by MK Schiller
“We’ll see. I’ll make the arrangements,” Malcolm said, heading inside. The other men followed him.
Having spent hours in a stuffy van, Tristan couldn’t imagine being indoors. He decided to go for a walk. He stretched first, grateful the feeling had returned to his stiff legs and back. He took in the sights before him. All of those sketchy moments in the van might have been worth it just to stand in this spot. The isolated lush green valley was surrounded by five of the most pristine snow-capped mountains he’d ever seen.
Glacier mountain water trickled over rocky landscapes, creating waterfalls. Juniper shrubs, cypress, and lemon trees bordered them, scenting the air. His career had allowed him to see more than his fair share of beautiful scenery, but this was different. The landscape looked fresh and new, as if man hadn’t gotten a hold of this place and polluted it with his grimy fingerprints. A part of him refused to blink, afraid it would kill the illusion.
If there was a heaven on earth, Tristan was certain he’d found it.
“Welcome to Shambhala,” Farah said. “Or as we locals call it, Hunza Valley.” She wore the traditional salwar kameez today, a long shirt over loose pajama-style pants. A matching scarf in dark green draped her head. In this light, he could see hues of gold and red standing out among her ebony strands of hair.
“I thought you went inside.”
“Just to freshen up. I have some friends to visit in the village. May I walk with you?”
“The honor would be mine.” He whistled as they walked down sloping streets. Because of their vantage point, they could take in sights on the hills above them. They passed stairways carved of stone, magnificent old forts that had to be a thousand years old, and colorful fields overflowing with purple blooms. Everyone smiled at them. Drew had told Tristan how friendly the people of Hunza were. He saw that now. Almost every person they passed waved in greeting. “Shambhala, eh? That’s a Buddhist principal.”
She arched her brow. “You know it?”
“Nawaz, I lived in Nepal. I know my Buddhism. Shambhala is a mythical country though, a place of peace and beauty and safety that lies somewhere between the Gobi Desert and the Himalayas. That’s a large expanse of land. People have died trying to find it for centuries. What makes you think Hunza Valley is Shambhala?”
She lifted her head to the sky, a soft smile on her lips. “My eyes, that’s what.”
Taking it all in, he had to agree with her. Maybe Shambhala wasn’t just a fairy tale or a catchy Three Dog Night song.
She plucked a long stem from the path. He was no botanist, but the distinct scent left little doubt about the plant origin.
He quirked his brow. “Is that…marijuana?”
She nodded and gestured around them. Holy shit, it was everywhere. Stalks grew in neat cultivated fields, and in other places they shot up from the ground in wild clumps over five feet tall.
“It is a native plant. The Hunza don’t smoke it though.”
“Why cultivate it then?”
“The cows graze on it.”
He whistled. “Must be some happy cows.”
She shrugged. “Some say they are a bit lazy.”
He let out a laugh so hardy it echoed through the valley and caused folks to look in their direction. “I bet.”
“We do eat the seeds though. They are good for the health.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ I thought you were from Islamabad?”
“On my papa’s side.” She patted her heart. “I’m from Hunza too. My mother’s people come from here.” She opened her palm, revealing a handful of wheat-colored seeds. “Care to try?”
When he held out his hand, she dropped a few seeds onto his palm. They tasted like granola. “Not bad.”
“There hasn’t been a murder here since I’ve been alive. There are rarely any squabbles in fact. Most people live to be over a hundred years old.”
“Really?”
“Well, at least we think so. They don’t keep official records. But they credit it to drinking glacial water and a diet of apricots.”
“And pot seeds.”
“Yes, and that.”
The breeze blew her scent toward him. God, she smelled so edible.
“Do you wear perfume?”
She laughed. “No.”
“You smell like chocolate. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“It’s coco butter. I buy it in the pure form and use it every day. It’s beneficial for the skin.”
One thing was for sure…. It may be good for her skin, but it was very, very bad for him. Not only did she turn him on, she smelled like the most delicious dessert. The universe was definitely testing his will.
“I see.”
“I can give you some.”
“That’s okay.” The last thing he needed was surround himself with that smell. “I like walking with you.” The statement was so simple and honest. The words just came without thoughts of context or consequences.
“I like walking with you too. I was hoping to speak with you alone.”
“On what?”
“I appreciate your offer, but you don’t have to fund my next trip. There won’t be a next trip. This morning I made a decision this would be my last time trying for K2 no matter what happens.”
“Why?”
“I can’t put my body through it again. It’s been physically and mentally taxing.”
He understood her reasons. There was a fine line between conquering dreams and understanding limitations. “Then why agree to let me come?”
“Your conviction was compelling. I don’t have a lot of people on my side, so it’s nice to meet someone who understands. Who wants it as much as I do, whatever the reason.”
“I’m proud to be on your side, Farah.”
She looked away, a faint crimson blush coloring her cheeks. “Why did you sell your business?”
An ache formed in his chest. “It was time for me to move on.” He didn’t exactly have regrets, but Everest had been a major part of his life for so long he wondered how he’d function in a new domain.
She chewed on her bottom lip. “Crossroads are hard, aren’t they?”
“They suck.”
She cracked a smile. “Tristan, so we’re clear, I know this place, and everyone here is accepting and welcoming. When we get to Askole the day after tomorrow, that’s not the case. It’s a much smaller and more remote village. You and I won’t be able to walk down the street together there.”
That was a shame, but he’d learned long ago if you wanted to live in a culture that wasn’t yours, you had to respect tradition. “I understand.” It wasn’t just a warning about culture though. Today was special. Today belonged to them. He intended to enjoy it.
She waved and chatted with the locals along the way while chewing on marijuana seeds. They stopped at a roadside stand in the bazaar. Tristan purchased chicken tossed in an apricot curry and bottles of water for them. They sat in plastic chairs to eat. Some boys kicked a soccer ball. It headed in their direction. Tristan kicked it back. They kicked it at him again. He finally picked it up and threw it back. “Not fair. Three against one.”
The boys laughed as they ran down the hill. “Is that a soccer field?” he asked, pointing to the large park they entered.
“You mean football.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.” Some things he’d never gotten used to. Referring to soccer as football was one of them.
“Sometimes football. Sometimes cricket. Some days, it’s used for polo matches.”
“Malcolm invited me to play tomorrow. I’m surprised they have polo here.”
“This is the birthplace of polo.”
“Is that a fact?”
She stopped at a stall and looked through a rack of scarves. The bazaar wasn’t crowded, but there were many trinket and hiking shops along the route. “Yes. The gi
st of the game started here centuries ago. They used a goat’s head for the ball.”
“Well, thank goodness for modern intervention.”
“You ride horses?”
“I grew up on a ranch in North Carolina. Horses I know. Polo, that’s another story.”
They reached an intersection, and she turned. The area became more sparse and rural, the noise and bright colors of the marketplace giving way to small huts. The city was a network of stone paths interconnected by smaller farming zones. All of it surrounded and protected by the giant mountains of the Hindu Kush, as if the gods themselves had built a fortress to protect this land.
An old woman walked across a swaying land bridge. Tristan stopped, surprised by her spry steps. There was a gap of several inches between each plank, but she didn’t even look down.
Farah nudged him to keep moving. She understood what he was thinking. “That’s probably part of her daily commute. She can do it with her eyes closed.”
They walked until they came upon another village. Really, it was just an area with many small, identical mud huts. A tiny woman came out of one of the homes, an axe almost as big as her slung over her shoulder. She had freckles and hair the color of straw. The dress she wore was not a salwar kameez or the burka he’d seen the other indigenous women wear. It was a long black dress embroidered in rainbow threads around the cuffs and hem. On her neck, she wore several chains of varying lengths decorated with shells and colorful beads. The woman smiled widely in greeting and embraced Farah.
Farah nodded toward Tristan and spoke to the woman, making an introduction. To Tristan, the language didn’t resemble Urdu. He held his hand out in greeting. The woman looked at it with confusion, holding her axe tighter. He shoved it back into his pocket. “I guess this is where I leave you.” He bowed slightly. Apparently, when it came to Farah, he was doing all sorts of gestures outside his comfort zone. “Take care.” He tried to hide his disappointment their day had ended already.
The woman said something that made Farah laugh. “She says I’ve brought a giant to her doorstep.”
“Tell her I’m a friendly one.”
“Tristan, this is Asmaar Auntie.” Farah gestured to the hut. “She’s inviting you in for tea.”
“I couldn’t impose.” He looked around, both surprised and unsure about the invitation.
“She’ll be insulted if you refuse.”
“Well, the last thing I intend to do is insult anyone, especially not someone with an axe.”
Farah translated for the other woman. To his surprise, she laughed loud as if it were the funniest thing she’d heard. Asmaar Auntie led them inside. Thankfully, she set down the axe in a corner. He took Farah’s lead and sat on the floor on thin straw mats. The woman heated up water on a small portable stove. The quiet scene erupted as three young girls came running inside, all talking at once. They wore colorful dresses, their long gold hair woven into tight knots at the nape of their necks. All three girls had bright blue eyes.
They ran around Farah. One sat on her lap, bouncing up and down. He noticed then the girl’s eyes weren’t blue as he thought. They were the same shade as Farah’s eyes—violet.
“Are you related?” he asked.
“In a way, but not a direct relation.” Farah kissed the head of the little girl who sat in her lap. She introduced them to Tristan, but he couldn’t keep their names straight. Farah opened her bag. She had a colorful notebook and pencil set for each of them. Their faces lit up at the small presents. When she took out the small plastic dolls, they danced around the room until their mother quieted them.
“Let’s practice,” she said to one of the girls. She pointed to Tristan.
The girl giggled. “Hellllooo.”
“Hello,” Tristan said, returning her smile.
The girl started to speak, rattling off a sentence Tristan couldn’t understand.
“English,” Farah said.
The girl pointed to herself. The words came out much slower. “My name is Farida.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
Farah glowed with pride. “Farida is going to school next year.”
“That’s wonderful,” Tristan said. He listened as she told him about the school. Farah corrected her when she slipped into her native tongue.
“You’re close with them,” Tristan said to Farah after the girls turned her their attentions back to the presents.
“I tutor them. They are learning English. I have a few students in this area.”
“You teach?”
“A little during the off-season. I want to do it more.”
“This isn’t a typical household, is it?”
“I’m sorry. Of course, you’re confused. I should have explained. This family is Kalash. They are a group that lives in this region.”
“I’ve never heard of the Kalash.”
“I’m not surprised. There are less than three thousand left. There are a few theories how the Kalash became indigenous to this area, but the most popular is that we are the descendants of Alexander the Great.”
“You’re kidding.”
“The story goes that when he conquered the area, several of his men fell madly in love with the local women and stayed behind to make families. We are the last of their tribe. That’s why many Kalash have blond hair and light eyes. At least in theory.”
“So you’re Kalash too. That’s why your eyes are violet?”
“On my mother’s side.”
Tristan nodded toward the axe in the corner. At first, he’d wondered if it was to ward off possible predators. He leaned in and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What’s with the axe?
“Are you worried?”
He pinched his fingers together. “Well, it doesn’t make me feel at ease.”
She laughed. “Asmaar Auntie works in the fields. She uses it to cut down the wild vine branches. She farms potatoes. Most of the women here work.”
“Is that common?”
“For us it is. Women are seamstresses or farmers. Some are even carpenters.”
“And some are mountain climbers.”
Farah smiled, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks. “I think I’m the only one who holds that distinction.”
Asmaar Auntie poured them tea into two tiny chipped cups. Her hands were calloused and scarred. Tristan asked Farah for the proper words to thank her. Then he attempted to repeat them several times until Farah finally translated.
“She supports her children with the potatoes she farms.”
“No husband?”
“Her last husband passed a year ago. She’s been married twice.”
“Really?”
“For the Kalash, the woman chooses her mate. If she’s unhappy, they are free to leave and find a new partner.”
“How does that work? Do they date?”
“There is social interaction, but not exactly dating. They get to know the man, much in the same way I’m talking to you now. Then they make a decision. Typically, they write a note to the man they choose.”
“Not very romantic.”
She pursed her lips, contemplating his statement. “I suppose it depends on what the note says.”
“What would it say? ‘Congratulations, you have the privilege of being my mate?’”
“It is a privilege, isn’t it? To be asked to spend your life with someone else? The letters are usually private, but I imagine it would be a bit more poetic. Something along the lines of ‘I choose you. You belong to me. I offer you my heart and soul and all the love in this body. Let’s walk together, side by side, in this life and all the lives that follow.’”
“Okay, so that’s better than what I said.”
He wanted to ask her more, but the fragrant smell of fresh bread wafted through the small hut. Soon, they had hot walnut bread and a dish
of potatoes that Farah explained was made with an apricot sauce. “You stir the tea with this,” she said, holding up a piece of rock salt. She demonstrated for him. “It’s salted tea. There is very little sugar here.”
He followed suit. The tea was strong and rich. He enjoyed it.
Farah closed her eyes as she sipped it. “I love this tea.”
Every time he took a sip, Asmaar Auntie refilled his cup. Every time he took a bite, she added more to his plate. He looked around the barren hut. The children stared at him as he ate. Then realization dawned on him. He was an idiot. There were no other plates. They had not expected company, and this was the family’s supper. He slowed his pace to a crawl and pretended to be full.
The woman spoke to Farah, a huge smile on her face. She held out her hands, one too stiff to uncurl. Farah massaged it. “She says the vines are getting harder for her to cut down.”
“May I try?” Tristan asked, gesturing to the axe.
Asmaar Auntie shook her head and said a few quick words. Farah translated. “She says you are her guest.”
“I insist. At least to repay the generosity.”
The children showed Tristan the brambles. The tiny woman named Asmaar, who had to be twice his age and a quarter his size demonstrated the proper way to swing an axe for him. Farah cupped her mouth to hide her giggles.
“You think this is funny?” he asked.
She bit her lower lip. “A little, but more than that, I think it’s sweet with a dash of charming.”
He bowed. “Well, thank you.”
He worked for a few hours while Farah tutored the children on their English. He didn’t want to take advantage of this family’s kindness. They had so little and gave it so willingly. Plus, swinging the axe provided a great distraction. He craved a physical diversion from Farah.
She had lied.
She was a thief.
She had stolen his senses.
Chapter 7
Farah tried not to stare at him too much on their walk back, but it was like asking a hummingbird to stop flying. On the way back to the hotel, they were both hungry so they stopped at a roadside restaurant. She told him all the legends and lore she knew about the Savage Mountain. He laughed and told her a few she hadn’t heard.
