Part 26 (1/2)
Later that afternoon, as she sat before a tray of goat's liver, spiced dal dal, and two thick rounds of potato-stuffed bread, Safiya Sultana considered the English girl's plight.
The news trickling down through the pa.s.ses from Afghanistan worsened each day. The whole country, it seemed, had taken up arms against the British.
Safiya did not know much about Afghan war-making but she knew two things: first, that no Afghan would deliberately shoot a woman in battle, and second, that besieging a fort and starving out its inhabitants was one of their most commonplace strategies.
Her mouth full, she glanced uncomfortably at the loaded dishes before her. Starvation was a fate Safiya Sultana could not bear to imagine.
What then of Mariam? The poor girl must be in a terrible state in that besieged fort. If she were not rescued soon, she might well perish from hunger or cold, or untreated illness.
Safiya looked down at the child who coughed sadly beside her, wrapped in her old brown shawl. It was no surprise that his little face had thinned from anxiety.
It must be terrible to see life, with all its sorrows, as clearly as he did She held out a bit of fried bread. ”Eat one more bite,” she commanded, ”and then go downstairs and sit in the sun with your grandfather. He has a verse from the Qur'an Sharif for you to recite. And do not forget,” she added, after he swallowed her offering and stood up, ”that Inshallah, your Abba will soon be fetching An-nah home.”
Saboor's anguished look told her she would have been wiser to say nothing.
As a little maidservant took away the tray, Safiya tried to picture Ha.s.san as he traveled toward Kabul, but having never seen even the great Badshahi Mosque that adorned the western edge of her own walled city, she could not imagine his surroundings, or the circ.u.mstances of his journey.
She signaled the little maidservant to bring the ewer and carved copper basin, then held out her greasy right hand and nodded.
She sighed as the girl poured a thin stream of rose-scented water over her hand. As much as she wanted Ha.s.san to forgive his wife and himself, in this emergency no one's feelings mattered.
Downstairs in the family courtyard, Shaikh Waliullah studied the child beside him.
”What have you dreamed, my darling?” he asked. ”What have you seen that has frightened you?”
He took the little boy's chin in his hand, his light, pleasant voice at odds with the power of his gaze.
”Stories.” Saboor squeezed his eyes shut.
”And are they sad, your stories?”
The soft face crumpled. ”They are very sad,” the child wailed. ”I hate the stories, but they keep coming back.”
”Can you tell me what they are?”
Tears smeared Saboor's face. He shook his head.
The old man took his grandchild into his arms, raised his eyes to an upstairs window of the ladies' quarters, and met his sister's worried gaze.
THAT EVENING, Zulmai put his head back and swallowed the last of his tea. ”You are wrong, Ha.s.san,” he said decisively. ”I saw it happen. Yusuf waited too long to kill the boy a.s.sa.s.sin. Before he pulled the trigger, the child got off a shot and alerted the guards, who fired at both of you.” He spread his hands. ”How is that your fault?”
”He thought I would shoot.” Ha.s.san sighed from his place on the other side of the fire. ”But I could not.”
Zulmai smiled. ”Yusuf knew you would never do it. So did I. No,” he concluded, ”it was Yusuf's fate to hesitate at that moment, and then to die. My father used to say,” he added casually, ”that he who takes responsibility for G.o.d's work is arrogant, while he who blames it on another man is an idolater.”
”I have not told you all of it,” Ha.s.san added. From the way he stared into the fire, Ghulam Ali understood that they would never hear the rest of his story.
It had to do with the English lady, then. Otherwise, Ha.s.san would have told it all.
From his vantage point near the tent doorway, Ghulam Ali watched Ha.s.san lift his maimed hand, as if to put it into a pocket in his clothes, then change his mind and drop it onto his knee. ”We are traveling too slowly,” he said abruptly.
Zulmai leaned over, reached into his saddlebag, and pulled out a bra.s.s water pipe. ”We will smoke before we sleep,” he announced, in the way of a friend who knows not to pry.
He filled the water container half full, then dropped tobacco into the shallow, perforated bowl that rested on its top. He scooped a burning ember from the fire onto a perforated bra.s.s dish, and laid that over the tobacco.
The coal glowed as he sucked, his fist clenched around the mouthpiece of the pipe. The water gurgled gently as the smoke entered it, then rose in bubbles to the surface, to make its journey through the mouthpiece.
”Ah.” He sighed, blowing out a stream of smoke as he handed the pipe to Ha.s.san. ”That is good.”
The next day, as they sat before their cooking fire at Khus.h.i.+, the Place of Delight, he gestured expansively. ”This place is beautiful in summer,” he offered, ignoring the food freezing on his plate. ”Everything is green and beautiful here, and the grapes are the sweetest you ever tasted. Khus.h.i.+ is a paradise in the desert.”
”Beautiful it may be,” Ha.s.san replied shortly, ”but it will not keep me here. I am going on alone. I can no longer bear to travel at this slow pace.”
”Not alone, and not yet.” Zulmai shook his head. ”You will start after we cross the Logar River, and you will take two of our best-mounted guards. Your horse will easily carry you to Kabul from there, if you start before dawn and stop only to offer your prayers. We will meet in Kabul, at the Pul-e-Khishti bridge, three days after you leave.”
January 2, 1842 Iknow I agreed to do this,” Mariana said wearily, two days later, her voice m.u.f.fled by her chaderi. ”It is just that I'm not-” I agreed to do this,” Mariana said wearily, two days later, her voice m.u.f.fled by her chaderi. ”It is just that I'm not-”
”There is no other way,” Nur Rahman insisted. ”You must do it now.”
Together, they peered north along the Kohistan Road. In the distance, five figures on horseback picked their way toward them, down the nearer Bibi Mahro hill.
”I told you they would not stay in the village for long.” Nur Rahman lifted the flap of his chaderi from his face. ”The old man with the gray beard is the one you must ask for panah,” he said. ”He will be riding in front.”
”Surely there is another solution,” she murmured. ”Surely, if we go back to the cantonment, we can think of a better plan.”
The boy shook his head forcefully. ”There is no better plan. You must act today, before it is too late.”
Desperate to find a way out of Kabul, Mariana had asked Nur Rahman to disguise her family and servants and send them to India with a nomad kafila, but the boy had refused. They would be impossible to disguise, he had said flatly. None of them resembled Afghans in anything they did, or any gesture they made. Her uncle threw back his head and guffawed when he laughed, something Afghans never did, and her aunt's gestures were too careful, as if she were holding something back. The Indian servants moved slowly, bent forward as if in deep thought, unlike his people who walked swiftly, their backs straight, their eyes on the horizon.
Mariana, he had added tactlessly, had only escaped notice because Afghan men did not waste their glances on women.
Of all the members of that household, he had said firmly, only Muns.h.i.+ Sahib could be hidden in Kabul until the storm blew over. Even Yar Mohammad could not pretend to be speechless forever.
”You must ask a tribal chief for panah,” he had announced.
She had agreed with him then, but now, trembling at the side of the road, she felt her courage fail.
The tribesmen were closer now, their leader riding the same bay animal Mariana had seen once before. They were terrifying to look at, swathed in heavy leather and wool, the shawls they had thrown over their turbans rendering their faces barely visible.
”But do you know this chief?” she asked for the third time that morning. ”Are you certain he will-”
”I do not know him,” Nur Rahman interrupted irritably, ”but I can see that he is a man of consequence, with the means to protect you and your household in comfort. That is all that matters.”
She did not move.
He gestured impatiently. ”Do you think I would guide you wrong after you saved my life? Can you not understand that I am doing this for your sake, not mine? Do you not trust me?”
”Of course I trust you,” she said doubtfully, her eyes searching his through the hole in her chaderi.