He fell and landed face-down on the road. Fourteen women stopped and turned around. All were attired in hijabs and abayas in various states of repair. Dragging a lame leg, one of the women walked back to the fallen waif. She helped him to his feet, brushed imbedded gravel from his forehead and knees, kissed him, and then shook her finger in his face. Clasping his hand, she nearly yanked his shoulder out of joint when she turned to catch up with the small band of plodding refugees who had silently continued on. The child screamed.
Jinny, Asad, and Asif hugged the ground like Comanche warriors; they lay prostrate two hundred meters above the Khyber Pass road and watched. “I’d guess they are refugees fleeing Afghanistan,” Jinny whispered, still not knowing how much English the boys comprehended. A tear reflected Asif’s sadness and silently cleared a path down his dusty face. It muddied and dried before it could free-fall from his chin.
Far below, a tall white-haired figure stood erect. He wore a tattered thwab and carried a staff. To Jinny, he looked like a weary Moses, walking ahead of the small entourage of men, women, and a few children, some of whom baaed like lambs or bleated like goats in search of a safe pasture. A few children rode in two-wheeled handcarts; some walked. When their shepherd signaled stop with his uplifted staff, the pullers and pusher dropped the cart handles, unloaded, and herded the children to the roadside, where all but the solitary watchman collapsed in the tall grass to rest. One little child, inconsolable, continued crying.
Jinny and her companions watched the bearded, sandaled man kneel and slowly put his ear to the ground. He wasn’t praying. After an extended bend he stood, waved his followers forward, and hastened on down the road at a more energetic clip. Everyone took up the trek with renewed vigor. Steady handed Jinny, both eyes open, her rifle poised to fire, scoped and studied the distant faces. “They’re nervous about something.”
Asad and Asif took turns peering through the lens. Seeing two dripping water barrels lashed to the sides of a cart, Asad pulled on Jinny’s sleeve, held up two fingers, and whispered, “Ooba.”
“Jinny cupped a hand pretending to drink and asked, “Asad, is that word Pashto for water?”
“Ooba. Water.”
Delighted that a small window had allowed water to filter through the language barrier, Jinny opined, “Little children suffer the most.” As if on cue the distant crier—endowed with a great set of pipes—responded with an improvisation of a heart-rending aria from Pagliacci while Asif drew his eye close to the magnifying lens.
He watched, listened, and then in the king’s English solemnly confirmed that the child was, “a boy.”
“Yes,boy, Asif.”
It was Jinny’s turn. “I see no weapons.” Asad and Asif looked quizzically at one another and shrugged, apparently lost in an attempt to assemble the parts of her speech into a coherent rejoinder. Asif tugged on the same sleeve Asad had chosen and spoke in his native tongue. “Ma’am, when you speak would you mind turning your face in my direction? I’m a little deaf.” Message delivered. Message not interpreted. Jinny rolled over and sat up.
“I say let’s wait until they’re out of sight and then hike down to the road and follow them to Peshawar.” The children sighed, seemed to nod approval—or relief—and watched the defenseless band straggle around a bend in the road, disappear, and then minutes later stumble one by one again into view.
Clouds squeezed between peaks of the Hindu Kush and pitter-pattered rain to the ground, forecasting that native slate –like a foreign tongue—is slippery and difficult to bridge. But after a few misty minutes, heaven shut off the rain and air-brushed a bow of pastels, east to west, across the sky. Even the caravan below stopped and stared. Asad pointed up and whispered in Jinny’s ear, “booday taal.”
“Booday taal is rainbow?”
The boys replied as one voice, “Rainbow.” Obviously encouraged by the exchange, Asad pointed at Jinny’s right sleeve. “Flag.” She smiled, as tickled as if someone had convinced her this adventure would end well.
“Just between you and me, this feels like progress, I think we’re on a roll; but we mustn’t be seen by the refugees. As long as I’m togged up in this uniform, we’re vulnerable to attack from almost anybody with two feet and a weapon.” They continued surveilling the Pass below and waited. Finally, Jinny whispered, “Okay, they are far enough ahead of us. Let’s hike down to the road; but be careful, the rocks are wet and slippery. She skidded downhill about four feet then abruptly put on the brakes, causing a fender-bender with Asif, who ran into her rear bumper. “Woe, hold on, Mister.”
Jinny had received an unmistakable prompting in both her head and her gut, although she saw no further signs of trouble and heard no voices.
Climb. Now.
She tried to shake it off, but the command riveted itself to her brain.
Climb to the trees. Move quickly.
Before moving, Jinny cocked her head back as far as she dared—without losing her balance—and looked up. The boys reacted by tracking her gaze. They swallowed hard, prompting Jinny to force another smile and promise, “A safe trail awaits us in those trees.” The giant conifer forest ennobled the mountain’s crest, but it was as impossible to see the treetops as it had been for Jinny to comprehend the top of the Empire State Building when she was five—even lying on the busy sidewalk on her back.
“How far up and why?” demanded Asif in Pashto.
“Just trust her, little brother.”
“Asad! Asif! Big brother, you go first, then Asif, and I’ll bring up the rear. I’m the safety net; now climb.” The boys gave no indication that they disagreed with the order. They turned and began the ascent, with Asad—carefully choosing hand and footholds—leading the way. Bringing up the rear, Jinny stopped from time to time and surveilled the valley below, all the while berating herself for not knowing Pashto by now. “Rest when you need too, but only long enough to catch your breath. Safety lies ahead, not behind us.”
Sensing distress in Jinny’s voice, Asif called up to his brother,” But how can she know such things?”
Asad replied, “Keep climbing, Asif. Remember, I trust her.”
“Woe.” Jinny cringed and pressed against terra firma as a cantaloupe-sized rock rolled from above, grazed her helmet, glanced off her shoulder, and then careened out of sight.
“Oops,” telegraphed Asif in his native tongue.”
“I’m okay; keep climbing.” Muscles ached; heads ached; the temperature dropped; and the clouds thickened enough to bully remaining sunbeams into a retreat. Grabbing at roots, rocks and dirt, the climbers clawed-stopped-climbed-shivered and scaled upward for what felt like an hour. Jinny paused and, without releasing her handhold, looked back to estimate their distance from the road. “Four hundred meters? Let’s find a place to take a break.” Fighting fatigue, she tipped back her head and watched as Asad and Asif achieved a narrow shelf where they sat and stared, sober-faced, like fans in the bottom of the sixteenth inning on a cold, late evening. Asif cupped a hand against his brother’s ear and whispered, “She’s weak like a woman.”
Asad replied, “Let her catch up, little brother. She was injured, you know.”
Jinny’s eyes took in the grandiose, towering trees cresting the steep declivity above the boys. They heard her say, “Safe harbor, Mama, safe harbor just ahead. CARRY ON, SOLDIERS, CARRY ON.” The boys waited, watched her climb, and heard her tongue and lips collaborate. Out came a poem once posted on the face of the old Kelvinator back home.
Clouds upstage sunshine. We sometimes do, too.
So, roll back the curtains and bring on the blue.
The weather may darken like a burnt piece of toast,
But the sun won’t quit shining or abandon its post,
Or shrink from its duty or run off to play,
Though some folks complain and murmur all day.
So, hunker down, be patient, and enjoy the ride—
Even hurricane Cybil, or Bonnie, or Clyde—
The sun’s somewhere shining, still doing its best;
Like us, it keeps moving, setting only to rest.
Once Jinny had hitched up alongside the boys, plopped down on a reserved seat, and let her breath catch up, it was time to hydrate. Each beneficiary of the miracle spring gratefully drank from the camelbak hose, and in the middle of a swallow the senior sibling pulled at Jinny’s accessible sleeve, lifted his foot, and pointed. At first but a dust cloud, a convoy of seven vehicles swerved ominously back and forth like a sidewinder as they raced eastward up the Pass. “Quick, we must hide.” Jinny and the boys— blunted but not broken by exhaustion—struggled upward. Their angle of ascent seemed to taper off, but the likelihood of being spotted heightened with every step; the wail of the racing engines reached Jinny’s ears and sent an electric charge to her brain. We’re done for.
A projectile ricocheted off Jinny’s helmet. She froze, anticipating that the shooter would correct trajectory and fire another round. Nothing. She looked down, then up, and saw Asad kneeling beneath the outstretched limbs of a giant deodar and trying to hide a grin. He’d dropped a pebble and upstaged both the threat below and the giant seventy-footer above his head. He crawled out of sight, instantly reappeared, squealed, and beckoned Jinny and Asif to hurry. “The trail! I found it. I found the trail . . . and gooseberries.” Asif understood. Re-energized and without a moment to lose, he and Jinny put their heads down, clawed, climbed, and finally crawled under cover of the drooping canopy. The screaming jeep engines below choked off.
With silence crowned king, the majesty of the evergreen forest was breathtaking. Dark blue-green leaves carpeted the ground; clusters of gooseberries, bunched together, heralded a cry from Jinny’s blistered lips. “Thank you, Lord, but I got another problem.” Jinny propped against the armored trunk, aimed her rifle, and scoped the jeeps below. “One-two-three-four-five-six-seven jeeps led by a Humvee . . . property of the U.S. Army, but the men aren’t soldiers. They have a captive. In front of him, riding shotgun, I see a gorilla. No, it’s a man. They’re not looking for us. I think they are all drunk or high.”
On signal from their chief, the motley crew piled back into the jeeps. Doors slammed, and engines started. The line of stolen vehicles crawled like belligerent badgers around a bend. “The refugees,” Jinny gasped, “they are stalking the refugees.” She and the boys forgot the bunched berries, kept under cover of the deodar, and trotted east on a weedy trail roughly parallel to the Khyber road. Again, they caught sight of the jeeps and dropped to the ground, elbows forward, and surveilled the scene. Jinny—rifle to her shoulder and her scared cheek pressing the stock—watched the jeeps roll to a stop behind the frightened pilgrims below. They had no place to hide. Transient tears spilled down Asif’s cheeks and fell unfettered to the ground. He spread his fingers over his mouth and with the other hand clutched at his brother’s coat. “No, Asad, no more, not again. Shoot. Shoot.” Asad grabbed and held fast his brother’s hand.
Jinny had blocked out the conversation and totally focused on the target. She whispered, “I could take out two or three, but I’d give away our position; I won’t put you in greater danger.” Unlike Jinny and the boys, the desperate refugees, too tired to run, were totally exposed and vulnerable. Their leader, unabashed and standing alone, took a few steps toward his assailants and waved his arms overhead like a referee trying to call time out before the game clock ticked down to zero. Pop- pop-pop- pop-pop-pop. All six old men contorted, reeled, and collapsed to the ground. Ten of the hoodlums rushed forward, rudely grabbed the screaming women and children, and carried or dragged them like half-sacks of manure to the jeeps while their comrades ransacked the carts like shoppers at K-Mart on Black Friday.
Clothing, bedding, household goods, and possessions—all of value to somebody—were pulled and strewn on the road like paper towels from a bathroom dispenser in a public restroom. Handcarts were upended and the thugs, apparently enraged that they had found no booty, wantonly fired point-blank at corpses and screamed obscenities. The hummer’s horn blared three times.
Jinny’s bowels whipped half-digested rations into caustic gas as she watched the stolen jeeps fishtail, spin around, and follow the leader west toward Jalalabad. “There goes the last jeep. No, wait. Something just fell out. No, no, no. Someone just fell out. A child.” The toddler twisted awkwardly before landing on his back. The trailing jeep stopped, reversed, scored the road for twenty yards, and then braked. While the jeep idled, the driver bailed out, rushed back, grabbed the limp child by his legs, and then spun around like an athlete accelerates before hurling the Olympic hammer. The child landed in a heap off the road like a small bag of trash.
Jinny released the rifle’s safety and planted the cross-hairs of the scope on the devil’s chest. She watched as he tossed a cigarette on the wetted ground and pounded his chest with doubled fists. All decisions come with consequences attached. The cigarette ignited gas on the ground and a narrow flame streaked toward the jeep. The villain vainly ran and stomped, ran and stomped. Boom. The jeep exploded, killing the driver and all aboard. Jinny shuddered, wishing in vain that Asad and Asif had been spared the sights, the sounds, the screams—and the nightmares. Except for heavy breathing, the three stony-faced companions fell silent, watched, and waited for the convoy to return. No one returned. Haunted by the violent loss of human life, she laid her rifle on the ground and grimaced at the boys. “Oh, what have I gotten you into? What are we doing here? Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down.”
She cast her bloodshot eyes upward and cried into the wind, “TOO MUCH FOR ONE DAY! TOO MUCH FOR ONE LIFETIME!”
As if suddenly awakened from the nightmare, she jumped to her feet, paddled her thoughts free of the rocks of despair, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and clasped each traumatized child by the hand.
“Let’s go.”
Asif jerked, uncoupled, and ran as if the mob had spotted him and was in hot pursuit. His vision blurred with tears, he stumbled, tumbled down, end over end for thirty feet, and came to rest on his belly—one arm hanging over a ledge. Wide-eyed he gasped for air and watched rocks in free-fall.
Jinny screamed. “Don’t move Asif. Don’t move. We’re coming!” Asif looked up, saw her distress, and tentatively signed a thumbs-up. Turning onto his back, he watched vultures circle overhead and imagined them licking their chops, hungry to feast of fresh veal.
Jinny shifted her ruck sac and rifle forward, clutched Asad by the hand, and together they skied down through wet weeds on their glutei maximi. “Don’t move Asif. Don’t move. We’re c-o-m-i-n-g . . . fast!” No brakes, just heels.
Asad helped relocate his shaken brother away from the cliff and then watched Jinny tenderly cup tiny cheeks between her hands and, without speaking, kiss Asif on the forehead. Jinny removed his worn sandal and examined his swelling ankle. Asad picked up the vacant shoe, pushed his pinkie through a hole in its sole, and wiggled it at his brother. “You had a worm in your shoe,” he kidded in his native tongue.
Asif giggled at his brother’s antics. Jinny asked, “Do you hurt anywhere else?” He did but wagged his head from side to side. With a few figure-eight wraps of an ace bandage, Jinny secured the swollen foot and ankle. “Let’s stop tumbling and skiing and sledding and descend like regular folks, okay?” Asad nodded.
Asif added, “Me too?”
“No, soldier. You’ve been injured. You get to ride. Saddle up.” Jinny relocated her rifle, drew a deep breath, winced as if she’d stepped on a nail, and pulled up. “Asif, did I hear you say, ‘me too’?” Silence. She continued, “Would I be correct in concluding that you boys speak English?”
Asad sheepishly replied, “Pretty much.”
“Oh my! Now we’re really getting somewhere.” Jinny shook her head in disbelief and grinned. She swung Asif onto her ruck sac. “Piggy-back time. Oink. Oink is a universal language.”
“Oink, oink?”
“I figured you’d like to enlarge your English lexicon.” Jinny started tromping downhill and missed the blank stares proffered by both boys. “When we reach the road, we’ll have no time to bury the dead; Asad, stay clear of them; they are in God’s hands. Instead, look for anything useful that may be stowed in one of those carts. Hopefully, we’ll find one that hasn’t been damaged. Asif, you get to ride. Let’s say goodbye to this sorry Pass and be on our way to Peshawar before the enemy return.”
Asad looked up, smiled at Jinny, and for the first time replied, “Yes, Mama.”
She was so pumped she practically floated down the hill, whistling like a hot air balloon, and irritating those circling overhead who wondered if dinner reservations had been cancelled. The large cinereous—sometimes called black vultures—had been aloft for hours, listening for a dinner bell that seldom rang. They had adapted to a life-style of feast or famine,were big on entitlement programs, and boasted a wingspans of 2.7 meters [8.9 feet]. Following a strict pecking order, the matriarch had dubs on Asif—she called it ‘a take-out order.’
Even though Asif was small, carrying him piggy-back down-hill strained the bone-weary master sergeant. Jinny tried to stay positive. She reflected on Isaiah’s words, words she could not recall having heard before. She was too tired to repeat them aloud. I will lift up my hand to the Gentiles . . . and they shall bring thy sons in their arms . . . [and they] shall be carried upon their shoulders.
The post-meridian sun warmly applauded when Jinny finally planted her feet on the road, with Asad but two steps behind. “At last.” Jinny knelt to catch her breath—it was nowhere to be found. Asif slid to the ground, allowing his ride to unlatch her harness and let her pack fall. “I feel like the first Pilgrim when she set foot on Plymouth Rock.” Jinny lost her balance and fell backwards into the sea. “Oops, sorry Asif.” Reality replaced reflection.
After gathering clothing, a kettle, a wooden spoon, and a little bag of games, Asad returned to help Jinny right the least damaged cart and gently lift Asif aboard. Then Asad summarily held up his clenched fist, just like he’d seen Jinny do. “Stay put,” he said as he hurried off to see if he’d missed anything of value. He had. “Mama!” Before Jinny could get to her feet the agile lad had sprinted twenty yards and extended a hand up. “Their chief. He noises.”
Jinny retrieved her rifle and re-slung her ruck sac onto her back. She followed Asad and cautiously approached the body of Moses; he lay motionless on the ground. “Asad, I think he is dead.”
“No, not dead, alive, and I forget to tell; he have no water. Barrels dry.” The poor old man lay on his back, his left arm pillowing his head, his right arm twisted and trapped beneath his body. One slug had grazed his scalp; another gunshot wound—a through and through—had bloodied his right shoulder and broken his collar bone. The salt and pepper beard extending below his neck was splattered with blood. Jinny knelt, bent forward, and placed her ear near his open mouth. Shallow breaths warmed her skin.
Jinny looked up at Asad. “Yes, he lives. Can you hear me, old patriarch?” she asked. “Sir, can you hear me? We’ve come to help.” Tears pushed from beneath the old man’s closed lids. Jinny scooted close so she could cradle the blood-streaked head in her lap. “Asad, give him to drink.” Asad pulled the water hose from Jinny’s shoulder-strap and touched it to the old man’s parched lips. Shuttered dark eyes blinked opened; an Adam’s apple undulated; he swallowed several times and then coughed. Time napped and fear vaporized as Jinny and Asad administered first aid.
They drizzled water from the miracle spring onto clean gauze, wiped the laceration and the shoulder wound free of dried blood, and then poured ointment onto the scalp and into the cratered shoulder wound. Jinny bound them up with gauze and tape as best she could. With her fingers she combed matted hair from the old man’s forehead; he rallied; his eyes opened. He bid his ministers to lean close so he could be heard, and then he mumbled something only Asad comprehended. Still kneeling beside Jinny, Asad repeated back word for word: “’And the King shall answer and say unto them, verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’” The old man smiled approvingly, but Asad’s grasp of the English language wasn’t that good
Before his eyes fluttered shut, the invalid pushed the trembling fingers of his right hand beneath his blood-smattered thwab and moaned. Jinny whispered, “Don’t move old man. We won’t leave you behind.” Handle first, he revealed a sheathed dagger with the name, Alim, tool–stamped into the leather. He lay it on Asad’s palm and attempted a smile. Asad ceremoniously nodded, arose, walked to the cart, and deposited his treasure alongside Asif. Jinny gently laid the old man’s head on a discarded towel, then unbolted and removed two sturdy handles from an otherwise demolished handcart. She busily fashioned a stretcher with some torn strips of abandoned clothing.
“How did you know to do this?” asked Asad. Jinny winked, pursed her lips and—with a little effort and much tenderness—rolled the expatriate onto the stretcher, then secured him with more torn strips of linen. Together Jinny and Asad raised one end at a time, and soon the stretcher straddled and was tied in place on the cart. Asif reached out and patted the old man’s hand while Asad, without being asked, folded and tucked a few soiled pillows, a broken package of Pampers,rolled-up surplus clothing, around his brother, and then fashioned a pillow for Alim’s head.
Gaunt and again unconscious, Alim added little weight to the dovetailed, rectangular box straddling the single axle. Two rusted Schwinn bicycle rims, tires intact, supported the load and wobbled slightly on their axles. Gopher-wood handles—at one time attached to a wheelbarrow—had been fitted to the cart by the pilgrims. Jinny now knew that Alim was an Iranian and a Christian.
All systems go. “Come Asad; climb aboard,” Jinny beckoned.
Asad reached into the cart, retrieved the knife, tucked it underneath his woven cloth belt, then stepped between the handcart handles and replied, “No, Mama, you ride. I pull.”
Jinny wept. Asad and Asif rode with the old man.