FOUR
Sori was born on a frosty winter morning. Two days prior to her birth, snow had started to fall and continued to come down without a break until a day after she was born. By then, a thick layer of heavy white powder had covered the unpaved Kamari Pass that linked the village to Kabul. On that day, a taxi and a Jeep had dared to embark on a journey from the city to the surrounding villages. However, soon after plowing through the main road for only a few yards, their chained tires remained entrapped and churning in the knee-high snow.
***
At dawn, Sekandar put on his worn-out jacket and walked to Qayoum Khan’s qala, a high-walled compound. Khan was the only man in the village who could help him, and the only man on whom Sekandar could count. Khan had helped him numerous times in the past, and he would not hesitate to do the same again.
Shivering, Sekandar stood in the courtyard as cotton balls of snow landed on his black turban. He did not want to waste any more time than he had to by stepping up the stairs and entering the guestroom.
“I am in need of your kindness. I am about to lose Aziz’s mother. I just don’t know what to do,” he said, skipping the normal exchange of pleasantries.
“What happened?” concerned, Qayoum Khan asked.
Desperation vibrated in Sekandar’s voice, “The child is okay, but her mother is very sick.” He was not able to stop his teeth from chattering.
Stepping down the stairs, Qayoum Khan wrapped his pattu, shawl around his torso. “Since when has this been going on?” His wife, Nafas Gul had told him that Mahro was expecting her third child anytime soon.
“It started around midnight.”
“Why didn’t you come earlier?” he looked surprised and a bit irritated.
“The child was okay. I thought she . . . would be okay too,” Sekandar had hoped and prayed throughout the night that his wife would eventually stop bleeding.
Qayoum Khan looked up at the white winter sky and stared at it for a few seconds. Then, he turned around and called his wife, “Nafas Gul!” With his back toward Sekandar, he slipped his right hand under the pattu, reaching into the side pocket of his vest. He then turned and deposited ten crisp one hundred Afghani bills into the breast pocket of Sekandar’s jacket. “In case you need this,” he said tapping on his chest. Once again, Qayoum Khan proved to him that he was indeed a true friend and a man of honor.
“People say, roz-e bad biadar nadara, the day of disaster has no brother. But I don’t believe in that. May God bless you in return.” Sekandar vowed to himself, once again as he had in the past, that should Qayoum Khan ever ask for help, he would not hesitate to sacrifice his own life for him.
Then, the small stature of Nafas Gul emerged from the dark corridor that led to the terrace.
“Salam Sekandar. Is everything okay? How is Mahro?”
“She is getting weaker by the minute, been losing too much blood, and burning with fever. Baby seems to be okay.”
“God forbid, nazar shoda, she must have been ominously eyed. Let me put on my coat.” She turned and disappeared back into the same hallway.
Qayoum Khan shouted, “Sekandar, don’t waste time. Get Pekay.” He was referring to the horse he had bought years ago during a hunting trip to Samangan province. “Go to Kabul, right now, and find a doctor. Bring him in a taxi. Leave the horse in Mandawi in the store next-door. Hurry man!”
Qayoum Khan owned a shop in the city’s central market, where he sold his harvested products in bulk to shopkeepers around the city. Every year, Sekandar had been in charge of renting a truck and transferring the harvested corn from the farm, and flour from the mill to the store. Before Pekay’s accident, sometimes he would ride the horse all the way to Kabul.
Failing to obey his command, Sekandar stared at Qayoum Khan. Like a statue, he didn’t even blink. Grief and confusion must have numbed the part of his brain responsible for making critical decisions.
“Sekandar, I am talking to you.”
He jolted, as if awakening from a hypnotic dream, “Qayoum Khan, may you live a thousand years.”
Taking brisk steps, Nafas Gul reappeared from the hallway. This time, she was wearing a black coat and had slipped into her white snow boots. A pink cloth package, filled with various herbal medicines, dangled from her right hand.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her,” looking down at the package, she assured Sekandar. “God willing, this Yunani, Greek herbal medicine will cure her in no time.
***
Pekay rested, kneeling in a dark corner of the barn. A fistful of white hair was scattered over his forehead. He was charcoal-black without even a white speck on his body. Therefore, Sekandar had named him Pekay, The Bang.
“Come on boy, long journey ahead,” he circled his arms around Pekay’s neck, and helped the aged animal stand on his feet.
During a brutal game of Buz-kashi in Samangan province eight years ago, an accident had left Pekay with a limping right foot. On that day, Sekandar had snatched the decapitated buz, goat from the opponent’s hand and secured it on Pekay’s back, ordering him to gallop on a slope toward the finishing circle, where they would drop the carcass and claim victory. But only a few yards before reaching their destination, the horse’s right foot had sunk in a pothole undetectably covered by grass and weeds. Pekay, Sekandar, and the buz flew off in different directions, tumbling down the slope. Tossed by the impact of the violent jolt, the heavy carcass disjointed Sekandar’s right elbow.
A few yards away, laying on the ground, Pekay could only lift his head and neck. He could not rise and stand. Disabled by his broken right foot, he waited patiently for Sekandar to come to his rescue.
Not fully aware of his own injuries, Sekandar rose and sprinted toward the terrified animal. He raised and nestled his partner’s head, soaked in sweat, against his chest. Hot air flared through Pekay’s nostrils. Meanwhile, he kept his wild-eyed gaze fixed on the ground, as though ashamed. He had failed to take his partner to the finish line.
***
Exiting the village, Sekandar passed by his own house. He thought of going inside to check on his wife. But that would cost him precious time. He could envision Mahro’s unconscious body lying on the mattress, a faint, painful moan once every few minutes, blood, fever, more blood, and more fever gradually draining life out of her. Nothing could have changed, and he could do nothing to change the situation. Sekandar had to make it to Kabul, find a doctor, and bring him to the village as fast as he could. He decided to press on.
Sensing the urgency, Pekay paced with confidence. He knew the route to the city. He had traveled through the hills and valleys of the Kamari Pass many times. Now that he had found a second opportunity to help his partner reach the finish line, he was determined to do so. However, an hour later, still miles away from Kabul, his legs began to feel heavy, which made it more difficult and exhausting to push forward through the thick layer of snow. Nevertheless, he kept ambling on with slow but steady strides.
Sekandar realized that the horse was in trouble. He padded Pekay’s back a couple of times, firm enough to keep him focused but not too strong to cause him pain. But Pekay maintained the same pace, laboring to breathe through his flaring nostrils and aging lungs. He had the drive, but not the strength to step any faster. Treating the old animal roughly would have been cruel, and would not have helped him to pick up the pace either.
“Haaah! Move on son, move, faster!” frustrated, Sekandar shouted, but Pekay couldn’t execute his orders. He wanted to, he tried, but he just could not muster the energy to do it. In addition to the fact that his right front leg limped a little, years of inactivity and old age made it impossible for him to answer his partner’s last call.
A few steps further, as the snow thickened and the road began to ascend, Pekay started to toddle along before coming to a complete halt. He hung his head low as puffs of his breath, like tiny patches of clouds, floated and disappeared in the sky. Sekandar studied the animal for a few seconds, then ran a hand on his black mane and planted a kiss on his forehead.
“Whatever His will,” he said through a choked throat, lifting an index finger toward the overcast sky.
As he looked around, the colorless glare took a stab at his squinting eyes. Draped in a thick white comforter, the mountains remained deafeningly silent. Perhaps, under that spotless cloak they were concealing a dark secret from him.
He thought about Mahro, his childhood friend, one of the few literate women and the only redhead beauty in the village. Years ago, Mahro and Nadia attended the same elementary school together in a nearby village. Mahro was much older and in a higher grade than her cousin, Nadia. Nadia had moved on to the city, eventually graduating from Kabul University. Mahro, on the other hand, had remained in the village to marry the man she loved. Once her dream of marriage to the kind, polite, and handsome Sekandar came true, all she wanted was to stay in Deh Darya and raise her sons alongside her husband.
***
O, God, don’t take her from me. Sekandar pleaded, visualizing Mahro’s dark-brown eyes and a heartwarming smile. I need her. My kids need her. Please God! Let her live.
Chunks of weightless snowflakes kept landing on the rocky mountain slopes, the giant boulders, and the barren branches of trees that extended like the claws of frozen monsters. Sekandar wrapped Pekay’s rein around his wrist and stared at the rising path toward Kabul. Within a few hours, the sun would drift behind the mountains; everything white would turn gray, and eventually disappear in the dark. They had just begun to ascend the Kamari Pass. From thereon, it would take about five hours on a sunny day to walk to the city. Would they make it to Kabul if they kept on climbing? Only God knew. If they did, for sure, it would be dark by the time they arrived. And if they didn’t, the likelihood of their survival through the night would be slim.
Even if the snow decided to stop falling, and even if Sekandar found a doctor willing to walk to the village, it would not be possible to return in a taxi tomorrow. Sekandar was certain of that.
“I hope Nafas Gul’s medicine works,” he said to Pekay, his voice and his lips trembling.
Ashamed, Pekay kept his head down, waiting for him to make a decision.
Sekandar turned around and started to walk back toward Deh Darya. Pekay lurched along. As if the animal knew that next year, he would not be around to make up for this lost opportunity.
***
Arriving at the intersection between the main road and the path that led to the village, he noticed people entering his house in small groups. Once inside, he saw men huddling in the courtyard in clusters of three and four around the stripped rose shrubs. Qayoum Khan was the first to open his arms. Holding his friend in a gentle embrace, he whispered in his ear with a sad tone, “May she rest in paradise. May God grant you patience.”
***
Sekandar raised the corner of the blanket that draped over the door-less frame of the guestroom’s entrance. He dared not to step inside. Covered by a white cloth from head to toe, Mahro’s lifeless body laid on the floor in the center of the room. Nafas Gul and about a dozen of Deh Darya’s other women sat around her, weeping with puffy eyes and swollen nostrils. A few strands of Mahro’s red hair remained exposed, shimmering from under the white cloth. Sekandar let go of the curtain and pulled away from the doorway. He entered the other room across the squared entry area. Next to the window, his eight-year-old son, Aziz was sitting with his hands crossed around his folded knees and his face hidden in between. Holding the newborn close to her chest, Nadia was sitting on the new rug that Mahro had bought just two weeks ago. Mahro had also stitched together a baby mattress, a small flat pillow, and a baby blanket as she had anticipated that her child would need to sleep through a harsh winter—this time, a girl as she had wished and prayed.
Nadia had failed to prevent the flow of her tears in the presence of Aziz, Jawad, and the baby. How could she? She had lost her best friend and her only cousin. Two-year-old Jawad sat next to her with rapidly blinking eyes and a confused expression on his face. “Baba! Adey khaw ast, Mommy is sleeping,” he said pointing his little index finger toward the room across the hallway.
As tears blurred Sekandar’s vision, he buried his face in his frozen hands.