by Adam Hamdy
“The mountain very hard today,” Vosuruk told Wallace, who could only guess how far the hardy veteran had walked. “I’u pik i’a gac,” Vosuruk instructed his son, and Wallace guessed he was asking for food.
Kurik pulled another canteen from his pack, filled it with sweet porridge, and handed it to his father, who sat next to Wallace and began to eat.
“No army,” Vosuruk announced between mouthfuls. “Not this valley or next. The way is safe.”
“When do we leave?” Wallace asked as he finished his meal.
“Soon,” Vosuruk responded. “After food and cigarette.”
After they’d eaten, Kurik led Wallace into the forest beyond the southern end of the ravine, until they came to a narrow winding stream. Kurik retreated to the cave, giving Wallace the privacy he needed for his ablutions. As he walked back toward the ravine, Wallace looked down into the valley, but they were too far from the town to see anything but cedar forest. The scent of the fragrant trees filled the cool air and the crisp, clean aroma made it almost impossible to imagine the violence of the previous night. Above him, snow clung to the high peaks, stubbornly resisting the strong sunshine that beat on Wallace’s back whenever he emerged from the protective shade of the trees. By the time he returned to the cave, Vosuruk and Kurik had broken camp and were astride their horses, waiting for him.
“You are too slow, Tr’ok Si’ol,” Vosuruk commented. “The mountain does not like slow.”
Wallace climbed into the saddle, his inner thighs protesting at being stretched across a horse’s back yet again. Vosuruk urged his mount forward with a cry and Wallace and Kurik followed him south toward the forest. Once out of the ravine, they turned east and started a hard climb that slowed the horses to a walk. They rode in silence, and Wallace mimicked his hosts by scanning his surroundings and staying alert for any sign of danger.
They reached the edge of the forest by late afternoon and moved into terrain that was too high, rocky, and arid for even the hardiest trees. Wallace recognized the pass from when he’d ridden out with Vosuruk and Guktec, but it had lost a little more snow, which made the going easier. Vosuruk and Kurik occasionally exchanged whispered words and nervously scanned the high peaks that flanked them. Wallace guessed they were worried about an ambush, but none came, and, as the sun sank lower, they emerged on the other side of the mountain. The cavern that acted as base of operations for Guktec and the other warriors was about two hours’ ride, and, with the light quickly fading, Vosuruk suggested that they complete the remainder of their journey in the morning.
He led Wallace and Kurik down a steep gorge to a long, dark cave that seemed to have no end.
“It goes under the mountain, to Hell,” Vosuruk told Wallace as they tied the horses and made camp. “At night you hear the screams of evil men. If you call back, they say the Devil will come for you.”
Looking into the void, Wallace thought he could hear voices, but told himself it was just the sound of the wind blowing cold air into the darkness.
They spoke little as Kurik prepared them cold porridge left over from earlier. Vosuruk explained that they could not risk setting a fire as the exposed cave mouth meant the flames would be seen for miles. The sun was quickly lost behind the high peaks, and its warmth vanished just as swiftly, so Wallace, Vosuruk, and Kurik prepared their blankets in the dying light. Wallace chose a spot near the cave mouth, tucked against the east wall, while Vosuruk and Kurik opted for spaces on the other side. No one wanted to venture into the deep darkness, and even the horses moved as far away from the innards of the cave as their fettered reins would allow.
Wallace left the cave to take a leak, and walked no more than fifty feet in the gray light. He looked out over the magical Hindu Kush mountains, their peaks given a golden hue by the last fingers of light. When he turned back, he realized how easy it would be to get lost: the cave mouth was hidden in a jagged pattern of gullies and rocks. He retraced his steps and eventually found the entrance when he was no more than ten feet away. Inside, his companions were seated on a rock near their blankets. The wind was starting to pick up and as it whistled down into the darkness, and Wallace began to realize the truth of the legend: it did sound like the tormented screams of the damned. Vosuruk had the little lump of jelly in his hand and cut a piece for Kurik.
“You want?” he asked.
Wallace didn’t hesitate. The prospect of seeing Connie was simply too strong to resist.
“Thanks,” he said, as the Kom elder handed him a slice.
Wallace crossed the cave to his blankets and swallowed the bitter jelly as he lay down. He could hear Vosuruk and Kurik talking quietly from across the cave, their voices becoming even lower and more distant as comforting warmth spread all over his body. He willed Connie to come to him, but the bliss of the previous night was not to be repeated. He could see the silhouettes of distant peaks from the cave mouth and above them the dotted heavens, where the spectral light cast by the stars seemed to be brighter than normal, illuminating the bright colors of distant galaxies.
He focused on two stars, a distant binary system, and as he watched them they became eyes. His heart leapt as a face formed around them, but he was confused and disappointed to discover that it wasn’t Connie, but Christine Ash. Perhaps his subconscious need for protection had summoned his guardian angel? Or maybe he missed the only other person who could truly understand his ordeal? Whatever the reason, Wallace felt a pang of guilt at having pictured another woman. He tried to visualize Connie, but his mind was no longer his to command, and the soporific drug oozing through his system kept Ash firmly in place. Lost in his own tragedy, weighed down by an intense sadness that Connie wasn’t with him, Wallace’s body eventually grew heavy and still, and sleep took him away from his misery.
Noise. Movement. Wallace’s disordered, sluggish senses struggled to comprehend what was happening. The first thing that hit him was the stench of old sweat, then the realization that a rough hand was clamped over his mouth. He looked up, and, as his eyes focused, saw the outline of a masked face in the faint starlight. It was only then that Wallace realized that the cold, hard object against his temple was the barrel of a gun.
12
“Vona!” the masked man said sternly, gesturing with the gun.
Wallace guessed that he was being told to stand and got to his feet, his opiate-addled mind muddling the world, making him confused and unsteady. He could hear indistinct snatches of conversation and saw other masked figures in the darkness, clustered around Vosuruk and Kurik.
“Pr’ec!” Vosuruk’s voice boomed across the cave, and Wallace saw him push through the crowd and storm over. He grabbed the man threatening Wallace and forced him against the wall. Wallace struggled to comprehend what was happening, until he saw one of the men lower his mask and recognized Guktec’s face in the faint starlight.
“My son thinks he’s clever to stop my heart in the night,” Vosuruk told Wallace before shaking his head at Guktec.
The man who’d woken Wallace lowered his mask. He hadn’t been with the group when Wallace had gone up to the mountains with Guktec and Vosuruk, but as the other men in the cavern removed their scarves, Wallace saw a number of faces he recognized.
“They are on the move. Kabul Army is in the mountains,” Vosuruk explained. “They find our high place and attack, but they lose. These mountains belong to us.”
Guktec said something so quickly that Wallace hardly registered that he’d spoken.
“Guktec says he and his men kill thirty soldiers. They hunt the mountains for soldiers who escape,” Vosuruk explained. “Maybe six, seven still alive. Tomorrow we find them.”
Vosuruk issued a command in Kamviri and the men, fifteen of them, proceeded to bed down for the night, dropping their packs, unfurling blankets and stowing their weapons and ammunition within easy reach. Wallace suddenly found his rough cot surrounded by four other men who all stank of toil and battle, but the smell didn’t bother him, and, as he lay down and pulled up hi
s blanket, he took comfort in their increased numbers. The soporific effect of the bitter jelly soon overpowered any residual adrenaline, and Wallace listened to the swelling rumble of snores for a short while before falling asleep.
Low conversation woke Wallace, who was one of the last to rise. Most of Guktec’s men were up, their breath clouding the air as they packed their gear or crammed down cold porridge. Wallace rose, nodded at Malik and some of the other men he recognized, and wandered outside, where he found Guktec and Vosuruk surveying the range.
“Tr’ok Si’ol,” Guktec greeted Wallace warmly. “You lazy man.”
Wallace smiled sheepishly.
“Guktec says the soldiers try to get to main army,” Vosuruk told Wallace. “The men who attacked Kamdesh. They were stupid. They know never to come up here. The mountains protect us. One Kom man kill a hundred of them, no problem. We track these men, pick up trail and . . .” Vosuruk’s fingers formed a pistol and pulled the trigger.
“Why would they come here?” Wallace asked, remembering how the soldiers had referred to him in Kamdesh. He couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling they were here for him, but how could he even begin to explain his concerns?
“Who knows?” Vosuruk shrugged. “Kabul is crazy. Maybe a new minister wants to have big name? Or maybe all these soldiers hate their lives and want to die in such a beautiful place?” He gestured toward the ruffled surface of the earth, its peaks reaching thousands of feet into the sky.
Guktec lit a cigarette and smiled at Wallace while Vosuruk moved into the cave and barked staccato commands in Kamviri. Wallace drifted away from Guktec, past a couple of other craggy-faced warriors, and found somewhere secluded to take a leak. By the time he returned to the cave, the men were ready to leave. Kurik had gathered Wallace’s belongings and strapped his pack and camera bag to the white gelding’s saddle. The boy’s face was clouded with anger and his movements were sharp and hostile. Wallace smiled at him, and was trying to figure out the cause of Kurik’s sudden change of mood when he noticed the reins of Vosuruk’s horse tied to Kurik’s.
“Kurik will take you over the mountains to Pakistan,” Vosuruk told Wallace. “He wants to be man, but he is good boy so he will do what father tells him. He will take my horse. I travel with my men, on foot.”
“I want to come with you,” Wallace protested.
“I know,” Vosuruk smiled. “But this is not your fight. When you get to Pakistan you take bus, get to Islamabad. Go home.”
“I want to tell the world . . .” Wallace began.
“Your people don’t care,” Vosuruk interrupted. “This is not your fight. It is not their fight. It is our fight.” He embraced Wallace. “You a good man, Tr’ok Si’ol.”
Wallace struggled to accept the truth of Vosuruk’s statement. He did not believe himself to be a good man.
“You don’t understand, Vosuruk,” he pleaded. “I have to do this.”
“Die in your own bed, Tr’ok Si’ol. Die an old man. Not here,” Vosuruk said firmly. “Goodbye.”
Wallace watched impotently as Vosuruk yelled at his men and they marched from the cave. Malik, Guktec, and a few others smiled and nodded their farewells, but for the most part, the combat-hardened warriors ignored Wallace and focused on the task at hand: tracking down the few surviving soldiers who had been sent into the mountains to kill them.
Kurik took Wallace east, the boy’s mood and the language barrier leaving them little choice but to ride in silence. They traversed the high ridge that led off from the cave, and then they turned into a ravine that ran down to the wide valley below. After two hours, bare rock was replaced by thick forest and they reached the shade of the tall cedars at the edge of the valley. Wallace guessed it must have been about five miles from side to side and they were about halfway across when they came to a narrow stream. Kurik dismounted and allowed his two horses to drink, and Wallace did likewise.
Wallace watched his horse drink, the pink and black of its lips particularly striking against its white muzzle. The first shots came without warning, and bullets tore into the flank of Vosuruk’s gray horse. Kurik dived for cover behind the thick trunk of a tree, and Wallace stumbled down into the stream and hid by the rocky bank. Vosuruk’s horse whinnied in anguish as it fell. Kurik’s mare tried to bolt but was still tied to Vosuruk’s wounded mount and could only buck violently, until the reins snapped, freeing it to gallop away. Wallace’s horse bolted through the forest as gunfire tore through the air around it. Wallace peered over the bank to see Kurik throw himself in front of his mare. Convinced that he was acting out a death wish, Wallace only realized Kurik’s true intention when he saw the horse slow just enough for the boy to whip round it and grab the Kalashnikov that was stuffed in his saddle. As his horse raced on, Kurik returned fire, spraying bullets that cut into the forest near whoever was shooting at them.
Smart and brave, Wallace thought as the maneuver bought Kurik enough time to cover the ground to the stream and dive down the bank. The boy scrambled through the water until he reached Wallace. The two of them would have to work together if they were to survive. Kurik pressed himself against the rocks and studied the forest. Wallace wondered how many teenagers could handle a Kalashnikov with the same expert ease as his young neighbor. Kurik ducked and looked at Wallace, his eyes alive with nervous energy.
“Two,” he said, holding up a pair of fingers. He reached beneath his budzun cloak and produced a heavy pistol. Wallace recognized it as a Makarov, a popular trophy from the Soviet invasion.
“Go,” Kurik whispered, pointing downstream.
Wallace understood the plan immediately—he was to use the stream to get behind their assailants, while Kurik did the dangerous job of keeping them occupied. Two unknown attackers against a teenager and a photojournalist. Wallace didn’t like the odds, but they’d have a better chance taking the initiative than if they waited for death to come to them.
He nodded at Kurik before starting downstream, his waterproof hiking boots saving him from the worst of the freezing cold. He looked over his shoulder and saw Kurik watch him for a moment before scrambling up the bank. There was an immediate burst of machine-gun fire but Wallace stayed crouched as he moved, not wanting to risk giving away his location to see whether Kurik had survived. His question was answered moments later when bullets spat from somewhere nearby, Kurik’s angry response to their would-be killers. More gunfire as Wallace pressed along the stream. The Makarov felt heavy, and as he looked down, Wallace was suddenly struck by the realization that he had no idea how to use the barrel-mounted safety. The markings next to the switch were Cyrillic and therefore incomprehensible. The Kom had such a martial culture that Kurik had simply assumed that every man of age would know how to handle a weapon. Wallace could not test the safety without running the risk of giving away his position and, if he was fortunate enough to get within striking distance, faced the prospect of being unable to get his first shot away. He tried to remember whether Kurik had touched the switch when he’d handed him the weapon, and convinced himself that the teenager hadn’t, so, if he assumed that not even the battle-hungry Kom would ride around with the safety off, the firing position would be to turn the switch from horizontal to vertical. He flipped it down as he moved on, trying to ignore the loud bursts of gunfire that were now above and behind him.
Wallace stumbled and fell into the stream, smacking his knee against a skull-sized rock. He swallowed a yelp and rolled on to his backside, clutching his leg. A combination of pressure and ice-cold water numbed the stabbing pain, and he got to his feet and peered over the bank. His eyes took a moment to acclimatize to the subtle shades of brown and green and the shadows and highlights that dappled the world between the trees. A sudden flash of light alerted him to the presence of a man, no more than thirty feet away. He was crouching behind a tree and poking his machine gun round the trunk, not really aiming when he fired. The point-and-hope shooter had salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing an Afghan Army uniform, meaning he was probably one o
f the survivors of the attempted assault on Guktec and his men. Wallace couldn’t see any sign of a second shooter, and he wondered how Kurik could be so sure there was someone else. Moving without knowing the location of the second man would have been suicidal, and Wallace was struck by the idea that if he’d been alone, he might have walked straight up the bank and welcomed their bullets. But he wasn’t alone, and he owed it to Vosuruk to ensure that his son survived.
The sudden burst of gunfire was so loud that it pounded Wallace’s ears and left them ringing. He looked up and saw a short, chubby man peering round the far side of a tree that was ten feet away. The man hadn’t seen him and was aiming in Kurik’s direction, but, unlike his colleague, he was directing his shots carefully, pinpointing each burst. Epaulets on his shoulder suggested he was an officer, which meant he’d be better trained and potentially more dangerous than point-and-hope. Both men ducked for cover when Kurik returned fire, his bullets shredding bark and branch. Wallace could see the teenager’s muzzle spitting flame from behind a tree, and he crouched down behind the bank and considered his next move. Kurik’s life depended on Wallace’s ability to climb out of the wet trench without being noticed and dispatch two men who doubtless had families and friends who loved them. Men who had been ordered to be there, commanded to kill strangers, and who probably didn’t want to be in that forest facing death any more than he did.
The teenager stopped shooting and the forest fell into numb silence for a moment before Wallace’s ears attuned to the sound of birds tweeting, their song unbroken by the violence around them. The beautiful choir was suddenly lost beneath the rattle of guns as the officer and point-and-hope opened fire. Wallace hauled himself over the lip of the bank and, crouching as he ran, swept counter clockwise, moving in an arc to come up behind the officer, who was focused on trying to kill Kurik. Wallace felt that he was creating a din as he moved, but knew that any noise would be buried beneath the thunderous gunfire. And then the shooting stopped.
