Chapter 34
In the Hindu Kush...
Gunmetal clouds scudded over the mountain tops. Wrapping his pushtin
, his great, sheepskin cloak, close about him, Rahim hugged the loose sleeves close to his body to shut out the biting wind. From his small piece of level ground, he looked up at those clouds with growing anxiety. Winter was breathing upon their necks. There would be snow this night. At these elevations a storm might make travel impossible for days. He patted the lead pony's sturdy, grey neck, scratched behind her ear, and watched Derek struggle up the slope. Haste was imperative, yet haste was impossible. He turned to shift the pony's load of gifts and medicines. An unbalanced load could prove disastrous on these treacherous, mountain paths.After a few minutes, the Afghan hunkered down beside a large boulder that offered some shelter from the wind. He shook his head, both in frustration and puzzlement, as he watched the precept slide several feet down the scree slope, then begin to scramble back up again. Kincaid had warned him that Rayne was "different" and that he had only just recovered from a long, debilitating illness. Rahim could see that in the man's face, but in the troubled, hazel eyes, he could also read the unyielding obstinance, of which the Englishman had also warned. He spat into the wind. "Mad," he muttered, "to attempt this journey... in this condition." He pushed himself to his feet, pulled the pack from the pony's back, and evenly distributed it between the two other horses, which already bore loads of ammunition, supplies, food, and explosives.
* * *
When the precept finally reached the small, barren platform, he was breathing hard and, even in the chilled winds, sweating from the effort. Each breath was a painful struggle in the thin, mountain air. Rahim held his gaze, recognised the stubborn pride that would keep the man going no matter what. "Sit," he ordered. "Rest for a few moments, then we go that way." He gestured with his head towards the narrow ledge that wound around the mountainside. "It will be easier... until we climb again." Then he suddenly asked, "Do you have mountain sickness?... Head hurt?... Dizzy?... Bad stomach?"
Still trembling with exhaustion and grasping for breath, Derek shook his head no. "I'm OK," he whispered, then coughed. "I know the signs.... I know it can't be pushed. I'll stop.... I promise.... I might be bullheaded, but I'm no fool.... I don't want water on the lungs... but time's short." Though the altitude had not yet affected him, Derek was grateful for the chance to regain his strength. He knew he wasn't up to this, and he read the same knowledge in his companion's face. He rubbed his hands over his own face. His beard was growing. His hair felt matted and greasy. "Thank Gott... there are no mirrors," he muttered.
"Now... you like a tribesman.... You have that... air," Rahim informed him. "I think... it is of goat."
The precept smiled at the wicked grin that crossed the other man's face. So... the baby goat had been plopped in his lap for a reason, he thought. A new appreciation of his companion arose. He reached for the water bottle Rahim offered and drank deeply, but carefully. Staring down at the valley floor far below, he saw the river, like a silver stream, the rocks and boulders, the sparse juniper bushes that clung to the hard earth. A lone partridge, disturbed by their presence, flew by, clucking loudly to scold them for their trespass. Derek drew strength from the vastness.
Rahim's curiosity grew. He had seen television and films, and through them, he had seen the rich life of the Westerners. Yet he saw again what he had seen when Derek had studied the night sky at the way station. He could think of no word for it... except the word the old man had used... yaqin. He shivered, but not with cold. He had never been in the presence of a man like this... a man whom he could call friend... a man he liked... but a man whom he found 'unnerving'.
"You like Afghanistan?" he asked, extending a small, sandalwood box towards his friend. "Please, take.... It is naswar," he explained. "It will help.... You will find it... 'invigorating'." In response to Derek's eyebrow, which rose in question, he replied, "Take... under the tongue... like this. It is only tobacco mixed with spices." He then took a pinch of the brown dust himself.
"Like snuff," Derek whispered as he followed his guide's instructions. In a brief moment, he felt a burst of "something" and a small surge of energy.
"See," said Rahim. "It helps... a little."
Derek nodded, then spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb the profound silence of the place. "The first time I met Zarek ibn Sikander... in his valley.... It was January... just after the Soviet invasion... winter had truly set in. There we stayed... stuck... until the thaws... until there were banks of wild irises... masses of tulips." He smiled at the memory. "We Dutch love our tulips." Seeing the incomprehension on the other man's face, he hurried on. "It was beautiful... so peaceful... so vast... to find that place... hidden from the world... known only to God and the Afghans. Yes.... I like Afghanistan."
Rahim nodded, satisfied with the truth of the answer. "Time to go... I think here... you ride."
< < + > >
Valley of the R'om...
Rahim gazed across the valley that stretched out below them. This was the final valley... the final climb and descent. His task was done, his promises to Kincaid kept. For the first time, he was seeing the mysterious Valley of the R'om, which was said to be the fortress home of a ruthless, godless people.
It bore the shape of an elongated bowl. Surrounding, snow-capped ridges cradled blue-white glaciers. To his mind, the lush greenness of the pasture below was unnatural for this late in the year. Even the lowest river valleys had been well turned towards their winter garb. At the west end of the basin, lay a sapphire lake, fed by several streams, whose entry into the deeper waters was painted by fans of turquoise. Only the rising steam revealed their courses through the lush vegitation.
Along the north side of the lake, a village, much like his own, climbed up the mountain's slope. The buildings were all of stone with roofs of great, round beams and flat slabs of slate. Smoke curled from small chimneys. At the opposite end of the valley, Rahim could see scattered specks of white... the tribe's herds of sheep and goats. From somewhere he heard a sound that had to be a large waterfall.
Derek touched his guide's arm and pointed to several spots high in the barren slopes. Rahim saw square, stone towers protruding from the snows. They seemed to grow from the rock face. He looked up and saw a similar structure several hundred feet above their path.
"Watchtowers," the precept explained. "They'll be here soon."
"How?" Rahim asked, once more gazing in amazement at the valley.
Derek read his thoughts. The awe in his guide's voice made the feat an easy one. "A freak of nature, it would seem.... To have it investigated would be to draw attention to it.... It's a volcanic caldera. The lake is fed by hot springs. The fish here are a unique species, adapted to the heat and minerals." The precept chuckled. "Occasionally, the lake bed must burp hot gases, which is why the buildings have all been built well above the shoreline. Though it seems not to be dangerous to anyone on the surface of the water, it boils any fish caught in the phenomenon, and sends out several large waves. As soon as the turbulence subsides, the whole village rushes out in boats with nets to collect the freshly cooked fish. They say it is a gift from God.
"Personally, I suspect that this warm water and the way the mountains rise create a permanent bubble of heat. The bubble then diverts the harshest weather to the north or south. Those areas always seem to get more snow, lower temperatures, worse storms.
"The waterfall you hear is on the outside." He pointed to the west... to the far end of the lake. "That's the lake's outlet into the valley below. It's a sheer drop of nearly a thousand feet... then more drops... like steps. That's where the turbulence is. The valley curves like a snake and grows narrower and deeper until, towards this end, it becomes a gorge," Derek described, drawing a zigging line in the air with his finger. "Then... boom... you run into this wall where the waterfall is. In a plane... the plane is taken up... fast... by the updraft... very strong winds."
Rahim had listened patiently to the precept's lecture. "Are you sure it is the crazy weather... or does an invisible demon with great wings blow upon it or slap at it, like a child with a toy?" he asked. His voice was earnest, his steady gaze sincere.
Derek started to chuckle, but thought twice. He might offend his companion. "There is no plane snatching demon," he firmly stated. "I promise.... Only a freak of nature. It's how we found this place... and I'm sure it's what happened to Nick."
"How is it that the 'Shuravi'... the Russians... did not come here... to this gem?" the tribesman asked. "I know why this place is safe from my people... from the other tribes. It is a bad place... a bad people, but you out-world people have your spy planes, your satellites, your global mapping and photography. How is it that this place has survived your greed and might?"
"I don't know, my friend?... Disinterest?... Not worth the trouble?... Luck?... A miracle?... Perhaps, there's your ancient magic?" Derek joked, well aware that no aerial image had yet captured the valley's deep blue and bright green.
"A demon, perhaps?" Rahim again suggested. "Br'ok... my brother... are you sure you must meet with these people. It was here that the first 'Old Man of the Mountains' lived.... These are the true Assassins. You know the name by which they are called.... Idolaters!... They pretend to worship the true faith... but they are still unbelievers.... This place... for sure... upon my mother's soul... is an evil paradise guarded by demons and spirits they have enslaved. All the tribes know this. They will drink our blood. They will offer it to their god... an idol with the curved horns of a ram. They are not true Afghans, but in-comers.... Come!... We might still be able to get away."
Derek smiled. "In-comers?... After two thousand years, Rahim?... You confuse your history, my friend. The Old Man of the Mountains was Hasan-bin-Sabah, an early Shiite, whose domain was to the west... in ancient Persia... a thousand years ago."
"I know what I know," the Afghan spat. "What do you know of my world?... You come here to beg for their help, but they are as like to slit our throats before their monstrous god... eat our livers... or feed us to their dogs.... Let us go.... We will find another way to save your friend.... Everyone says...."
"Have you ever met these people?" Derek interrupted. "They are a fierce people... like your own... but even here, they follow Islam. What you call a god is merely the image of Alexander the Great.... Their honored ancestor.... It is an image we know from coins. When he conquered Egypt, he was proclaimed Pharaoh... king... and thus... the son of their great god, Ammon Ra.... So images showed him with the horns of Ammon Ra. They do not worship this, but honor and remember their past.... As do your own people. Do you not recall the days when your people came to the Kunar... from Kandahar?"
There was a trickle of pebbles from the escarpment above. Alerted at the sound, Rahim gazed upward and turned slowly. Four men stood looking down at them, rifles leveled at their backs. "I think we have no choice... now."
Turning round, the precept raised both hands to show he held no weapon. "Our invitation has arrived," he muttered. "The Rumi-Khan is my friend.... He owes me a debt.... One that he will honor." Derek sought to reassure the other man. "You are my friend... and will be his honored guest."
"If we get there," Rahim countered beneath his breath.
One by one, the gunmen slid down the snowy incline. Their questions were angry and violent. Rahim answered in rapid Pashtu with equal venom. Derek heard his name mentioned more than once... and that of the Rumi-Khan... along with baradar, the Pashtu word for friend or brother. As the discussion proceeded between Rahim and a man in a blue turban, who seemed to be the leader, one of the others seized the pack animals, while yet another stripped Rahim of his ammunition and weapons, then turned to search the precept. He quickly plucked the ivory handled knife from Derek's belt, then found the handgun in the depths of his coat pocket and his cash and Ian's Swiss Army knife tucked in a pouch at his waist. The precept felt a rifle in his back, pushing him towards the valley. As they started the trek downward, he glanced at Rahim and saw the resignation written in his dark face.
"Well.... I'm not eating anything.... They will likely try to poison us," the tribesman hissed to the precept.
"You think their cooking will be worse than mine?"
The Afghan grinned. "No... Insha'allah... I could not be that unfortunate."
< < + > >
Entering the village along the rough path that was the main street, Derek saw the reception committee waiting for them in front of ibn Sikander's house. No faces bore welcoming smiles. A motley pack of dogs bristled and barked at the strangers entering their territory. The dominant cur suddenly turned on a pup that had gone to the fore in its excitement. The youngster was driven back and sent yipping to the rear.
Gott, Derek thought, perhaps Zarek thinks his debt was settled long ago and we'll be lucky to get out of here at all. He had no illusions about the warlord's ruthlessness. His people's survival depended upon it. Nor did Derek harbor any illusions about ibn Sikander's out-world dealings... opium poppies were a cash crop. They grew well in this valley with its double growing season. There were always things that only money could buy. Weapons too would be a prize and a prized bartering item. If the Rumi-Khan had known of the Soviet convoy filled with unconventional weaponry, the convoy and its contents would have been his... and the Russians dead.
Tired as he was, the precept squared his shoulders, pulled himself to his full height, and increased the length of his stride. "Chin up," he muttered to himself. "Remember who and what you are."
Sensing the change in his companion, Rahim glanced over and realized that he was seeing a different man... one that he'd not met before. This man had the bearing... the dignity... of a general... of a prince. The exhaustion was still there, but now cloaked. This was not a supplicant begging a great man for help. This was a meeting of equals.
Derek instantly spotted the warlord, surrounded by a group of heavily armed men. Though now nearly sixty, he was still the tall, lean man the precept recalled. His face was more lined and his light brown hair and beard had been lightened still further by gray, but his eyes had remained unchanged by age... still shrewd, intelligent, emotionless. Beside him and slightly behind, stood a younger man, his chestnut hair capped by a rakish, blue turban. His hand rested upon a pistol, which was tucked into his waist sash. The eyes belonged to ibn Sikander. Could this be Altair, the eldest son?
Suppressing his own anxieties, determined that his own misgivings would not betray him, Derek stretched forth his hand. "Rumi-Khan... Zarek ibn Sikander.... It's goot to see you." He glanced over at the younger man and gave a tilt of his head. "Altair," he said in acknowledgment.
There was a moment of absolute stillness, which to Derek stretched into an eternity. Save for the bouncing, yapping dogs, the village seemed frozen. At last, the Rumi-Khan stepped forward. Ignoring Derek's outstretched hand, he enveloped the precept in a bear hug.
"Derek Rayne!... Welcome!... Welcome back to my home." Turning to face his people, the Rumi-Khan spoke again. "This is the man who saved our beloved son... who taught me English and many other 'worldly' things..... He is a friend to me... to us all.... Come!... Tonight we will feast."
Derek and Rahim both visibly relaxed, and smiled, as a babble of welcoming voices rose. The precept was engulfed in the crowd; his back was slapped, his hand pummeled. Nearby, the women of the tribe, their lower faces hidden behind veils of tinkling coins, watched all the hubbub with distant amusement. Their colorful garments spoke of a people untouched by war or the dictates of the Taliban.
"When I was told... yesterday...." The warlord paused to allow that confession to sink in. "...that two men approached... I felt... in here...." He touched his chest. "...that it would be you, my friend. Age sits well on you."
"And you've hardly changed at all," said Derek with a lop-sided grin. "And now that we have both lied through our teeth out of politeness, I'd like you to meet my friend." The precept grasped Rahim's elbow and pulled him closer. "This is Rahim of the K'om people.... He guided me here... and has taken me into his home... given me his hospitality and his protection."
Fast words in Pashtu passed between Derek's host and his guide. From the snatches that he caught, he sensed that Rahim was formally introducing himself by his K'om name, family, village, and clan. He saw ibn Sikander give the stranger his full attention, then nod in acceptance. At last, he turned back to the precept. "Then he is our friend also," the Rumi-Khan decreed. "Come.... You must rest... eat... then we will talk."
< < + > >
The meal was over. The room smelled of garlic, spices, wood smoke, and human bodies. The men of the tribe sat in a circle round the fire pit. Russet flames etched light and shadow across their faces, old and young alike, and deepened the velvety darkness beyond. The works of Rembrandt and Caravaggio... the masters of chiaroscuro... came to Derek's mind. As the fire crackled in the silence, all listened carefully to the precept's story... translated into the R'om tongue by the warlord himself.
Once he had finished, those who remembered Derek and the Major's last visit asked frequent questions.... What had happened to the Major?... Was his son a brave man?... Many repeated the questions that had been asked by Rahim's family. "Do you seriously believe this thing can be done? Soon the snows will come." Derek knew there would be no point in rushing and patiently answered them all, while asking questions of his own.
"We know nothing of your missing Russian convoy," said the Rumi-Khan. "You say it was two or three years after you were here?... No.... Some of our men... myself included... left our valley for a time to fight... to join the Mujahideen in their struggle against the invaders.... Only once... when you were here... did the Russians try to enter our valley... but we... with you and the Major... taught them that the blood they would shed was not worth what they might gain. Their attention turned to the Panjshir... and they left us alone.
"While you rested, I spoke with all the men of our tribe... particularly those who go out-world. No one has seen the Major's son." All present nodded in agreement, but then there arose an intense conversation in the R'om-vari tongue. "My nephew, Jawad, says that there has been talk amongst the Pâruni... in the Vâs'i villages to the west... rumor that bastard Fakir Safavi has boasted that he has an American prisoner for sale to the highest bidder."
"Is this Fakir part of the Taliban?" Derek interrupted anxiously.
"No," ibn Sikander's face shone with disgust. "He is a bandit.... His men
common thieves.... They are a people without honor.... They'll sell to whoever makes
the best offer." Again the warlord was distracted by conversation. He listened a
moment, then turned back to Derek. "...and Jawad says that the Taliban have visited
him.... I fear it may be too late, my friend."
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