Khost

The cat eyed Ajani with the same accusatory expression she’d used after their argument that night. Its one good eye focused on his slightest movement, careful that it remained beyond the reach of his hand. Its bluish, milky eye wandered, as if it were looking back to a time when it could still trust him. Back to when he could contain his anger, back before it had overwhelmed him, if only for an instant. Now, they both had to live with the consequences.

Ajani squatted onto his heels as slowly as the shade crossing the porch, as slowly as the sun crossing the distant, snow-capped mountains. He reached for the tea he’d set out, an extra cup waiting, as was custom, in case someone from the village happened by.

The cat crept forward. Ajani didn’t understand why it kept coming back, but he was grateful. Of course, he fed it when no one else in the village would. That would have been her wish. To him, it was a creature of the mountains like himself, reluctant to accept another man’s charity or pity. But with only one eye now, what choice did it have?

"I’m afraid this is the last of the lamb for a while, young one," Ajani said softly. The cat looked from him to the plate of meat scraps a few feet away, gauging the distance and how quickly Ajani’s hand could cover it. When it judged it would have time dash away should Ajani twitch, it moved in. It devoured his offering greedily, like the parched soil of his field drinking in water back when the poppies had swelled with blooms. The cat kept its ears forward, listening, snapping its head up each time Ajani gently sipped his tea.

After all this time, Ajani still only thought of it as "cat," though he knew Namir had given it a secret name, one she wouldn’t tell him. But he had learned that name anyway. Sometimes, Ajani had heard her whispering it at night. Khost, after the foreigners’ base down the valley, and the university she had said she would attend. She had thought she was being clever, disguising two desires beneath a single name. At the time, he had thought it was innocent enough, another of her girlish games he so adored. In the way of all young girls, she had given a secret name to everything. Muna had said that she’d grow out of it.

The cat finished its meal and stretched out on its side in a corner of sunlight, washing a paw well beyond his reach, its good eye watching him surreptitiously. In the same way Namir used to watch him when she was young. As with her, he pretended not to notice, his part in the games they’d used to play.

Ajani turned from the mountains toward the village to see Yasir puffing his way up the road, his pakul cap askew from where he’d wiped his brow. Yasir was not a man built for the struggles of their country. Yasir’s father and grandfather had struggled against the Russians. Ajani’s father had smuggled weapons across the border on hidden trails. Neither Yasir nor Ajani had been so brave against the Students, though few men who still lived had.

Yasir collapsed onto the porch and accepted the cup of tea Ajani offered with a small wave of thanks. Ajani wondered how Yasir had ever managed on pilgrimage last year.

"The tea is strong today," Yasir said after a tentative sip, dropping in a sugar cube after. "You have finally mastered making it. Muna would be proud." He then reached for one of the dried apricots Ajani had set out on a plate. The cat feigned sleep now. Only the slightest flicking of its tail betrayed its continued vigilance.

"That animal is cursed," Yasir said, giving it a narrow glance between sips.

"The cat did nothing to cause my troubles," Ajani said. He knew Yasir was only making conversation.

"Few men would be so forgiving. Here, I brought you something." Yasir held out a small cloth bag that smelled like tobacco. "I’ve added cloves to the blend, a trick I learned from the Indonesians on pilgrimage."

Ajani accepted the bag, as hospitality required. Perhaps he could use it to bribe the foreigners. Or the Students should he encounter them again.

Yasir pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and struck a match against one of the pale bricks of Ajani’s house. He drew a long, deep breath, then let it out with a satisfyingly smoky sigh.

Ajani wished he could smoke again. He had once enjoyed rolling his own cigarettes the way his father had taught him as a boy. In years past, Ajani and Yasir would sit on the porch for hours, smoking cigarettes, drinking Muna’s tea that Namir brought them and discussing the latest news. It paid to have the village tobacconist as a friend, both in cigarettes and in gossip. Only the foreigners smoked much now, while telling all of his people not to. Last year, Namir had started smoking. That was where their argument had begun that night.

"It’s been almost a year, Ajani," Yasir said as if he could read his friend’s thoughts. "You should let yourself enjoy this life again. What happened was God’s will."

"God didn’t guide my hand that night," Ajani said.

"Your hand did not plant the mine. The Students did."

"Without my hand, Namir would never have been out that morning."

Yasir just waved away Ajani’s argument, his hand now firmly holding his cigarette. They had been through this conversation a dozen times before.

Zemar had said there would be trouble when Muna had started dressing Namir as a boy. Muna had reminded Ajani that it was an accepted custom, even under the Students’ rule. At first Ajani hadn’t minded. The other villagers had stopped giving him looks of pity for Muna not bearing him a son. But once Namir had begun to change into a woman, she’d been reluctant to give up her established freedoms, playing soccer, attending classes, wandering the village unescorted. Muna had said their daughter just needed time to adjust to her new role. Muna had been through it herself, and she’d made Ajani a good wife, hadn’t she?

"Other men would have been more patient," Ajani broke their mutual silence.

"Other men would have beaten her with a stick," Yasir corrected through a cloud of bluish smoke. "Zemar would have used a wire."

"I think Zemar misses life under the Students."

"Many men’s memories have grown short, Ajani. Zemar suffered as much as any of us when the Students were in power."

"But now he seeks to profit from their return. And drag us all into ruin with his ventures."

Yasir left that undisputed. His breathing had become less ragged from the exertion of the climb. Ajani tried to enjoy the sweet, rich smell of the cigarette smoke but it only reminded him of that night.

Ajani had smelled the smoke in Namir’s room, as he had twice before. Muna had asked him to let it be. There was no prohibition against women smoking. But Ajani knew Namir had stolen the tobacco from his bag. Not a path any young woman should ever set her feet upon. He had called her into the kitchen. They had argued. Zemar had said earlier that Ajani allowed his women too much freedom, that they needed discipline or they would never respect him as a man. But Ajani couldn’t bring himself to strike either his wife or his daughter. His grandfather would have been aghast. His father merely amused.

Their argument had grown loud, drifting from cigarettes to Namir’s sidelong glances at the foreign soldiers. Fortunately, Ajani lived well beyond the outskirts of the village, so there were no ears to convert their words into whispered gossip.

Still, Ajani had had a trying day, the continuation of a trying year. The previous spring, Zemar had convinced him to devote a portion of his land to growing poppies, saying even a small parcel such as his would make a man rich with what the brokers paid. Initially, his modest crop had blossomed like his daughter, bright and colorful against an otherwise brown and dusty land. But that day, Zemar had quoted him a much lower price than in the spring, he said because Ajani hadn’t given him enough money to pay the proper bribes. Now, the foreigners had become interested. And that had brought the Students out from hiding in the mountains.

Ajani was angry because he thought Zemar had misled him. Angry at Zemar, angry at the foreigners who wouldn’t let them make any money after taking away their country. Angry at Namir for looking at those foreign men with eyes as piercing as the mountain sky, and wanting to imitate their women, some of whom were soldiers. Namir wasn’t old enough to know how the Students punished women who were so bold. It made him even angrier to remember.

Even in a blinding rage, Ajani hadn’t thought to strike his daughter. He couldn’t. So he’d lashed out at the one thing she loved, the cat. Now he spent his days trying to court its affection.

"I can never take back what I’ve done," Ajani said.

"All we can do is pray for forgiveness," his friend replied, taking another apricot. "That and go on living."

That night, the cat had jumped up on the table between them as their words grew loud and angry, purring and rubbing as though to play the peacemaker. Ajani had snapped out his hand with all a man’s power, not really thinking until he’d connected. Like swatting at a fly in summer. The cat had yowled and scrambled off the table, its claws leaving scars across the wood like a painful memory.

By the time Ajani had realized what he’d done, he was alone. Both his women were in hiding. He’d slept on the porch that night, afraid of the fear he’d seen behind their eyes.

He remembered telling Yasir the next day that Namir had sneaked past both her parents before dawn to find her beloved pet. Instead, she’d found a mine the Students had buried as a gift to a foreign patrol. The sound of her discovery had awakened the entire village.

"I fear God turned his back on me that night," Ajani said, staring up at the deep blue dome of heaven.

"God only shows his back to those who turn away. Many in the village lost someone last winter."

From that morning onward, Muna would no longer speak to him. She cooked his meals, cleaned his house, stitched his clothing, performed all the duties required of a wife. But she never said a word. Ajani had grown so accustomed to her silence that he had barely noticed when she started coughing. At first, he thought she was using it to remind him of her displeasure, as women sometimes did. Then came the day her coughing hadn’t stopped. Blood soon followed.

Neither he nor the others in the village who had taken up Zemar’s venture had any money left for medicine. All the poppies had withered soon after Namir’s death, just days before the harvest. Either the Students or the foreigners had poisoned them. The village had grown quieter that winter as more soil became freshly turned and neatly piled with stones, the only markers to the dead except the memories of the living.

Yasir crushed out the remains of his cigarette. He levered himself to his feet and dusted off his vest.

"I have to go, Ajani. Zemar and I are meeting the foreign soldiers who want to see if the village has recovered. Like their medicine would have gone unwelcomed last winter. At least they are not the Students. Or the Russians."

With a wave, Yasir started back down the road.

Ajani looked around for the cat. During his conversation with Yasir, it had disappeared, like a recrimination of the lies he’d recounted in his mind. It, like Muna, had seen his hand connect right across his daughter’s face. The cat had been too quick to accept the blow. Ajani’s hand, and the all power behind it, had carried until it found Namir’s beautiful eye.

For a moment, she had only stared at him while covering her eye like an accusation. Then she’d fled the house, the cat close behind. She had spent her last night crying somewhere in the darkness, cold and alone with only the stars to comfort her. Her sobs had occasionally drifted to Ajani’s ears through the clear night air, but he had hardened his heart, thinking them a lesson.

Like a good wife, Muna had never contradicted his story to Yasir. She, too, might have thought his tale of the cat would spare them the looks of pity they had shed when Namir had temporarily become a boy. But she’d never said.

In truth, Ajani did not know how the cat had been blinded. It had slunk back to the house with a milky eye three days later, perhaps a little wiser for seeking out a more peaceful home. His was a hard country, if sometimes unintentionally.

Ajani found the cat sitting half behind the corner of the house, watching him again. Its expression changed from wariness to curiosity as he studied the gray stripes around its eyes. It still looked so young and innocent despite its world-worn scar. He had never noticed the thin strip of light fur that highlighted its eyes in the same way Namir’s had been offset by her long, dark lashes.

Ajani remembered Namir had been born with those lashes, remembered Muna had already settled on the name because it would fit either a son or daughter. Back then, Ajani had thought it didn’t matter, as there would always be time for more children. He remembered his only child’s name meant "swift cat." If only she had been as quick as the cat that night.

He remembered the day Zemar’s wife, Hidi, had hurried up the road with a bag of kittens she had smuggled away before her husband could tie a knot in it and throw it in the river. Remembered Namir begging him to keep one without knowing he’d already decided that at least one of them should live. He had pretended to protest just to make her joy all the greater when he finally gave in, his only condition that she pick a boy so that he might have some male companionship beneath his roof. He remembered watching Namir dip a rag in goat’s milk to suckle it until it was fully weaned, and thinking what a gentle wife and mother she would make some man. Maybe even Yasir.

The cat still studied him from the corner, peering out just a little farther.

"I know your secret name, young one," Ajani said quietly, rubbing his outreached fingers together as he’d seen Namir do to lure it closer. "Or should I call you Khost?"

The cat tilted its head and pricked its ears, then yawned and stretched toward Ajani, settling just within fingertip reach, though it remained tense and ready to spring should Ajani attempt to touch it. Ajani counted that as progress as he slowly brought his hand back to his side.

They sat together on the porch for a time, both staring toward the snow forming on the distant mountains. The passes would be closing soon. Ajani still knew some hidden trails the foreigners had yet to discover. Perhaps, he’d use one to cross to a place where they had no influence. A place where he could forget and begin again.

But, if he left his home and that night behind, he’d have to bring Khost with him, if only to remember.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

The Guardian

Rain is a distant memory, like the tender young shoots of spring. Where once a wide and swirling river flowed, only a tiny trickle remains. The steady wind smells hot and dry, without a trace of moisture in it.

The clans raise clouds of dust as we move across the plain. Drought drives us to seek greener grazing lands as we chase the distant storms. In our trek along this well-worn route, we pause at watering holes to recover our strength before setting our feet on the ancient path again.

Our clan, Antilopina’s clan, follows the larger ones, picking through their leavings. From the day I was born, I have associated the scent of our clan with shelter and with home. They are my aunts, my sisters, my nieces. Now, I have a daughter of my own. Giselle is my joy, a brightness in this otherwise dun and dreary land. Like many in our clan, this is her first journey across the plain. It is only my second.

Along the shriveled river, our few men stand watch at the edge of the clan’s territory. We have no soldiers, only sentries to scan for danger and raise an alarm. With so many new mothers among us, we are a tempting target for Panthera and her kin. But we are quick and agile, ready to flee from the slightest provocation. Our enemies have a difficult time capturing us unless they catch us alone and off-guard.

Antilopina nestles up our territory to the small rise where Papio’s clan leader has marked his claim. His is a foreign clan with strange and different customs. His lieutenants are his soldiers. They all guard families of their own. His clan doesn’t worry as much about lone enemies like Panthera, only when her more powerful cousins form up in packs to hunt.

My mother always told me that the leader of Papio’s clan was our Guardian. Without him, I might not be alive. The fragrance of his clan blends with our own to create a comforting scent of safety. He and his soldiers are powerful and strong where our men are not. To young eyes they look like heroes.

When I was young, my mother warned me not to provoke the Guardian or I would pay a terrible price. I still do not know why he protects our clan. A dark secret swirls around him, but my mother never confided it to me. She fell last season when Panthera’s kin came stalking. With the Sheba dead, Antilopina inherited our clan. Now, she, not my mother, is our matriarch and the keeper of our secrets.

Today is not a travel day. Antilopina declared a day of rest, a day for gathering food and water to help us on our journey before the grasses become trampled and the stream muddy from the nearness of too many feet.

Grant and Thompson stand watch beyond the edge of our encampment. Their eyes sweep across the plain seeking anything dangerous or out of place as Antilopina leads the clan out for gleaning at first light. The clan disperses to search for succulents.

I keep Giselle close, under the shadow of my limited protection. I instruct her on which plants to look for and which are best left untouched. I wish she would pay more attention to the ever-present dangers of the plain. She is still young. The world is new and full of wonder to her eyes. She would rather bound through the grass than attend to my mundane lessons. Many mornings I wish I could join her. But there is still so much for her to learn.

I struggle to remember all the lore my mother passed on to me. My sole focus is to teach Giselle and keep her safe so that she might pass on the Sheba’s wisdom to her daughters in turn. Even a change in a birdsong might signal danger on the plain.

We drift out from the others as we find a patch of ungleaned succulents near the long grass claimed by a rival clan. The river lends a cool, tingly edge to the morning. A thin mist rises and burns off across the valley.

Giselle begins chasing a black and yellow butterfly. I don’t have the heart to call her back to her lessons on such a stunning day. The sun begins to warm my skin, breeding complacency disguised as nostalgia as I watch her play. I range a little farther from the clan to keep Giselle in sight. It’s only when I hear Grant echo Thompson’s warning signal that I realize how far we’ve strayed.

I glance around to identify the danger. There, precisely camouflaged as always, Panthera has come calling, moving low through the high forage of a distant clan.

I call Giselle to my side. She doesn’t heed my voice. Instead, she springs away as though we’ve begun a game of hide and seek. Not the time, my daughter.

I survey the grassland again. Thompson’s gaze directs me to where Panthera is lurking. Giselle hasn’t noticed. She’s still too excited by the day.

By the river, the Guardian and his lieutenants are lounging beneath a tree on the small rise near the shore. When Cuvier and Dama take up the watch’s warning, the Guardian stretches and yawns before rising to see what’s caused the commotion.

I begin to feel skittish. Panthera is edging closer. Grant takes up a new cry. Our enemy is not alone. Her adolescent son hunts with her. When they hunt together, they move as if they share a mind. They stalk toward positions to cut off Giselle from the rest of clan. In a few heartbeats, I, too, will be isolated. If I run now, I might be able to save myself. But I cannot abandon my daughter.

The Guardian watches but does not move. Why does he not come? Has the Sheba’s death changed the terms of our agreement? Is there some part of the pact that I do not understand?

I call Giselle again. I stomp a foot insistently. She takes it as a challenge and bounds away. Now, I must chase after her. If I encounter Panthera or her son in the tall grass, I’ll have no choice but to protect my daughter. I go nowhere on the plain unarmed. But I am small even for our people, so have only surprise and determination, not strength, on my side. Still, no one will take my Giselle without a fight.

I find Giselle exploring at the edge of the tall grass, on the outskirts of a larger clan’s territory. Each time I try to herd her back toward the safety of the river, she springs away toward a new distraction. I dare not scold her too loudly. Panthera’s hearing is keen and she moves on padded feet.

I chase Giselle through a maze of well-worn trails. Her legs have grown long, her body fast. The tall grass obscures my sightline to the clan. I still hear Grant’s and Thompson’s warnings echoing through the shallow valley. Other clans recall their members to form defensive perimeters. We are too small for that. Our safety relies on watches, warnings and our feet.

I leave the tall grass when I hear the warnings change again. Our sentries have lost sight of Panthera. Many dozens of paces away, Giselle also emerges, her head cocked as if finally taking notice of the danger. I wish I could tell her how much her playfulness has imperiled us both. I save my admonishment for when we return to the safety of the clan. I suspect she now realizes that this life is not a game.

From the edge of the shorter grass, I scan the plain again. The Guardian and his lieutenants are ambling toward us now, spread across the valley. The Guardian is in the lead, his lieutenants trailing to either side. They must see something our scouts cannot. They rarely leave their shade and the safety of the river on speculation. I trace the line of their passage toward the long grass. There, midway between Giselle and I, a pair of eyes close to the ground darts from me to her.

I call to Giselle to stay exactly where she is. Perhaps Panthera hasn’t spotted her through the camouflage of her position. She may have been heard but not yet seen, a cardinal rule for all children of the plain. It’s too late to retrieve her, too late to dash to her side and shield her with my body. All I can do is distract Panthera, like any mother would. Expose myself to protect my wayward daughter. Even from this distance, I can see Giselle shivering where she stands. The reality of our situation has finally settled in.

I gauge the distance, gauge Panthera’s speed against my own. How long can I outrun her? How far will I get before she captures me? She doesn’t seem to have noticed the Guardian and his lieutenants. They are cunning. They aren’t headed directly for her. They circle around to cut her off once she reveals herself to chase either Giselle or I. All I need to do is stall for time.

Then I remember her son also lurks nearby. I feel his eyes fixed hungrily upon me from somewhere in the brush. Any moment, I could find myself caught between him and his mother, a captive to my fate. I have no choice. Panthera is preparing to spring her ambush. The Guardian will not arrive in time to protect Giselle.

Step by step, I limp out from hiding favoring one leg as though I’ve injured it in the brush, a trick I’ve learned from the flyers on the plain. I know this ploy will attract Panthera’s attention. It is much easier to run down the wounded than the young. I am a more tempting target for her anyway. I carry more weight than Giselle among the clan.

I feel Panthera’s eyes shift to me, watching for any misstep to indicate a ruse. I continue limping, wandering slightly as if lost and disoriented, casting wide eyes toward the river and our clan. I let my fear wash over me until I’m sure she can smell it in my sweat even from this distance. That, at least, is not untrue.

I pause, balancing as I hang the leg in the midair. I’m certain Panthera’s spotted me. The hair on my neck rises from the focus of her eyes. Doe-eyed, I gaze across the valley. The Guardian and his lieutenants have disappeared. Now I begin to worry in earnest.

Before I can take another hobbling step, the long grass near Panthera erupts in violence. I jump sideways as her screams carry across the plain. The Guardian has navigated the maze of trails to ambush her unaware. He and one lieutenant engage her in a pitched battle. A heartbeat later, she sprints toward her daylight refuge, bloodied but intact. The Guardian’s lieutenant gives chase, though he doesn’t try to catch her. An instant later, his other lieutenant drives off Panthera’s son. He, too, ceases the chase after a few paces. The Guardian roars and beats his chest with one arm, reinforcing his claim to this territory and to us.

I am overjoyed at our good fortune. Giselle remains alive with a valuable lesson that will serve her and her daughters well.

My celebration dies prematurely as I see her tentatively emerge from her blind. The situation reorders itself before my eyes. The Guardian and his soldiers have not just positioned themselves to protect Giselle and I from Panthera. Their new positions interpose them between us, the clan and each other. What treachery is this?

Giselle does not sense this latest danger. Before I can open my mouth, she prances up to the Guardian to thank him. He reaches out a hand as if to stroke her hair. With a quick grab and shake, he snaps her neck.

I charge to confront him with my simple weapons. One of his lieutenants draws back a hand before I come within a dozen paces. His warning is clear. I can join her if I like.

I freeze where I stand. Dying will serve no purpose now other than to deprive my next daughter of the lesson I have learned.

I look to Antilopina, who shakes her head in resignation. Only Cuvier and Dama hang their heads in sympathy. The rest of the clan has already turned away to resume their gleaning. Grant and Thompson resume their watch.

The Guardian slings Giselle’s body over one shoulder, a ration of protein for him and his soldiers before they move with us again.

Now I understand the Sheba’s warning about the Guardian, the dark secret that swirls around him. The occasional theft of a life like Giselle’s is the unstated price of his protection.

The next morning, I resume the northward migration with the remainder of my clan. My world is as brown and sere as the landscape, as lifeless as my heart. I bear the Guardian wide passage as he perches upon his hill, his beard still stained from last night’s feast. Where yesterday I drew comfort from his nearness, today I find his scent tainted with danger and the pain of a mother's loss.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III