Godsend

by John Wray

  * * *

  She was halfway to the birch grove before Ziar spoke her name. The name she was known by, the one she had chosen, not the name her family had given her. For the first time it rang foreign to her ears.

  —Remember what I told you, Suleyman. However bestial our comrades-at-arms may seem, our enemy—

  —Did you know what was going to happen? Did you know what you were taking me to see?

  —You forget yourself. Mind how you speak to me, little brother. Bear in mind that you are under my command.

  —Tell me what her offense was.

  —It was foolish of me to take you there. He shook his head. —I was a fool to go myself.

  —What had she done?

  —She was a low woman. A person without faith. A prostitute.

  —A prostitute? Here in this village?

  —She had relations with soldiers. With the enemy’s soldiers. Tajiks. Before this valley was retaken.

  For a time they walked in silence. She saw the columns and the birch grove and the flickering of a campfire through the trees.

  —Who told you this? Those Talibs from Kabul?

  —Those men are our brothers, Suleyman. The ones we’ll fight and die beside. Not the people of this godforsaken village. He shook his head. —You’ve seen how they look at us, how they hiss at us, how they shrink from us when we meet them in the street. The people here are Muslims in nothing but name.

  —It’s not in the Qur’an, what those soldiers did. It’s nowhere in the teachings of the Prophet.

  —How young you still are, Suleyman. How innocent. How childish.

  She continued down the trail.

  —It was the villagers who stoned her, not the soldiers from Kabul. Are you listening, Suleyman? It was the villagers themselves.

  * * *

  As if her wish had been heard and mocked in its fulfillment the company spent the next three weeks encamped below the village. Though the peace of the birch grove was linked in her mind now with the stillness of the crowd around the body, with the mute and impassive violence of that place, each day dawned more blue and perfect than the last. Food was plentiful, the men had no duties to speak of, and in spite of the chill at night their strength was soon restored. Soon even those among them most inclined to idleness grew restless and impatient to move on.

  Ziar himself was the most restless of all. Each morning after first prayers he walked up the hill to the graceful stone-walled house that the captain had requisitioned for himself and came back preoccupied and ill at ease. Orders by radio from Kabul were to await further orders. Rumors circulated that Kunduz had fallen, or that a cease-fire had been declared, or that the Emir of the Faithful had met with American generals at an undisclosed location in the south. It was said that the president of the United States had declared war, though on whom was unknown. Sahar Gul said Saudi Arabia, Abu Suhail said Palestine, and Ziar kept his own counsel. There were few further signs of unrest in the village but this reassured no one. Some great change was approaching, irresistible and sure as the onset of winter, through the daylight and the quiet and the chill. When she held her breath it seemed that she could hear it. As days and then entire weeks went by she told herself that she was ready for the next trial, the next ordeal, whatever it might prove itself to be. But she couldn’t seem to picture what was coming.

  On the Day of Assembly they prayed with the captain and his officers in the little wooden mosque. Its interior was warm and nearly lightless and smelled of centuries-old oak and the pine needles that lay strewn across the floor. O believers! Enter the fold of peace, all of you. Do not follow in the footsteps of Satan, for he is to you a manifest enemy. If you slip after clear signs have been revealed to you, be assured that God is Almighty, All-Wise.

  Are they truly waiting for God to come to them in the shadowy folds of clouds, with His angels, when judgment is pronounced and all revert to God?

  They prayed swiftly and quietly, as if they were trespassing, and in fact when they left the mosque they found a hundred men waiting to enter. Her eyes were attuned now to the menace in the villagers’ expressions and she asked herself as she crossed the sun-warmed square how she could ever have felt safe there. Ziar recognized it as well and glanced over his shoulder twice before they’d left the square. The adjutants rolled their eyes at him and laughed at his concern.

  The captain’s quarters were unheated and spare, as befit a righteous Talib and protector of the faithful, but the kilim he invited them to recline on was the thickest and most intricate she’d ever sat upon. The owner of the house was a dealer in carpets and when he brought in the tea he cast a sorrowful eye on the circle of soldiers resting their unwashed feet on his most prized possession. As his son filled their cups the dealer assured them in Dari and Arabic and Pashto that it was a great and sacred privilege to offer shelter to such highly favored warriors. His son was too young to disguise his resentment but this was not what caught and held her interest. The boy’s every movement was carefully rehearsed, painstaking and deliberate, as though he were priming a mine. He put her in mind of someone, some long-lost acquaintance, but he left before she’d thought of who it was. The dealer lingered for a time at the window, looking apprehensively down at the street. When the talk turned to military strategy he wished them a blessed Juma’a and withdrew.

  —I trust that bowlegged Tajik less and less each day, the younger of the adjutants announced.

  —A considered view, Brother Zaeef, the captain replied good-naturedly. —But you’ll find that our host gets on quite well without your good opinion.

  Zaeef stared red-faced at the carpet amid the laughter of the men. Only Aden kept silent. She felt the captain’s black eyes on her as she helped herself to tea. Eventually he heaved a sigh and spoke.

  —Boys have a keener sense of a man’s trustworthiness, in my experience, than a toothless old warhorse like me. They are closer to childhood, when the spirit remains free of worldly blemish. He nodded to himself. —What does your American think, Brother Khan? Are these Tajiks to be trusted?

  —I don’t have an opinion about it, she said before Ziar could answer.

  —Young men always have opinions, said the captain. —I certainly did, little brother, when I was your age. In spite of my pure heart I was stubborn and pigheaded. But perhaps your heart is not so pure as one might first assume.

  —Have you had word today from Kunduz? Ziar asked him, sitting forward.

  The captain pursed his lips. —My orders have not changed.

  —I’d like to use the radio, if you have no objection.

  —All in good time, Brother Khan. Kindly curb your impatience. We are drinking our tea.

  Silence fell. Zaeef exchanged a look with the other adjutant that made her want to throw the tea tray at his eyes. Ziar bowed and smiled tightly and agreed that there was certainly no hurry. It was the Day of Assembly, after all, and a time of repose. He praised the fineness of the china and the thickness of the carpet.

  —We want to know why we’re still here, she said to the captain. —It doesn’t make sense.

  His kohl-rimmed eyes widened. —Who is this ‘we’ you mention, little brother?

  She set down her teacup. There was no disavowing the words she had spoken. Ziar said something under his breath and the captain told him to keep his mouth shut. The walls seemed to tighten. In her mind’s eye she saw herself just as she was, as no other living soul saw her, a girl among men, a deceiver, a changeling. She asked herself why this vision should have come to her there, in that moment of all moments, in that place of all places. Then the son returned and caught her eye and suddenly she knew.

  —Suleyman, came Ziar’s voice. —The captain has asked you a question.

  It was all she could do to maintain her composure. —I beg your pardon, sir. It’s the men in my company. There are rumors—

  —I know of these rumors, said the captain. —They poison morale. The question I have is who is spreading them.

  —Per
haps our American is right, said Ziar. —A few words of explanation, to set the brothers’ minds at ease—

  —I await your answer, Suleyman Al-Na’ama.

  —You haven’t asked me anything.

  —My apologies, brother. I am asking you now. Who is spreading these rumors?

  The air seemed to fill with the clacking of china as the merchant’s son gathered the cups. She kept her eyes downcast and struggled to focus. She was staring at the floor but she could see them so plainly. A room full of murderers. Just then the son stumbled on a fold in the kilim and the captain’s arm shot out and caught him by the wrist. He gave a childish squeal of pain but by some miracle he kept hold of the tray. The captain pulled downward until he was kneeling. The son’s face had gone ashen and his girlish lips quivered.

  —Yusuf is your name, boy, is it not?

  The son gave a moan.

  —I wonder, Yusuf, if you’d do us a kindness. I cherish your opinion as an honest boy, a Muslim boy, whose vision of this world is unpolluted. He gestured with his free hand to where she was sitting.

  —This other boy here, with the unfriendly look. Is this one to be trusted?

  The son’s eyes met hers but this time she was ready. She had decided not to let herself believe what she was seeing. If she had believed it then she might have cried out loud.

  —He is, said the son.

  —What’s that, Yusuf? He pulled the son closer. —What’s that you say?

  —He is, sir. I think so. He is to be trusted.

  To her astonishment the captain nodded and relaxed his hold. He seemed almost chastened. Even when the son twisted free and two cups fell to the carpet the captain did nothing. Ziar cleared his throat loudly and engaged him in a discussion of the village’s strategic strengths and the particulars of its defense in the event of hostile action from the south. After a brief delay the officers joined in. She was careful to keep herself slumped and small-bodied and still. No one addressed her. She had fallen back into invisibility.

  It was agreed that any attack would by necessity come from downvalley, since the steepness of the ridge gave them protection from above. It was observed that the village’s antiquity was a direct result of its remoteness and favored position. The talk flowed around her. At some point she realized the merchant’s son had disappeared.

  —In addition to which, the captain said sedately, —the nearest body of troops is a week’s hard march west, on the Badakhshan border. We’ll have ample time, in any case, to shore up our positions.

  Ziar nodded along with the others. —Will you nevertheless indulge me, brothers, in discussing what our plan might be if, God forbid, we find our first positions overrun?

  The officers looked to the captain. The captain smiled at Ziar and said nothing.

  —In that event, a man with a reddish beard began,—that is to say, in the worst of all outcomes—

  —We’d take to the caves, said another.

  —The caves?

  —You’ve never fought here, Brother Ziar, said the captain. —I’d forgotten.

  He said this in a soft voice, almost flirtatious, and she knew then that his anger hadn’t left him. His anger hadn’t left him and it had passed beyond appeasement and every man in that room was subject to its sway. She understood now that he meant to kill her. He would kill her because she was American and because she was an agent of a foreign power. These would be his justifications. The prayer in the mosque and the invitation to tea and even the discussion of the caves above the village comprised a ritual meant to end in execution. She knew this as well as she knew her own name.

  —These are famous caves, the redheaded man was saying. —The granite there is pink and hard as iron. The lowest are shallow, no more than folds in the rock, but the ones above are wide and very deep. They are excellent caves. A dozen mortars at their mouths could cover the whole of the valley approach. They are cool and clean and sheltered from the wind. The village mullah tells me that the deepest cave is visited by angels.

  Someone just past Ziar gave his opinion of the mullah and the younger men laughed. The son returned and collected the cups that remained, doing his best to draw no one’s attention. Again she felt the captain’s eyes on her. He waited until the son was out of sight before he spoke.

  —I believe in that boy’s gift for seeing the truth, Brother Khan. Especially the truth that is hidden. He shook his head fondly. —Perhaps because that boy is not a boy.

  Ziar returned his smile uncertainly. —What do you mean by that, brother?

  —Exactly what I say. Our host has confided in me that his son is in fact his daughter, raised to be what we call bacha posh. You are familiar with this custom? In a household without sons, a girl is dressed in boys’ clothes and taught to walk and speak and reason like a man. Have you no such practices across the border?

  She was on her feet before the captain had finished. She asked their forgiveness for the interruption and wished them all a blessed Day of Assembly and explained to them that she was feeling ill. She was thick-tongued and unsteady on her feet and it was possible that some of them believed her. The room had fallen silent and their faces seemed to darken and she knew better than to wait for a reply. She was halfway down the stairs when nausea overtook her, as though her lie had willed it into being, and she doubled over in the dark and crouched there heaving as the house revolved around her. She could still hear the men in the room overhead and she prayed to God that she might make no sound. She prayed to Him sincerely though she knew He must despise her. She could feel His disavowal in her chest and in her skull and she could feel it as a droning rising up out of the earth. She bit her tongue to keep herself from heaving. The droning grew deeper and more powerful with each breath she drew until it seemed to shake the mortared vault above her. It was only once she’d managed to stagger out onto the street that she saw that it was coming from the sky.

  —Suleyman! came Ziar’s voice. —What in God’s name are you doing? Can’t you see the planes?

  —He wants to kill me, she said.

  —I can’t hear you, Suleyman. If you’ll just—

  His voice was sucked up into the droning and she shook her head and kept walking, staring down at the cobbles, her right arm extended in case she should fall. She heard shouting behind her and quickened her step. However dangerous the sky had become the merchant’s house was more dangerous by far. She walked down the sunless slant-walled alley to the mosque without meeting a soul. Two streets ran downhill from the square’s southeast corner and when she reached it she turned left again into the old bazaar. Down a covered passageway she glimpsed a group of children darting from one stall to another and she seemed to see the merchant’s son among them. The noise from the sky was shrill enough now to break glass but there was no glass anywhere for it to break. She passed stalls with images crudely painted on their shutters of the wares for sale within, sandals and tinware and handmade plastic roses tied in Pakistan or China, and felt a childish urge to force their locks and hide there from the droning. Now that the truth had been revealed she felt no fear, not even sadness, but only a hopeless clearheaded exhaustion. She was walking like a girl again, like an eighteen-year-old girl and an American. She hadn’t forgotten. She undid her headcloth as she walked and let it hang down from her shoulders. Perhaps some buried part of her exulted. A Tajik in a sequined cap came running up the street and knocked her over, excusing himself elaborately as he stumbled on.

  She was almost to the first of the terraced barley fields above the village when she heard Ziar behind her. The droning had dimmed and she could hear the wind in the holly oaks bordering the path and his footfalls on the gravel and his hard insistent breathing. Though his eyes were wild he kept his distance from her. He carried a Kalashnikov slung from his shoulder and clutched his cap in his hands so that he stood before her as bareheaded as she was herself. She’d seen fervor in his eyes before, even some unnamed species of desire, but never the helplessness she found there now. His despera
tion was plain in his faltering walk and in the pleading voice with which he spoke her name. Suleyman? he murmured, climbing circumspectly toward her. On his lips her name became a question and the question seemed addressed to all the world.

  —Can you see them? she said.

  —I can’t hear you.

  —Can you see the planes?

  —They aren’t planes. He seemed relieved to be asked a question he could answer. —Not the one I saw. Too small. No pilot inside.

  —Missiles, then.

  —Not missiles either. There’s been no explosion.

  —Why? she said. He was within arm’s reach now. —Why hasn’t there been an explosion?

  —I can’t tell you why. God help us, Suleyman. I have no idea.

  She leaned toward him then and took his hand in hers. It felt as smooth and unresponsive as a piece of polished wood. She was opening her mouth to ask his forgiveness when the house behind him disappeared and a wall of stunned air knocked them flat and strafed them with debris. Ziar cried out but his cry was oddly muted. Life returned to her limbs as a spasm of fear and she lurched onto her feet just as the second shock wave hit. The mosque was gone and its courtyard was gone and so was the schoolhouse behind it. It seemed to her not that missiles were colliding with houses but that houses were rising up into the clouds. It seemed more a weather pattern than a technological event. She was aware of shrieks in the intervals between the explosions and of the hail of falling matter and of men firing frantically into the clouds but none of this detracted from the stillness. There was only stillness now though she could see smoke raveling upward behind streaks of yellow tracer fire and two women running naked through a brightly burning field. She hadn’t seen a woman’s legs or arms since California and the women were very beautiful and in all that landscape they alone seemed understandable and real. The first was running barefoot with a kameez pressed to her bosom and the second wore nothing at all. Then the edge of the field was lifted like the corner of a carpet and the women were gone and Ziar was running toward her through the stillness and the smoke.