“Damn it, yes,” Joey said. Holding onto a slender branch, he clambered down from the ledge and detected what could be a rough trail carved into the hillside, barely noticeable and overgrown with brush. A berry was on the ground, perhaps dropped by a bird. He knelt to examine what looked like the mulberries back home. Pushing his way through more brush, he checked the way for another fifty meters, but saw no sign that anyone had passed along the way—no broken branches, scattered leaves, or footprints. Below was a steeper drop, with more rocks than vegetation. They conducted a thorough search, and Joey was relieved about not finding Mita’s body.
Joey couldn’t imagine a reason for Mita to move far from her position, leaving her radio behind. Unless she had been abducted.
He climbed up to the ledge again. Pressing against the cliff wall, Dan looked out over the valley, checking for sign of movement in the area thick with forest, the river area, and the desert beyond. “It’s odd she left the radio and gun behind,” Joey said.
Dan shrugged. “She either dropped them in a hurry to get away—or someone took them away from her.”
More than three hours had passed, and that could mean Mita was already miles away.
A black bulbul scolded him from a nearby bush stripped of berries. Hopping from branch to branch, the bird dipped its head, searching in vain for ripe fruit. Surely, there’d be signs of a struggle if Mita had been taken against her will. Frowning, Joey returned to the path and met with other searchers.
“Anything?” Cameron asked, and Joey shook his head.
“Maybe the gunfire was a diversion for taking her hostage?” Barnaby noted.
“She would have struggled and yelled.” Joey shook his head. “There would be signs.” Suddenly a sliver of hope went through him. “Maybe she went back to the path, and instead of heading toward the Humvee, she went ahead to the village.” He turned and looked in that direction, studying the path for some sign.
“To the village?” Cameron questioned. “Alone? That would be crazy!”
“It’s worth a look,” Joey snapped. “Who wants to come?”
Dan nodded, and the two hurried away, leaving the others to keep searching for a body or a clue.
Sweating, visibly upset, the two men reached the village, entering its main gate without relaxing the grip on their weapons.
The villagers should understand—they couldn’t have missed the earlier gunfire.
The midday sun was warm. The scene was peaceful. Men and women sat in their doorways, engaged in chores, chopping vegetables or cleaning tools. Children broke away from a game that involved jumping over a stick. A few recognized the Americans and smiled. No one reached for guns.
It wasn’t the scene for a wounded sniper seeking treatment or kidnappers hiding their prey. There was also no indication of a surprise visit from a lone American woman. Joey felt ill and was anxious to get his questions out of the way. Even if Mita wasn’t in the village, the villagers might have an idea about her location. “Did one of our colleagues, a woman, arrive this afternoon?” he questioned in Dari.
The adults looked at one another, genuinely blank, and shook their heads. Panic swept through Joey. It would have been so easy if she had somehow wandered into the village—totally against the rules, but a huge relief. He could only fear the worst had happened—and felt the urge to run back downhill to join the search, to order surveillance drones and search details to the valley.
Ahmed, Gul, and other men gathered at the village center under the trees. The group was puzzled, willing to hear him out. Joey had his answer. Laashekoh was not behind Mita’s disappearance, yet Joey had to be patient if he wanted their help.
“Thank you for seeing us again.” Joey tried to both hurry and be polite. “We were attacked as we approached the village—one of our colleagues, the woman with us before, is missing.” The villagers seemed upset and groups started chattering in fast Dari. “Please, did she come here?”
“The little one?” Gul asked. Joey nodded, and Gul sternly looked around. The group shook their heads, looking at him with concern. There was no anger or hatred. Joey worried more. The villagers didn’t have a clue.
“Did you hear the shots?” Joey asked.
“It wasn’t us.” Ahmed was firm.
Having no clue to her whereabouts was excruciating. Joey was tempted to rush off, return to the ground search, send in fresh pleas for an immediate delivery of high-tech tracking equipment that could help in scouting the region and finding any encampments. The earliest equipment could arrive was the following morning. He forced himself to stay calm and ask more questions.
“Do you know who would shoot at us?”
Ahmed paused a few seconds. “I can only guess. There are some who don’t want Americans in this area. They’re worried about foreign fighters. But we did not shoot anyone.”
“Would they take the woman away?”
Ahmed looked at the men behind. All shook their heads. “We’d know if someone had kidnapped your woman,” Ahmed replied.
She’s a team leader, Joey wanted to scream. But he nodded and listened. There was no time for unnecessary comments. If anything, the villagers of Laashekoh represented the best chance of finding Mita.
“Could you check with others or help with the search?” Joey asked. “She’s not part of the military. The only reason she’s out here is to help with farming projects. It would be terrible if something happened to someone who only wants to help people in this area.”
Ahmed frowned. “We would know.” Again, he glanced at the group of men. Joey couldn’t tell if one man or all were sending signals.
“I promise you, this woman would not hurt anyone.” Joey came close to pleading with the group. “Please, let us know if you hear where she is. Anything.”
“Of course,” Ahmed assured him. “We can do that. This should not have happened near Laashekoh. If we hear, we’ll send a messenger to your camp?”
“Thank you.” Joey lowered his head, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t think of more. He asked again if a few villagers would join the search. “You know this area better than we do.”
“Our village cannot get involved in your fight,” Ahmed said.
“I worry, too” Joey spoke softly, so they wouldn’t take his words as a threat. “The fighting will be terrible if harm comes to that woman.”
Another man spoke up from behind. “We will look for her in our own way.”
Joey recognized the voice. It belonged to the stranger who had found Joey watching Laashekoh in the middle of the night. Joey made no other response than to nod with gratitude. Trying to hide his frustration, Joey gestured for Dan to exit the compound. Visiting the village was a waste of time. His priority was finding Mita.
Chapter 13
During this troubling time for our village, I preferred being alone, rising before dawn to do chores, making up excuses to spend time alone in the fields or hillside. I cautioned my sons to stay away from the visitors and any who defended them: Then they can say nothing about you.
The youngest shrugged. They do not bother with us. The boys are not the problem.
Only a fool expects such patterns to stay contained, I snapped. Once these strangers chase the girls into hiding, they will have more time to watch you.
That frightened the boy—better my sons feared the men than become their cohorts.
Taking a basket, I asked Saddiq to keep a close watch on his brothers, especially the youngest. I’m collecting walnuts and their skins for making dye.
Can we come, Mama? The youngest pleaded.
Not with those snakes poking around our village. Better I’m alone and make no noise.
I headed for the orchard early, when the men were prostrate with morning prayers. Quickly, I slipped behind the wall and hurried straight down the hill, ignoring the brambles catching at my oldest clothes. I waited behind a tall oak on the slope, tying my basket to my side, and patiently listening to make sure no one else wandered in the area. Not far from the wa
ll, I ran across the main path that twisted its way to our village and descended downhill, directly into the tree cover draping the hillside.
It was exhilarating to dash down the smoother grades, holding my hands out like springs, catching myself against the tallest trees. Along steeper parts, I curled my toes, pressing my shoes into the soil and avoiding roots and rocks jutting out from the hillside.
Walnut trees near the village had already been stripped, but I knew of a healthy tree along a slope not far from the main path. The steep approach promised solitude and extra nuts. To get there, I had to walk downhill, then climb back up, and along the path, I searched for soft patches of dirt to quiet the noise of my footsteps and avoid alerting the visitors. I didn’t worry much—few would choose the twisting, treacherous way to gather charmarghz, the four-brains.
Occasionally, I paused to listen. As long as the birds chattered, I was safe.
Before long, I took a detour around an exposed rocky area and moved through brush underneath the rocky ledges just below the path leading to our village.
So close to the path, I used every caution. Rather than roughly shove branches aside or break them, I avoided lifting them and bent low to move underneath. Along the ridge, I stayed close to trees, creeping slowly, so passersby would not spot my movements. I used both hands and feet to test sturdy branches or embedded rocks for support.
Ahead, I saw birds darting in and out of a large green tangle, and I approached to see what they were after. Mountain berries were hidden among the heart-shaped leaves. I picked gently, to avoid crushing the ripe, black beads.
Pleased to have found a treat for my children, I pushed my way deeper into the tangle, relishing the mottled light from the leaves shuddering in the breeze. The birds scolded as I plucked away.
Above me, a sudden burst of gunfire interrupted my solitude.
At first I almost dropped my basket and ran. But good thinking prevailed, and I crouched low along the ledge, pressing my back against the cliff. Unless the shooters climbed down this way, I was out of sight, out of the line of fire.
Above, a man shouted foreign words, abrupt and hard. The Americans had returned.
Terrified about getting caught, I forced myself to crawl slowly into the middle of the berry thicket. The shooting moved away from me. I had no choice but to wait for it to stop. Then I’d sneak away from a fight that had nothing to do with me.
A rustling sound could be heard from the footpath directly overhead, and I avoided the temptation to peak upward.
Suddenly, a body came crashing down the cliff, landing with a hard thump where I had stood picking berries only a few moments earlier.
Without thinking, I reached out and grasped a handful of cloth. Any wrong move and the person would have fallen from the precarious ledge, tumbling to the rocks far below. I didn’t think that the person would panic, or attack and push me from the ledge. On my knees, I leaned over the pile of cloth covering a crumpled form, a person smaller than Saddiq. Pulling the cloth away from the head, I uncovered the American woman who had visited our village.
I swallowed, unable to decide which was worse, getting caught by my fellow villagers or by the foreigners. Looking upward, I thought about copying the birds that had long escaped—diving over the body and darting down the hillside, anything to get away.
Shots still fired, though farther away. Feeling sorry for the woman, I pulled her away from the edge, before gently lifting her head and examining her. She was groaning as if barely conscious. She wore a helmet and thick vest underneath her perahaan, but not the rest of the uniform worn by American soldiers.
The men had left her behind. As she moaned in pain, I wanted to protect her against the shooting or anyone chasing after her. I removed and smoothed the hair away from her face and rubbed my hand along her neck and arms to stir her blood flow. Underneath the vest, I felt a hard object—a gun.
I closed the vest and sat back, less sure about reviving her.
Not long after the shooting ended, shouts came from above. Cradling the woman, I pressed us both tight against the wall of the cliff. Shifting my foot, I accidentally knocked the helmet off the ledge, and it fell without sound in the brush below. I forced myself to take a deep breath, remembering that tree limbs and berry brambles shielded us from the men above.
Mita! Mita! Frantic men called over and over. Mita!
I remained quiet. Of course, I could not get involved. She may have had her own reasons for escaping them, I told myself.
Their efforts focused farther downhill along the path. I could hear shouts, branches being broken, and rocks rolling as they shoved aside brush. Once, they called from directly overhead, and my chest pounded. I closed my eyes.
If their calls had roused her, she could have decided whether it was safe to respond. I refused to turn an unconscious woman over to men I did not know or trust. Fortunately, the men did not spot us on the ledge. Like the shots earlier, the shouts became more distant.
Quiet returned to the hillside, and the only sound was that of two women breathing. Gently touching her skull, I felt a lump on the side of her head. But there was no bleeding.
She moaned again and stirred. I had so many questions, and she might know the answers. She could explain why the Americans were so interested in our fields and crops, and if fighting was going to start again in our valley and take my sons. Before Ali’s death I would have fought to stay. Now, I’d find a way to talk Parsaa into leaving.
It was time to move the woman away from the ledge. I couldn’t leave her alone and return to the village for help, not with Jahangir lurking around. Better to move her away from the precarious trail and find a secure, comfortable hiding place for her until she could assure me that she was safe and ready to leave.
A small box was strapped to a belt around the woman’s waist, and it had a blinking light. And just like that blink of light, a selfish idea leaped into my head. Removing the box from the belt and the gun from underneath her vest, I left both on the ledge.
Maybe she knew if the Americans had any reason to kill my son—and maybe I could show her the paper I had found that horrible day. Maybe she knew how to read.
Not long after the shooting, the woman groggily shook her head and tried to stand. She was weak, and I encouraged her to lean against me even as she asked questions, a few Dari words mixed with her foreign tongue.
I put my finger to her lips. We must get away, I whispered. There was shooting.
Moving slowly, with my hand draped around her waist I guided her downhill, away from the ledge, the path, and another dangerous fall. Not far away was one of the many caves hidden underneath the mountains.
Unsure about how much to trust her, I didn’t want to talk about myself. Oddly, though, the woman seemed to trust me and followed my directions like an obedient child.
Once in the smoother terrain of the valley, far from the roaming shooters, we tried talking. She knew a few Dari words, and we managed to exchange other details with gestures, facial expressions, and patience. She said the word American, and I understood. But she didn’t understand after I tried to ask why she looked so much like the Indians who had once passed through our cities from the south.
Tofang. She pointed to her side. You took my gun away.
I left it behind—too heavy to carry.
Along the way, she paused a few times and looked backward. Why do we walk away from the village?
Your life is in danger. You must hide. Even if she didn’t understand, she could not miss the warning. I stopped. My question was abrupt as we neared the cave. Can you read?
Puzzled, she shook her head. I cupped my hands as if they held the Koran, moving my head slowly back and forth. Still, she did not understand, so I cupped my left hand and bent my head, pointing a finger as though reading words. Excited, she nodded.
I hurried to explain how she must hide until the danger ended. It won’t be long.
But how? The woman was unaccustomed to Dari, her phrases choppy wit
h missing words. Shots. I fell. She asked what had happened to the men with her.
I hesitated, and then whispered. They may be dead. The woman choked back a cry. We’ll find out . . . My promise was vague. Taking her by the hand, I led her toward the cave, with a narrow entrance accessible only to children or small women. The only clue to the opening was the sinkhole, obscured by years of falling rocks and spreading brush. Rolling aside the large rocks scattered in front, I then used my hand to brush away smaller rocks to clear the entrance. I pointed. We can go in here and be safe.
The American looked at me as if I were crazy.
All right, I’ll go first. You follow. And I removed my perahaan to keep it free from dust, placing it inside the basket. I gestured for her to do the same before shoving the basket inside the tunnel.
Lying flat on my stomach, using my elbows to reach out and my toes to push against the walls and gain leverage, I entered the tunnel. Wriggling and pushing my way through the narrow space, I poked the basket ahead of me. Only one section was especially tight: There I stretched my arms completely forward and tucked my head, squirming with my hands, knees, and feet to guide my way through.
The cave’s entrance was hardly the worst in our area. Some openings took terrible downhill slides, with tighter squeezes for longer stretches. In all, the tightest part of the tunnel, just barely accommodating my head and shoulders, was not long at all, about the length of three legs stretched end to end. After that tight portion, the tunnel expanded and dropped off to a smooth, sloping wall and a comfortable chamber where we could easily stand, sit, and talk without worrying about others catching us.
After wiggling my way through, I stood inside. Brushing the dust from my clothing, I poked my head back inside the tunnel section and called out to her, my voice echoing against the cave walls. Come! You’re so tiny you’ll have no trouble.
Slowly, she lowered herself and tucked her head into the tunnel, blocking most of the light entering the chamber. Come, I encouraged and stretched out my hand. A slight bend in the tunnel stopped her head, and I reached with my hand, guiding her to twist more to the left and tuck her chin tighter to her chest.
Fear of Beauty Page 15
