arm and dragged her towards the shadows by the Jeep.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Hashemi’s men are in there. I saw two I recognized from the camp. They didn’t recognize me.”

  He shook his head. “There are government soldiers here. They’re on opposite sides.”

  She looked up at him. Surely the force of her will could help him understand.

  She couldn’t chance him being caught, because she didn’t dare trust his strength either. Not when her father’s life depended on it. She’d seen the desire in Michael’s eyes. Had felt the way he leaned into her palm.

  This man had a price, just as every man did, and she was the price. Hashemi knew it and would use it if he caught them.

  She might care nothing for the names Michael Bellis carried, but she would not give Hashemi her father. She needed time to sort things through—to understand what had led to Yaqub and her father being on opposite sides and why her father had betrayed Yaqub and their people. Then—then she would decide how to deal with it.

  “In Afghanistan who can say who is on what side? Sides change like sand shifts in the desert. You work amid my people and you do not know this?”

  He shook his head, and she knew she’d gotten through. “Shit.”

  The chai channa door slammed open, spilling two soldiers and another man into the street. They turned towards the Jeep and Michael dragged her around a corner of the building. His hand clamped over her mouth as if he did not trust her. She could hardly breathe beneath his horse-scented palm. From the shadows around the Jeep came the soldier’s voices.

  “As we said, we have sixty boxes of shells. Russian Uzi. Best quality, down from Dušanbe. The generals there—they sell their souls until we hold all the weapons.” Laughter from the three.

  “And the fee?”

  “All the gold in the earth, of course.” More laughter.

  “And I’m to bargain with galamjam? With men of no faith? What of Islam? These bullets will be guided by Allah himself.”

  “It doesn’t pay for the risk we take. If our officers found us, we’d be shot.” The speaker’s voice was tight—he did not take the insult well.

  “Then shoot your officers.”

  The two soldiers barked nervous laughter and Khadija shivered. She squirmed in Michael’s arms. They had to get out of here.

  The barter for the ammunition carried on, and Michael slowly half-dragged her along the rear of the building. They flitted to the edge of town, and he yanked her into the aspen grove where he shoved her to her knees.

  “What game are you playing, Khadija?”

  What was he talking about?

  “Are you blaming me for Hashemi’s men being here?” she demanded.

  She’d saved them both—had saved Michael from being caught, and yet he questioned her.

  “I suppose I’m responsible for the soldiers, too. And for the jihad. And for the Taliban and for the Russians and the British and all the other conquerors who have tr
aipsed across my country.”

  She knew her voice was starting to rise, but this man was unreasonable beyond anything she knew. More so when he only grabbed her arm and dragged her back amid the boulders and along a snaking trail that led to the horse.

  “I’d hoped to buy supplies, at least,” he said as he half-threw her on the gelding and mounted up behind.

  His body was hot with anger as he turned the horse around. She sat stiffly in front of him, wishing Anaargórrey still lived; if she did she’d kick the mare away and leave this damned Amrikaayi to his business.

  But Anaargórrey was dead. She was stuck riding towards Skazar and into Hashemi’s trap. She had to get something to tell him or Skazar would trap her as well. She had no doubt Hashemi would kill her if she failed to get information, just as surely as he would kill Michael Bellis.

  If she could get some names, any names but her father’s, she could at least control what Hashemi knew and direct him away from Papa. If Michael would only trust her.

  She twisted in the saddle and saw only an unyielding set of his jaw.

  “You’ve got no business treating me like this. I’m not your enemy. I warned you, didn’t I?” He had to recognize that, at least.

  He only grunted, his gaze on the narrow track between the mountain ridges. Then he glanced at her, his eyes like the brittle blue flakes of the palest Asmani lapis.

  “This time,” was all he said.

  Chapter 34

  Michael rolled on his side and stared at Khadija across the remains of the fire. It had heated their tea as dawn broke over the back of the mountains. Now, at dusk, the fire was only brittle ashes and she lay like a Middle-Eastern Cinderella, wrapped in her chador and petu against the coming night.

  He dared not trust this woman. Everything told him that in all his years in Afghanistan, she was the most dangerous creature he had ever met.

  More dangerous and less predictable than the quakes that regularly destroyed whole towns.