A small fire glowed behind a pile of stones, and I could see three figures moving about, unloading containers and crates from a rickety cart, then hiding them behind the brush, out of sight from the nearby path.
How much longer will they be? Mari called out. Should we wait here?
Jahangir spoke in a low voice, directing her to return to the top of the hill and keep watch and warn if any villagers approached. Mari muttered something, and a woman laughed in response. Leila.
Allah was on my side. I had reached the area just in time, while the group talked among themselves. Mari and Leila were far more observant than Gul had been. And I still did not know if Parsaa was near. I held my breath, holding back from approaching too close. Instead, I took a new vantage point, a distance from where the wagon had stopped last time, and remained curled behind a large rock in a grassy section higher on the slope. Mari hurried by, passing so close that I could have touched her fluttering black scarf.
There was no sign of Parsaa.
But then, that bit of relief turned into a nagging worry about the possibility of Saddiq dutifully stepping down the hill, following his father’s orders to protect his mother. I wasn’t sure whether Parsaa worked with or against Jahangir and the men selling children or how much Saddiq knew.
I wondered if Parsaa waited nearby. And I had been firm with Saddiq. I only hoped the boy had listened to me and stayed away.
Even before the sound of Mari’s footsteps faded, Jahangir roughly pulled Leila close, stripping her of her veil. Near the fire, their two shadows became one, writhing in the open grassy patch.
Shivering and afraid, not wanting to hear them, I clutched my arms across my chest and bent my head to my knees, praying for a distraction from Allah. The pair broke apart suddenly and only then I heard a snapping sound, shouts, and crying children. The wagon slowly approached, rumbling over the dry and rocky trail, a lantern dangling back and forth.
May Allah ruin them, Jahangir growled. The Americans could hear. He stepped away from the fire, disappearing into the darkness, but his scolding was clear. I told you to keep them quiet.
The driver, a lone adult, stopped the wagon and hurried toward the fire as children wailed. They don’t listen.
Don’t speak to ears, Jahangir retorted. With that, he handed a supple branch to Leila and snatched a piece of food from an improvised rack over the fire, before moving toward the wagon’s rear. The smell of roast lamb was tantalizing. A few high-pitched voices pleaded for a taste, reminding me of the humiliation of hunger.
Only the quiet get to eat. Jahangir’s low voice was ominous in the darkness. No food for any who make noise.
Holding a thin branch, Leila latched onto elbows, dragging the dawdlers from the wagon. The children’s hands were tied in front, and a long rope connected groups of three or four, looped around their necks to discourage escape. Hurry, she admonished. We don’t want to be here all night.
With that, Jahangir threw a small piece of meat down, and a few boys leapt to the ground, snatching at the food and fighting, pulling others down with them.
Other groups huddled closer together. Leila shook her head and led each small group away, one at a time to another area where they relieved themselves. To hurry them, she whipped the branch against the back of their legs. It was her wedding night, and she was impatient.
The waiting children, more weary than stunned, stared desperately at the fire and sticks with roasted lamb left over from the wedding celebration. The driver shoved pieces down his throat followed by long gulps of water.
This canyon was gloomy, but I could count at least twelve, maybe fifteen, children. Their clothes were soiled, and only a few had shoes. The scene sickened me, yet I could not tear my eyes away.
As Leila led the groups away, Jahangir continued using water and food to turn the children on one another. Teasing them, he tossed a few more scraps and forced them to compete. The ropes tangled, and one thin boy elbowed hard, prompting shoves and a flurry of hands. The child was accustomed to fighting for food.
Jahangir pulled the child aside and held a chunk of lamb high. These children have not been kind to you, he said in that low voice. Tell me, which ones do you think we can trust the most?
The boy started pointing and blurting out names that had no meaning—and Jahangir held up his hand. Wait, he cautioned. Think about this carefully. Which are the most dangerous? Which have reason to hate me the most? Jahangir put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and smiled. And let me advise you, there are right answers and wrong answers. The right ones will bring rewards and the wrong ones . . . The man feigned a grimace, as if fooling around with a friend in a silly game.
The boy was shrewd. It’s easier to show the ones you cannot trust. He looked over the group of children and quickly pointed out two tall boys who had already handed their snatched portions to younger children in the group. The boy explained in detail how long he knew the various children. He had grown up with some, and others he only knew from a wagon ride of two days. He supplied Jahangir with specific details.
All right. Which children are most likely to scream or make trouble as we move through towns?
The boy stared at Jahangir, who held another stick with a large slice from the roast, and then turned, quickly dismissing the oldest boys and all the girls as untrustworthy. He singled out one of the older boys and a younger girl, who must have been brother and sister: These two whispered about running away.
Jahangir extended his hand, and the boy snatched the meat. As the girl cowered, the boy stared defiantly at Jahangir. Lock those two at opposite ends of the wagon and no food for them tonight, Jahangir ordered Leila. We’ll sell them in separate places . . . no city life for them, I’m afraid.
The man ignored the sobbing as Leila separated the pair. He turned to the child pulling at the meat with his teeth and instructed him to dole out flat bread to the rest of the children. The boy followed Jahangir’s orders exactly.
Keep a piece for yourself, too. Now tell me, which of the group is the weakest?
The child shook his head and looked at the man as if he had asked a silly question, before pointing to the youngest, so small, sitting on the ground, head down, sobbing. An older girl had her arm draped around the little boy’s neck, trying to lift his head and tuck bread into the quivering mouth. The child’s eyes were terrified and he had given up.
Of course, Jahangir said. We will dispose of that one soon, so there’s no delay. And you, for helping me, we’ll be sure to place you in one of the finer places, where you can use your skills in some trade.
Jahangir handed over another slice of meat. I’m important! The boy piped up, waving his prize and devouring it quickly, unconcerned that hungry children watched. Jahangir didn’t respond, turning to consult the driver who had delivered the children. The two men examined the children, pulling headscarves away from the girls, checking the boys’ backs, testing arms and legs. With Leila, they discussed the ages and potential of each and, using the information from the boy, redivided the children into several groups.
I tell you again and again—only healthy ones, Jahangir scolded. He looked over the group. And angry ones, we can break. Compliance is more valuable than cleverness in the markets.
The men anticipated how much money each child would bring, once they had moved the entire group to a border town in Pakistan. The most attractive girls selected for men seeking young brides would fetch the highest prices, followed by strong boys and girls who could help as skilled or domestic labor. The children who did not fit into those categories would be sold to carpet-makers, brick-kiln operators, and farmers who kept prices low by relying on child labor.
The group selected for Jahangir’s trust was small in number and young.
Pulling a carpet from behind his seat on the wagon, the driver talked about sleep.
No time for that, Jahangir countered. Get them back on the road tonight.
No need to hurry, the driver protested. This load is from Ghōr.
Their parents were relieved to be rid of them.
Jahangir shook his head. American soldiers are in this area and want to look as though they’re doing something. Unless you want to land in their jail, you need to move. Jahangir reached in a pack and handed papers to the driver. Here is the letter of transport for eighteen orphans and the certificates. Bring back what’s left if there’s no need for them in Pakistan.
You never know. Wait—there are no names on these!
Jahangir was irritated. Give them names—any names you want. You’ll find someone in the city who can insert the names later.
I expected that completed here!
You worry about minor details. We lost the man who could write. Leila scowled behind Jahangir. Give them new names and carry the documentation if you’re stopped . . .
Suddenly, there was a shriek on the hillside, just behind my hiding place. Then another shriek. He bit me! Mari screamed. I caught him, and he bit me!
And down the hill she came, dragging Saddiq behind her, even as the boy twisted to get away. I gasped, backing away to another large group of boulders. The others were startled at the interruption, and some of the children called out. Komak konid.
No one heard me. Shaking, I dropped to my knees and clung to the rock, trying to think of how to remove Saddiq from this scene and feeling relief that Parsaa, who could write, was not cooperating with Jahangir just yet. But where was Parsaa? Saddiq’s best chance was if Parsaa waited nearby.
What did you do? Jahangir snapped.
I was watching on the hilltop as you advised, and found this one approaching, watching the lot of you. The little snake bit me!
Jahangir walked up to Saddiq, lifting his head and stroking him under the chin. So you’d like to join this group of children? You’re lucky. Tonight we have room for you.
The boy twisted harder, and it hurt not to rush to him. Instead, I bit down hard on my forefinger, forcing myself to remain quiet until I had a viable plan.
Locking Saddiq’s wrists together, Jahangir called for Leila.
There was no fear in Saddiq’s eyes. His stare was a challenge. But she refused to look at him or connect. He was an annoyance for her.
Ready with rope, she quickly bound the boy’s hands, tight, and then for extra measure, wrapping the ends of the rope up to my son’s neck. He jerked the rope hard at one point, pulling her down. Leila cursed and turned to Jahangir. This one cannot be trusted. Get him out of here.
I don’t have space . . ., the driver complained. You yourself said the letter talks about eighteen children.
Allah’s wrath on you, fool, Leila hissed. You risk the entire operation. This boy has seen us! Jahangir dragged my Saddiq close to the wagon, ready to load him.
The driver cursed. I’m the one in trouble if they misbehave and we get caught. . . . I deserve a higher payment!
Wait. Mari stepped forward. Taking him with the rest is a risk. His father and mother will never stop looking.
Jahangir scoffed. The parents give up before a week has passed, and they hope for the best.
The children forget quickly enough, the driver agreed. Especially if they’re young and haven’t been to school.
Be quiet, fool! Jahangir kicked a rock toward the fire and sparks flew.
This one must go. Leila shoved past her mother, and spoke directly to Jahangir. She was not about to let the boy return to the village. All’s lost if he tells his father about our operation.
Jahangir put his hand up and turned to the driver. If you must, unload the unruliest along the way. Make it a lesson for the others and leave no trace.
The man nodded. Before we cross the border and reach Quetta.
Push through the night. No more stops.
They talked lightly about killing my son or another child, eliminating an inconvenience. The exchange must have terrified the children, but Saddiq seemed distracted in his struggle against the ropes. Jahangir edged closer to the wagon. Like me, he noticed the boy twisting and trying to reach into the folds of his pants.
Swiftly the man grabbed the rope around Saddiq’s neck with a hard, irritated yank—and removed the pistol that Saddiq had tucked away in his pocket. His father’s pistol—the one I had unloaded. Parsaa would have checked the gun before leaving our home, but I was less sure about Saddiq. Unless he checked and reloaded the weapon, it was empty of ammunition.
The boy was devastated, as if he had lost his only hope. I closed my eyes, praying that the gun was still unloaded. The boy was better off without such a weapon. Jahangir handed the gun to Leila and murmured, Only if necessary.
Noises traveled far in the valley, and Jahangir didn’t want the sound of gunshots so close to the village or the outpost.
Leila held the gun with two hands, aiming for Saddiq. How dare you follow us? Did your parents send you? He glared, with no answer, and she kicked him, to humiliate rather than hurt him.
I thought my parents worked with you, Saddiq snapped.
That startled her and Leila was indignant. They should be so smart.
They are around here, Saddiq warned, defiant. They are cautious after what happened with Ali.
Leila went frantic, swinging the gun and screaming, as Saddiq ducked his head behind the wheel. You creep around in the night like a spider. Your parents know nothing!
Another firm voice broke out from the shadows. I know enough.
Parsaa—it took me a minute to place my husband’s outline on the other side of the clearing. Relief swept through me, and I had to lean against the rock, wondering how long he had stood there and how much he had seen. His rifle—the one I had unloaded—was pointed at Jahangir, Parsaa’s finger on the trigger.
My son came looking for me. And he will go home with me. Parsaa stepped toward the wagon, as if curious about the huddled children. I wanted to scream out, worried that he had no understanding of what he interrupted or just how dangerous Leila, Jahangir, and Mari were. Jahangir’s and the driver’s weapons were leaning against rocks, well off to the side. Their only weapon was Parsaa’s, in Leila’s hand. Jahangir had warned against making noise. But I didn’t trust her.
As Parsaa approached the children, Leila backed off a few steps, smiling, alternately aiming the pistol at Parsaa then Saddiq.
Parsaa smiled at our son, and maybe I detected a worried shake of Saddiq’s head. Both of them had to wonder about my whereabouts. Shame swept through me about putting my son in such danger, and I wanted to run to him, shield him. But neither husband nor son mentioned my name. Until I had a plan, I had to wait.
Staying low to the ground, I stared. Parsaa was calm. Jahangir and Leila were impatient. Mari was agitated and embarrassed about Parsaa catching her and Leila. Only a few days before my husband had instructed Saddiq to follow me, and I had complained to Mari. I prayed that she did not connect that Saddiq had been ordered to follow me wherever I went.
Do not move closer to him, Leila ordered. As the oldest daughter in a family with no sons, she was a practiced shooter. But her hand shook. Parsaa was a strange man for her, not ambitious, insecure, or fearful like her own father or Jahangir.
Leila couldn’t be sure about what the man might do to protect his son.
Suddenly, Jahangir stepped close to her, reaching to cover her hand and point the gun toward the ground. You startled us. He spoke up in a friendly way. We’re relocating orphans from the north.
Orphans whose parents track you down? Parsaa took another step closer to the children. He didn’t move his forefinger from the trigger. No, these children aren’t going anywhere.
Fool! Leila spat with anger and jerked the gun away. He knows more than he lets on. He always knows more.
Standing over his son, Parsaa gazed at his old friend’s daughter as if she were a stranger. They can wait in our village for their parents to arrive.
This has nothing to do with you, Jahangir replied. This is business between people in the north and contacts of mine in Pakistan. You have no right to interfere.
&nb
sp; If this is a crime against children and families, if it involves Laashekoh, then I must interfere, Parsaa countered.
Jahangir laughed. Think about it—why do you care about the people of the north?
Parsaa held the rifle with one hand and used the other to loosen the knot around the boy’s neck. If I stop an injustice against another village, they will do the same for Laashekoh.
I held my hands to cover my mouth, hoping that Parsaa and Saddiq would simply walk away. Surely, Parsaa had checked his weapon. My throat was dry. The cool night air did not ease its tightness.
Leila edged closer to her mother. He’s not going anywhere. You do not control us anymore. Our village can do better under Jahangir. Her voice was shrill, and Parsaa stared coolly at her. She was inconsequential to him. He was not afraid, and that unnerved her.
Saddiq stared at his father, waiting for a signal about what to do next. But Parsaa was serene, and I couldn’t read his intention. Like my son, I could only wait.
In the firelight, the eyes of the two women glinted. You are not going to stop us, Leila warned.
Shh, Mari scolded her daughter, then tried to convince Parsaa to join ranks with Jahangir. Laashekoh can use the money. Just this once, Parsaa, and then no more. Allah is forgiving.
Allah knows what is in your mind, he said, shaking his head. Hurting the weak doesn’t give us strength, and His forgiveness is not for those who persist in wrongdoing.
I couldn’t stand another moment of Parsaa wondering if I hid in the shadows, lacking the courage to confront this group. Moving slowly backward, away from the boulders and slipping into the dark shadows of trees, where the firelight could not penetrate. Mari, I called out, trying to keep my voice from shaking. Let them go. You helped me on the day I gave birth to Saddiq. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened. Let them go, and we’ll talk about these matters in the morning.
My voice rolled down the slope, away from the path. But none could see me. Jahangir jerked around in surprise. Leila was enraged, twirling and aiming her weapon into the darkness. For the first time, Parsaa, across the clearing, looked worried. And my old friend Mari was distraught.
Fear of Beauty Page 28
