Another Night

Darkness never fully retreats in the valleys of the high Hindoo Kush. Valleys so narrow, so steeply sided that the sky is a narrow slit in the rock walls.
Even in the burning, thin air of arid summer Night barely withdraws to the shadows of overhanging cliffs. Boulders and even larger pebbles have hintergrounds of cold born fungi or primeval lichen.
Where men can scrape an existence they will, without joy or ease, always envious of those whose tribal lands have soil enough to anchor grass or tree roots. No grain can grow above 14,000ft and few plants apart from taryark and charass.
Those who live here are as hard and pitiless as their surroundings. All is prey, flora, fauna or man.
Yet it was in an even higher valley, half beyond the snow line, that Zahir chose to abide. Here it was that they caused grain, nuts & fruit to grow. His beasts throve but he had only daughters and his daughters threw only females. Many men came seeking wives and most remained. The few who left were alone. Except once, the eldest daughter accompanied a man. She returned, decades later, wise of a strange science with shining tools, a woman whom even her mother, the Begum, consulted.

Shots cracked through the rapidly returning darkness at the close of another grindingly arduous day. The livestock was already within the walls, rangy goats more useful for their matted coats than any meat or milk they might yield, some wild fowl and a dzo that never walked further from the compound than a boy can spit, hand fed, leaf by leaf, such sharp brittle grass as could be gleaned from the scree.
Three shots, separate and distinct, in the icy evening air, a signal that strangers approached, seeking shelter, in the lee of the walls at least, if not within. The men within grabbed their rifles and climbed to the roof, the women and children withdrew to the innermost room, dark and windowless.
Four men, leading six horses, come into sight, holding their rifles flat, high above their heads to indicate no threat.
The men in the compound took aim at the approaching group, mostly AK47s, Landi Kotal made Lee Enfields and nameless local designs, shotguns choked down to rifle spreads, blunderbusses that could fire stones.
Zahir favoured his 2 metre gazal, its barrel brass bound, delicately filigreed, the short triangular stock ivory inlaid, made a century before. His eyes were no dimmer than when he was a soldier, decades before, but prefered to ask Salda, his eldest son, what he thought of the nearing men.
Salda, son of a third, younger wife, knew his father’s sight was not failing, as did all within the keep, but was pleased to be asked.
He was well past his maturity, when he could have expected his ancient sire to pass on his blessing and control, but Zahir remained master of all.
His father had got a boy child at last, on the Begum, his first, oldest wife and, like all old lions so blessed, was besotted with him. A precipitate move to usurp his father could end in his being banished or shot so he bided his time and held his tongue.
The strangers stopped about a hundred metres short, their weapons still held high, awkward and uncomfortable and unthreatening. If they were lowered, the defenders would open fire in a heartbeat and shred the strangers.
To Salda they looked like plains badmash, though anyone who been further south than the upper foothills were considered plainsmen.
They were wearing store bought pesharwi cloaks and turbans. The horses were heavily loaded, and all were saddled. He directed three men to guard the rear of the fort in case there were others approaching secretly.
The leader of the strangers gave his rifle to another and walked forward, arms held wide, hands spread open and empty.
“We have our own food! We seek only fire and the shelter of your walls, O Lord of the Valley” he said formally, in an accent that placed him many hundreds of kilometers south. “We can pay gold or trade as you prefer.”
Salda had never been further than Pesharwa but Zahir, in his far away youth, had learned the dialects of many tribes & regions. He had been to Karachi with his Raj regiment, even down into the subcontinent, where the barely clothed men were little more than moneys.

“Let them come forward” he said to his son, “see that the men keep them in their sights.”

This would be Salda’s first opportunity dealing with intruders, he was keen to make no mistakes. He stood up, his torso now unprotected by the wall and stepped onto the high platform to look beyond the horsemen. There was no-one else visible to the horizon.

“Come forward in the peace of Allah” he called.
“Al hamdul Allah” replied the stranger and turned to wave his companions forward. Now they were at their most vulnerable, approaching closer with a horse in one hand and their rifles slung or held backwards so they walked silently, meekly, eyes on the darkening ground to avoid stumbling or making sudden moves that could be deemed aggressive.
They stopped a stone throw off, waiting as the small door beside the gates opened. Salda waved forward his two strongest cousins to meet and examine them closely - Abdul his mother’s brother’s older son and Ahmed, called Bakri – the Goat - for his wild, unpredictable nature. He was a dangerous man, honourable but given to strange moods.
The leader slowly pulled aside his heavy cloak to reveal his large knife and indicated that his companions do the same, hands high away from the hilts.

Abdul signed to Zahir that he was satisfied with their demeanour and behaviour. Salda ordered the main gates be opened and the cousins stood on each side as the horsemen walked through slowly, into the caravanserai.
The defenders above still kept them in their aim as Zahir came down the steps to give final approval and formal welcome. As long as they were within the walls they would be under surveillance of one of the old warriors and two or three of the younger, unblooded boys, eager to kill at the first sign of threat.

The strangers stacked their rifles along the far wall and approached the tall, wide shouldered patriarch, touching their foreheads and salaaming. Young boys began to emerge from the shadows, ready to tend the horses.
The leader approached Zahir, bowed and said, “Allah be praised that you allow weary travelers to share your bounty. I am Muhammed bin Walid bin Sayyid, of the clan Makhan, sons of the Prophet in far away Sind. My companions owe me fealty and two are kinsmen.”
Zahir recognized the accent of the far south western deserts, “You are Baluchi?”
It was a deliberate provocation to an Urdu speaker claiming to be from Sind, on the other side of the country. His response would decide whether they died or sat by the fire.
“My mother’s fathers were satraps in that heretic country, they killed Baluchii for sport. Many times in my youth I joined them. For my shame my tongue sometimes remembers those days civilizing the unworthy.” He turned and spat in showy distaste.
Zahir nodded. Even if untrue, it was a sound answer, perhaps a bit too formal but the decorums were being observed.
“Two you call kin – who is the wolf that stands by the pack horses?”
Muhammed turned his head towards the fourth man, “He is a Punjabi, a family exiled from the land of djinn worshippers when the Ferangi Empress left. They were maulana but he was unable to wear the white yamul. I hold him dear and he owes me his life.”

Zahir had been one of the King’s Rifles, as had his cousins for generations, serving the Ferangi Empress. He knew the djinn & idol worshippers, their near naked women and unclean meat.
“You and your companions may shelter here tonight. See to your beasts and join us in bread & salt.”
“Inshal Allah”, breathed Muhammed with a deep salaam. His men raised their hands to their turbans with relieved “Al hamdul Allah”s. They visibly relaxed and began to unload the horses as Zahir and Salda returned to the inner yard. The rifles on the walls above came away from shoulders but eyes remained fixed. The older boys began to move forward, eager to see what ever these strangers had, did or said.

Some hours later, well enough fed on their own supplies and the meagre vivand that could be spared from the yield of Zahir’s land, talk began. The women of the family would be hungry for days to make up the largesse but it was a beneficial bargain.
The travellers could barter ammunition, pretty ribbons of silk and that most prized of trade, news from beyond the hills.
In the darkness of the edge of the firelight all but the youngest boys sat quietly, sleepy but wide eyed, taking in every detail of the visitors.
Soon they would need to explain their presence in Zahir’s fiefdom, far from trade routes and surrounded almost entirely by the eternal snows of the Hindoo Killers.
Salda began his examination of Muhammed. Zahir and the other men watched for signs of lies.

“You came from the valley of the Waleeds, by the high pass. A difficult path even when the season is strong. ” It was not a question, there could be no affront.
“They were not so hospitable as your Lord, no salt nor fair speech. We were six there and they levied us sorely for we had a blue eyes with us.” He spat into the fire in real disgust.

A murmur went through the men, “..the extra horses..”, and the children, jostling each other, squirmed closer. This was news indeed, a ferangi where none had been in living memory, even in tales.
“He payed us in gold to guide him to the Broken Tooth”.
He lifted his face northwards to the jagged peaks beyond the walls, “but the Waleeds would not allow us to travel up to their highland. They forced us out of their valley, to yours or to die in the snow above.”
Silently the men of Zahir waited; where was this infidel now? If these men had simply killed him for his wealth he would not have been mentioned. And still there was an extra saddle horse.
“We did not kill him, we are honourable men,” grumbled Muhammed, anticipating their thoughts. “He came to us from a Hajji in Landi Kotal, with whom he was in alliance and now we must return there else they will think as you did.”
Salda waved away such a suggestion but he could not resist asking, “He was allied to a Hajji, an infidel?”
“He was ferang but a musselman. He had studied at Deoband with the Hajji’s son, or so it was said. He spoke urdu like a Khan and pushtu better than a kabulli. And he was stronger than any man I’ve ever known. On the pass into your land the path was blocked by landslide. As we cleared a way there was a boulder that three of us could not move but he pushed it aside. We rested a little after getting the horses across but when we prepared to descend he was gone.”
“Had he fallen?” asked Salda, still suspicious.
“He left us! He left his horse, even his knife -" he nodded at the large nepali triset on the better leathered horse,"- taking only his staff and a small pack of his own, strange, food, leaving all else. We knew that we would be accused of treachery and intended to bring all his possessions back to the Hajii to disprove this. That is why we have another saddled horse. One of our number did not agree and he wanted the ferangi’s property for himself. He would not yield, fought Ursa”, indicating the Punjabi, “and died. None will mourn him, let him rot nameless in dishonour.”
Zahir leaned forward and said to Salda “The ferangi wanted to go to Broken Tooth. From that pass it is possible to follow the ridge to the summer meadow below its slopes.”
Salda asked Muhammed, “Did it seem he knew the way?”
“He was wise in such things, he carried the glass that is used to point the way to pray. When denied passage up the Waleed’s valley, we wanted to turn back but he looked to this thing and said we would climb the ridge. Yet he did not take it with him.”
He withdrew from his vest a Zeiss emmascope, with its various lenses & compass.

“What would he want at Broken Tooth? The food he took was only a few tola, no more than a sear. He took only enough for a week at most. Without a horse he could not even reach this land, or the Waleeds, before starving.”

Salda had been to the summer meadow often as a boy, tending the evil eyed goats. It was a hard climb of many days and nothing lived there for a believer to eat, only scanty, short lived grass and purest snowmelt water. It was only enough for a week’s fodder and, after freezing nights with such fire as could be coaxed from the previous year’s droppings, it was a relief to return.
He had seen dark caves high above of which the old men spoke in fearful whispers and, young and fearless, had tried to climb to them two or three times.
He recalled his dilemma each time, never getting closer than two or three sling lengths. It seemed than he was always turning from the straight climb despite greater determination as he grew older. He’d last tried during his thirteenth summer and had kept his eyes on the dark openings as he climbed, not even looking down as he clambered over boulders but still he could not reach them. Since then the meadow grazing fell to younger boys as he grew into his man’s duties.
He’d never spoken of these attempts for Zahir was a stern son of the Faithful and the dark tales were of djinns and worse.
“Father, what do you think, should we seek this ferangi?

Zahir, recalling his time in that meadow beyond the memory of any that now lived, except for the Begum - he would ask her to bring out her necklace this night - answered,
"If he is lost he will be dead. If he is not he has gone beyond us."

To Salda it seemed that his father was in reverie, and he waited. He had strange ways and sometimes Bakri seemed to be more his son than Salda or the chota wallah so often on his knee, still gurgling breast milk and uncircumcised.

No-one knew, nor dared ask, Bakri's lineage. He had been brought to the keep by Zahir, when still a boy, after he had travelled south to the livestock markets many years before and that was the end of it. He would never lead but worked harder than any two of the clan.
He had not sought a wife from the daughters of the valley, as if they were his blood kin but had found a wife elsewhere. Soon she would add to the numbers of children. A strange woman, closer to the Begum than her other women, all of whom knew that she was carrying a boy.

He had reached the dark cave, a hundred years earlier and never spoke of it to anyone. The Begum had watched him struggle to the cave entrance.
Zahir thought on his day in the summer pasture. Since then he had lived long with her and she had found him the other wives, who had sons not only daughters, but they had never doubted that their son would arrive in due course.
Then, long after it should have ceased to be with her after the way of women, the princeling was … delivered. Salda and the other men joked in private about his love of the little prince, come from loins that had opened before any of them had been born. Some of the more curious had asked their wives how that was possible but had no answer that a man might repeat.

Soon, Salda believed, Zahir must give up his command yet he was as sharp and knowing as he had been for decades. The Begum's complete control of the women, normal in such extended tribal societies, was unchallenged. Even when with their men, the usual time for powerplays, they did not wheedle and nag for added influence.
It was one of the unusual strengths of Zahir's fort, there was no internal dispute. None could recall, in their lives or that of their parents, at time when he was not lord of all.
The men who had come into his domain to take a wife but chose to stay gave him a loyalty unmatched elsewhere. They would not lead but nor would they ever want, even when old & toothless. Several of Zahir's elder daughters were widows. had always been so to the husbands of their younger sisters.