If his mother could break rules and be kind to Komal, then he would do the same. His parents acted as if shedding a friendship was easy, part of being an adult. True friendships could not vanish overnight. Komal would have questions in only a few years, and Saddiq wondered if his parents sensed the discrepancy in what they asked their sons to do.
If his parents had secrets, so could he.
Saddiq no longer had to make excuses to miss the lessons, and he bided his time trying to meet Thara. He spent long hours outside with his father and the other men, ensuring that others saw him tending the fields, collecting firewood, reinforcing the rock walls that surrounded the village. And all the while he watched for a girl working alone.
Over time, Saddiq detected patterns.
He would find her once his father left the village with Najwa. He had no idea when his father might return, but asked no questions. As Saddiq watched the donkey plod away, he realized that no one in the village had asked questions. They didn’t care where Najwa was going.
He hiked a distance away from the village toward a stand of black locust trees battered by a violent windstorm. The wind had taken care of so much work, with the ruined trees and broken limbs. He had scouted the site earlier in a hunt for an easy source of wood and then applied extra work to the stand each day, trimming away branches and preparing the logs for transport.
He dragged a stripped log toward the village. His mother would ask no questions about how Saddiq had spent time that day.
Passing along the edge of a nearby meadow, he heard eerie moaning and stopped to listen. He determined the direction but couldn’t make out the words or the voice. He stepped among the soft grasses and paused behind each tree to conceal his approach.
Even as he advanced, the chanting faded. The girl’s voice had become softer, less frantic, and he could almost make out the words. A painful recitation from the Koran, one verse, over and over: “. . . and I turned to him soon. Repentance is for those who do evil in ignorance, and I turned to him soon. Repentance is for those who do evil in ignorance and . . .”
Holding his breath, Saddiq waited.
He had to move gently, not frighten her. He had not spoken with Thara in months and couldn’t bear the thought of her running away before he had a chance to assure her that their friendship was still strong. The entire village had not abandoned her.
At last, the girl was in his sight, the voice dropping to a whisper as she methodically circled a tree, gently tugging at a clinging vine and letting it fall into a neat coil on the ground. Eventually, the vine caught against the tree’s ragged bark. Lifting her arms, the girl jumped and hefted herself onto a lower branch to climb among the branches. She wanted to preserve the wild grapevine in one long and unbroken piece.
From behind his tree, Saddiq watched Thara climb higher and stretch out along one limb to release the snag. As she descended, her headscarf slipped away. Thara’s gray eyes and soft lips looked so serious, as if she had forgotten how to smile.
Leila’s sister had once been his closest friend. But since her mother and oldest sister were sent away to prison, the family’s home was quiet and empty, used for storage of belongings no longer wanted. The villagers prohibited contact with other children, and assigned them lonely tasks. The sisters worked nonstop every day, taking their meals alone, sleeping in corners of back rooms, kept away from other family members. The other children of Laashekoh whispered about the sisters. The gossip was cruel, and he listened because it was the only way he heard about Thara. He understood why his mother had cautioned him and his brothers not to tell anyone that Komal slept in their parents’ bedroom.
Saddiq studied Thara’s face, searching for evil intent. But then he had not observed evil in the oldest sister. He wondered if Thara had known about Leila’s crimes beforehand. That question should wait.
He edged closer, whispering her name. She did not turn, and he called out louder. Thara jerked with fear, before scrambling down and reaching for her scarf, ready to run. “I’m not allowed to talk with others,” she cried.
Holding out his hands, Saddiq tried to explain he meant no harm. He waited for her response, but she stared like a wild animal. He pulled her underneath a canopy of low-hanging branches, out of sight from anyone passing through the meadow, and then he stood back.
The sun was going down, and a night chill took over the meadow. Every breath they exhaled was visible. Thara was wary, studying his face, before releasing a happy smile.
Saddiq had so much to say, but did not rush. Like a hunted animal, she might dart away. “You are working so hard.”
She proudly explained how she collected reeds, vines, bark, and other materials to soak, dye, beat, and shape before weaving them along with cloth and wires into baskets that would be sold at the market. “The baskets pay my way to live with Ahmed and Karimah, and I also save for my dowry,” Thara pointed out. “If I weave more, Karimah says that I’ll have a better marriage.” She looked down with embarrassment. “I’m the oldest and don’t have as much time to work as my sisters. Karimah warns if I don’t work hard, then the best I can hope for is to be third or fourth wife to a very old man.”
The thought made Saddiq feel sick. That couldn’t happen to Thara, he thought to himself. He wouldn’t let it happen. He tried guiding her to a nearby fallen tree, but she reached for the strand still connected to the branches overhead. “I cannot sit,” she protested. “Karimah checks how much I collect every day.”
“Just a moment,” he pleaded. “Then I’ll help you retrieve the vines.” She glanced around the meadow before retrieving her bundle of vines and sitting beside him. Even as they talked, she stripped the leaves away from a long strand.
He picked up the other end to help.
“How is baby Komal?” she asked.
Her first thoughts were of her youngest sister, and the question made him sad. Saddiq couldn’t imagine having to ask others for news about his brothers. His parents refused to talk about the sisters, and he had not realized how intent the village women would be on segregating the sisters.
“Komal is healthy. She loves my mother, and my mother is kind.” He hoped she didn’t think of his family as cruel like the others, but he couldn’t tell. Thara kept her head down.
“You don’t see your sisters at all?” he questioned.
Thara shook her head. A tear fell down her cheek. “Our parents brought shame to this village. The others want to forget us as quickly as they can. We are fortunate that we can still live here. Karimah says that other villages would banish us to the city and force us to fend on our own.”
He nodded, but was less sure that she was fortunate—not if she couldn’t see her sisters.
She pinched away leaves with her fingernails, and wrapped the strand into a tight coil around her arm. “Have you heard anyone speak of my sister and mother?” Thara asked.
“Nothing,” he admitted. It was as if the family had never existed. “What Leila did was wrong. I can never forgive her for pushing my brother from a cliff. But it doesn’t explain why they are so angry with you.”
She was skeptical. “Don’t you know?” He shook his head slowly.
“You know why they are angry,” she retorted, cringing. “You can’t fool me, and you are here for the same reason Ali met Leila.”
But Saddiq didn’t know and demanded to know what she meant. She ordered him to leave her alone.
“If we are caught, I will be punished,” Thara scolded as she stood. “It’s painful to have you near.”
Saddiq was crushed. “I don’t understand,” he pleaded.
“You really don’t know,” she mused. “If I tell you, you must promise not to be angry.”
The promise was easy. What could have been worse than Leila murdering his brother or helping her father and mother in luring children away from their homes with false promises of jobs? “Tell me,” he urged.
“You cannot tell anyone.” She held her arms out as if to hold him back and refused to
look into his eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as though she feared a pummeling. “Leila was with child when she left Laashekoh.”
Saddiq tried to think. Leila was arrested the night of her marriage. “Her husband’s?” he asked.
Thara shook her head. “Then whose?” he pressed.
Ashamed, she tugged at her headscarf and hid her mouth. “Leila said it belonged to your brother. She told my mother that his fall was an accident as they argued. She was upset about Ali leaving for school, and he was upset, too. That is why my parents hurried to marry her to Jahangir.”
Saddiq was still. The explanation hit his brain as if he had fallen into an icy river. He should have been angry, but his heart ached for his brother. He missed Ali, but he missed Thara, too. “Do my parents know?” he asked.
“About the pregnancy? Perhaps. I’ve heard Karimah whispering with others.” She took a deep breath. “But about the child belonging to Ali, I do not think so. The adults do not speak about this.” She reached for another vine to strip. “Then, I am alone and do not hear much. I’m not like my oldest sister. Do you understand that?”
He nodded slowly.
“So you should leave if that is why you are here.” Thara took a dignified pose, and pressed. “Did you plan on using me as Ali used Leila?”
“No,” he said softly. So much more made sense, especially why the adults kept Thara and the other girls away from the other children. Why his brother had crept away from the bedroom in the middle of the night. He could not understand why Ali was at fault or why Thara thought he was ready to use her.
Leila had somehow tricked his brother. He was sure, but to say as much would anger Thara, so he kept quiet. He had to pose careful questions rather than accusations. He asked when Thara learned of Leila’s predicament.
“Only a few nights before Ali’s death,” she explained. “Leila was terrified. Can you imagine how alone she felt? Our mother had warned us that it was our duty to avoid tempting others, and Leila worried my parents would never speak to her again. But my mother kept her secret and arranged her marriage quickly.”
She paused. “You know the village would have killed them both. Leila was furious that all Ali cared about was going to school. She could not understand why he wouldn’t help when she was so desperate.”
Saddiq could not understand such angry hatred for Ali. Village girls knew more than the boys did about such matters. Many mothers told their daughters about marriage well in advance rather than leaving it to the new husband or his mother. Fathers in Laashekoh told boys about their duties a few nights before the wedding contract was signed.
“Maybe he didn’t believe her,” Thara admitted, retying her headscarf as if to protect herself. “Our mother was so eager about Leila staying in Laashekoh. She often talked about how wonderful it would be if Leila married Ali and stayed.”
Saddiq could not imagine his brother convincing his parents about such a marriage. He also could not imagine his brother keeping such a secret and told Thara as much.
“Perhaps she lied,” Thara mused. “We will never know. What would your brother have done had he known?”
Saddiq couldn’t answer and didn’t know which was sadder—his brother keeping a secret before his death or dying without knowing about the child. Regardless, the child’s mother despised his family.
“There was little they could do,” Thara noted, adding that her sister and mother had reached the same conclusion. “Karimah blames my parents because they waited too long to plan Leila’s marriage, so she wants no delay in marriages for me and my sisters. They want to get rid of us soon, and that is probably for the best.”
Dipping her head, she stared into his eyes. “If anyone saw us talking now, they would blame me.”
And the adults would be angry because she knew so many details about others in Laashekoh. Adults did not like thinking about what they did not know. He plucked a tall strand of grass apart and split it into thin threads. He did not want to leave for school. He did not blame Thara or her sisters for his brother’s death. He was grateful for Thara’s honesty and wanted to protect her. He wondered why he was so different than his parents.
“Perhaps it is better we do not know,” he said.
“Perhaps.” They were quiet for a few moments, and she sat next to him again. “Or people of Laashekoh don’t know because they don’t want to know. Why didn’t your parents pursue murder charges against Leila?”
Saddiq couldn’t answer. There was too much to think about, but he was in no hurry. He offered to help with the vines and pointed toward the sky. “I’ll climb the tree?”
Thara laughed and told him getting outside was the best part of her day. “Collecting material for the baskets is an escape from cleaning the kitchen and Karimah’s sharp tongue.” She leaned close and thanked him. “It’s a joy being treated as a friend again.”
“You have talked with no one else?”
“Everyone is afraid, as if my family is tainted with evil.” Her laugh was sad. “And maybe it is.”
“You could never be evil. We were good friends, and that’s all I want.”
Tears came to her eyes again. “I am working for a good marriage. I only hope they don’t send me to someone awful because of what Leila did.”
Saddiq suggested that he try talking with his father. “My family should be more forgiving.”
Thara panicked. “You must not! He would punish both of us!”
He soothed her by explaining that he would talk about Komal. “My mother loves her, and that may make her realize that others are being cruel to you.” He asked if she would be collecting grass from the slope soon.
“It is dangerous to plan meetings.” Thara was adamant. “We should not take the risk.”
Saddiq vowed to do everything in his power to help Thara and made her promise to meet again.
That night, Saddiq returned home and watched his mother in the kitchen. She smiled without breaking her rhythm while mashing pumpkin, onion, and chickpeas together, shaping them into small balls and then flattening them for frying. The oil sizzled in the pan.
Saddiq offered to help, and she told him to play with the younger children. Saddiq approached Komal, who played quietly in the corner, and she looked up with a joyful smile, forgetting her arrangement of old sticks and carved blocks that had belonged to him and his brothers. Crouching down to her level, he saw that she had built a tiny shelter for her rag doll, the only possession the child had been allowed to keep. Komal clung to the doll day and night—and sobbed if anyone tried to move it from her sight.
He stretched out along the floor, adding another circle of blocks to protect the doll’s shelter. His mother paused in her work and smiled.
“Komal—surely you will read to her someday?” Saddiq questioned.
Worry instantly replaced happiness on his mother’s face. Pausing before placing a flattened cake into the pan, she studied her son’s face. “Only if the others have forgotten about her sister and mother by then,” she said. “But that is not likely. We must get along with others in this village, and you will understand someday.”
CHAPTER 8
Over the years, Parsaa had gradually allowed more months to pass in between each visit to the compound, and Zahira was amazed to see him again so quickly. Once inside the small clinic, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and took in the fresh scent of orange blossoms and mint that followed her.
She leaned close, and his embrace was polite, stiff. Annoyed, Zahira stepped back and waited for him to speak.
“I need a favor.” He was earnest.
Zahira turned her back to him and wondered why the words seemed like an insult. Parsaa didn’t notice and talked about a girl rescued from traffickers. He asked if Zahira might have use for a young servant.
Surely the villagers could have found some use for an orphan girl. The girl was an excuse for another visit. “Is she disagreeable?”
Parsaa thought and shook his head. “Just odd.”
She couldn’t help giving him a hard smile. “And so you thought of me.” The story wasn’t unusual. An orphan girl with an unknown background would not be trusted, and of course, the women in the small, close community of Laashekoh banished her quickly. Zahira leaned against the counter as he talked on about the girl and the village. Despite her fury, all she cared about was the sound of his voice. He needed her for something, and she liked the idea that she could say no to him and send him on his way.
When he paused, she asked questions about the efforts that went into locating the girl’s parents. She could not agree to his request too quickly and let Parsaa take her for granted. If she said no, he might not return for months.
“We tried,” Parsaa said. “We found the other children’s parents quickly. But not hers.”
She waved her hand. “You are wasting your time searching for parents who don’t want to be found.” She then asked why he didn’t send the girl to an orphanage in the city.
He was stubborn. Leila and her parents had made promises and helped remove children from their homes. “The village is responsible for providing a home until her family can be found.”
“But I’m not of Laashekoh,” she said pointedly.
Zahira understood Laashekoh better than the villagers themselves, he suggested. “And you are a suitable guardian. Better than most women in Laashekoh.”
His assessment flattered her, but she did not respond. Instead, she went to her desk, and did not invite him to sit. Parsaa rarely stayed long unless a computer search caught his attention. He continued, almost as if he spoke to himself. “We give you privacy. A stable village is in your interest.”
“Tell me the truth about the girl.” Zahira was blunt. “Is she disruptive?”
“She is not happy.” He chose his words carefully, and Zahira wondered if the challenge was the girl or a village that disliked willful women. “She does not do well with many people, and I thought this could be a good home.”
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