Ashes and Light

by Karen L. McKee

  “As-salaam ‘alaykum. I am Seyyed. You are welcome in my father’s house.”

  Leaving his father to care for the gelding, Seyyed brought them inside, letting a young woman he introduced as his wife, take Khadija aside. There were four young boys, the oldest no more than a four, playing with carved wooden rifles. A fire in a corner hearth filled the room with warm smoke that escaped out a hole in the roof.

  “It’s a long time since we had guests,” Seyyed said, motioning to a place of honor on a worn carpet near the fire. “The war keeps most people away. From Feyzabad most people take the road west to Taloqan. Please—you will take your evening meal with us.” There was curiosity in his voice, but a traditional welcome just the same.

  Michael gratefully accepted, but he could feel the man’s gaze on his face, on his pale eyes. His father was just as curious and traditional when he joined them and Seyyed called his wife for tea.

  Michael repeated his request to purchase a horse as they took their leisure over the tea. It was flavored with almonds and unusual to the taste. Beyond the men, he heard the women talking quietly.

  Seyyed sipped his tea and looked at his father.

  “We have but one horse we might part with, but we have not finished the harvest. Town might be best for supplies.”

  Michael considered and glanced across at Khadija, who sat against the wall with Seyyed’s wife.

  He’d thought that might be the case. What he needed—many hard rounds of naan because the dry, salted bread lasted many days, meat if he could get it, lentils or chick peas that traveled well—it would strip most households.

  He nodded to Seyyed and drank back his tea.

  “You are a good host and I would still accept your hospitality, but it seems I must go into town. I can purchase supplies and return for the horse.”

  Seyyed nodded as Michael pushed himself to his feet. He swayed at the stab of pain. Damnation, the wound was festering again. He knew it. The women’s voices had gone quiet. When he got to the Panjshir he would have to try to drain the damned thing again.

  He swung his petu around his shoulders and Seyyed stood to instruct him about the town. Soft fingers found his arm as he stepped to the door.

  “Michael. Should you be going into town?”

  He smiled at the stiffness in Khadija’s voice. It told him what he needed to know.

  Got you.

  Chapter 40

  She couldn’t let him go to town. The thick walls of the household and the warmth of the hearth had made her feel safe, but now Michael’s words peeled that safety away.

  Khadija tried to think of something more to say, but somehow this time words escaped her. All morning as they’d neared Skazar the fear had built, and she had tried to think of a way to stop this disaster, a way to keep them safe. She’d thought when they’d come into the dimly lit farmhouse everything would be all right. But now….

  She couldn’t do what Hashemi demanded and betray Michael. She couldn’t let him go and betray her father.

  She just couldn’t let him go.

  But how could she tell him the truth—that she had lied and was more than a doctor for Hashemi? That she had carried messages for them, including the priority message to Feyzabad? That she had seduced him under orders to gain his secrets? That she had learned names—too many names to betray him with?

  Worst of all, she had betrayed herself. She’d fallen to lust with a kofr man and had enjoyed it. She had no excuse of vulnerability as she had after Yaqub’s death. No excuse of not knowing. She had knowingly gone to a man’s bed when he was not her husband.

  The word “whore” suited her this time.

  That first morning she hadn’t told because she was too shocked at her actions and too in love with the look in his eyes. But then his gaze had changed and she knew if she told Michael the truth he would hate her as much as she hated herself—there was too much of the Afghani in him.

  He would leave her or kill her, knowing Hashemi could make her betray everyone she loved. But she had kept being with him, hadn’t she, not because of Hashemi, but in hopes of seeing again that softness in his eyes.

  She was a fool as well as a whore.

  “Khadija? What is it? You’re pale as a ghost.” His gaze was as hard and brittle as the palest lapis. His lips—those lips that set fire to her body—were as hard as his eyes.

  “You can’t go into town, Michael. You can’t leave me here.”

  It was a stupid girlish thing to say, but it was all she could think of. He looked at Seyyed then back to her, mockingly.

  “My good wife hates to be parted from me. But dearest, after such a long journey, surely you would rather rest here.”

  “Michael, please. We can make do with less—if we get the horse and some lentils—that will be enough. You can hunt for meat. We’ll be fine.”

  He looked at her with calculation in his eyes, then caught her shoulders. His fingers were anything but gentle.

  “I don’t understand, sweetness. Why’s it so important that I not go into town? Would you prefer to go in my stead?”

  “You’re hurting me,” she whispered, and tried to tug free.

  It was useless. His hands demanded her obedience, her answer, and the horrible thing was his touch made her want him. She would beg him to stay with her, to not leave her, anything to keep him safe.

  “And you know I can hurt you more.”

  His voice was soft and dangerous as a viper. Her gaze jerked to his hands as his fingers dug a little deeper. She knew there’d be bruises.

  Never had he hurt her, until now. Her mouth went dry. Unless he suspected.

  “Michael, when we came into town I saw something. It looked like it might have been the gleam of a vehicle. A Jeep like Hashemi has. He might be here, waiting.”

  She was talking too fast to be convincing, all her nerves jangling in her stammers.

  He cocked his head.

  “Really? You saw this? Where did you see the vehicle, my sweetness? Perhaps I should go there? Or perhaps you’d like to go in my stead, perhaps return to your lover?”

  He spat the last word.

  The room was silent, Seyyed and his family staring. An adulterous wife was worthy only of stoning. An adulterous wife in their midst was fascinating and worthy of gossip for a year of days.

  “No.” She managed to choke it out. “I’m not…. He’s not…. That’s—that’s not what I want.”

  “Maybe you can take me to him and we can have tea before he tortures me again. You can be there this time and make sure I live as long as it takes. Would that make you happy, Khadija? Was it worth the price of your false modesty?”

  He released his hold on her and it was worse than the power of his hands. There was such anger, such hurt, in his gaze as if he just discovered she was filth of the earth. He turned from her to Seyyed.

  “My wife betrays me. I ask you to hold her here two days to allow me time to get through the pass. Then send her to her friends in town. Can you spare me food for one in exchange for this rifle?”

  He held up the old rifle he’d traded for in Baharak.

  Seyyed looked from one to the other of them and nodded. An honorable man would help a man dishonored by his wife. He caught her by the arm.

  “No! Michael, no! You can’t leave me here. I—I know too much. You spoke while you were sick. You named names. Please Michael. Don’t leave me.”

  She clawed her way loose of Seyyed and caught Michael’s hand, his beautiful, long-fingered hand.

  His eyes were cold slate.

  “What do you know?” He glanced at Seyyed. “Your family should not see this.”

  He yanked her out of the house and across the courtyard so the family would be less likely to hear—or perhaps so they would not see what he would do. A hard wind blew down the river valley and battled around the low homestead walls.

  Michael grabbed her by the shoulders, backed her against the wall, and she knew she deserved anything he did. She was worth nothin
g.

  “What do you know? Name me a name.”

  “No. You told me the names would mean people would die. I don’t want people to die.” She heard her voice—small and frightened. Just make him understand. Make him stay here. “Please, Michael. Hashemi wants you. And then he wants you dead.”

  “The names, Khadija!” He shook her so hard she felt like a rag doll in his grasp.

  “No. You said they were never to be named.”

  “You little fool. I’m trying to save your life. Show me you know nothing of importance.” He shook her again.

  “Kohendil.” The name spilled out. “Sadar Khan. Ammed Haghighi. Nazzar of Herat. Those are a few. Please, Michael, take me with you. Don’t let Hashemi have me—he’ll get the names. He will. I’m not strong enough.”

  She reached for his face, but he flinched away.

  “Do you want me to kill you?”

  The thought gave her pause. Perhaps in this world where she could do nothing right, that would be the better way. There was no way to undo what she had done in this life.

  He pushed her from him and strode across the courtyard, his hands caught on his turban. She caught up with him, tried to touch his shoulder, and he turned around, fist clenched.

  “Stay away from me.” His fist trembled. His voice trembled.

  The hurt betrayal and hate in his eyes made her take a step back. He had to understand. He had to know she was on his side and that what had happened between them was real—even if she had ruined herself in the doing.

  “Michael, there were other names. Yaqub.”

  Her voice cracked. Allah, not tears. She did not want him saying she resorted to tears. She fought them, but the emotion nearly strangled her.

  “You spoke of him. He was your friend. You worked together—just as you work with my father. I know that now. You—you tried to stop my brother—you…,” oh Allah, the pain it brought. “You saw Yaqub die.”

  Michael’s face paled. “I told you that?”

  “When you were sick.”

  He jerked away as she tried to touch him again.

  “Jesus.”

  “Don’t you see?” She caught the edge of his petu. “You have to take me with you. You can’t leave me for Hashemi.”

  He slammed her against the wall, an arm across her breast so she couldn’t move, could barely breathe. His face was so close she could smell the copper scent of fever, see the burst capillaries under the skin of his face. The infection had worsened.

  “You tell me why I shouldn’t kill you, Khadija Siddiqui. I have loyalties to your father—and to Yaqub’s memory. If either of them knew you worked for a man like Hashemi it would kill them. I’d rather kill you myself than have you sully them, understand? All those names—those are good people. Men and women who work for Afghanistan—not the Taliban, not the warlords, but for a country that deserves a right to exist on its own. Your life isn’t worth anything compared to that.”

  “Michael, I gave you my body. You…were the first man….” She wanted to touch him, to see his gaze soften, to hear his poetry as he touched her. Instead he snorted laughter.

  “You’ve given me nothing but your skin, Khadija. You’ve lied and schemed and picked my brains and most of it I’ve seen through, but you almost had me with your body. But you haven’t given me anything of you. That’s all tied up inside—in the clouds I see crossing your face.”

  He tapped the side of her head.

  She looked away, knowing he was both right and wrong. She hadn’t given him the truth, even when she took pleasure in his body. But it had been more than her skin she gave.

  He hated her—would hate her more with the truth, but it had to come out. Get it done like an amputation, like a cauterized wound.

  “I’m not just Hashemi’s doctor.”

  “What a surprise.” The taunting smile.

  “I need your help, Michael. I need your help to get out.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because of my father. Because of the names. Because I—oh Allah, help me—because I love you, Michael. That’s why I gave you myself to you.”

  The damnable tears were coming now, choking her. Couldn’t he see she was begging him to save her?

  “That’s why I didn’t want you to go into town. I knew. I knew since the river. They let me escape. Hashemi—he told me to be a tool of Islam. To do whatever I could to get the information from you or else he’d hurt my father. He told me to seduce you.”

  She could barely breathe.

  “I was so angry at Yaqub’s death, I wanted revenge. They lied…they told me that Amrikaayi had killed Yaqub.”

  She felt him go still even through her sobs. When she looked at him he was pale as death.

  “My father—he did nothing to avenge Yaqub. That was wrong. I had to do what my father would not. I carried messages against the kofr. I carried messages in Kabul. When the opportunity came, I carried messages north to Hashemi.”

  She sagged between the wall and Michael’s arm, suddenly not caring what he did. Kill her and get it over with. Take her with him and turn her over to the authorities in Kaabul. Her father would grieve, but he would survive, just as he had survived Yaqub’s death. She was only a daughter.

  She looked up at him, hoping for a change in his eyes—something to show he understood and forgave her. There was no change.

  “That’s all of it. I want only truth between us.”

  He released her and went back into Seyyed’s house. Khadija dug her fingers into the mud-daub wall to hold herself upright. The wind skirled harsh music around the corners of the house and lifted dust into her eyes. When he came out, he carried only the old Lee Enfield rifle.

  Seyyed and his father ran past Michael out the gate and Seyyed’s wife brought them out a small bag of lentils.

  The old man brought their gelding and another horse to the gate, both saddled, and Seyyed returned with five, half-meter-wide rounds of naan.

  These, Michael tore into quarter pieces and, with the lentils, stuffed them into their pack. Then he turned to Khadija, who still stood by the courtyard wall.

  “Mount up. The truth is, I may still kill you.”

  Chapter 41

  Mohammed clung to Hamidah’s arm as Zahra crunched beside them. The young woman was like a colt in the spring, trotting around them in the market to examine everything she saw. He wished he could see her. Somehow he thought she would remind of the Khadija of before.

  The thought brought a pain to his chest and he stumbled. Hamidah quickly caught him.

  “Uncle, what is it?”

  “Nothing, daughter-of-my-friend. A stone, perhaps.” It stuck in his throat to call her “daughter” so he’d extended the name. “Daughter” was still reserved for Khadija, just as “Pishogay” was.

  The two young women thought he was an old man in mourning, but truly he held his daughter fiercely in his mind. If no one would speak of her disappearance, it did not stop that fact from being ever present. Now, today, he was going to begin his enquiries. He would find out what had happened. He might be old, but he was no doddering fool, and while he might be blind, his other senses stood him in good stead.

  He patted Hamidah’s arm. “You lead me well, my dear. It’s been a long time since I walked the avenues of Mikrorayon. I’d heard the streets were no more than bombed-out tracks.”

  Through her arm, he felt Hamidah shake her head, then she caught herself. She still had not fully learned what it meant to deal with the blind.

  “It’s not so bad. The buildings are damaged, though. I’d not thought Kaabul was like this. There’s nowhere to go that you can’t see destruction.”

  “The warlords fought over the dregs of Kaabul when the Taliban left. Before that it was the Russians and the Taliban themselves. This is their gift.”

  “It’s sad to see the palace and the museum.”

  “Sometimes—sometimes I think it better I’ve lost my sight. I can hold Kaabul in my mind as she was, the Light Garden
of the Angel King.”

  “It must have been very beautiful to call it that.”

  Mohammed shrugged. “It was a city with all the flaws of any city, but there are stories of its early days when it was a Buddhist city. Then the pavement was of silver and onyx and the gates of gold. Rubies and freshwater pearls were used to make designs on the walls. In the garden of the largest temple, a fountain gave such water that it could make a sterile tree bear fruit.” He smiled.

  “That’s a story for children. Kaabul is a Muslim city.”

  He chuckled, hearing the disapproval in her voice. “Not always. Archeologists don’t even know how the city began. It might be named after Cabool—Cain, as he is known to the Christians. It might be a combination of ka, or straw, and pul, meaning bridge in ancient Persian—from a tale of a king who built a bridge across the swampy land that used to be here. But it was a Buddhist city once—before Islam came.

  “But that is enough of old tales. Tell me, both of you, what does Mikrorayon look like today? Are there many people about?”

  “Some,” Zahra said. “Most of the women are in burka. I think I shock them in my scarf.” He could hear the dangerous pride of her youth.

  “Many of my friends lived in Mikrorayon. I wonder if they still do.”

  He waited to see if the girls would go to his bait. He was lucky that Hamidah’s fiancée’s family resided in this battered part of the city. He had planned to bring the girls here sooner, but Hamidah and Zahra protested that they needed time to shop and to buy gifts for the young man’s family.

  The delay had frustrated him, because it kept him from his enquiries, though his work in the clinic had brought him bits of news—yes, there were girls named Mirri living in Mikrorayon. That much was confirmed.

  “Perhaps we could help you find them?” Zahra offered.

  Mohammed smiled as he set the hook.

  “It will not be easy. Many no longer live where they did. I think Khadija found a friend once, a girl named Mirri.”