Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  It’s easy to cast a spell over a hungry man, with the aroma of a luscious lamb stew and baking bread. I stirred the stew slowly, adding more fragrance to the room. My sons hovered as I placed the pot on a mat in the center of the carpet where we ate our meals. Then the boys sat on the floor, backs straight and legs crossed, waiting for me to serve their father first.

  When I wanted to speak to my husband about any pressing matter, I served dinner earlier than usual, providing him with a small portion that lasted until the children ate and wandered off. Then I gave him another serving. No longer hungry or distracted, we talked.

  Despite many sleepless nights, I decided against revealing what I had seen in the middle of the night. An accusation from any of us would put my family in danger. Still, I tried to plant distrust about Jahangir and Gul. I kept my voice low. Jahangir and his men could break this village apart, I commented. If he stays, he will try to take control.

  Parsaa dismissed my concern. Better he’s in our sight.

  I refused to give up easily. He pretends to be devout, but he knows less than you do about the Koran.

  Not in front of the children, he murmured.

  The children should know our thoughts on whom to trust. How can they learn if not from their father? It was a phrase he had used on others. Parsaa scowled, checked the two youngest boys, busy with a game in the corner, and then closed his eyes. You can ward him off with verses from the Koran, I insisted. You should know his activities and tell him we won’t join with his evil—

  He slapped his hand to the floor. Enough! he shouted.

  That day eroded my certainty about the Koran’s power—not if it taught us to fear and hide from evil. Parsaa and I did not understand the book the same way.

  Not long ago, a friend—Karimah—had talked about the drought in our area and suggested that the cause was unseen evils. I laughed and she asked, You do not believe?

  I’m old enough to know that neither good nor evil is linked with nature. Fear crossed her face, and I tried to assure her. It doesn’t matter what I believe. We’re alone with our thoughts.

  It’s dangerous to think too much on your own, she cautioned, one of the regular reminders that I had to pretend to think like everyone else, keeping questions and arguments to myself.

  Too many assume that certainty is strength and uncertainty is weakness. Unlike others, I did not fear doubt. Of course, worries about Parsaa’s commitment to me and his priorities were like a heavy sack on my shoulder, yet other doubts, like the questions of faith, are like fluttering wings of moths, lifting my thoughts to new heights and leading to other possibilities. Doubt and new ideas cannot weaken me.

  I did not think like others.

  I resented Jahangir lingering around our village, but hoped that Parsaa was right, that in plain sight, the man could not commit evil.

  Jahangir joined the sessions of village men reading the Koran. I listened from inside and soon realized that he only pretended that he could read. Parsaa and the others read along, acting as if nothing was amiss.

  And men pretended to know great truths just as easily. Any man could scratch words on paper and insist his words are truth. If we cannot read, compare, and test ourselves, how do we trust any words on paper or from the mouths of men? How can we trust others’ instincts? After Ali’s death, there was but one certainty. Regardless of good or evil, Allah does not watch us all.

  I loved my family, and kept such thoughts to myself. Reading and other secrets added to my distance with Parsaa. The two of us had to grapple with our fears alone.

  My favorite time of day shifted away from the dinner hour and time with my family to any hours spent alone, working in the fields, studying the soil and sky, recording my observations as I could with numbers and a few words. Our village shared the work of tending the fields, and I remembered the history of previous seasons well. Alone, I could test new ideas—giving the seedlings more space, trimming new shoots from plants until the fruit appeared, digging troughs around roots to direct the rainwater. Noticing the rich soil under rocks, I ordered my sons to build three small rock walls to store and shelter old leaves and wasted vegetable scraps that in time would turn to soil.

  When others praised our harvests, I credited my husband’s daily prayers. More than once, travelers like Jahangir complained about Laashekoh women working in the fields, stressing that other villages did not allow such indignities. Without you, our fields would not produce half as much, Parsaa had admitted. We would have to depend on men like Jahangir.

  But even hard work was no match for droughts lingering for months, insects devouring crops, or soldiers demanding supplies. Until Jahangir’s arrival, the families of our village had banded together, refusing to compete or prick the envy of others. Accomplishments belonged to the village, not individuals. Otherwise, Laashekoh could not have survived.

  My husband claimed to trust Allah, but I lacked such certainty and refused to be ashamed. Uncertainty and curiosity are intertwined. Those who are certain lack the urge to learn more.

  The visitors complained that women and girls moved too freely throughout our compound, that we didn’t cover ourselves appropriately. Most of Jahangir’s outbursts, though, took place when Parsaa was not around. And Parsaa and the other men left our village too often.

  Women started to worry after one of Jahangir’s men shoved a young girl to the ground, calling her a sag—dog—for dashing about with her brothers. Then another man threatened to shoot a young wife for laughing at a joke made by her husband.

  Resenting being watched and judged, we complained to our husbands and insisted that at least a few men stay in the village at all times and accompany the women as we worked in the orchards or gardens.

  We’re afraid to work, one young wife protested.

  The hihab is not enough for them!

  It’s only temporary, the men promised. They procrastinated out of fear, and that added to our resentment. Mari was willing to rationalize the visitors’ contempt.

  It’s a sign from Allah, Mari insisted. We could do more to follow the ways of the Koran. A few women scowled at her, but none responded. The women whose daughters were insulted became cool, staying away as long as Mari intended to defend the strangers.

  Women could no longer trust their husbands or friends.

  Chapter 12

  Cameron had spooked more than one member of the team about any visit to Laashekoh. That didn’t deter Mita. Joey had suggested that it was better to test the village mood sooner than later—and collect information on what the village knew about the gunshot. She was ready to take off, in kalaa Afghani that was old and worn.

  Joey, Habib, Dan, and Mita took on the assignment of hiking to Laashekoh. They carried pamphlets and empty packs to bring back whatever fresh vegetables they could buy. Joey also presented Mita a holster for her Beretta M9. “How do you want to reach for it, side or front?” he asked. She held her right hand over her chest, and he placed the holster over her shoulders, sizing it and cutting the straps. “It’s like fitting a little kid,” he teased.

  She didn’t laugh and avoided touching the firearm. “I worry about showing a lack of trust.”

  “The villagers carry guns, too. It’s not them I worry about.” He stood back. “There. . . . With your jacket, they won’t see it. We have to be ready for anything.”

  The morning air was crisp, cool, the sky was clear. The four climbed out of the Humvee and hiked without pause. Past the avalanche section, the narrow stretch forced visitors to move single-file the last few kilometers to the village. Joey took the lead, and as he shoved branches aside to round a sharp curve, the shooting began.

  One of the first bullets ricocheted off Joey’s helmet, stunning him. Knocked to the ground, flat on his back, he automatically pressed the trigger to his M16, spraying the hillside and the source of the shots. Then he rolled for cover.

  Head pounding from the hit, or maybe from the blasts chipping at nearby rocks, Joey checked the others. All were saf
e—Habib hovering over Mita after shoving her to the ground, Dan crawling to join Joey. While Joey reloaded, Dan took aim at a man in black, dodging in and out of sight around the brush overhead. The shooting was steady, almost mechanical, keeping up with the pounding pain in Joey’s head.

  Dan didn’t take his eyes off the hill. “You okay?”

  “Stunned, but I’ll get that bastard. I’m sure it’s one shooter.” Joey held his hand up, the signal to stop shooting. Silence descended on the hillside. “Let’s see what he does,” Joey murmured. He glanced back at Mita. Her gun was not even out. “Did you get a look at the guy?”

  Dan narrowed his gaze. “He’s in black.”

  “Keep an eye on him—we’ll trap him.” Joey signaled Habib to climb the hill and get the advantage of higher ground. Using the curve of the mountainside to stay out of sight, Habib moved quietly. Joey and Dan kept crawling uphill, deliberately moving slowly, to distract the sniper.

  “Come on baby, four against one,” Dan crowed.

  “Try three against one.” Joey countered.

  The shooter suddenly dodged backward out of sight, and Dan swore. A few rocks suddenly fell onto the path, directly in front of Joey. Too close to come from Habib. The sniper knew the terrain.

  “Get him,” Joey said, more to himself than to Dan. “Get him. If he makes it to that ridge, he’ll pick us off . . .”

  They sprayed shots just above the guy, trying to prevent him from climbing higher. But he was out of sight and had stopped shooting. Joey held his hand up to stop firing from his side. He wanted to see the sniper and know once and for all if the shooter was from Laashekoh.

  Joey also wished that he could have stayed closer to Mita. But the shooter would have a tough time getting to her, past three opponents. “Is visiting this village worth it?” Dan called out.

  Joey scowled. “Since when do we let one clown stop us?”

  “Could be a good idea if a general’s daughter is tagging along,” Dan teased. “Why don’t those women like to shoot?”

  “She’ll shoot if she has to.” Joey scanned the hillside. “But she doesn’t have to. I’m sure there’s just one shooter.”

  Dan nodded. “That’s all I’ve heard.”

  Joey lowered his voice. “I don’t want him to spot Habib, so I’ll move ahead to get his attention. You cover. Unless he starts descending, and then get closer to Mita.”

  As Joey started, shots rained down on the sniper from above. Habib had reached the top.

  Taking advantage of the barrage, Joey held his chin to the ground and crawled upward, taking advantage of every boulder and blade of grass for cover. Dan and Habib did not let up with the fire.

  For a few moments, no gunfire came from above. The sniper must have found cover for reloading. Then suddenly rounds started biting the dust at Joey’s feet. He dove behind a boulder.

  The sniper didn’t have the best aim. But with an automatic rifle and plenty of ammunition, he didn’t need it.

  Joey checked the positions. Nearby, Dan was stretched out, firing away. The only sign of the sniper was the rifle’s barrel poking from a vertical crack in the hillside, close to the ground. No cover was nearby, and the guy stayed in place, shooting wildly. Overhead Habib steadily crept along the ridge. They were close to trapping the sniper.

  But Mita was out of sight.

  Joey was too damn far from her. He wanted to call out, but couldn’t risk drawing attention to her. Joey was in better position to hit the sniper, so he signaled Dan to head back to the path. As Dan tried to move, the shooter let loose with steady fire, chipping away at nearby rocks and boulders.

  Let the guy spend his ammunition, Joey thought.

  Joey and Dan had little choice but to be patient, aiming the M16s in single-shot mode for accuracy, keeping their eyes on the rifle barrel. One of Joey’s shots even hit the barrel. The sniper pulled back.

  “He’s stuck,” Dan said.

  There was a long pause, as the two men stared at the gun barrel resting on the ground, just barely visible.

  “Maybe we got him?” Dan asked.

  Joey shook his head and checked below. “I’ll wait. You check on Mita.”

  Dan took off, sliding downhill toward the path where Mita waited. She’s carrying the Beretta, Joey tried to reassure himself. She’d holler if anyone approached.

  Suddenly, a single shot landed just to the left of Joey’s head—and he scrambled along the side of the boulder and then glanced up toward the crack. The gun barrel had not moved.

  Damn, Joey thought to himself. The sniper had tricked them into thinking he was stuck. But the vertical crack must have led to a passage, and, leaving one gun as a decoy, the sniper used the time to make his move. He had a new position with plenty of cover, and Joey had no idea where the man was at.

  Shaken, Joey realized that the single shot probably didn’t alert Dan and Habib to the sniper’s new position—and he couldn’t see them to signal. “Shooter moving!” he shouted, along with the code that the position was unknown.

  Leaning against the rock, Joey waited a moment before checking the terrain. He couldn’t see Habib, and the Afghan couldn’t see his signals. Joey eyed a pile of rocks a few meters away. He wanted to signal Habib to suspend his part of the operation and back away. The team had to move quickly, increasing their distance from the shooter, returning to the path, and reorganizing.

  Dropping into a crouch, Joey took a zigzag run before diving for the next cover.

  But the sniper had lost interest in Joey, and no shots came his way. Breathing hard, Joey heard footsteps scrambling above. Habib stepped along the ridge to avoid entering what he assumed to be the sniper’s sightline. Exposed to the upper reaches of the hillside, pressing against a crumbling dirt wall, Habib approached the crack from overhead, never realizing that the sniper had moved away from the opening where the rifle barrel still waited.

  Joey shouted, pointed, to warn Habib to pull back. But the Afghan had already jumped down to the ledge, blasting the opening and stray rifle.

  High above, the sniper was ready, firing one shot that slammed Habib. Didn’t matter that the Afghan wore a vest—he went down hard, blood splattering over the dirt and rocks.

  Furious, Joey stretched atop the boulder and sprayed the hill nonstop. There was a scream, before the sniper took off and fled over the ridge. A hit. At such close range, the guy would likely die without immediate medical attention.

  Joey raced toward Habib, not taking his eyes away from where he had last seen the sniper. Habib’s eyes were closed and his neck was half gone. There was no point in checking for a pulse, but Joey put a hand to the man’s shoulder. Dan scrambled back uphill, and Joey stood, providing cover. But no more shots came their way.

  “You got him,” Dan said.

  “Not in time for Habib.” Joey was bitter about not taking more caution about a motionless rifle barrel. After straightening Habib’s arms and legs, Joey stood and murmured a prayer: “He belongs to Allah, to Allah he returns.”

  Dan solemnly crossed himself.

  “He saved my life.” Joey stared up the hill, as he removed his jacket for an impromptu stretcher. “We’ll carry him back to the truck—then hurry back to Laashekoh.”

  “We’re still going?” Dan asked, incredulous.

  “Hell, yes,” Joey snapped. “We’ll check if they have a wounded sniper on their hands.” He scanned the hillside again, but the sniper was long gone. Each man held his rifle with one arm, using the other free hand to heft Habib, preparing to trudge back to where the Humvee would pick them up.

  “The villagers had to have heard this,” Dan complained.

  “It was one guy. We can’t expect them to come to our rescue.”

  “They may know more than they’re telling us, have you thought of that?”

  “We’ll follow his trail . . .” They reached the path, and Joey suddenly lowered his rifle, twisting to check both directions. “Where the hell is Mita?”

  After Joey radio
ed for assistance, it didn’t take long for others to arrive. He and Dan lifted Habib’s body into a truck for transfer to the outpost. From there, the Afghan’s body would be whisked by helicopter to his family later that day for an immediate burial.

  Joey and Dan had already paced the pathway and found Mita’s empty pack next to the tree where they had left her. But there was no other sign. Joey asked Dan if he had heard gunfire coming from the path.

  “Absolutely not,” Dan insisted. “I would have never moved forward. And she didn’t shoot either. There was one shooter . . .”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Joey said. He worried the shooter was a distraction for a kidnapping. “I hope she still has the gun.”

  An hour later, more than a dozen searchers joined the two men, spreading out and systematically circling out from the tree where Mita had last been seen. About two hours later, on a ledge below, Joey frightened a flurry of birds feeding on berries and found Mita’s mobile radio unit and weapon. He checked the unit. It was still on. Moments later, Dan found her helmet on the rocks below.

  “She didn’t try to make a transmission,” he noted. He looked up, certain the three objects had not been tossed by Mita or tumbled off the cliff alone.

  Joey checked the area, finding no sign of ambush or trauma other than some crushed branches—almost like a hole in the brush, as though something hard had fallen from the path above. He pointed out the damaged brush to the others. “She was here when the gunfire broke out. She might have been changing her position, and had an accident backing away.”

  Dan winced and looked up. “Hard fall.”

  “At least ten meters . . .” Cameron said. “She’d be hurt.”

  “She’s tiny, and the undergrowth is thick. It might have cushioned the fall.”

  “Then where is she?” Cameron asked, looking around. “She’d be waiting with a broken neck or leg. Or she’d head back for the path.”