Spirit of a Mountain Wolf

by Rosanne Hawke

  Razaq opened the buttons on his qameez and showed her the silver tarveez his father always wore. “Is it like this for you? It has verses of the Quran in it to keep me safe.”

  Tahira said softly, “My cross is to remember who I am.”

  He thought her eyes looked dazed today. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  “It is Ismat, one of the girls. She was sold to pay off a debt, but her parents never thought she would end up in a chakla like this. She is sadder lately. We are asked to do such bad things. Sometimes evil men come.”

  Razaq clenched his fingers; he hated the thought of Tahira dancing with someone else. “Aren’t they all evil?”

  She seemed to make an effort to focus on him. “Not all. Last night a man came to dance with me, but he didn’t dance at all. He talked.”

  “He paid for that?”

  She nodded. “His wife died. He wanted me to hold him.” She sighed. “But still I shouldn’t be holding strange men, even if they don’t dance.”

  “It will be all right,” he said. “I will think of something to help us escape.” He wondered if he believed it himself.

  She stared at him; her eyes were losing focus again. “No one can help. Mrs. Mumtaz doesn’t care about us. There is only one good thing about Mrs. Mumtaz.”

  Razaq raised an eyebrow. This would be interesting.

  “She lets me read my Injil, my holy book. If I went out of my village, I was not respected because I wasn’t Muslim. But she doesn’t care what I believe.” Tahira glanced at him. “She doesn’t think I can truly read my Injil, but she hasn’t taken it away.”

  Razaq couldn’t read the Quran for it was in Arabic. Only the maulvi could read it. So, Tahira’s Injil must be written in Urdu. How could that be?

  “It is my only bright spot in the day,” she added.

  And you are my bright spot, Razaq thought.

  “Tahira!” Neelma’s voice called from the courtyard.

  They both stared at each other. Razaq could see the fear flowering in Tahira’s eyes. Were his any different?

  “I am not allowed on the roof,” she whispered.

  “Then I will go first and talk to her while you come down.”

  She watched him as he walked down the steps. He smiled at her the whole way, but it was an effort to act as though they weren’t in danger.

  Inside the hallway, he encountered Neelma. “Have you seen Tahira?” she said. “She has work to do.”

  He tried to shrug casually. “Maybe she is in the latrine.”

  She looked up at him. With a pang, he realized he was growing. Hadn’t she been closer to his height that first morning?

  “She is just a child,” Neelma said. “I am a woman.”

  If Razaq wasn’t covering for Tahira he would have run to his room. Instead, he forced himself to stand there.

  “Your aunt has forbidden me to touch you,” he said.

  “I do not believe you.”

  “It is true.” Razaq put a sad look on his face.

  Neelma sidled closer. “We don’t have to do what she says.”

  Razaq thought of Bilal and closed his eyes. He certainly did have to do what Mrs. Mumtaz said.

  Neelma must have taken his silence for agreement for she reached up and planted a kiss on his mouth. His eyes flew open and he backed away. Neelma was smiling. Above her head, he could see Tahira opening the latrine door.

  “I am sorry,” he said, “I must go. I have customers soon.”

  Neelma’s smile faded, but she didn’t look unhappy. She turned toward the courtyard. “Tahira! Are you in there? Hurry up, you lazy child.”

  She twisted to look back at Razaq with such a smug smile that it made dread rise in him like a storm.

  Chapter 22

  Javaid had visited several scrap yards. Some even had tiny children working in them. Today, he decided to try closer to Moti Bazaar. It was the last place where he had heard news of Razaq, and his father had always told him and Nadeem to stay close to where you first became lost in the forest so it was easier to be found. Surely, Razaq had been told the same advice? Javaid was seeing the city more and more as a jungle with wild animals and harsh, dangerous conditions. He knew it was a long shot for Razaq to be at a scrap heap so close to the bazaar because he hadn’t made contact, but Amina was right. The search had become an obsession now. He couldn’t give up.

  He found the gateway in. A truck had just backed up and dumped a pile of scrap; it rolled down near his shoes. He wished he wore a turban and could use it to cover his nose: the stench was putrid. There were tiny children scouring the new material. They looked like flies clustered on a festering wound. Javaid’s thoughts were grim. So this was how the government got the recycling done.

  He approached a few of the children, but they scattered like a brood of chickens. They were frightened of him. He saw a tall, heavy boy and picked his way carefully over to him.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” Javaid said.

  The boy didn’t give the return greeting, just glared at him. He only had one eye; a scar ran down through his empty socket and ended under his shirt somewhere. Javaid winced internally. That would have been nasty. So it was dangerous in the scrap yard, too.

  “What do you want here?” The boy was belligerent.

  “I am looking for someone.”

  The boy’s expression seemed to say, So?

  Javaid sighed. “Have you seen a mountain boy working here?”

  “I”ve seen plenty. You want to kill one?”

  He looked eager suddenly, and Javaid backed away. He had never seen this side of the city. He wondered where the boy slept.

  He saw more children in the distance and thought he would try once more, but they all dispersed as he approached. One moment his head was down watching where he put his feet amongst the muck, and the next the children were gone as if they had been vaporized. He felt stupid. Nothing he had done all these months had worked. He should take notice of his wife and stop looking.

  He did the only thing he could think of: he shouted, “Razaq! Razaq! Are you here?” as he turned a full circle. When he reached its end, a small girl was standing not far from him. He took a step forward, but she made to run so he stopped.

  “Have you seen Razaq?” he said.

  “Why do you want him?”

  An older boy ran up and shooed her away, then he stood in her place staring at Javaid. “Who are you?” he finally asked.

  “Javaid Khan. I have a nephew, Abdur-Razaq. I need to find him.”

  “Why?”

  Javaid regarded him. What happened to these children to make them so suspicious? “He is my family.” His voice cracked. “I want to take him home.”

  The boy slowly walked closer. He wore a dirty white cap and his skin was fairer than most Pakistanis. A hooked nose. He looked Afghan. Was this where the refugee children ended up? Javaid felt guilt at having a comfortable life while this child had to work on a dung heap.

  “Do you have a boss I can ask about my nephew?” he said, trying not to let his distress show.

  The boy lifted his chin. “I answer to no one. You can ask me what you want to know.”

  Javaid almost smiled. The boy had spirit. “Razaq—have you seen him?”

  The boy’s gaze never wavered from Javaid, but he hesitated as if deciding what to say. “There was a boy named Razaq here. He was very brave.” The boy’s eyes glistened, and Javaid looked away, suddenly afraid of what he might hear. “I would do anything to help him,” the boy continued.

  Javaid glanced back at him quickly. “He is here?”

  The boy shook his head. “He went to find his Uncle Javaid. He said he would return.”

  “I have been searching for him also.”

  “So I heard,” the boy said.

  Javaid wondered what he meant. He felt uncomfortable under the boy’s piercing gaze.

  “Do you know where he is?” he asked. “Could you show me?”

  The boy’s eyes clouded a moment t
hen resumed their stare. “Inshallah, God willing.”

  Javaid felt a lightening inside; it was the first ray of hope since that dreadful day of the earthquake.

  He closed his eyes and whispered, “Alhamdulillah, thanks be to God.”

  Chapter 23

  The next time Razaq went to the bazaar, he was allowed to go alone for Bilal was busy. He stopped at the pastry shop and asked for Mrs. Mumtaz’s order. A police officer was standing behind him. As the bag was given to Razaq, the man said, “You are from the kothi khana, are you not?”

  Razaq didn’t answer. How could the man know unless he recognized Mrs. Mumtaz’s name?

  “We’ll get you criminals,” the man said.

  Razaq jumped out of his way. Was it a warning or just bullying? Why didn’t the policeman arrest him? If he did, Razaq could say he was being forced to stay there.

  Mrs. Mumtaz was in the courtyard when he took the supplies to the kitchen. He decided not to mention the incident; he didn’t want his little trips to the bazaar stopped—it was the only bit of normal life he had.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why were you so long?”

  He didn’t think he had been.

  “Not doing anything you shouldn’t, I hope.”

  Razaq couldn’t think of anything she could mean and shook his head.

  She took the bag of pastries from him, then frowned as she looked at him. She touched his lip. “What is this?”

  Razaq didn’t know; he didn’t have a mirror.

  She grabbed him by the ear and dragged him into a room. It had a mirror on the wall. “Look.” She pushed his face toward it. He saw a pale-faced boy with light eyes staring out at him. He looked frightened. “Here.” She pointed to his upper lip. He saw dark hairs there. He touched them; they felt soft as they always had. He hadn’t realized they had a color.

  “Undo your shalwar.”

  He opened his mouth in protest. “No.”

  She pursed her lips, and he untied the narda. She glanced at him and swore under her breath, as if the new hair on his body was his fault. “Do it up,” she said.

  A renewed dread descended on him. Bilal had said he had been cut when his mustache started. A glance at Mrs. Mumtaz didn’t give him any clues about what would happen. She stood staring at him; he knew she was thinking hard.

  “Chello, go to your room.” The words whipped from her and he hurried out into the courtyard.

  What would she do? Would praying help?

  When he reached his room, he washed himself and stood on the mat. He had been taught that prayer was to adore God and not to ask for personal needs, but this was urgent. Would God listen, as Tahira believed?

  Afterward, Razaq lay on the bed. The opening of the door startled him and he sat up. Bilal edged in with a tray and shut the door.

  “So,” he said, “you are to have a shave.”

  He lifted up an instrument. It looked like a shaving knife. Razaq had never seen his father shave, but once when Uncle Javaid came, Razaq saw him outside shaving the hair off his chin and cheeks. It had looked like he was scraping it off with a knife. His father had quarreled with his uncle after that, saying he’d lost his way of life.

  Bilal spread some lather on Razaq’s upper lip.

  “Can’t I do it?” Razaq said.

  “Nay. Mrs. M’s orders. You are not to touch the knife.”

  Razaq scowled at Bilal as he scraped off the hairs.

  “That’s done. Now untie your shalwar and lie down.”

  “Excuse me?” It came out as a squeak. Bilal seemed friendly enough, but Razaq knew he would do whatever Mrs. Mumtaz asked him to.

  Bilal nodded at him and Razaq knew he wouldn’t get out of it. He fumbled with the narda. “What are you going to do?” Could that shaver cut skin?

  Bilal lifted up the lather stick. “Be thankful. Apparently, Mrs. M thinks you’re worth keeping intact.” He grinned. “Those green eyes and ghostly skin have saved you this time.”

  Razaq didn’t like the emphasis on “this time.”

  “I think she is wanting a green-eyed grand-niece,” Bilal added. “Good for business.” He chuckled.

  Razaq struggled to sit up.

  “Keep still, you idiot, or you will be cut after all.”

  “I will never—can they make you do something like that?”

  Bilal glanced up. “What haven’t you been made to do?”

  It was true. Ever since he met Ikram, things had happened to him that other people had ordered: Ikram, Kazim, Mr. Malik, and Mrs. Mumtaz. And now Mrs. Mumtaz wanted to keep him a boy forever, whichever way she could. How long would shaving keep him a boy? He was growing taller, too.

  He wondered how Bilal felt seeing him get the second chance he was never offered.

  It was not a good week for Razaq. That night, a customer came for a massage. The man stood inside the door, and a strange look came over his face when he focused on Razaq.

  “Massage, janab?” Razaq prompted.

  “Do you do more than massages?”

  Razaq licked his top lip. “I give you whatever you want.” He would never get used to that “whatever.”

  “I will give you something you will never forget.” The man whisked a stick out of his shalwar. It looked like a policeman’s baton. How did that get past Bilal? “If those lazy police don’t do their job, I’ll get rid of you criminals myself.”

  Before Razaq had the presence of mind to call for Bilal, the man threw him onto the bed. The force of it knocked the breath out of him, then came a burning pain on his head. Razaq screamed, but it only made the man more enraged. He kept beating Razaq with the stick, all the time shouting what vermin he was. Razaq tried to protect himself with his legs, his arms, even to distract the man, to talk, but the man didn’t hear him. With growing horror, Razaq realized the man couldn’t stop. He heard a crack and thought he would pass out with the pain, when Bilal burst in.

  “Bas! Stop!” Bilal punched the man in the face, then wrestled the stick from him, pulled his arms behind him, and marched him toward the doorway. The man spat on Razaq as Bilal pushed him past.

  After the outside door slammed, Bilal was back. “Are you okay? I am sorry I was late. Neelma was on the door, and she wouldn’t have searched him.”

  He brought over the bucket of clean water. “Let me see the damage. Mrs. M will not be happy about your face.”

  Bilal fell silent as he undid Razaq’s buttons and wiped the blood away. But some bleeding couldn’t be stopped. He muttered and went out the door. Razaq had no energy to cover himself. From his head to his backside he felt he was on fire. He was barely conscious of Mrs. Mumtaz in the room, of Bilal arguing for the doctor.

  “He needs the hospital, a proper doctor, not a kacha hakim. Please, I beg you, look at him.”

  The arguing went on in the courtyard, and Razaq tried to think of the cool forest on the ridge of the mountains, how he and Ardil used to track jackals up there near the old Angrez fort. Climbing down was like free falling from the walls of a building, but they both managed it without breaking any bones. Did Ardil ever get beaten? He had become so quiet after the khan’s friend took him to his house, never said anything about his life there. Razaq had had no idea. Now he knew too much about the world, too much of what men could do.

  When he came to, there was a man sitting on his bed. Bilal was behind him, watching. “He needs stitches,” the man said. “I will give him opium for the pain.”

  So Mrs. Mumtaz had won: no hospital, only a healer who would be paid not to tell. If Razaq went to a hospital, he could tell the doctor what was happening here. Would they believe him?

  Razaq clenched his teeth throughout the stitching of his head, but when Bilal and the hakim turned him over for more stitches, a jagged red color shot through his head, pulsating as if he could see it flashing on the wall. He screamed as he blacked out.

  Razaq woke. At first he didn’t remember, then he moved to get up and sank back with a groan. His head felt like the cot
ton his quilt was stuffed with. There was a bandage around his chest. How long had he been asleep? He had to get to the latrine. He sat up and clutched the bed, waiting for his head to stop swinging like a monkey through the trees. He pushed himself up to his feet, but his legs folded, and he fell. Maybe he could crawl to the bucket. He was not going to disgrace himself on the floor of his room like an animal in a cage. He dragged himself to the bucket and managed a crouch. He gasped with the pain, but at least he could still pee like a man.

  Then he vomited. The pain racked his ribs and made him cry out. He sat on the floor, then thought better of that as well. Was there anywhere he didn’t hurt? He crawled back to the bed and rested his head on the quilt. He didn’t think his arms were strong enough to pull himself up fully.

  When he woke again, he was lying on the bed and Bilal was putting a fresh shalwar on him. Razaq stared up at the ceiling. “This is the worst beating I’ve had,” he said.

  Bilal sat beside him. “It is the worst I have seen also. I have asked Mrs. M to give you a chutti, some time off from work.”

  Razaq tried to grin, but that hurt, too. “I can’t massage like this.”

  “This is what I told her, but she said you were good for business. The sooner you are up, the better. She has given you until the stitches come out.”

  “When is that?”

  “Ten days.”

  “I feel as if I will never get out of this room.”

  “You will heal, the hakim said. You are young.”

  But Razaq knew that in the places that mattered he would never heal.

  He gazed at Bilal. “I feel old today. My grandfather was so frail he had to be held up to pee. Like me.” He paused.

  “That man said I was a criminal. Was he some sort of policeman?”

  Bilal shook his head and made a face. “Just a crazy man.” Then he leaned forward. “Razaq, what happened to you was wrong.”

  “Everything that has happened to me is wrong,” Razaq murmured.

  “The police say we are criminals, but it isn’t our choice,” Bilal said. “And they still take their pleasure before they arrest us. Hypocritical pigs.”