“You’re forgetting something. There must have been a time, a first time—long, long ago—when an angry child used magic to try to destroy the world. That child’s wish was unique and true. Yet, here we are. Why wasn’t the world destroyed? The only explanation is that the Power that rules Transition didn’t permit it. So we know that even if a wish is unique and genuine, it won’t work unless the Power permits it.”
“Is this Power a god?”
“We Kalash believe in many gods, so it’s easy for us to see Transition as one of them. Many other people believe in one god. They see Transition as something apart, sometimes as an instrument of the evil one.”
“Do I have to learn all this before I can use magic?”
Rahman laughed, turned, and began walking again. “No. You should learn it to become an educated man.”
A lizard skittered across the road in front of them, as if the hot asphalt blistered its feet.
“I’ve taken leave from the Institute so that I can be with you. I’m ready to begin your instruction, but I have some conditions.”
“What?” Tareef tensed. “You never said anything about—”
“We’re only going to talk about Transition when we’re out of the house, on one of our walks. I’m going to teach you the words in parts. The very last part will be from the codex, which will allow you to use magic without uniqueness. But I’m going to omit a few of the words so that the magic won’t work. I will do this to keep you safe while you’re learning.”
“But you—”
“I will be with you at all times during your instruction and during your remaining time in Transition. I’ll give you the omitted words when I’m convinced you respect magic’s power for good—and evil.”
“Why do we have to be out of the house?”
“Will you honor these conditions? Are you ready to begin?”
Tareef’s excitement brushed his question aside. “Yes!”
“Then let’s begin. Repeat after me. ‘I invoke my birthright to the Power granted by Transition.’“
• • • • •
“Shall we take another walk?” Rahman asked.
It was the morning after Tareef’s first lesson, and they’d just finished breakfast.
Tareef stuffed a chunk of bread in his mouth, answered with a muffled “Yes,” and headed toward the front door.
“Wait. Clean and store the dishes first.”
Tareef turned back, swept all the dishes into one haphazard pile, and hurried to the sink. The plate on top of the pile slid sideways and crashed onto the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.
“I’m sorry, Ashraf. I didn’t mean to break it.” He thought for moment, then smiled. “I’ll use magic to replace it.”
Rahman grabbed Tareef by the shoulders, his face red with anger. “That kind of silly statement is why I’m withholding some of the words, my brother. A plate is of no consequence. Magic is dangerous and can bring evil into the world. You should never, ever risk that evil for something meaningless.” He released Tareef’s shoulders and pulled him into a fierce hug. He whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, “I wonder if it should ever be used.”
Tareef’s eyes filled. “Even to save my father?”
Rahman released him and knelt on the floor. “Your father is past saving. But even if that were not so, using magic to save him could be unwise. Who knows what catastrophe might flow from that act? Maybe the military would launch an attack on the Kalash as punishment for his escape. Our people could be wiped from the earth. You and he could die another way, in spite of your magic. Who knows?”
“Are you saying I should never use magic?”
“No. But you must become wise enough to have the power and refuse to use it, no matter how tempting.”
They left the house without speaking further. As they stepped onto the road, Tareef noticed Rahman glance toward the city.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” Rahman sounded even more tired than he had the day before.
“Look along the road toward the city before we begin. You also did it yesterday. There are no cars or we would hear them.”
“You don’t miss much, my brother.” Rahman sighed. “You deserve to know. Colonel Pasha has men watching my house. I look to see if their car is still on the side of the road.”
Tareef felt the hair stand on the back of his neck. “Why are they watching us?”
“It is an annoyance. Nothing important. The colonel is anxious for me to finish the translation.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, but I haven’t told him. I’d prefer that you and I finish your instruction first.”
What happens then?
Tareef felt edgy and on guard, as if he was back in the mountains alone and had heard a leopard chuffing in the underbrush. Like he was being stalked by an unseen threat.
“So,” Rahman said. “Let’s see how well you remember yesterday’s lesson. Repeat the words for me.”
Tareef said the first part of the ritual without error.
“You have a good memory.”
Tareef shrugged. “I can’t get the words out of my head.”
They strolled through the warming desert as Rahman taught him the next part of the ritual.
• • • • •
The days fell into a pattern. Tareef and Rahman walked early in the morning, as the rising sun chased the night’s chill. Tareef would repeat what he’d been taught, then Rahman would then give him more to memorize. Several times during the day he and Rahman would take another walk so that Tareef could demonstrate what he’d memorized. Rahman never left him alone.
“Today I’ll give you the last part of the ritual. I’ll omit a few words, as I said I would.” It was their third desert sunrise.
Black smudges marked Rahman’s eyes, his voice was rough from lack of sleep, and he walked with his back bent, like an old man. Several times in the last two days Tareef had heard his teacher muttering to himself. When he’d asked about it, Rahman had appeared startled and had shaken his head, not answering.
Tareef had been thinking about the broken plate. “How can I learn to be wise and strong?”
Rahman smiled. “A good start is asking that question.” He paused, then asked, “Tell me, is it ever permissible to kill a man?”
Tareef considered the question for several minutes. “Yes, as long as killing a man saves others.”
“There is wisdom in your answer. But there are those who believe no man has the right to take another’s life. Gandhi believed that, for example. It would be a different world if everyone followed Gandhi’s beliefs.”
My father taught me like this. Asking questions, prodding me, making me find better answers.
An ache bloomed in Tareef’s chest. He longed to be back in his valley, for life to be as it was before Islamabad.
“Magic can kill,” Tareef said, “even if killing isn’t intended. If killing is always wrong, as Gandhi said, does that mean magic is always wrong?”
“What do you think?”
I hated it when my father answered my questions with a question. I still hate it.
Tareef didn’t respond until they’d walked much deeper into the desert. “Are there questions that have no answers?”
Rahman shrugged and smiled. “Why don’t you reflect on these questions today while you’re practicing the ritual and we’ll discuss them again tomorrow? Now, shall we begin today’s lesson?” They turned back toward the house.
Tareef recited what he’d learned in the prior two days, again without error.
“Very good. Now, here’s your final verse. Say this after me.
That this is my own true wish.
That I willingly surrender my life if I am found unworthy or my request is found wanting.
Hear me.”
Tareef repeated the new verses four times and then the entire ritual four times.
“Excellent,” Rahman said. “After the words ‘hear me,’ you say what you want th
e magic to do. Whatever you say must be unique, which is impossible, and why you would die trying to use magic.”
“Except the codex means it doesn’t have to be unique, right?”
“According to the codex, that is so. But—and this is very important, Tareef—I have no way of knowing if the codex is correct. The only way to tell is for a child in Transition to use the words and see what happens. Could be nothing. Could be death.”
“What are the words?”
Rahman shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve left out a sentence. The codex replaces that sentence. What you’ve learned thus far is useless.”
“When will you teach me that sentence?”
“I haven’t decided.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I haven’t decided.”
They returned to the house where Tareef was absorbed by another day of practicing the ritual. He didn’t need to ask Rahman for any help with the final lines; they were easy to remember. But the professor led him back to the road for three walks before nightfall, each time challenging Tareef on his right to use magic. He’d interrupt Tareef, sometimes demanding that he answer a question, sometimes trying to startle him, sometimes trying to make him laugh. Tareef ignored the distractions and always completed the ritual without error.
As soon as the sun had dropped below the horizon, they had an early meal of cold lamb and tabbouleh that remained from dinner the night before.
“I want you to go to bed as soon as we finish our meal,” Rahman said. “Tomorrow we’ll see if you still remember the complete ritual.”
Tareef was surprised that the professor was talking about Transition while they were in the house. He wanted to ask if something had changed, but he feared being overheard.
Maybe this is a test.
“Shouldn’t we be taking a walk?”
Rahman had been staring at the table, pushing his food around his plate and eating little. He looked up at Tareef’s question, surprise on his face. “I’m sorry, what did you say about a walk?”
“Just wondered if you wanted to take a walk before bed.”
“Not unless you want to.”
Whatever burden he’s carrying is growing heavier. His attention is elsewhere.
Tareef shook his head and rose to clear the plates.
“Don’t worry about the dishes. Go on to bed and I’ll take care of them. I’ll join you shortly.”
Tareef fell asleep after tossing and turning for an hour. Rahman hadn’t joined him. The weak light from the desk lamp and the muted clicks of the computer keyboard reassured Tareef that his friend was nearby.
• • • • •
“Tareef!” The professor’s hoarse whisper infiltrated Tareef’s dreams of demons and Transition magic. Rahman had his hand over Tareef’s mouth. “Shhh,” he hissed. “Be silent.” He removed his hand. “Get dressed.”
Tareef was as scared as he had been the morning the soldiers had taken his father. His heart was pounding and his mouth dry. He sat up in bed and looked around. There was no light from Rahman’s desk lamp or the glow of the computer monitor. The darkness of the night swallowed him. He scooted to the edge of the bed, stood, and felt for his clothes on the nearby chair.
He almost cried out when Rahman put a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Wear these dark clothes. They’ll make you harder to spot. And these boots.”
Tareef dressed and pulled on the offered socks and boots. He fumbled with the laces in the dark. Rahman bent and helped him.
“We’re leaving the house by the back door. Stay close and I’ll guide you. Be quieter than a mouse.”
Tareef reached for Rahman and encountered the rough canvas of a pack. He grabbed a loose strap and used it as a guide as they slipped from the house and into the backyard. A scimitar-shaped moon hung low on the horizon and draped the ground in a pale blue light. Rahman led them along the back of the house and into the desert. They picked a careful path through the scrub until they found the road leading away from the city. Their pace quickened as soon as they were safely on the asphalt.
No crickets tonight.
“I’m scared,” Tareef whispered.
Rahman’s voice was so low that Tareef could barely hear him. “I know and I’m sorry, but I had to get you away from the house without the colonel’s people knowing.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain, but not yet. Our voices will carry across the desert.”
They’d walked for a half hour when Tareef heard the distant sound of a car engine. He looked back and saw the flickering headlights of a car in the distance.
They’re coming to get us!
He started to bolt into the desert but Rahman grabbed his shoulder and held him back.
Is he holding me for the colonel? Why did he take me out of the house? Are they going to kill me?
Tareef panted like a frightened rabbit. He was dizzy and his vision was crowded with dancing specks of light like the stars overhead.
Rahman held his watch up to the moonlight. “Don’t be afraid. It’s Ali. I slipped out of the house earlier and called him.”
Ali?
Ali’s cab pulled up beside them, the engine running. The driver’s door opened with a squeal, and the skinny silhouette of the driver emerged. “Professor? What’s going on?”
Rahman unslung the backpack and withdrew a fist-sized bundle of rupees. He walked over to Ali and gave it to him. “Please wait in the car.” Ali slid back inside and pulled the protesting door closed.
Rahman returned to Tareef and kneeled in front of him. “We haven’t much time.” He set the small pack on the ground and reached inside it. “Wear this nylon jacket. The hood will hide your lavender eyes.”
Tareef slipped into the jacket and pulled the hood over his head.
Rahman sighed. “Forgive me. I’ve not been honest with you.”
The tension that had haunted Tareef the last few days swelled into panic.
“Colonel Pasha plans to use you to test the codex. If you survive, he’ll kill you when you finish your Transition. You must flee, and I cannot come with you.”
Tareef’s head spun. His panic made it hard to listen to Rahman’s words.
I am Kalash. The son of a tribal elder. I will do what I must to survive.
He forced his breathing under control. “Go where?”
“Far away from Islamabad. Go back to our mountain valley. The journey will be dangerous, but you will be safest among our people. I’ve paid Ali to take you to Murree. From there you’ll have to find your way on your own.”
“Why won’t you come with me?”
“By staying here I can give you time to get away. Tomorrow morning I’ll tell Pasha that you fled in the middle of the night, out of fear.”
I will do what I must to survive. I need no man’s help.
“He’ll punish you for letting me get away. He’ll kill you.”
Rahman shook his head. “He’ll be angry, but he needs me. I’ll promise to help him.”
“You can’t do that! You can’t teach him how to do magic! He’s evil.”
Tareef watched a wide smile form on the professor’s face and tears stream across his cheeks.
“Those are the words of a wise young man, one who is strong and able to resist magic’s temptation.” He paused. “I will burn the codex on my way back home. It is too dangerous to be allowed to exist. The colonel has accurate copies, yes, but I’ve only given him false translations. It will take him days to discover my deceit and seek an accurate translation from another scholar. We must pray that he fails. The dialect the codex is written in is very obscure.”
“Once he knows you’ve tricked him, he will torture and kill you.”
“Perhaps, but it doesn’t matter. You and I must act with honor.”
Rahman hesitated, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. “I had decided not to give you the final words to the ritual. But I’ve changed my mind. My soul may be damned forever, but a voice inside me whispers that you’v
e been chosen to play a role in the evolution of Transition. The complete ritual is on this paper, including the verse from the codex. Learn it, then destroy the paper.”
Tareef’s chest shuddered with silent sobs. “Ashraf—”
Rahman placed his fingers on Tareef’s lips. “Words are not needed between brothers.”
He grabbed Tareef in a fierce embrace, stood and strode into the desert, disappearing into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Islamabad
Islamic Republic of Pakistan
Stony and Kyle were standing under the yellow-green glare of the Marriott’s entrance lights at 0300, an hour earlier than General Pasha had told them to be ready.
After meeting with the director-general the day before, Pasha had taken them to the apartment the ISI had identified as Rahman’s. It was clear that the linguist had left in a hurry. Clothes closet half empty. No underwear in the bedroom bureau. Fruit and milk, still fresh, in the refrigerator. They completed the search and spent the rest of the day bumming around the city, ending with a long and delightful meal at a bistro recommended by the DG.
Three a.m. here, noon in Cincinnati.
She walked away from Kyle, pulled her phone from her pocket, and pressed the speed dial for John’s cell.
He picked up on the second ring. “Stony? Anything wrong? Where the hell are you?”
God, I miss him.
“Nothing wrong. Just checking in to see how the staff in the retirement home are treating you.”
He laughed. “Fine, just fine. The boiled peas are a delight. Actually, I was just thinking about you. I’m walking around Cincinnati’s Spring Grove Cemetery. Lots of stories I could tell you about this place.”
John was an ardent taphophile. He believed he could learn more about a people from seeing how they treated their dead than from what they said about themselves. When he and Stony first started working together, she’d tagged along on his cemetery visits under duress. Over time, she’d come to value those trips and look forward to them.
“You didn’t answer my question, Ms. Hill. Where are you?”
“You know that vacation hot spot we were headed to when you decided to retire? I’m there, taking a little side trip southwest, visiting a neighboring country.”
The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic) Page 16
