The Linnet Bird: A Novel (62 page)

I
UNDERSTOOD, THAT NIGHT,
more than I had ever understood. I came to see what I didn’t know existed. The first time we came together, only moments from when I lowered myself beside him on the quilt, was rapid, almost desperate, our clothing merely pushed aside. And then, while we rested and our breathing slowed, he reached out and stroked my face with a delicacy I didn’t know his scarred, hardened hands could possess, and it was this touch that made me shudder with some combination of joy and grief so huge that I wept. Me, who was not a girl for weeping, brought to tears by the touch of a hand on my face. And he looked at these tears, and then soundlessly pressed my face against his chest by cupping the back of my head in his one huge hand. He kept his other arm around me. And I thought of Mahayna’s words as she spoke of comfort.

When my tears stopped I sat up in the moonlight and drew my
kamis
over my head, and he made no sound as he looked at my scar, and then his eyes moved up to meet mine and he put out his hand. It was so large that it covered the entire scar, covered what still remained of my left breast, and I felt the heat of his flesh against mine. And then he lay me down again on the quilt, and he gently lowered himself onto me. And this time our joining was slow and quiet, and the quietness grew inside me until it blocked out all sounds. I no longer heard the movement of the tree’s branches, the tumbling stream beyond the enclosure, the snarls and yips of the dogs, the night cries of hungry babies. There was only silence, except for the quaver of Daoud’s breath, and it was this sound that I would remember, later and always.

Afterward, my mind and body heavy, languid, Daoud pulled his
chapan
up over both of us, and I fell into a half-sleep, his body warm against mine.

It was still dark when I felt him brushing my hair back from my face, and I sat up. He handed me my
kamis.
“Perhaps it is best if you return to Mahayna’s tent now.” He said it softly, but I knew it wasn’t a question.

I got to my knees, smoothing down the soft folds of my
kamis
and retying the string of my trousers.

“Tomorrow I must work with the horses in the day. And at night,” he stopped, wrapping his sash around his waist, “I will sleep here again.”

I nodded, and made my way back to Mahayna’s tent, stopping once to look at the stars.

F
OR THE NEXT
ten days every nerve in my body seemed to be stretched to a breaking point. I would bring Daoud food during the day, and he would come out of the horse enclosure, going to the stream to wash, and then return and eat. Sometimes we didn’t speak, but other times we talked of our lives. I told him of my childhood—all of it—and he told me of his. He didn’t speak of his wives or children; I didn’t speak of Somers. We didn’t speak of leaving—of his going to Peshawar, or my returning to Simla. At night I would go to him, and stay for a few hours, always returning to Mahayna’s tent before dawn.

On the eleventh night he and his men gathered around a fire and two of them beat goatskin drums. Some of the children whistled a melody, and two of the men danced around the flames. The women stayed back, in the shadows, watching. Habib had been feverish, pulling at his ear all day, and so Mahayna stayed in the tent with him, but I sat with the other women.

When the men put down their drums they all took turns speaking. I couldn’t understand their words, but from the rhythm I understood it to be poetry. Daoud spoke, too, in Pashto, and then suddenly switched to Hindi.

“When your face is hidden from me, like the moon hidden on a dark night, I shed stars of tears, and yet my night remains dark in spite of all those shining stars,” he said, looking at the flames. And then he switched back to Pashto, and in a moment the man beside him was reciting.

Such was my emotion at his words, spoken in the language only he and I understood, that everything else was shut out, the words singing in my brain, and I could remember nothing else of the evening but them, and the shape of Daoud’s lips as he spoke them.

W
HEN
I
GOT
to the enclosure an hour after the camp had settled, a breeze blew sweetly. Daoud was waiting with his horse. “It is a night for riding,” he said, and, as he had those days on our way to Kashmir, he put his hands on my waist and lifted me onto the soft blanket on Rasool’s back. Then he swung up behind me, and Rasool walked away from the camp.

“Do you remember the first time we rode together?” I asked.

“Yes.” He urged the stallion ahead, and gave him the lead, so that the beast galloped freely over the territory he seemed to know, into the broad hills, his pounding feet sure of the way. And then Daoud pulled on the reins, and Rasool walked, and we swayed on his back, me leaning against Daoud, his arms around me, the reins slack in his hands. I felt his breath against my hair. After what felt like an hour, maybe more, we returned to the camp. Still without a word, Daoud dismounted, and I slid off.

After he had put Rasool into the enclosure he took my hand and led me to the quilt spread under the tree. We sat together, our backs against the tree, his arm against mine.

“What were the words you spoke at the fire tonight?” I finally asked him.

“They were written by the Persian poet Jami,” he said. “His tomb is in Herat.” And then we lay down together, under the
chapan.
Although he didn’t touch me, I could feel the hum of his body, so close to mine. Heat came from him, and with it the smell that I had grown to love, horse and leather and woodsmoke. After a while I realized he wouldn’t reach for me, and I put my head on his chest and slept.

When I awoke I heard Daoud’s relaxed breathing. I sat up and lifted the edge of the
chapan,
but Daoud softly caught my arm.

“I thought you were sleeping,” I whispered. Even though his face was only inches from mine, it was unclear, his eyes shadowed. “I will go back to Mahayna’s now.”

At last he spoke. “Stay with me tonight,” he said. And then we came together, and this time, for the first time in all the nights we had been together, he spoke my name as he moved with me, his voice a muffled cry against my neck.

I
OPENED MY EYES
in time to see the sudden swift beauty of the Himalayan dawn as it flashed over the treetops, turning the sky into a blur of sapphire. Daoud was not on the quilt, although his
chapan
was tucked snugly around me. I threw it aside and sat up, running my fingers through my hair as I glanced at the enclosure.

The horses were gone.

I looked toward the camp. One woman squatted in front of the fire, poking at the contents of a pot. A bony camp dog, tail curled protectively between its legs, snuffled with mild interest at a large horse dropping near a tent. A bold crow swaggered around a cold fire, stabbing at morsels of last night’s supper that had fallen to the ground.

The camp looked different. Smaller. Some of the tents were missing. I jumped to my feet, clutching the
chapan,
and ran through the maze of existing tents, finally pushing aside the door flap of Mahayna’s tent. She was putting a clean shirt on Habib.

“Where are they?” I panted. “The Pashtuns—where are they?”

“Their time here was finished,” Mahayna said. “They returned north, very early this morning.”

“No!” I cried the word so loudly that Habib looked at me in alarm. “Daoud wouldn’t go, not like that, just leave without telling me.”

Mahayna put her hand on Habib’s head. “Did he not tell you in some way, perhaps in a way you did not recognize? Without saying the words? This is often the way of men, is it not?”

I looked into her keen eyes, then sank to the floor, putting my arms on my knees and burying my face in them. “Yes,” I said then, thinking of him asking me to stay with him, his strange silence, his gentleness, and the way he had murmured my name. And of course, of course. The poetry. “Yes, he did tell me.”

“You know he had to leave, and you know your place is with your people,” Mahayna said. “I have seen you become a different woman since you arrived. I know you now possess a kernel of happiness. But you must bury it deep within you and let it rest. You can open it and touch it, but let it remain a tiny seed. Do not break open the pod and let it grow, become a weed to spread and choke your feelings for your husband—for this way leads to discontentment.”

I stayed where I was, not looking up, and felt the whisper of Mahayna’s clothes as she brushed past me. Eventually I lifted my head and pressed the
chapan
against my face, breathing in its smell. And then I went out of the tent to help Mahayna.

Outside sat the young
syce,
a small but rugged boy with calm sorrel eyes. He jumped up as I came out of the tent, and Mahayna told me his name was Nahim, and he would accompany me back to Simla.

“Nahim has traveled throughout all of Kashmir and northern India with various groups of
gujars
since he was a very small child. No one knows of his parents or where he comes from, but he arrives at different camps and helps with the horses. He is known for his uncanny ability to find his way about. Daoud has given him one of the tamed mares in return for your safety on the journey, a very handsome payment, and more than Nahim would have ever dreamed. He is happy.”

The dark-skinned barefoot boy bowed low, then stood, waiting for me to tell him what to do. He couldn’t speak Hindi, so we made our plans through Mahayna. He ran off and within minutes returned, proudly indicating that I would ride his new horse while he trotted alongside on a strong-legged pony, loaded with two packs filled with food and sleeping quilts, all strapped onto either side of the pony’s round belly.

I put the
chapan
around my shoulders and swung up into the soft leather saddle, settling comfortably in the molded seat. My sores were completely healed, although there were bright pink scars. Mahayna handed me Daoud’s embroidered saddlebag. “Inside are your clothes and shoes,” she said.

I knew the time had come for me to go now. And I had always known it had to end, that it was only a dream. And yet I had, so briefly, felt that I was in my true life, as Chinese Sally had once said. No. Not my true life, I thought, but here I was my true self. And now I would return to the false one, the English enclave, Somers, and whatever hell awaited me.

I pulled off the long earrings.

“No, please, keep them.”

“But your bracelet . . . ,” I started, but Mahayna shook her head.

I put the earrings back on and opened the saddlebag, yanking out my lacy white petticoat. I handed it down to her. “Perhaps you can make something for your next baby.”