Spirit of a Mountain Wolf

by Rosanne Hawke

  When Bilal brought dinner, Razaq asked him for a pencil.

  “Where would I get a pencil?” Bilal said.

  “One of the girls?” Razaq knew Tahira must have one but didn’t want to remind Bilal about Tahira. He changed the subject. “Where is Danyal’s room?”

  Bilal glanced at him. “Ismat’s old room, near Tahira’s. Why? You thinking of breaking out of here and visiting him?”

  Razaq tried to grin at the joke, but felt as if he had been shot like a wild goat eating his father’s crop.

  Bilal sat on the bed and pulled out his pouch of cigarette papers. He had an assortment of tobacco, paan, and other things Razaq wasn’t sure of. “Here, share this with me. It will get you through the evening. You won’t feel a thing.”

  “I won’t massage so well either,” Razaq said.

  Bilal blew smoke in the air and a sickly smell hung around Razaq’s head. Razaq had smelled that before in the mountains, when he had passed men sitting together over a hookah.

  “How will I get rid of the stink?” he said.

  “Mrs. M won’t mind. How do you think she gets the new girls to lie still for the customers?”

  Razaq thought back to the few times he had seen Tahira. Her eyes had seemed unfocused at times. He hoped Majeed came soon. The men he had known who smoked hashish or opium in the mountains were very soon controlled by it. His father used to say men like that couldn’t make a decision unless they consulted the hookah pipe first.

  “Razaq?” Bilal shoved him playfully. “You’re far away today.”

  Razaq held his head in his hands. “I am sick of being locked up. I wish the police would come and close the chakla.”

  “Ha. The police are some of Mrs. M’s best customers, except they don’t pay—she pays them when they visit.” Bilal tipped his head and grimaced as Razaq looked at him. “I feel bad for you. It is not good for anyone to be locked up, but kissing Neelma?” He made a stupid face.

  “You believe that?”

  Bilal stared at him, his lips pursed. “So it is like that, is it?”

  “It is best not to say anything,” Razaq said quickly. “Neelma will just think of something worse.”

  He thought of the hug he had given Tahira. It was a dangerous thing to have done.

  Bilal nodded. “I don’t think Mrs. M is fooled by Neelma, otherwise she would have—” He made a chopping motion with his hand.

  “Then why lock me up?”

  Bilal searched his face, then blew smoke in it. “Maybe she thinks bushes don’t shake without wind.”

  Razaq felt a cold shiver come over him. What did Bilal know?

  Then Bilal laughed. “What could you get up to locked in a room?” He handed over the iPod. “Here, have a turn while I am here.”

  It took Bilal a day to find a pencil. He also brought another note from Tahira. He dropped onto the bed and and rested his back against the wall. “If I thought you two could truly write, I would have to report it to Mrs. M.”

  Razaq stared Bilal steadily in the face. “It is just scribbling and a picture, as you can see. She doesn’t have much to keep her happy. I thought I would do one back. Would you not do the same for your sister?”

  Bilal didn’t speak for a moment, then he inclined his head. “I had a sister. I hope she is happy.” Then he added quietly, “I hope she thinks I am dead.”

  Razaq sighed. He knew what Bilal meant. “I am sorry. All of mine died in the earthquake.”

  Bilal glanced at him. “So that’s why you like Tahira.”

  Razaq lifted his chin. Let Bilal think that, although he knew there was more to it. When he had hugged his sisters goodnight, it had never felt like holding Tahira did. He drew his mountains for Tahira.

  “Accha, nice picture,” Bilal said, watching over his shoulder. “You must miss those mountains. I would have liked to see them.”

  Razaq heard the wistfulness in Bilal’s tone. He understood that note of finality, too, as if Bilal had come to the end of his life. It was how he had felt a few days ago. He kept quiet; empty words like “Inshallah, one day you will” would have been insensitive.

  “Was there snow?” Bilal had another cigarette rolling in his fingers.

  Razaq smiled. “Much snow in the winter; now it would be melting in the lower areas.”

  “How did you keep warm in your house?”

  “I made a fire in a hollow in the dried mud floor. My mother cooked over it and this warmed the whole room. We had no windows—that helped to keep the cold out. We did everything in that room—ate, slept, told stories at night. If men came to visit Abu, they sat outside with a fire.”

  “Lakes? Rivers?”

  “Zarur, certainly. It took many hours to climb down to the village above the Indus. But there was a quicker way. To cross the mountain stream.”

  “A bridge?”

  Razaq shook his head. “There are no bridges in Kala Dhaka. A basket with a rope. You pull yourself across.”

  “That sounds dangerous.” Bilal finished his cigarette and threw the stub in Razaq’s bucket.

  “Ji. Lots of things are dangerous in the mountains. Guns, wild dogs, bears, the Indus if you fall in.” Razaq’s voice grew quiet as he added, “And earthquakes.”

  Maybe it was the talk of what they had lost that made Bilal say no more about pictures and scribbles; he just took Razaq’s piece of paper. “I will give this to your little sister, bhai.” It was the first time Bilal had called him “brother.”

  “Shukriya,” Razaq murmured with his right hand over his heart.

  Chapter 29

  Weeks went by and Razaq went through the motions of his life, thinking about the stupid thing he had done. Every time his door banged open, he jumped, only to find it was Bilal with dinner or the shaver. He thought about the fear that had him in its jaws. It was true that terrible things happened, but if he could only change his thoughts, the fear would have less hold over him. It was the same idea that he had tried to explain to Danyal. It was like tracking a wolf: he couldn’t show fear or the wolf would sense it, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid. His father had told him that was what courage truly was. “Which man does not feel fear?” he had said once. “But the courageous man is not bound by it. He does what he has to regardless.”

  Razaq didn’t dare think of his uncle and how he wouldn’t want him when he knew all about him. Majeed had promised him a safe place, and it was that safety he wanted for Tahira. Maybe with Tahira gone, he could escape by himself, join Zakim. Though who knew how Mrs. Mumtaz’s rage would manifest. It would be like a bomb exploding. Surely she would realize he was behind the raid when it happened. If it ever happened. Razaq sighed.

  He was between customers and it was getting late when he heard a commotion in the dancing room. “Razaq!” It was Tahira.

  He slammed up against his door. It shook, but didn’t give: it was still bolted on the outside. What was happening to her?

  Then he heard a man’s voice. “Razaq!” Majeed. He still didn’t know Razaq was locked in.

  Razaq rested his head against the door. At least Tahira would leave. It was a pity Majeed had called his name for now Mrs. Mumtaz would know for sure the part he had played.

  Then he heard a slight noise above the raised voices heading outside. A scratch on his door, the sound of a bolt being slowly and carefully drawn. Razaq pulled open the door. Danyal stood there, a grin on his face that made him look like his old cocky self.

  “What have you done?” Razaq whispered.

  “No one will know it was me. Look.”

  They both stared out the front door. Majeed had Tahira by the hand. There were three policemen and two other official-looking men with him. Mrs. Mumtaz was trying to shove money in their faces.

  “Come with me,” Razaq said.

  Danyal shook his head. “I wouldn’t be fast enough. Someone has tipped off Mr. Malik; Murad is here. He has a pistol.”

  Razaq quickly checked the group outside.

  “Tahira is
safe,” Danyal added. “Murad keeps away from policemen who won’t take bribes.”

  Mrs. Mumtaz was walking up the steps, cursing. Razaq had left it too late. He dashed toward the courtyard, while Danyal bolted his door. Razaq took the steps to the roof three at a time. He ached from not exercising, but he would have to be a mountain goat this night. He checked behind him, but Danyal wasn’t there. He reached the roof and ran along it to jump across a narrow gali to the next roof. Sooner or later the buildings would surely change to single story and he could slide to the ground.

  “Stop!” It was Bilal. He was right behind him—how did he get there so quickly?

  Razaq could hear Mrs. Mumtaz’s screams of rage in the courtyard. There were other footsteps too. Then a shot. He heard the zing. Murad.

  Razaq kept running along the roofs, weaving in case Murad shot at him again. He couldn’t stop. If Bilal caught him, he would have to hand him over to Mrs. Mumtaz. The streetlights made him an easy target for Murad. There was nothing for it: he would have to go over the edge. How much different from slithering down a steep mountain slope could it be?

  He looked down to the gali below, glanced back at Bilal. He was too close. Razaq crouched to his hands and knees and slipped over the side. He checked for a foothold between the cement bricks and found one. He was just about to move his hands down when his right hand was grabbed.

  “I’ve got him!” Bilal yelled.

  Razaq could feel the thumping of Murad’s approaching footsteps through the cement.

  “Let me go, bhai,” he whispered. “Let me fall.”

  How far would Bilal’s loyalty to Mrs. Mumtaz go? Maybe he would be punished too if Razaq got away.

  “He’s slipping!” Bilal shouted. “Quickly. I can’t hold him.”

  It wasn’t true. Bilal was much stronger than Razaq and could have pulled him up to the roof again.

  “Allah go with you,” Bilal whispered. Then he opened his hand.

  Razaq’s feet slid, scrabbling for a hold they couldn’t find, until they landed against a top window ledge. There was a bottom ledge on his window in Mrs. Mumtaz’s house; he hoped there was one here, too. He stretched one arm down and grabbed a bar as he slid down. Yes, there was another ledge. He rested his feet on it and looked up. There were two silhouettes against the night sky. Was Murad aiming the gun at him? He couldn’t tell.

  He let himself slip and hung onto the bottom ledge with his hands a moment. How far from the ground was he? Would he break his legs if he fell? Better than being shot. Just then a bullet skimmed past his head. He heard its squeal and then the thud as it entered the cement farther below.

  That decided it. He let go of the ledge and tried to get a grip on the wall, but this time there were no cracks in the cement. His legs and arms flailed as he fell, bumping and scraping against the wall. An awning broke his fall. He bounced off it, crashed to the gali and landed, winded, on his back.

  More shots sprayed the ground near him, and he scrambled closer to the building. Nothing felt broken, though his right leg didn’t work properly, and he was as sore as if he’d been beaten. His skin burned from all the scrapes. He had been fortunate, but now he needed to reach the bazaar. He crouched and glanced up at the roof. Only one figure stood there now. He guessed Murad would be out in the gali soon to chase him down. It didn’t bear imagining what would happen if he was caught.

  He forced himself to stand up and half-ran, half-limped down the gali. He stopped a moment to take in a few shuddering breaths. His sides hurt; he felt as if his heart would rip apart.

  He heard a shout and urged himself to move again, but a sharp pain shot up his leg. Maybe one of his bones was broken after all. It seemed as if only a minute had passed when he heard another shout. It sounded like his name. There was a scuffle further behind him. Then a shot. He pushed himself on. Maybe Bilal was fighting Murad. If so, Razaq could be of little help; and what if he went back and Bilal was forced to hand him over to Murad? He couldn’t waste this opportunity now that Tahira was safe.

  Then he paused. Bilal had called him brother, had saved his life, and given him his freedom. He turned and limped back the way he had come. He wasn’t sure what he could do, but he had to try.

  Two men were fighting in the gali; there was no one else around. Razaq drew closer. It was like watching a wrestling match in the village, except one of these men could die. One man slammed a fist in the other’s stomach, and he fell. The man on the ground reached for something; the other man kicked it away. The gun. Razaq could see it glinting under the streetlight.

  He edged closer and picked it up just as the man on top smashed a fist into the man under him. The grunts of the fight stopped. Razaq still wasn’t sure if Murad or Bilal had won. He stood there with the gun in his hand.

  The man standing didn’t speak. Was it Murad? Razaq tightened his finger on the trigger. Could he shoot a man? His eyes blurred and he wiped them with his left arm.

  “Razaq?”

  It must be Bilal. He lowered the gun.

  “Razaq? It’s me.”

  He shut his eyes. What trick was Bilal trying? The voice sounded familiar: a mountain voice, speaking in Pukhtu. Was he losing his senses?

  The voice came closer. “You are safe now.”

  Warily, he opened his eyes, blinking. For an instant, he thought the man standing before him was his father. But it wasn’t. It was Uncle Javaid, with blood running down his face. That wasn’t all: his uncle was weeping.

  Razaq dropped the gun and fell to the ground to touch his uncle’s feet. Javaid lifted him up to face him.

  “Razaq, it is you. Thank God, I have found you at last.”

  Chapter 30

  Mrs. Mumtaz burst into the room. In her raised hand was a knife with a long narrow blade. “You will not escape, my mountain wolf. You have ruined my business, but I will keep you a boy forever. You will never escape—you will always work for me.”

  She turned to the door and pushed a bolt across—it was as loud as a gunshot.

  Razaq sat upright, panting. He watched the morning sun peek into his window and remembered where he was. That first night after Majeed and his uncle had brought him to the Protection Center, a woman had showed him to this room.

  “It is just to sleep in,” the woman said. “You can go outside whenever you like.”

  How had she known he was afraid of a bolted door?

  When Majeed and his uncle had gone, the woman had stayed. There had been a woman at Mr. Malik’s house, too, and Razaq didn’t relax.

  This one smiled kindly. “My name is Parveen. I will not touch you.” She said it as if she knew all about him. She looked at his face and the way he limped. “The doctor will come soon.”

  Razaq stiffened and she added, “You are safe now. This is a good doctor.”

  Her gaze didn’t waver even when Razaq glanced at her sharply. She reminded him of Rebekah, although Rebekah had skin even paler than his and that strange henna-colored hair.

  “Is Tahira here?” he asked.

  Parveen inclined her head. “You can see her later. The doctor is treating her, and she will need to stay in the surgery for some days.”

  Razaq couldn’t help himself: he felt the heat rise into his face, knew his eyes would look wild like a wolf’s. He took a faltering step toward Parveen and his bad leg locked. A pain shot up to his back.

  Parveen didn’t even flinch; she regarded him steadily. “She is a good doctor.”

  She?

  “It is over, Razaq. You and Tahira are safe.”

  Parveen was patient as she repeated the word “safe,” but Razaq wondered how many times he would need to hear it before he believed. What did safe mean? Were they safe from Mr. Malik and Mrs. Mumtaz? Would he ever be safe from his thoughts?

  Then Parveen had said softly, “We will help you with the memories.”

  Razaq had stared at her, startled.

  The doctor had been gentle in setting his ankle. She reminded him of his mother, asking him ques
tions as if she were inquiring about the weather as she put a cast on his leg.

  Parveen wrote down Razaq’s answers and showed him pictures of houses in Islamabad. Razaq pointed to Mr. Malik’s house.

  The doctor rested her hand on his cast. “You have been very brave, Razaq.”

  He knew she wasn’t talking of his fractured bone. He wondered if the broken places deep inside him would heal as well as his leg.

  After a few days, Parveen took him to a room to eat with other children. There were so many—many more than at Mr. Malik’s house. As he entered with his crutch, he stopped, surprised.

  “What is it?” Parveen asked.

  Razaq indicated a table where younger children were sitting. “I know that girl,” he said. It was Moti. Then he saw Raj and Hira.

  Moti didn’t seem surprised to see him. “Zakim found this safe place for us,” she said around a mouthful of egg and paratha.

  Razaq grinned. What couldn’t Zakim do in Moti’s eyes?

  “We live here now,” Raj said, “and go to school. Zakim visits us.”

  Razaq could imagine that Zakim would not want to live in an institution.

  “That is until someone wants to adopt us,” Moti explained.

  “Mmm,” was all Hira said. She was too busy with her food.

  Razaq would have to tell Majeed about Danyal and Aslam. Maybe they could come here, too.

  It was a week before Razaq saw Tahira. They sat together at breakfast and hardly said a word. At first, there was nothing to say. It was as if they understood each other’s pain more than anyone else in the room could, and it was enough for Razaq to watch her, to know she was safe. The rogue thought snuck into his mind again. Would they ever truly be safe? Would Murad recover and find them, just as Aslam had found him in the scrap yard and Zakim and Majeed had found him in Qasai Gali? He pushed the thought away. He wouldn’t let it spoil this day.