by Louis Nowra
Even so, it was difficult to give up weed, until one night I heard footsteps in the corridor. They didn’t sound like Dad’s. I put down my bong and looked out my bedroom door. I saw a figure with its back to me. It turned around. It was Mum, wearing the red slippers. She seemed as if she was going to say something but instead walked slowly on into the darkness and vanished. The sight spooked me. Either the ghost was real or else my pot-smoking was messing with my mind. Whatever it was, I took it as a warning that I needed to get my life back together.
Only by leaving Burning Mountain would I have a future. I left for Sydney, went cold turkey and worked as a shelf-stacker and labourer. Dad had wanted me to study engineering but my science marks were poor, and besides, I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps because I knew I wouldn’t be as good an engineer as he was. Sydney didn’t solve my problems and I was afraid I would return to my messy ways when one day I saw a soldier in uniform and his wife leaving a supermarket. There was something about his maturity, his sureness, that appealed to me. I knew I needed a purpose in my life or else I’d end up a total loser. Typically it was Dad’s opposition to me joining up that made me do so. You’ll never make it. You don’t have what it takes, son, he told me and during the first few months he was right. I hated obeying orders. Most of them seemed so trivial and pointless that I felt like leaving every day until the captain called me into his office and dressed me down for my attitude. I’ll show you and Dad, I thought to myself, and I stuck it out in order to stick it up them. Well, I’ve certainly shown them: here I am on the run, hiding in the grass trying not to be killed … that’s really sticking it to them.
The woman who looks like Lucia becomes serious, as do her friends. They step out of the water, the bottom of their burqas dark with water. They slip their hoods back on as if putting on a mask and walk into the village.
Not long afterwards, two black four-wheel-drive vehicles appear, escorted by motorbikes, horns blaring as they drive into the village. The boys grab their kites and hurry after the cars, excited and yelling at the top of their voices. Three jingle trucks arrive, painted psychedelic colours, and decorated with tassels and flags and ornamental chains, chimes and bells, as if they are part of a circus rather than work vehicles. Obviously there are no dogs in the village or else they would have been barking.
With the arrival of the trucks, the poppy workers race each other back home. The orchards and fields are suddenly empty of people. It’s an eerie feeling. Why has everyone dropped tools and headed back to the village? I move as carefully as I can through a marijuana crop to the ragged rows of wild grapevines. I stop when I hear the sounds of shots. Six men are standing in the main street shooting at the sky. Behind them women in blue or white burqas scurry across the dusty street. Music and singing break out, and I realise that the people are celebrating a wedding.
The guests will be so preoccupied that it should be easy for me to go around the village and return to following the river a few kilometres downstream. I can only hope that Prince is still in the valley, heading south like me. As I make my detour, I see children in the village swapping sweets, playing tag and putting eyeliner on each other. Two of them, one missing a leg and another with a wooden peg, cling to each other and cry with happiness as they dance in a circle while others clap and sing.
Another movement catches my eye. Five men, all in Taliban black, are walking a black dog across the street with a rope around its neck. I stop in my tracks, I can’t believe it. But there’s no mistaking him; it’s Prince. Prince is alive!
The men pause and one of them arranges the group to be photographed on his mobile phone. They’re proud and smiling, as if they have captured a high-ranking soldier. My flesh tingles with happiness on seeing Prince, but just how he has ended up with the enemy is a mystery. Maybe they caught him after tempting him with food.
After taking more pictures, the Taliban march Prince behind a mud wall. Panic strikes me; are they going to kill him? I listen carefully, praying not to hear a shot. I watch for him to appear again but all I see are excited children running back and forth playing games. How can I get him back? To rescue him will be impossible during the celebrations, with so many Taliban at the wedding. I’ll have to wait for an opportunity to find him and escape without being seen. All I know is that I’m going to attempt it. I’m resolved; I either get back to base with Prince, or not at all.
What concerns me is what they intend to do with him. Afghans loathe dogs. One of the worst things you can call someone is a dog. The locals breed them for fights. I’ve seen plenty of those poor mutts, chained up and maddened by their fights, their bodies scarred and torn, their owners oblivious to the dogs’ hunger and pain. Casey said that far from being afraid Prince would calmly stare at them, as if he knew that their fury was a sign of madness, not hatred.
The wedding continues into the early evening when the two four-wheel-drive cars and the noisy jingle trucks, packed with guests, head back the way they came. After the final call to prayers from the mosque, lights come on in the houses. Over the next couple of hours I watch as each light goes off. It’s frustrating. Usually villages don’t keep their lights on for long but it seems as if the wedding celebrations are continuing. Near midnight the last light is switched off and the village is finally quiet. The moon is dropping below the snow-covered mountains and I’ll have little light to see by. It will make it easier for me to hide in the darkness but it’ll be harder for me to find Prince.
As I move towards the houses and shacks, I tread as softly as possible on the hard earth and pebbles. In the darkness I can make out the shapes of the buildings and the narrow alleyways between them. I am concentrating so hard on not making a noise that I can hear the blood surging through my head. I have no idea how many Taliban are in the village, but if they see me, I’m dead.
If Prince is still in the village then he’ll be outside and tied up, because Islam forbids dogs inside a home. I slowly circle each house in turn, finding nothing. As I’m crossing a dirt courtyard at the rear of a house a light comes on inside and, without warning, the back door swings open. I’ve just got time to drop behind a large wooden crate. A man wearing a turban emerges from the house and trots towards the box. I pull out my revolver, ready to shoot. I hold my breath. I won’t fire unless it’s absolutely necessary because if I do there’s little chance of me being able to get out of here alive.
He stops on the other side of the crate and hums a tuneless song. As he does so I hear the tinkle of water against the wood; then after a satisfied grunt, the man returns inside and the light goes off. I’m filled with a mixture of relief but also want to laugh – if only the fellow realised that I was on the other side of the box listening to him pissing.
The village looked small from a distance but it has about forty dwellings. As I check out each house I catch the familiar smells of sweets, spices and human waste. It grows cold, and once the moon completely disappears only the faint glow reflected into the sky above the mountain range helps me see. A couple of times I trip over objects lying in the darkness or slip on shale. Each time I freeze, expecting that I’ve been heard, but no lights come on. I squeeze down a narrow path running alongside the mosque to a clump of ten or so mud houses. I go from one to the next trying to find Prince in the shadows. I creep around the back of a house and can make out the outline of a truck on blocks in the yard, two of its wheels missing. I’m about to continue my search next door when I see a lump, like a bag. I creep closer and stop – my heart jumps, there’s no mistaking it, it’s a dog and the dog is Prince, balled up to keep out the cold. The fear he may be dead almost paralyses me, then I see the faint rise and fall of his body as he sleeps. A rope is around his neck and tied to the front bumper bar of the rusting truck. His deafness is probably the reason why he hasn’t heard me. I have to wake him and at the same time stop him from barking in surprise.
I crawl on my hands and knees to him. He’s snoring softly. I touch his muzzle, softly running my fingers over
his whiskers so that he’ll wake slowly. His eyes spring open and he jumps up in shock, not recognising me. He goes to bark but I clasp both hands over his muzzle. His body stiffens. I hold my hands tightly on his muzzle until I’m sure he recognises me. When he does I let go. Then, as if he feels he has done something bad, he crawls on his belly to me and gently licks my hand. I almost break down and weep. Why would he think he had done wrong? I hug him tightly as I have no one before, only stopping when he whimpers and I realise his wound is still painful. I stroke him, whispering his name in his ear even though I know he can’t hear me. I untie the rope. Once free he does his strange little prancing dance around me, his stump of a tail wiggling furiously. I signal for him to stop because when he’s truly excited he makes a high-pitched gurgling sound as if he was trying to sing. I whisper for him to be quiet and, although he’s deaf, he knows to be silent.
I take a closer look at him. He seems healthy, though it’s hard to see in the dark. I look around to make sure no one has heard or seen us and, grabbing him by the collar, make my way back around the mosque and out of the village, not looking back.
10
I only realise I have been holding my breath when a couple of hundred metres outside the village I fall to my knees to suck in deep gulps of air. Prince walks around me, concerned. It’s all right, mate, I say when I’m breathing normally, we’re on our way home.
We set off at a clip, we’ll have to put a great distance between the Taliban and us before they discover that Prince has gone. If we continue back to base along the valley, chances are we will be spotted more easily than if we follow the contours of the hills to the west. It’s a longer route but it might be safer.
We find ourselves on walking tracks. As they rise higher the paths narrow, hugging the bluffs and cliffs and leaving immense drops on the side. A false step means death. Each switchback is steeper than the last.
As morning comes, I find that we’re walking on a goat trail about half a metre wide. A cliff face towers over us on the left and on the right it’s a sudden drop into the valley. The dizzying sight of the valley floor far below makes my heart hammer in my chest. Prince trots ahead of me with that beautiful prancing gait that makes it seem as if he’s not touching the ground. Seeing Prince so strong and noble fills me with confidence.
The sunlight shines on the eastern slopes and when we reach the crest of one I make out a cluster of caves about a kilometre away. They seem an obvious place to shelter from the sun. I’m daydreaming about finally being able to rest when I hear a footfall in front of me. I stop, petrified. There is nowhere for me to run or hide. I point my rifle and hope for the best. Prince’s body goes rigid and he advances in the stiff-legged stalk he adopts when going to attack. His lips move as if he’s muttering to himself. Then I see that ahead of Prince is a feral goat and behind him several others.
The goats realise they can’t go forward or run around us as there’s no room to move on the track. I call Prince to stop, but of course he can’t hear me. I’m scared that he’ll attack the lead goat and in the fight tumble over the side. The goat lowers its head and charges at Prince, its enormous curved horns gleaming in the morning sun. There seems to be no way of avoiding a clash but Prince leaps hard to his left as if trying to merge into the side of the bluff. The goat hits Prince on his right flank, ricochets off him and, unable to find its footing to steady itself, disappears down into the gorge, its bleats echoing around the hills. Alarmed, the others try to flee the way they have come. Two more fall into the abyss but the others manage to turn in the tight space and gallop off down the path, with Prince on their tail.
He chases them around the corner of the hill until they’re out of sight. I can hear their shrill panic as he gains on them. I can’t run for fear of losing my footing and so I walk as quickly as I can. I round the corner and come upon level ground the size of a basketball court. Prince has a young goat by the neck and they’re rolling in the dust. He’s silent and focused on his task, the goat bleating in fear and pain, its legs flailing wildly, its huge eyes filled with terror. It’s the first time I have seen Prince killing another animal. His jaws are clamped on the neck with a ferocious, vice-like grip. He’s no longer a soldier-partner but a predator so desperate for food that he’ll fight to the death for it.
As the two struggle, I can see that Prince is tiring. I can’t shoot the goat, because it might give away our position. I pull out my knife and plunge the blade into the goat’s stomach. It shudders, goes limp and is still. Prince is panting heavily, exhausted by the fight. The goat lies on its side, its blood seeping onto the dusty earth. I look at Prince, who sniffs at the animal as if checking it’s not faking death. My stomach rumbles and I remember I haven’t had meat for days. I lift up the goat and, carrying it in my arms, we make our way down the slope to a bluff rutted with caves. Prince must have hurt his leg again as his limp is worse, so it’s slow progress.
We enter the first cave we come to, too weary to even think of any dangers we might find in there. The size of a living room, it has a dry dirt floor and smells of old animal dung. Prince’s nose is very dry and I give him some water before I prepare our food. I’ve skinned rabbits and wallabies but never a goat. Perhaps because the animal is young it turns out to be a surprisingly easy thing to do. With one hefty yank I rip off its fur and lay the naked goat on the earth. As I look down at it I’m almost sorry for what I’ve done, but that feeling last only a short time; Prince needs to eat, and so do I.
There’s no wood for a fire and I hack the goat into large pieces, giving Prince first choice. He chooses a shoulder and chomps down on it with the savagery of the truly hungry, aware of nothing else other than needing the fuel for his body. He tears at the flesh and crunches through the bone. I don’t have his strong teeth and so I chop up the heart and, trying not to look at what I’m eating, I start to chew. Its soft rubbery texture and blood is repulsive, but I need the protein.
Long after I’ve finished, Prince continues to crunch and chomp, occasionally vomiting the meat back up and re-eating it. He stuffs himself until even he has had enough and, after licking his blood-soaked muzzle, lies down, resting his head in my lap and closing his eyes with a sigh of contentment. I run my hand over him, feeling for ticks or injuries. The wound is healing and he’s free of vermin but it’s only when my fingers run across his ribs that I grasp just how much weight he has lost. It seems that the Taliban didn’t feed him, and the trek will have taken its toll as well. His fur has lost its sheen and something has bitten him on his top lip, which is slightly swollen. I almost cry on seeing how red and raw his pads are.
His soft snoring and the warmth of his body against mine comforts me. I can feel the beat of his heart against mine. I’m filled with a love for him so deep that it burns and prickles my body. He is a reminder that there are things greater than me. We’re not like lovers, no, this is something more pure and simple. It’s deeper because he doesn’t expect anything in return, he just wants to be with me. He trusts me and I trust him because it’s a matter of life and death. His nose is now moist. My life is in that nose. He’s sniffed out mines and saved lives, and he’ll do whatever it takes to save my life, and I’ll do the same for him. He may live only in the present but so do I now. It’s us two against the world.
I fall asleep sitting up against the wall, rifle at my side in case of predators. When I wake up late afternoon, the first thing I see is Prince gnawing a bone, trying to extract the marrow. I take out the map and study it. There are two ways of getting back. One is to continue directly south and cross over the mountains where it’ll be highly unlikely we will run into the enemy; the other is to go east, pass along the valley and then cross the plains to a small village I visited a few weeks ago during an operation. The locals there seemed to support us, though, as I’d quickly learnt, their co-operation is always unpredictable, depending on whether the Taliban control the area.
The problems with the first alternative are that it will take three days, it
will be bitterly cold and I doubt whether Prince and I can muster the stamina to deal with the snow and thin air. Making a break for the east means an easier trek of only two days but we will have to risk going through enemy territory. There’s no real option for us – three days is too long.
Looking at Prince as he sits licking his chops with a dreamy expression of contentment, I know that we can’t leave straight away. We both need to rest and recover the strength needed to make our final dash home. My shoulder wound is throbbing with soreness. Removing my shirt I groan on seeing the wound festering and squirming with maggots. How flies managed to get to it is beyond me. I swallow my last morphine tablet and scrape away the maggots and pus with my knife, then sprinkle Quick Clot on the wound and go outside to let the sun dry it.
As I gaze down into the valley, running like a thin green ribbon through the dead hills, I mentally map out the next section of our journey. If we leave tomorrow in the late afternoon we will be able to navigate down the steep slopes with the aim of arriving in the valley at night and then head south-east into the plains by late tomorrow morning.
I glance over my shoulder back into the cave and see that Prince is sleeping. I shake my head, still finding it difficult to believe the mess I’m in. The chopper explosion and Casey’s dead eyes haunt me. Not so cocky now, Mark, are you? Tomorrow, or is it the next day, I will be nineteen. But I don’t believe I’m an adult at all. Deep down I feel like one of those little boys lost in the Australian bush and waiting to be found.