Spirit of a Mountain Wolf (23 page)

“Stop!” It was Bilal. He was right behind him—how did he get there so quickly?

Razaq could hear Mrs. Mumtaz’s screams of rage in the courtyard. There were other footsteps too. Then a shot. He heard the zing.
Murad
.

Razaq kept running along the roofs, weaving in case Murad shot at him again. He couldn’t stop. If Bilal caught him, he would have to hand him over to Mrs. Mumtaz. The streetlights made him an easy target for Murad. There was nothing for it: he would have to go over the edge. How much different from slithering down a steep mountain slope could it be?

He looked down to the gali below, glanced back at Bilal. He was too close. Razaq crouched to his hands and knees and slipped over the side. He checked for a foothold between the cement bricks and found one. He was just about to move his hands down when his right hand was grabbed.

“I’ve got him!” Bilal yelled.

Razaq could feel the thumping of Murad’s approaching footsteps through the cement.

“Let me go, bhai,” he whispered. “Let me fall.”

How far would Bilal’s loyalty to Mrs. Mumtaz go? Maybe he would be punished too if Razaq got away.

“He’s slipping!” Bilal shouted. “Quickly. I can’t hold him.”

It wasn’t true. Bilal was much stronger than Razaq and could have pulled him up to the roof again.

“Allah go with you,” Bilal whispered. Then he opened his hand.

Razaq’s feet slid, scrabbling for a hold they couldn’t find, until they landed against a top window ledge. There was a bottom ledge on his window in Mrs. Mumtaz’s house; he hoped there was one here, too. He stretched one arm down and grabbed a bar as he slid down. Yes, there was another ledge. He rested his feet on it and looked up. There were two silhouettes against the night sky. Was Murad aiming the gun at him? He couldn’t tell.

He let himself slip and hung onto the bottom ledge with his hands a moment. How far from the ground was he? Would he break his legs if he fell? Better than being shot. Just then a bullet skimmed past his head. He heard its squeal and then the thud as it entered the cement farther below.

That decided it. He let go of the ledge and tried to get a grip on the wall, but this time there were no cracks in the cement. His legs and arms flailed as he fell, bumping and scraping against the wall. An awning broke his fall. He bounced off it, crashed to the gali and landed, winded, on his back.

More shots sprayed the ground near him, and he scrambled closer to the building. Nothing felt broken, though his right leg didn’t work properly, and he was as sore as if he’d been beaten. His skin burned from all the scrapes. He had been fortunate, but now he needed to reach the bazaar. He crouched and glanced up at the roof. Only one figure stood there now. He guessed Murad would be out in the gali soon to chase him down. It didn’t bear imagining what would happen if he was caught.

He forced himself to stand up and half-ran, half-limped down the gali. He stopped a moment to take in a few shuddering breaths. His sides hurt; he felt as if his heart would rip apart.

He heard a shout and urged himself to move again, but a sharp pain shot up his leg. Maybe one of his bones was broken after all. It seemed as if only a minute had passed when he heard another shout. It sounded like his name. There was a scuffle further behind him. Then a shot. He pushed himself on. Maybe Bilal was fighting Murad. If so, Razaq could be of little help; and what if he went back and Bilal was forced to hand him over to Murad? He couldn’t waste this opportunity now that Tahira was safe.

Then he paused. Bilal had called him brother, had saved his life, and given him his freedom. He turned and limped back the way he had come. He wasn’t sure what he could do, but he had to try.

Two men were fighting in the gali; there was no one else around. Razaq drew closer. It was like watching a wrestling match in the village, except one of these men could die. One man slammed a fist in the other’s stomach, and he fell. The man on the ground reached for something; the other man kicked it away.
The gun
. Razaq could see it glinting under the streetlight.

He edged closer and picked it up just as the man on top smashed a fist into the man under him. The grunts of the fight stopped. Razaq still wasn’t sure if Murad or Bilal had won. He stood there with the gun in his hand.

The man standing didn’t speak. Was it Murad? Razaq tightened his finger on the trigger. Could he shoot a man? His eyes blurred and he wiped them with his left arm.

“Razaq?”

It must be Bilal. He lowered the gun.

“Razaq? It’s me.”

He shut his eyes. What trick was Bilal trying? The voice sounded familiar: a mountain voice, speaking in Pukhtu. Was he losing his senses?

The voice came closer. “You are safe now.”

Warily, he opened his eyes, blinking. For an instant, he thought the man standing before him was his father. But it wasn’t. It was Uncle Javaid, with blood running down his face. That wasn’t all: his uncle was weeping.

Razaq dropped the gun and fell to the ground to touch his uncle’s feet. Javaid lifted him up to face him.

“Razaq, it is you. Thank God, I have found you at last.”

Mrs. Mumtaz burst into the room. In her raised hand was a knife with a long narrow blade. “You will not escape, my mountain wolf. You have ruined my business, but I will keep you a boy forever. You will never escape—you will always work for me.”

She turned to the door and pushed a bolt across—it was as loud as a gunshot.

Razaq sat upright, panting. He watched the morning sun peek into his window and remembered where he was. That first night after Majeed and his uncle had brought him to the Protection Center, a woman had showed him to this room.

“It is just to sleep in,” the woman said. “You can go outside whenever you like.”

How had she known he was afraid of a bolted door?

When Majeed and his uncle had gone, the woman had stayed. There had been a woman at Mr. Malik’s house, too, and Razaq didn’t relax.

This one smiled kindly. “My name is Parveen. I will not touch you.” She said it as if she knew all about him. She looked at his face and the way he limped. “The doctor will come soon.”

Razaq stiffened and she added, “You are safe now. This is a good doctor.”

Her gaze didn’t waver even when Razaq glanced at her sharply. She reminded him of Rebekah, although Rebekah had skin even paler than his and that strange henna-colored hair.

“Is Tahira here?” he asked.

Parveen inclined her head. “You can see her later. The doctor is treating her, and she will need to stay in the surgery for some days.”

Razaq couldn’t help himself: he felt the heat rise into his face, knew his eyes would look wild like a wolf’s. He took a faltering step toward Parveen and his bad leg locked. A pain shot up to his back.

Parveen didn’t even flinch; she regarded him steadily. “She is a good doctor.”

She?

“It is over, Razaq. You and Tahira are safe.”

Parveen was patient as she repeated the word “safe,” but Razaq wondered how many times he would need to hear it before he believed. What did safe mean? Were they safe from Mr. Malik and Mrs. Mumtaz? Would he ever be safe from his thoughts?

Then Parveen had said softly, “We will help you with the memories.”

Razaq had stared at her, startled.

The doctor had been gentle in setting his ankle. She reminded him of his mother, asking him questions as if she were inquiring about the weather as she put a cast on his leg.

Parveen wrote down Razaq’s answers and showed him pictures of houses in Islamabad. Razaq pointed to Mr. Malik’s house.

The doctor rested her hand on his cast. “You have been very brave, Razaq.”

He knew she wasn’t talking of his fractured bone. He wondered if the broken places deep inside him would heal as well as his leg.

After a few days, Parveen took him to a room to eat with other children. There were so many—many more than at Mr. Malik’s house. As he entered with his crutch, he stopped, surprised.

“What is it?” Parveen asked.

Razaq indicated a table where younger children were sitting. “I know that girl,” he said. It was Moti. Then he saw Raj and Hira.

Moti didn’t seem surprised to see him. “Zakim found this safe place for us,” she said around a mouthful of egg and paratha.

Razaq grinned. What couldn’t Zakim do in Moti’s eyes?

“We live here now,” Raj said, “and go to school. Zakim visits us.”

Razaq could imagine that Zakim would not want to live in an institution.

“That is until someone wants to adopt us,” Moti explained.

“Mmm,” was all Hira said. She was too busy with her food.

Razaq would have to tell Majeed about Danyal and Aslam. Maybe they could come here, too.

It was a week before Razaq saw Tahira. They sat together at breakfast and hardly said a word. At first, there was nothing to say. It was as if they understood each other’s pain more than anyone else in the room could, and it was enough for Razaq to watch her, to know she was safe. The rogue thought snuck into his mind again. Would they ever truly be safe? Would Murad recover and find them, just as Aslam had found him in the scrap yard and Zakim and Majeed had found him in Qasai Gali? He pushed the thought away. He wouldn’t let it spoil this day.

“Come outside,” he said.

There was a garden and a high wall. Some of the younger children were already there, playing soccer. Sounds of the traffic—rickshaws and cars—floated over from outside but seemed far away.

Tahira was watching him. “Razaq,” she said, “thank you.”

He felt his face grow hot.

“I am glad you were able to escape, too.” She put a finger on his cheek—he knew he had a scab there—and glanced at the cast on his ankle. “I heard you jumped off the roof.”

He grinned. “Sort of. All that jumping I did in the mountains chasing goats helped.” He didn’t say how much form he had lost from being cooped up so long.

“When I feel better, I am going to study at the Christian Girls College in Rawalpindi,” Tahira said.

Razaq wondered if they would ever feel better, but he made an effort and said, “I am happy for you.” He wished he could touch her. She looked prettier than ever.

“What will you do?” she asked.

Razaq thought of his uncle. They had talked that first night. “I shall live with Uncle Javaid and go to school. Then,” he searched her face, “I will return to the mountains, work the land like my father did. Maybe start a different sort of school where girls can learn, like you.”

Tahira nodded, and he hoped it would not be difficult to persuade her to join him there. He sighed inwardly; first he needed to tame the dark shadows that lurked in every corner of his mind. Tahira’s face clouded as if she were seeing those shadows, too.

“What is the matter?” he asked gently.

“We are getting older. We will not be able to see each other.”

Razaq frowned as he thought. “Could we write? Will that be permissable?”

“I hope so. I will live at the school since I have no relatives.”

“We know how to send secret messages.”

She smiled and her eyes lit her whole face. Razaq caught his breath at the beauty of it. She had never smiled like that before.

“Do not worry about anything,” he said. “I am from the mountains, and just as those mountains cannot be moved, I will never forget you.” He paused, gazing at her eyes, then quoted a proverb his mother told him. “There is always a way from heart to heart.”

Tahira’s eyes filled and she put her hand in his. She didn’t say a word but the look in her eyes and the warmth of her hand was enough.