The Linnet Bird: A Novel

by Linda Holeman

  Daoud stopped to let Rasool drink at a small pool, and I looked out at the valley spread before us. It was a paradise of lushness, spring flowers blooming everywhere—tiny blue gentians and purple violets fought for space with larger showy, multicolored anemones.

  “Are we in Kashmir?” I asked, and Daoud turned his head and nodded.

  “You see it at its height of beauty,” he said, with a touch of pride in his voice. “Further north, winter can be very long, very cruel. The Kashmiris wait for spring as the hawk for the hare. The birth of warm weather passes very quickly, but it is a sight to soothe the emptiest spirit. Every year I hope to be in Kashmir in the time of its awakening.” He pointed to a low hill, bordered with trees. “Beyond the trees is a small Kashmiri settlement. I have my horses there, and some of my men. That is where I will leave you.”

  He turned to face forward, but before he urged Rasool away from the water, he glanced back at me. “What are you called?”

  “Linny,” I said, and then added, “I am Linny Gow.” I said it without thinking, although in the next instant realized I had used my old name. Here I was Linny Gow. I was not Linny Smallpiece, or Linny Ingram. It was here, I realized, that there was no need at all for pretense. For the first time in a long, long time, I was who I was.

  He repeated it, Linny Gow, and it sounded strange and full of music as it came off his tongue.

  IN A GROVE OF TREES beside a small stream, the camp was a combination of black tents and animal enclosures built of stone or wooden rails. One of the larger fenced areas held a number of majestic horses, and small pastures held single mares and their foals. In the smallest field, surrounded by a rough stone wall, a mangy, bloated, and limping goat bleated loudly and mournfully as Rasool splashed through the rushing stream.

  We had arrived. It had taken us four days to reach this camp, only four days, and yet we had traveled to a world far different from the one I’d left behind in Simla. My breath quickened; what would await me? What if the people here treated me with hostility? Would Daoud protect me?

  Once the horse stepped up on the low bank, men, women, and children immediately gathered, talking and pointing. The men were dressed in a manner similar to Daoud—dark pants, white shirts, and embroidered vests, although some wore a white turban. They were all strongly built. Some had well-trimmed, thin mustaches. The women were lighter complexioned, their skin a soft toffee and their eyes light brown, although their hair was very black, hanging down their backs in one tight plait. They wore long, loose, cotton tunics of faded blues, greens, plum, or crimson, and underneath the calf-length robes, full black trousers gathered in at the ankle. Their shoes were of soft material, embroidered, the toes turned up. Most had small, dark blue caps with a loose veil. On some the veil hung behind; others had their faces covered with it. They were all adorned with an abundance of silver jewelry—bracelets, anklets, earrings, and the Muslim nose ring of the married woman.

  A hush fell over them as Daoud dismounted, then reached up and swung me down. A child in his mother’s arms repeated something over and over in a shrill reedy chirp until he was shushed with one sharp word. I didn’t know where to look. Nobody smiled at me, or came forward. They all simply stared. I dropped my eyes to the ground, conscious of how odd I must appear to them, afraid to stare back, as if too bold, while at the same time not wanting to show them how uneasy I felt.

  Daoud spoke in an unknown language, and I looked up again. A boy of twelve or thirteen, in muslin jodhpurs, a shirt, embroidered waistcoat, and cap, scurried forward and Daoud handed him Rasool’s reins. The young syce proudly led the huge horse away, and when he was gone one of the older men approached Daoud. They greeted each other in a chest-to-chest embrace. Then the man asked something, his tone questioning, and all the eyes in the crowd came to me, then went back to Daoud. Daoud spoke at length, and the eyes pivoted to me again. I longed to know what he told them; I prayed it would not turn them against me. He spoke again, and I saw some of the women nod, not unkindly, and my fears were diminshed.

  And then Daoud looked at me. “The women will care for you,” he said, in Hindi. “They are the women of the gujars—the Kashmiri herdsmen. Their men are driving the goats to pasture, and the women are hired to feed my men. Mahayna!” he called.

  A young woman with a baby in a sling on her hip stepped forward. “Mahayna speaks many Indian dialects,” he said, gesturing at the tall angular girl in the deep plum tunic. He addressed her in Hindi. “This ferenghi is called Linny. She speaks Hindi. Give her food and fresh clothing, and let her share your tent.” He walked away with long strides, and his men followed.

  The sloe-eyed woman nodded at his back, then turned to the rest of the women and chattered in a high-pitched voice. The crowd of about twenty surged forward, and I clenched my hands at my sides. The women’s own rough, reddened hands reached out to touch my dress, my hair, my skin. They spoke to one another in a low murmur, as if I were some strange animal they were assessing. I thought that perhaps they had never before seen a white woman.

  Finally the girl called Mahayna quieted them. The baby on her hip looked to be close to a year old, with huge liquid eyes and a fringe of curly dark hair. Mahayna stood in front of me for so long that my heart beat hard and fast. Was she waiting for something? Finally I reached out and took the baby’s pudgy hand. “Your baby is very fine,” I said. “A boy or a girl?”

  I had obviously done the right thing. Mahayna’s face split in a large grin, showing several gaps in her teeth. “A son. My first living child.”

  I smiled back at her. “A son. You are very lucky. Allah has blessed you.” The baby played with my fingers, and instinctively I put my lips to his little fist.

  Mahayna continued grinning, and once more chattered to the women. They all nodded, letting out long breaths that seemed to say “ah—aha” in agreement with my comment. Babies appeared as if by sleight of hand—from under tunics, from slings on hips and supports on backs. They wore tiny muslin shirts, embroidered with delicate flowers, and miniature cloth caps decorated with fine needlework. The infants and toddlers were thrust toward me, one by one.

  “Touch them, please,” Mahayna said. “The touch of a ferenghi woman is said to be good luck.”

  I obligingly stroked downy cheeks and dimpled hands, smiling at each mother. I patted the heads and shoulders of small children prancing about my feet. Then Mahayna took my hand and led me to a small tent. The throng of women and children followed closely. Mahayna motioned for me to sit, and I did so carefully in the trampled grass beside the patched tent. All the women lowered themselves to the ground.

  Mahayna bustled in and out of the tent importantly, stirring at a small fire over which hung a battered black pot. Using a dented tin cup, she ladled a concoction I recognized as dal into an earthenware bowl and presented it to me with a flourish. I brushed back my hair, then, using my fingers, spooned the mashed lentils and rice into my mouth. Mahayna watched, and when I looked at her and said, “Good, Mahayna. Good dal,” she clapped her hands happily, and the women smiled and began to talk quietly until I had finished. When I handed the empty bowl back to the Mahayna, she made a curious whistling sound. The women fell silent and got to their feet, taking their children and heading toward different tents. Mahayna set the baby on the grass beside me.

  “They will not get their work done if they sit and look at you,” she said. She pointed to the child, who stared solemnly at me. “His name is Habib,” she said, looking at my abdomen. “How many children?”

  “None. I have no children,” I answered, and Mahayna’s face showed sorrow.

  “It will be soon, with Allah’s will,” she said with a confident air, her face clearing as she stirred the steaming dal in the black cauldron with a skinned stick. “The chief’s women bear sons easily.”

  I thought I had misunderstood her strangely accented Hindi at first. But as she continued to stir, I shook my head. “No. I am not—his—Daoud’s—not his woman. No.” The baby whined, crawl
ing toward his mother.

  Mahayna smiled, opening the front of her tunic. She pulled out a heavy breast and picked him up. He immediately began to suck contentedly, reaching up to swat at his mother’s dangling earring. “I have been here for three years, since I was a bride. Every year Daoud and his men come. I have heard many stories of Daoud’s Ghilzai.” She smiled, but it wasn’t the open smile of earlier. Now it held a teasing quality.

  “I will return to my own people,” I said. The thought of even attempting to explain what had happened was wearying. “I will not stay here,” I simply said.

  She nodded, looking down at her baby. His eyelids blinked heavily, and his sucking grew shallow.

  “Your husband is—with the goats?”

  She threw her head in a vague gesture toward the hills. “Some come down once every week, for fresh food. There must always be men with the goats at this time of birthing, otherwise many are lost.”

  I watched her gently set the now sleeping child inside the tent opening.

  “Why are Daoud’s men here?”

  “They keep the horses they catch here, readying them for selling or returning to Afghanistan. We feed them and clean their clothes. They do not touch us, or our men would not allow us to do their bidding. Our husbands are rewarded handsomely by the Pashtuns for our work.”

  I found it hard to believe she had been married for three years. “How old are you, Mahayna?” I asked.

  “I am sixteen years old,” she said, “but many of the women look up to me.” She told me this with simple honesty. “I am not born of the gujars; my husband bought me from a village near Srinagar, the largest city of Kashmir. My father was an educated man and very wise. He instructed my brothers in the languages of India, and I also learned. He beat me when he found me listening, for it was not right that I learn as my brothers. But it pleased me, so I continued to hide, and learned against his wishes. The saying is “A daughter’s intelligence is in no way helpful to the father.” This was not so for my father. He was not unhappy when I commanded a large price because of it. I am useful to the gujars, for I am called upon to deal with the peoples of the south who come to buy our goats.”

  She pulled a half-woven basket from the side of the tent and began to twist the tough reeds over and around in an intricate pattern. “Soon,” she said, “you will dress in fresh clothing. The women arrange it.”

  I watched the shape of the container emerge in her capable hands.

  WITHIN AN HOUR, four women came to Mahayna’s tent. They carried a pile of clothes and pulled at my arm, talking loudly. Mahayna had taken the pot of dal off the fire, and now a large tin of water bubbled merrily in the flames. She pulled two small gathered bags from within the folds of her tunic and emptied a small pile of tiny leaves into her palm from one of the bags, then dumped the leaves into the water. As if this were a sign, the women all sank gracefully to the grass and produced a small cup from their own tunics. The tunics seemed to be the equivalent of a lady’s reticule.

  Each woman dipped her cup into the boiling water, and Mahayna opened the second skin bag and passed it around. She handed me a cup of the steaming amber liquid, and I copied the other women, taking a pinch of the white substance that I realized was coarse sugar. Like the others, I blew on the hot liquid, then cautiously stirred it with my right forefinger, finally taking a sip. It was an unfamiliar but delicious blend of sweet tea. We were taking afternoon tea. The ladies chattered quietly among themselves. What a strange parallel, I thought, remembering the afternoon tea parties in Calcutta or Simla.

  Immediately I cursed myself for letting my thoughts go back to those places. The last tea party I had attended in Simla had been with Faith. We had been invited to the home of a young woman from Lucknow. Faith had been so lovely in a peach-colored crêpe de chine gown. Her delicate cup had rattled in its saucer, I remembered now.

  I had to set my own cup in the grass and breath slowly, for the pain of Faith was reawakened, fresh and new. I realized I had forgotten for the last few hours.

  By the time the ladies had finished their tea, wiped their cups on the hem of their tunics, and tucked them away again, Habib was stirring. Mahayna picked him up and motioned for the women to enter her tent. I followed, and the minute we were all inside the small space, the oldest woman began pulling at the buttons of my dress.

  “You must give us your clothing,” Mahayna instructed. “We will repair and wash it.”

  I took off my dress and boots and stockings and stood in my chemise and petticoat. Mahayna picked up the edge of it, admiring the delicate lace. The other women waited expectantly, their hands outstretched as I took off the petticoat, and finally my chemise. There was silence as they looked at what was left of my breast, with its crazed and crooked stitching, and at the fading lash marks of Somers’s riding crop on my back, and at the new wound on the back of my shoulder. I wanted to explain to them, and so I pointed to my breast.

  “A knife in the hand of an evil man,” I said, and they nodded,

  ah-ahaing as Mahayna translated. I turned to show my back. “My husband’s anger.” They nodded again, and I touched my shoulder. “By my own people. A mistake.”

  It was so simple.

  And then I took off my drawers and pulled away Daoud’s sash with small involuntary intakes of breath as the freshly formed scabs were torn off. “From the big horse,” I said, turning to Mahayna. The women clucked in sympathy at the sight, and immediately one dug in her tunic, extracting a tiny muslin bag.

  “Daoud gave me his horse medicine,” I said, trying to appear nonchalant as I stood completely naked in this small clutch of women. I saw some of them looking at my feathering, pointing at it and then the hair of my head, comparing the color.

  “Layla has a similar medicine, but for people,” Mahayna said. She nodded at the hook-nosed woman, who sprinkled some herbal-smelling powder over the sores, talking to Mahayna in Kashmiri the whole time. “Layla makes many medicines from the flowers and leaves of the forest,” she said. “This powder, if shaken on three times in a day, will heal the sores very quickly. But you must not bind yourself, as the air will dry and close the openings sooner.”

  Layla handed me the bag, and I put my hand on her arm to thank her.

  They had brought me clothes to wear. One woman held out a pair of voluminous black trousers, and I stepped into them, pulling the drawstring tightly at the waist. Another slipped a soft burgundy tunic—a kamis, they called it—over my head, and still another began working through my hair with a comb intricately carved from scented wood. Finally the oldest woman, her face badly pockmarked, knelt in front of me. I looked down to see her holding out two pairs of low boots. I slipped my bare feet into the flexible warm inner shoes of soft chamois leather, and the woman laced them. She set the strong outer sandal, with its turned-up toes, to one side.

  “You wear the second shoes over the first if you walk away from camp. They protect your feet from the sharpness of the stones,” Mahayna said.

  As the women adjusted my clothing, Mahayna, with Habib back in his sling, burrowed in a large cloth bag in the corner of the tent, then approached me with a pair of delicately patterned, long, silver earrings. I thought of the garish jewelry I’d bought myself on Paradise, of the genuine jewels Somers had given me in Calcutta, usually after some unpleasantness toward me. But this last straightforward gesture of kindness made my eyes burn. I took the earrings and attached them with strange silver clips to my ears. “Thank you,” I said.

  Mahayna flashed her disarming gap-toothed smile. “Now you look like one of us,” she said. “At least from the back.” She repeated her joke to her friends. They all laughed, and little Habib clapped his hands.

  I SAW DAOUD later that day as I walked with Mahayna to the stream to fetch water. He was sitting with two men, and they fell silent as we passed. He nodded at me, and as I saw his eyes take in my altered appearance, I unexpectedly felt heat in my face. Something was happening, something I didn’t understand, and yet
wanted to think about. There was a peculiar stirring in me at the sight of him. The same feeling I had when I felt my breasts against his back, felt his hipbones under my fingers. You know what it was, of course, and are probably laughing at my oddness, my naïveté. Me—a girl who had known hundreds and hundreds of men. But this was new, and both curiously exciting and uncomfortable at once.

  That night I slept on soft quilts in Mahayna’s tent. The tent flaps were left open, as the air was warm. Occasionally there was distant baying; the camp dogs perhaps, hunting in the nearby hills. I heard Habib’s sleepy demanding snorting, and after a quiet rustle of clothing his fussing was replaced by deep gulping and swallowing, and then the tent grew quiet again. I thought of Faith, and of Charles, when he received the news. I realized I had never once thought of Somers. Would he think me dead as well, if news traveled to him in Calcutta before I returned to Simla? He would outwardly show grief and despair, but I wondered if he would rejoice inwardly. For wouldn’t it be so much better for him if I were dead? He had his inheritance, and could go on as the grieving widower for many years, with the sympathy and respect of the English contingent. Poor man, the matrons would whisper behind their gloves. So in love with that strange little wife of his that he never got over her death. Chooses to live a solitary life; we could never interest him in another woman. No one could compare to his dear departed. How disappointed he would be when he heard I was back in Simla; how he would wish it were Faith who had returned, and me lying dead on the cold rocks.

  I turned my face toward the open door flap. I let myself think of Daoud, the shape of his bare back as he stood at the water’s edge, the look of his thighs as they pressed against his horse. His smell. Here it was again, the strange, restless feeling.

  THE NEXT DAY I helped Mahayna with the food and played with Habib. I didn’t see Daoud. Would I see him again? Surely he would come, soon, to tell me when and how I would return to Simla.