Godsend

by John Wray

  —Are you hit?

  She gave no answer as he steered her by the shoulder up the path. She could walk without much trouble but she couldn’t feel her feet. She could feel her feet but not the ground beneath her. The collar of her shirt was damp and this troubled her vaguely and when she turned her head she saw that the flesh across his knuckles had been sheared down to the bone. She told him he was bleeding and he shook his head and pushed her forward. She felt bloodless and white but if anything Ziar’s weathered skin was darker than before. His beautiful skin. Every last thing was darker and she felt her legs buckle beneath her.

  —Suleyman, he said. —Look here to me now. Are you injured?

  She told him she wasn’t and he took her by the hair with his unhurt hand and pulled her to her feet. Her eyes were streaming from the pain but she could feel the ground again and hear Ziar ahead of her, wheezing and stumbling, cursing her and the missiles and the village and himself. The hideous stillness had passed and they were high above the rooftops now and she tried to find the planes but couldn’t find them. The planes were behind the clouds, behind the mountains, perhaps already in another country. Ziar forced her onward. She remembered enough of her training to ask him why they hadn’t taken shelter.

  —This is shelter.

  —What is?

  He pointed past her to the lowest of the caves. Even in that cataclysmic twilight she could see the deep rose color of the granite. He told her to hurry but already she was climbing faster than he could manage and she reached its arched mouth well ahead of him. She’d expected to find provisions inside, sacks of grain or munitions or a cache of arms, but she found nothing but droppings and empty soda cans and the ashes of a long-extinguished fire. Above it was a second cave and above that yet another. Ziar said to keep climbing, his face gone white at last from loss of blood, and she found herself deferring to his weakness as she’d once done to his strength.

  At the seventh or eighth mouth Ziar could go no farther and she passed her arm around his waist and helped him to lie down. She pulled the loose folds of her headcloth from her neck and made a cushion for his head, surprised at the softness of his matted graying hair. He apologized to her without saying what for and she pressed a palm to his forehead and told him to hush. A flap of skin hung wetly down across his fingers and the exposed ligaments spasmed in a way that made her stomach turn. Water was trickling from a furrow in the granite and she tasted it and found it clean and bitter. She caught some in her hands and brought it to Ziar where he lay with his head propped against a milky outcropping of crystal, the cushion she’d made him already discarded, and he lapped it from her cupped palm like a cat. Then he asked her to bring him ashes from the firepit she’d seen in the first cave.

  On her way down she kept her eyes on the footpath before her, steep and glittering with quartz, but returning with her fists full of ashes she forced herself to look back at the village. What few buildings remained stuck out at incongruous angles like scorched and shattered teeth. She tried not to think of the beauty of those ancient pagan houses or the centuries of shelter they had given. She tried not to think of the people inside. She tried to view the wreckage as an elegant abstraction, a study in ballistics, an object lesson in the vagaries of war.

  She found Ziar huddled at the cave-mouth, stooped and impassive, squinting down into the hanging smoke.

  —I see the carpet seller’s house, he told her. —Can you see it?

  She looked out past the ruins of the mosque and the bazaar and answered that she could.

  —The stone walls are what saved it. A rich man suffers less, even in war. That’s one of the sayings of our Prophet. He managed to smile. —Or it ought to have been.

  —Even its roof looks all right, she said, shading her eyes.

  —The roof is in perfect condition. The roof is untouched. Your friend the captain is an excellent judge of houses.

  She said nothing for a moment. —The bombing’s done. I guess we should go back.

  —We can’t go back.

  —Why not?

  —You know why not, he said.

  He’d washed his hand while she was gone and replaced the flap of flayed skin and affixed it in some way she couldn’t grasp. He instructed her to wet the ashes and pack them in a poultice against the wound. She tore a strip of cloth as wide as her palm and wound it carefully around his hand and tied it at the wrist. Then they sat together arm-in-arm and watched the village burn.

  * * *

  —How do I call you? he asked her that evening.

  Most of the fires had been put out, though a scattering of cinder heaps still smoldered. The setting sun shone straight into the cave and she saw that it was deeper than she’d thought. She felt caught in the sun’s glare, exposed and at risk, set on a sacrificial stage for all to see.

  —Let’s go back in, she said.

  —I could call you Suleyman Al-Na’ama, I suppose. I find it still suits you.

  —I don’t think it does, she said. —Not anymore.

  —What name, then?

  —I don’t know. You could call me Sawyer.

  —Sawyer only?

  —My given name was Aden. Aden Grace.

  He turned the syllables over on his tongue for a time, acquainting himself with their contours and weight, and she corrected him shyly. The color had come back into his cheeks now and his eyes were hard and clear.

  —Aden Grace Sawyer. So be it.

  She watched him. —Tell me something.

  —Yes.

  —How long have you known?

  —Since you left the carpet seller’s. Longer than that, possibly. He looked down at his bandaged hand. —Possibly since the beginning.

  —There’s a precedent for this, you know. A precedent in scripture.

  —A precedent for what, Aden Grace? He laughed. —For the two of us together in this cave?

  She sat up straight. —Umm Sulaim took up a dagger on the Day of Hunain. She took it up in battle at the Prophet’s side and promised to protect him. This is written in the Hadith.

  —Yes?

  —It’s written that the Prophet even turned to her and smiled.

  —I see. He coughed into his fist. —And is it written what God’s Messenger did next?

  She hesitated. —He smiled. That’s all I remember.

  —I’m no mullah, God knows, but I do recollect this passage. The Messenger, may peace be upon him, said to Umm Sulaim: God is sufficient, and He will be kind to us. You do not need to carry this dagger.

  —But He didn’t forbid her from carrying it. And He smiled at her.

  —What is your fear, Aden Grace Sawyer? That I’ll cast stones at you? He grinned. —I don’t blame you. There are plenty to choose from in this place.

  —No, she said slowly. —That isn’t my fear.

  For a moment all was quiet. His eyes were hard and clear and the color had returned to his skin and he reached for her with arms like polished wood and pulled her to him. He gripped her roughly but she offered no resistance. Her own arms were useless and she fell heavily against him and lay with her face in the folds of his shirt, stubborn and gasping, like a fighter taking shelter from a blow. He took her by her useless arms and pushed her to the ground. She asked herself what his experience of women might have been and what the appropriate conduct was for a Muslim in her situation and laughed at the grotesqueness of the thought. Ziar mistook her laughter for a cry of pain and told her that he hadn’t meant to hurt her. He breathed into her ear that what was happening was glorious and a reverence to God and all His seraphim and that she herself must be an angel come to earth to ease his grief. Come to him even in his waywardness, even in his pride. He told her that there might be a small pain at first, but only for an instant, and she laughed again at all he didn’t know.

  —Now, she whispered. —Let it happen now.

  She took hold of him surely and guided him forward. Now it was Ziar who put up no resistance. He was above her and the daylight caught the vault
of quartz behind him and he was moving as she wanted him to move. She was shaking with cold but not with the cold of that place. She had brought the cold with her. She had felt it since their crossing, since the Mountain, since Karachi, since the farthest point her memory could reach. He was moving above her and the light was behind him and she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. She was shivering as a child will shiver coming into a warm and well-lit room out of the snow.

  * * *

  They spent a full night and day between waking and sleeping, looking down at the village as if from a cloud bank, taking care not to be caught out in the light. She slept so much that it astonished her. Each time she awoke she felt lightheaded with hunger and each time as Ziar spoke to her the feeling passed away. Never had she felt so confident of Paradise or so sure of damnation. She wondered if it could be true that God loved sinners best, as her mother often claimed, and though she knew the thought was heresy she was helpless to refute it. It was the only explanation she could think of.

  Ziar assured her they were presumed dead and therefore free, as free as ghosts or djinn or creatures of the air, and she kissed him and agreed it must be so. At times he would leer at her when he made such pronouncements, as mischievous as a schoolboy, and at other times his eyes would lose their focus. He looked through her then, as if she truly were a phantom, and she could sit back and observe him at her leisure. His wind-chapped hands, his hooded eyes, the delicacy of his close-set teeth.

  That evening when the line of dusk was just shy of the cave-mouth she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her, already fully clothed. She sat up at once and wrapped her shirt around her.

  —We’re going, she said.

  He smiled at her. —We must.

  —Why are you smiling?

  —To think that you made me ask myself whether I had a fondness for dancing boys, like some Kandahar degenerate. That was not very charitable of you, Aden Grace.

  —What would you have done?

  —What do you mean?

  —If I had been a boy. Here with you in this cave.

  He answered without hesitation. —I’d have done as I did. To do otherwise would have been beyond my power.

  —That makes me happy.

  —Yes. He nodded. —You may take heart in that. You have not been to blame.

  She watched him as he adjusted the dressing on his hand and refastened his belt and ejected the clip from his rifle and slid his thumb into the firing chamber to check that it was clean. The cave was drowned in sunlight, rose-colored and shadowless, exactly as it had been two days before.

  —To blame? she said at last.

  —The sun will be down presently. We’ll leave when it has set.

  She waited for him to look at her.

  —I’d like to keep clear of the village altogether, to be sure we don’t encounter our friends from Kabul. It’s best if we hold to the slope.

  —Where are we going, Ziar?

  —To the birch grove, of course. To our company.

  —What about me?

  He cocked his head slyly. —Whatever can you mean, Brother Suleyman?

  —No, Ziar. I can’t do that. They’ll know.

  —And how will they know? Were any of them at the carpet seller’s house? Were any of them with us in this cave?

  She stood and braced an arm against the wall. —They’ll know as soon as they see us. They’ll know right away.

  —They’ve had weeks to see us. They’ve had months. No one guessed.

  —But we didn’t know yet, either. We didn’t even—

  —Of course we did, Aden. We knew very well.

  She said nothing to that. It was obvious when he spoke again that he’d chosen his words with great care.

  —What we’ve done is between us and the sky and God’s angels. No one else can condemn us. We can leave it in this cave if we desire.

  She took a step toward him. —Don’t make me do that.

  —Get dressed now. We’ll have need of this light.

  —What about the captain? What about his officers?

  He shortened the strap of his Kalashnikov and stepped into his sandals. —We leave for Nangarhar after first prayers tomorrow. There’s no sense now in holding this position, let alone in marching for Kunduz. I don’t need the captain’s radio to tell me that.

  —Don’t go yet. Don’t go out there.

  —Nonsense. It’s time.

  —Ziar, listen to me. I can’t— She felt her head shaking. —I can’t go back to how things were before.

  It seemed to her that she could see the sky darkening instant by instant as he stood motionless as a statue with her shalwar in his hands. His face was hidden by the light and she was grateful not to see it.

  —You’ll come now, he said. —Or you won’t come at all.

  * * *

  Night had fallen by the time they reached the birch grove and they took their brothers wholly by surprise. They had posted no sentries and started no fire. Of the forty who’d set out with Ziar from the Orchard fourteen were unaccounted for, six were known to be dead, and seven had left for Nangarhar already. The remainder sat huddled together around a propane lamp, talking in whispers. Sahar Gul sprang to his feet when he heard them and discharged his rifle but the firing pin jammed and no damage was done. When he saw who it was he broke into tears and embraced them both fiercely and brought them into the circle and begged their forgiveness. No one asked where they’d been. It struck her that their manner toward her had changed in some elusive way but perhaps this was due to the bombing. None among that company had ever witnessed such a massive strike, Ziar included. What awed them most was that the planes had been so small.

  They left before light of day, stumbling and furtive and sadly diminished, muttering verses to themselves and glancing skyward at the slightest noise. She learned from Sahar Gul that six of the company had been in the bazaar when the first strike had hit and three more had burned to death fighting a fire. Abu Suhail and two others had been crushed under a wall. She asked Sahar Gul where they’d been buried and he pretended not to hear.

  At noon they overtook the first deserters. The youngest of them sat in the middle of the trail with his knees drawn in to his chest, answering the questions of his companions with diffident shakes of the head. She’d expected Ziar to show anger, to mete out some kind of punishment, but he greeted them straightforwardly and asked what ailed the boy.

  —Nothing ails him, Captain. He’ll be up and walking soon.

  —He was in the mosque, said another.

  —Not in the mosque, the first man said. —But near it.

  —Was he hit? Ziar asked in the same forthright voice. —Can he walk? Is there a problem with his legs?

  —Nothing ails him, Captain. He’s just being mulish.

  —If that’s the case, then get him walking.

  The men exchanged looks. The boy paid no attention. He sat hugging his knees in the dirt, humming quietly. Ziar signaled a halt and knelt beside him.

  —Your friends say nothing ails you, Brother Hamza. Is this so?

  The boy gave no answer. It hurt her to see him. Ziar bent lower and said something else, too quietly for her to understand. Then to her astonishment he turned and beckoned to her.

  —Brother Suleyman is with us, Brother Hamza. You remember Brother Suleyman, I think?

  The boy’s eyes darted toward her, or past her, perhaps, to where his companions were standing. He let out a groan and clutched himself more tightly. Ziar took her by the arm and pulled her closer.

  —Of course you know Brother Suleyman. He was with us when we crossed the border. Through the snow with that old guide. That old hypocrite. Ziar shot her a glance. —We need you to keep walking, Brother Hamza. To rejoin your comrades. You can’t keep sitting here. It isn’t safe.

  The boy hummed more loudly and lowered his head.

  —You remember that old guide who wouldn’t stop preaching? You remember when General Nazir found us, don’t you
, and lined us up against the cemetery wall? Look here at me, Brother Hamza. Do you remember when Brother Suleyman put that old man to death?

  —Captain Ziar, she heard herself stammer.

  —Not a martyr’s death, brother. A far cry from that. Eight rounds in the chest and an unhallowed grave. You remember. You saw for yourself.

  The boy’s head rested on his knees now and Ziar put a hand on the back of his neck. As she watched them the ground moved under her as it had during the strike. She backed away and closed her eyes to keep from being sick. She opened them to find Ziar before her. His lips were pale and he seemed to be fighting for air.

  —I can’t do this, Ziar. Don’t ask me to do this.

  —What have I asked of you? I’ve asked nothing of you. Only that you stand beside me. And even this small token you refuse.

  —That boy is hurt. Anyone could see it.

  He watched her for a moment, panting softly. —It would seem you’ve forgotten your training.

  —The hell with my training.

  —Be careful, Suleyman. You may find—

  —Don’t call me that now. Call me by my real name.

  —And which name is that? Aden Grace Sawyer? You told me that name in a hole in the ground. Out here I am your captain and I call you Suleyman.