Year's Best Weird Fiction, Vol. 4

by Helen Marshall

  At the exit, Noor flashed a smile and said, “Thank you for the tour. Very educational.”

  He nodded and began to shut the door.

  “Every place has its secret flavor,” Noor said through the door opening. “Here’s a question I always ask curators and guides.” She touched his sleeve and smiled brightly. “Tell us one thing about the site you normally wouldn’t tell visitors.”

  He looked at her with a cocked eyebrow. “Lady, you’re not from Sind, are you?”

  “Not a difficult observation, I guess, but why do you say that?”

  “A local wouldn’t ask me that question.” His gaze went over her shoulder. Past the verdigris-laced brass statue of the Dancing Girl of Mohenjo-Daro with an emaciated hand on her hip at the entrance, across the rocky slope. He stared at the citadel mound visible from the museum steps. “What does it matter? I’ll tell you two things,” he said, lowering his voice. “First: on the Day of the Goat, no one from Larkana district will stay in these ruins past dusk. Not even the watchman.”

  “The Day of the Goat?”

  “Second—” His eyes gleamed in the doorway. Incessantly he picked at his mole until a drop of blood appeared below its twisted, spidery shape. “Why don’t you ask Ms. Tabinda about devil glass? Ask her why she and her crew stopped the restoration dig here in 2001.”

  “What?” Noor stared at him, but he was already stepping back in, slamming the door, slipping the bolts, and she was left on the doorstep with her cadets milling noisily about her.

  *

  They dipped sheermal in chicken-and-lentil soup and chased it down with yogurt lassi. Junaid described the strategic importance of the site’s location near a body of water, but no one was interested. The cadets were restless; they wanted to explore. Noor’s eyes were riveted on Tabinda who was quietly munching a piece of bread, her gaze never far from the ruins.

  A cold wind followed them up the dusty gravel path winding between the citadel mound and lower town. Two miles west of the citadel was lush farmland. Odd that no human dots speckled the furrowed fields. They hadn’t seen any ox carts, motor bikes, or bicycles on the road leading into the city either. Noor assumed the laborers and farmhands had taken the day off for Eid. Her belly had settled and she felt more cheerful.

  The farmland was separated from the salty sediment of the ruins by a levee. Tabinda said this was reinforced every year to help control the annual flooding.

  “Not that it always works. Last year heavy floods topped the levees and brought the white crab spiders out.” She smiled. “The locals fear those spider trees, let me tell you. They think them a terrible omen.”

  “Omen? Of what?”

  “Apparently there’s a folktale about demon cattle that feed on the leaves of such trees. Some time ago Karachi University published a survey showing that in certain years coinciding with old Sindi lunar calendars, animal sacrifice activity intensifies in this region.” Tabinda rubbed her knuckles. “The fact that the floods nearly destroyed the site last year doesn’t help ease their minds about evil forewarnings.”

  She was correct about the damage. By now the city proper had closed around them like a bony fist and the narrow alley they walked was flanked by massive crumbling buildings topped with mud slurry for preservation. Windows gaped in the brick houses laid in a perfect grid. Some houses with exterior staircases that led to the second floor had chipped and eroded steps. The city’s smell hit Noor—salinity and dust, floodwater and age—and for a moment she felt as if she were falling, collapsing inside a claustrophobic funnel down into nothing. The feeling passed, leaving her slightly dizzy.

  The cadets began to meander. A few headed to the alley leading up to the citadel mound. Noor let Junaid uselessly attempt to herd them together and strode to catch up with the elderly professor walking briskly as ever.

  “You didn’t tell me you used to be an archaeologist,” she said.

  Tabinda frowned. She was holding a palm against her mouth, two fingers pinching her nostrils. The edges of her eyelids behind her spectacles were pink. “I hate this weather. Winter brings out all my allergies.” She sneezed and rubbed her nose. “I’m not an archaeologist. I assume Farooq told you something. The man couldn’t keep his mouth shut if you sealed it with mortar.”

  She went up a stone staircase and lowered herself onto a platform jutting from the roof. Noor sat down beside her.

  “He said you were involved with a dig here.”

  “Yes. As consultant anthropologist. Greg Fossel and I were working on restoring parts of the site’s drainage system. You’d be surprised how extensive it was. One wondered why they went to such lengths for a city this small.” She dangled her legs back and forth, her face thoughtful. “Then again, most of it remains underground according to sonar sweeping.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  Tabinda patted the edge of the platform. “Circumstances.”

  Together they gazed at the ruins sprawling around them. In the lower part of the city between copses of trees and rocks was more evidence of water damage: caving walls, piles of broken masonry, weathered facades. Here and there the rubble twinkled.

  Noor said, “What did Farooq mean about devil glass?”

  The professor’s black eyes were glazed and inward. “Vitrified pottery of course. Sediment and relics turned to ceramic glass by extreme temperatures.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Tabinda laughed. The sound echoed in the alleys, as if it came from within the ruins. “Why would you want to? It’s only of interest to old farts like me.” She rose and made her way to the staircase.

  “Why did he call it devil glass?”

  Tabinda stood at the top step, her silhouette dark and bloated against the sun. She seemed to be transfixed by the ruins again. Behind her the stupa and the citadel mound thrust against a desolate winter sky empty of birds.

  “When the site was first discovered,” she said in a flat voice, “the excavators found piles of glass spherules and silica chunks like those found in Libya and the Sahara. In some places large craters were present. It was assumed that either meteor impact or plasma discharges from lightning had melted the minerals. Fused soil into glass. None of which, of course, explains the hundreds of human skeletons lying bleached in the streets and alleys on top of the glass heaps.”

  “What?” Noor pushed herself up from the edge. Two streets away one of the cadets was pissing in the shadow of the ancient wall, his shalwar pooled around his ankles. She couldn’t tell who. She wanted to yell at him, but the urge was gone as suddenly as it had come. “God. What killed them?”

  “Who knows?” Tabinda turned to face her. She shrugged, but did something flicker in the dark of her eyes? Noor couldn’t be sure. “Carbon dating approximated it happened around the same time the site was abandoned. The city didn’t recover from the catastrophe. Whoever killed those people killed the entire civilization.”

  A gust of wind swept Noor’s hijab back and she stepped away from the platform, chilled and uneasy. Tabinda’s fists were clenched by her sides.

  She said whoever, not whatever, Noor thought.

  “What happened here in 2001? Come on. You obviously have bad memories.”

  “We lost three men. All superstitious laborers. One went mad and threw himself off the top of the citadel, smashing his head on the rocks. He was disturbed to begin with. Another just disappeared. The third tried to kill Fossel and was shot and killed by one of the watchmen.” Tabinda shivered. “It was a dark year. And I had such nightmares.”

  She gave Noor a tired smile. For the first time Noor noticed a mild droop to the left of her face. An old stroke or nerve palsy? The crease of flesh between her nose and lips was flat.

  “So I left. Went back to Petaro. Rejoined the cadet college. I haven’t looked back since.” Tabinda pushed her spectacles up her nose, squinted, then pointed with a pudgy finger. Junaid was walking toward them, waving both hands. His arms looked strange and loose from up here, kameez sleeves ba
llooning and fluttering like desert birds.

  Noor hesitated, then said, “He probably wants us to start gathering the boys. We should leave.” Her stomach and flanks tingled. An insistent pressure surged through her lower abdomen. Early, but this was it, no doubt about it now. And she didn’t even have pads.

  Together they descended the stairs into the lengthening shadows of the city. Noor glanced at her watch. It was three in the afternoon.

  Junaid finally caught up with them, panting and shaky. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” he demanded, glaring at Tabinda.

  “My purse is in the bus,” she said. “Why?”

  “We were just about to call the boys,” Noor said.

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t want to create a situation.”

  “What?”

  His face was pale. “Colonel Mahmud just called me. There was a terrorist attack at Cadet College Larkana. At least fifty armed men stormed the premises.”

  “In Dokri?” Noor’s hand went to her mouth. “But we were just there this morning. Oh my God. Are people hurt?”

  “Ten dead, and they’re holding the surviving cadets and teachers hostage. Two military contingents just left for the town. But that’s not the worst of it. Army’s got word that a twin attack’s been planned on Petaro as well. They’re targeting cadet schools for maximum reportage.” His manicured fingers rubbed his throat. “Mahmud doesn’t want us to return. He wants us to stay here and go to the army base in Sukkar when possible.”

  “Sukkar?” Tabinda’s voice was full of incredulity. “That’s a hundred and fifty kilometers away. How will we get past Dokri? The road to Sukkar goes through the city!”

  “I know that. Don’t you think I know that?” His voice was getting louder and a pair of cadets turned their heads.

  “Lashkir-e-Jhangvi?” Tabinda said in a low voice.

  “No. Pakistani Taliban.”

  “How far to Sukkar if we go south first and take a detour?” Noor said.

  Junaid’s nostrils flared. “Four hours by bus.”

  So at least ten to twelve on foot? She imagined trudging on the cracked, unpaved road under a moonless sky as night fell and surrounded them on all sides. The thought was unpleasant and ridiculous and she pushed it away. They had a bus and a bus driver, and these were cadets, not kindergarten kids.

  “Did you talk to the driver?” Tabinda said. “What did he say?”

  “He wants to leave. He knows the area well and says he could take back roads, but, look, the problem is the goddamn Taliban.” He spat in the dust. “They have spies everywhere. Until it’s certain the townsfolk won’t snitch on us, Mahmud doesn’t want us to leave Mohenjo-Daro. There is an airstrip five kilometers west of here. Worst case: if the hostage situation doesn’t clear up, he can call for a large chopper to airlift us out.”

  Stuck in the ruins. Noor cast a glance at Tabinda. Her face was a mask.

  Junaid sounded distracted. “It’s cold but there are blankets in the bus, and food, and I can get a fire going. We’ll tell the boys it’s an Eid bonfire. Dammit,” he said through gritted teeth. “I want to be there with the rangers. Larkana’s my school!”

  “Our first responsibility is to the students, don’t you think?” Tabinda said. “Besides, you wouldn’t leave two women alone with a dozen kids in this place, would you?”

  His fingers tugged at his mustache. The ends bristled. “I guess not.”

  “Good. We need to be calm and think this through.”

  “Don’t tell me to be calm. I am calm.”

  “Of course you are,” Tabinda said speaking each word slowly and Noor looked at her again. The professor had steel in her eyes. Her lips twitched when she smiled at Junaid. “Tell you what, see the citadel mound? It used to be a giant communal bath for the city. There’s a rocky grotto right below it. Good place for a fire pit. Why don’t you get it going there? I have chickpeas and nuts. We can roast ’em and tell ghost stories and pretend we’re on a camping trip.”

  Junaid’s eyes were riveted on Tabinda. The panic had left his face and that mean, arrogant look had returned. “Don’t be fucking condescending, you hear me?” He swiveled on his heel and stalked off toward the bus.

  Tabinda watched him go, then turned to Noor. Her cheeks were blanched, the facial droop more pronounced. “This is bad.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is very bad,” Tabinda said and licked her lips. “We shouldn’t be here after dusk.”

  Again that feeling, that sensation of her mind separating from her flesh and eddying down a dusty funnel. Noor’s head blazed, pain streaking through her like a dull saw. Dizzy and nauseated, she shot out a hand to clutch a nearby wall.

  “ … okay?” Tabinda was saying.

  Noor leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. “I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” She tried to control her breathing and it whistled down her throat. “I get cluster headaches sometimes. Maybe it’s my period triggering it.” She massaged her temples with both hands. Her right eye was beginning to water. “What’re we gonna tell the kids?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll think of something. Let’s go before they think the city ate us alive.”

  They trudged between the battered walls, corralling boys along the way. Noor noticed something odd: it felt as if there were more kids dashing, jumping, peering out from behind tall uneven walls and skidding through the dust than a mere dozen. Other tourists? She hadn’t seen any vehicles except for the site watchman’s Honda bike lolling on a rusty kickstand in the gravel lot. Certainly the two figures—so tall their heads brushed against the doorframe—who goggled at her from one of the houses then danced back into the gloom—were not their boys.

  She rubbed her watering eye and continued walking until they reached the bus. Junaid and the bus driver, Hamid, were talking. They fell silent when the cadets approached, but Noor didn’t miss the uneasiness in the driver’s face and the way he muttered when he thought no one was looking his way.

  *

  “Is Hamid from around here?” she asked Tabinda as the kids settled around the heap of firewood.

  “The driver? Don’t know. Why?”

  “Just wondering. He didn’t seem too keen on staying here tonight.”

  “Tell him to join the club,” Tabinda said dryly. She was squatting next to the Pashtun boy, Dara, her back to the citadel’s eastern wall. The structure towered above them, its shadow pawing the network of alleys that branched and twisted into the city’s labyrinthine heart. They were shelling chickpeas and walnuts and tossing the husks inside a metal bowl. Dara had wandered over after Noor and Tabinda cleared broken masonry and stones from the excavated grotto and volunteered to help. He kept his eyes away from Noor’s, but she was glad to see him.

  She looked across the plateau toward the bus parked by a clump of rocks in the visitor lot and was startled to discover how dusk had whittled the day down to an unsettling purple. The shadows were long and jagged. She could hardly make out the driver carrying stacks of blankets from the bus. He and Junaid had roused the cadets into two wood scavenging teams, and they had piled acacia and poplar twigs crisscross with kindling on top. Noor doubted it would last more than a few hours, but it was better than nothing. Most boys had college sweaters on anyway—navy blue cardigans—and blankets would serve the rest. The remains of the picnic basket had been spread out. Kinnows and apples. Raw peanuts, walnuts, and channa chickpeas all ready to be roasted. Really they were all set to face the cold night.

  So why this uneasiness in her body? Her bones felt knobby and sharp against the stony ground, her limbs filled with tar.

  Junaid knelt down by them. “Is your phone working?” he said in a low voice.

  “What do you mean?” Tabinda said.

  “Is your damn phone working? I can’t reach Mahmud.”

  Tabinda flicked a peanut shell into the bowl and pulled her Nokia out. She peered at it, raised it high, and frowned. “T
hat’s strange. I have no signal bars. “

  “Me neither. I can’t reach anyone.”

  “Weather, you think?”

  Junaid lifted a hand and rubbed his cheek. “It’s not raining and there’s no storm.”

  Tabinda’s eyes widened. “No!”

  Junaid nodded miserably.

  “What?” Noor said.

  Junaid looked at Dara, who was quietly peeling nuts, and got up. Noor understood. Rubbing her hands together, she rose and followed him until they were a safe distance away.

  “They blew up the signal towers,” Junaid said without preamble.

  Noor stared at him. “What?”

  Junaid bent his knee and placed a boot against the jagged edge of the house behind him. “Cellular base stations. The closest is in Dokri with a network of small booster towers along the way. I’ll bet you anything most of them are gone. Which means the fighting is closer than I thought.” He sagged a little. “We’re stuck here unless they send an air carrier. Or we can drive back.”

  “You’re suggesting it?”

  “No! We don’t know what’s going on out there. This place is safer at the moment.”

  Noor opened her mouth, closed it. Her gaze went to the vast, empty buildings towering above her. It was quite dark now, the sun just a blood smear on the horizon, and the houses of Mohenjo-Daro pressed together. Broken platforms poked and plunged unevenly; black and formless holes gaped in the walls. Above, an icteric moon sat distorted by a low cloudbank, its light not a promise, but mere possibility.

  “We’ve got to tell the kids now.”

  “Yes.”

  Noor shifted her weight; the icy evening wind cut through her kameez and woolen shawl. She shivered. Her abdomen tensed. She hadn’t begun bleeding yet, but she would soon.

  “Let’s get it over with,” she said.

  They returned to the bonfire. The cadets gathered around and listened to Junaid. Their faces were shocked and delighted by this new excitement. Spend the night in the ruins! Eagerly they asked how long the trouble would last.