by Eric Meyer
* * *
In the end, Greg didn't lose his dog, not entirely. When they eventually let Stoner out of hospital, he paid them a visit. The Russian and his wife lacked only for children, and Ahmed and his sisters lacked only for parents. The answer was obvious, and they started to extend the Blum farmhouse to accommodate their newfound family.
Stoner had been out of action for two and a half months while he recovered. After the huge blood loss, his organs began to fail, and for several days they fought to keep him alive. Afterward, it was a slow recovery, but his strength gradually increased until the day he left the hospital against the advice of the doctors.
Somehow, Greg had come up with the money to employ a team of builders, and already his house was on the way to becoming twice its former size. Standing in the front, in a place of honor, was a familiar vehicle. The battleship gray Fordson model F. He smiled as he recalled how that old museum piece had saved their asses several times, that and the boy's incredible courage and determination. They'd parked a new red Massey Ferguson around the side of the house, and Greg followed his gaze.
"They're not in the same league, Stoner, these modern machines. More reliable, more powerful, but no character, no guts."
He nodded. "I can't argue with that."
Further away, a simple stone marked the site of a grave. Ghulam Durani had peace at last. His honor was restored, and his son had proved himself to be an exceptional young man. Wherever he was, he could be proud. Stoner noticed the marker carried no Islamic marking, nor any other religious symbol. They'd not buried him at the Durani house, which they'd converted into a barn for the new, enlarged farm. Ghulam Durani was at rest close to those who'd loved him in life.
Blum showed him his new acquisition, yet another GAZ, more modern than the previous one, but still the same model. Russians didn't like to change their designs too often, so it was still a primitive heap of tin.
When he joshed him about it, Greg said, "That old GAZ came through for us when we needed it. How could I think about buying something different?"
"You could buy American."
He smiled. "Yob tvoyu mat."
Ahmed exited the house with Archer at his heels. He flew into his arms while the dog barked and wagged his tail in approval. "Mr. Stoner, it's so good to see you."
"You, too, kid."
The boy disentangled himself and stood back to regard him with a serious gaze. "I didn't thank you for my father. For finding him justice, and restoring honor to his memory."
He shook his head. "It wasn't just me. We were a team. You were there when we needed you. You're an exceptional young man."
This kid is all that and more. A lion, a young lion.
He went into the house with Greg and Ahmed. They were waiting for him. Faria, her new family, the two girls Kaawa and Rahima, and nearby, Marina waited. He went to her and they embraced, holding each other as if they were scared it could end at any moment.
"Stoner."
"Marina."
She gave him a searching gaze. "You look better than when you were in the hospital."
"Hospitals don't agree with me."
"What about doctors? Female physicians, like me?"
"No complaints there."
They stared at each other until Faria broke the silence. "Dinner's almost ready. Let's eat."
He took the chair next to her, and the warm farmhouse was filled with the chatter of children, and Greg pretending to know about farming. Ahmed bubbled with enthusiasm, yet he had the diplomacy not to correct his new father about his lack of agricultural expertise.
They hardly spoke, happy to be close to each other. Like shipwrecked survivors, saved after a long voyage in a leaky lifeboat. Marina tried to thank him again for saving her life, but he stopped her. "You saved my life, so we're quits. Forget it."
"Saved your life? I don't understand. I don't recall saving your life. What do you mean?"
He shook his head. "It's complicated. One day I'll explain."
"So there'll be another day? You and me?"
He gave her a lopsided grin. "Sure, you can come visit me at Ma Kelly's."
He winced as her shoe collided with his ankle under the table, and he was about to rephrase the remark when someone knocked at the door. Faria and the children looked startled, and Greg told them to carry on eating. He went to the door, opened it, and a man pushed past him. He wore the black robes and the turban of an Imam. The man looked startled when he saw the American at the table, but he recovered his poise, standing in the center of the room with hands on hips.
"Salaam Alaikum, I am Imam Shahrani, the new head of the Mehtar Lam mosque."
Greg nodded. "Alaikum salaam, welcome to our home, Imam Shahrani. How may we be of assistance to you?"
The man scowled as he looked around the room, no doubt seeing a multitude of insults to the Prophet. Neither Faria nor Marina attempted to cover their heads, despite his fierce glare.
"I have come to ask you about certain rumors circulating in the town. People say you no longer follow the true faith."
Greg kept his composure, but inside, Stoner knew the arrival of the Imam jolted him to the core. He'd be wondering if it were time for them to abandon their newfound idyll and run; if the trouble was coming back.
"My family is eating, Imam Shahrani. Let's talk outside."
The man nodded and they went out. Stoner followed them. Shahrani gave him a poisonous glance, but he made no comment.
"I ask you again, is it true you no longer follow the true faith?"
"No, it is not true." Greg's voice was adamant, "I swear I believe in the true faith, as does my wife."
He looked skeptical. "The true faith as laid down by the Prophet Muhammad, blessings on his holy name?"
Stoner had heard enough. He stepped forward and planted himself a foot away from the Imam's face. "Look, pal, he just told you he believes in the true faith. He answered the question."
He ignored him and moved aside to confront Greg again. "Answer my question, Mr. Blum."
Greg shrugged. "Are you suggesting there are more than one true faiths, Imam Shahrani? Would that not be blasphemy?"
"Well, no, of course not." He looked appalled at the suggestion he'd spoken words that could be conceived as blasphemy. It was more than enough to put a man in danger of execution.
"So you have your answer."
The man shook his head. "I'm not satisfied. Some of the new Imams at the mosque believe you should pay the Jizra, the tax on non-believers, while we consider your case."
Greg looked flustered, and Stoner decided it was time to intervene. "Greg, go inside. I need a word with Imam Shahrani. Trust me, I'll deal with this."
He stared at him for a moment, ignored the cleric's spluttering objections, and went back inside the farmhouse. The two men stared at each other for long moments. Shahrani broke first. "What do you have to say to me, infidel?"
"I wanted to tell you that my friend Greg Blum will pay the Jizra. I'll make sure of it."
"You will?"
"Sure I will. There's the question of your Jizra, of course."
"My Jizra."
"Yes. Pal, when people threaten my friends, I kill them. Ask around; see what people say about me. You'll know if I'm telling you the truth."
The man flinched as he noticed for the first time the huge .50 caliber automatics strapped to his waist. Nevertheless, he tried a counter threat. "You can't kill me. If you even dared to touch a hair on my head, you'd..."
"You're right, I can't kill you, as long as you pay me the Jizra. I told you, it's the tax I levy for not killing people who threaten my friends."
"How much is this tax," he sneered.
"I'm glad you asked me that. I set it at the going rate. Same rate you charge my friend Greg Blum. So I guess it'll even everything out."
"You can't do this, Mr. Stoner. And yes, I do know about you."
"Is that right? Then you know I keep my word. Threaten my friends once more, and you're dead.
That's a cast iron promise. Afterward, people will find evidence you took payoffs from drug traffickers. Your name will stink from here to Kabul."
"I took no payoffs!" he shouted.
"Do you think they'll believe that when they find a stash of dollars and raw opium amongst your personal possessions?"
"You can't..."
"Oh, but I can. Try me; you'll see I'm serious. Very serious."
His eyes flashed. "You are the Devil."
Stoner nodded. "Now you're getting it. Leave them alone, pal. Find someone else to pick on, unless you're keen to go to Paradise a little earlier than planned. Do we have a deal?"
After a long pause while he thought it through, the man gave him a reluctant nod. He was a survivor, a realist in an unreal land. "We have a deal. But before I go, tell me, did you kill Sheikh Daud?"
"No."
Shahrani gave him a penetrating gaze. "If it was not you, then who did kill him?"
"Sheikh Daud was killed by a lion."
"A lion? I don't believe you."
"It's true."
He shook his head in disbelief and turned on his heel. Stoner went back inside, and Greg looked up at him. "All okay?"
"Yep, all sorted. By the way, he wanted to know who killed Sheikh Daud."
"What did you tell him?"
"I said he was killed by a lion." He looked across at Ahmed. "A lion of Afghanistan."
