And The Mountains Echoed

OneFall1952

So,then.YouwantastoryandIwilltellyouone.Butjusttheone.Don’teitherofyouaskmefor more. It’s late, and we have a long day of travel ahead of us, Pari, you and I. You will needyour sleep tonight. And you too, Abdullah. I am counting on you, boy, while your sister and I areaway. So is your mother. Now. One story, then. Listen, both of you, listen well. And don’tinterrupt.

Once upon a time, in the days whendivs andjinns and giants roamed the land, there lived afarmer named Baba Ayub. He lived with his family in a little village by the name of Maidan Sabz.Because he had a large family to feed, Baba Ayub saw his days consumed by hard work. Everyday, he labored from dawn to sundown, plowing his field and turning the soil and tending to hismeager pistachio trees. At any given moment you could spot him in his field, bent at the waist,back as curved as the scythe he swung all day. His hands were always callused, and they oftenbled,andeverynightsleepstolehimawaynosoonerthanhischeekmetthepillow.

I will say that, in this regard, he was hardly alone. Life inMaidan Sabz was hard for all itsinhabitants. There were other, more fortunate villages to the north, in the valleys, with fruittreesandflowersandpleasantair,andstreamsthatranwithcold,clearwater.ButMaidanSabz was a desolate place, and it didn’t resemble in the slightest the image that its name, Fieldof Green, would have you picture. It sat in a flat, dusty plain ringed by a chain of craggymountains. The wind was hot, and blew dust in the eyes. Finding water was a daily strugglebecause the village wells, even the deep ones, often ran low. Yes, there was a river, but thevillagers had to endure a half-day walk to reach it, and even then its waters flowed muddy allyear round. Now, after ten years of drought, the river too ran shallow. Let’s just say that peopleinMaidan Sabz worked twice ashard toeke outhalf theliving.

Still,BabaAyubcountedhimselfamongthefortunatebecausehehadafamilythathecherished above all things. He loved his wife and never raised his voice to her, much less hishand. He valued her counsel and found genuine pleasure in her companionship. As for children,he was blessed with as many as a hand has fingers, three sons and two daughters, each ofwhom he loved dearly. His daughters were dutiful and kind and of good character and repute.To his sons he had taught already the value of honesty, courage, friendship, and hard workwithoutcomplaint.Theyobeyedhim,asgoodsonsmust,andhelpedtheirfatherwithhiscrops.

Though he loved all of his children, Baba Ayub privately had a unique fondness for one amongthem, his youngest, Qais, who was three years old. Qais was a little boy with dark blue eyes. Hecharmed anyone who met him with his devilish laughter. He was also one of those boys sobursting with energy that he drained others of theirs. When he learned to walk, he took suchdelight in it that he did it all day while he was awake, and then, troublingly, even at night in hissleep. He would sleepwalk out of the family’smud house and wander off into the moonlitdarkness. Naturally, his parents worried. What if he fell into a well, or got lost, or, worst of all,was attacked by one of the creatures lurking the plains at night? They took stabs at manyremedies,noneofwhichworked.Intheend,thesolutionBabaAyubfoundwasasimpleone,as the best solutions often are: He removed a tiny bell from around the neck of one of his goatsand hung it instead around Qais’s neck. This way, the bell would wake someone if Qais were toriseinthemiddleofthenight.Thesleepwalkingstoppedafteratime,butQaisgrewattached

to the bell and refused to part with it. And so, even though it didn’t serve its original use, thebellremainedfastenedtothestringaroundtheboy’sneck.WhenBabaAyubcamehomeaftera long day’s work, Qais would run from the house face-first into his father’s belly, the belljingling with each of his tiny steps. Baba Ayub would lift him up and take him into the house,and Qais would watch with great attention as his father washed up, and then he would sitbeside Baba Ayub at suppertime. After they had eaten, Baba Ayub would sip his tea, watchinghis family, picturing a day when all of his children married and gave him children of their own,whenhe wouldbe proudpatriarchto aneven greater brood.

Alas,AbdullahandPari,BabaAyub’sdaysofhappinesscametoanend.

It happened one day that adivcame to Maidan Sabz. As it approached the village from thedirection of the mountains,the earth shook with each of its footfalls. The villagers droppedtheir shovels and hoes and axes and scattered. They locked themselves in their homes andhuddled with one another. When the deafening sounds of thediv’s footsteps stopped, theskies over Maidan Sabz darkened with its shadow. It was said that curved horns sprouted fromits head and that coarse black hair covered its shoulders andpowerful tail. They said its eyesshone red. No one knew for sure, you understand, at least no one living: Thedivate on thespot those who dared steal so much as a single glance. Knowing this, the villagers wisely kepttheireyes glued to the ground.

Everyone at the village knew why thedivhad come. They had heard the tales of its visits toother villages and they could only marvel at how Maidan Sabz had managed to escape itsattention for so long. Perhaps, they reasoned, the poor, stringent lives they led in Maidan Sabzhadworkedintheirfavor,astheirchildrenweren’taswellfedanddidn’thaveasmuchmeatontheir bones.Even so, theirluck had runout atlast.

Maidan Sabz trembled and held its breath. Families prayed that thedivwould bypass theirhome for they knew that if thedivtapped on their roof, they would have to give it one child.Thedivwould then toss the child into a sack, sling the sack over its shoulder, and go back theway it had come. No one would ever see the poor child again. And if a household refused, thedivwould take all of its children.

So where did thedivtake the children to? To its fort, which sat atop a steep mountain. Thediv’s fort was very far from Maidan Sabz. Valleys, several deserts, and two mountain chains hadto be cleared before you could reach it. And what sane person would, only to meet death? Theysaid the fort was full of dungeons where cleavers hung from walls. Meat hooks dangled fromceilings. They said there were giant skewers and fire pits. They said that if it caught a trespasser,thedivwasknown to overcomeits aversion toadult meat.

I guess you know which rooftop received thediv’s dreaded tap. Upon hearing it, Baba Ayub letan agonized cry escape from his lips, and his wife fainted cold. The children wept with terror,and also sorrow, because they knew that the loss of one among themwas now assured. Thefamilyhad untilthe next dawnto makeits offering.

What can I say to you of the anguish that Baba Ayub and his wife suffered that night? No parentshould have to make a choice such as this. Out of the children’s earshot, Baba Ayub and his wifedebated what they should do. They talked and wept and talked and wept. All night, they wentbackandforth,and,asdawnneared,theyhadyettoreachadecision—whichwasperhapswhat thedivwanted, as their indecision would allow it to take five children instead of one. Intheend,BabaAyubcollectedfromjustoutsidethehousefiverocksofidenticalsizeandshape.

On the face of each he scribbled the name of one child, and when he was done he tossed therocks into a burlap sack. When he offered the bag to his wife, she recoiled as though it held avenomous snake.

I can’t do it, she said to her husband, shaking her head. I cannot be the one to choose. Icouldn’t bear it.

Neither could I, Baba Ayub began to say, but he saw through the window that the sun wasonly moments away from peeking over the eastern hills. Time was running short. He gazedmiserably at his five children. A finger had to be cut, to save the hand. He shut his eyes andwithdrew a rock from the sack.

I suppose you also know which rock Baba Ayub happened to pick. When he saw the name on it,he turned his face heavenward and let out a scream. With a broken heart, he lifted his youngestson into his arms, and Qais, who had blind trust in his father, happily wrapped his arms aroundBaba Ayub’s neck. It wasn’t until Baba Ayub deposited him outside the house and shut the doorthat the boy realized what was amiss, and there stood Baba Ayub, eyes squeezed shut, tearsleakingfromboth,backagainstthedoor,ashisbelovedQaispoundedhissmallfistsonit,crying for Baba to let him back in, and Baba Ayub stood there, muttering, Forgiveme, forgiveme, as the ground shook with thediv’s footsteps, and his son screeched, and the earthtrembled again and again as thedivtook its leave from Maidan Sabz, until at last it was gone,and the earth was still, and all was silence but for Baba Ayub, still weeping and asking Qais forforgiveness.

Abdullah. Your sister has fallen asleep. Cover her feet with the blanket. There. Good. Maybe Ishouldstopnow.No? Youwantmeto goon?Areyousure, boy?Allright.

Where was I? Ah yes. There followed a forty-day mourning period. Every day, neighbors cookedmealsforthefamilyandkeptvigilwiththem.Peoplebroughtoverwhatofferingstheycould—tea,candy,bread,almonds—andtheybroughtaswelltheircondolencesandsympathies. Baba Ayub could hardly bring himself to say so much as a word of thanks. He sat ina corner, weeping, streams of tears pouring from both eyes as though he meant to end thevillage’sstreak of droughts with them.You wouldn’twish his tormentand suffering on thevilestof men.

Several years passed. The droughts continued, and Maidan Sabz fell into even worse poverty.Several babies died of thirst in their cribs. The wells ran even lower and the river dried, unlikeBaba Ayub’s anguish, a river that swelled and swelled with each passing day. He was of no useto his family any longer. He didn’t work, didn’t pray, hardly ate. His wife and children pleadedwith him, but it was no good. His remaining sons had to take over his work, for every day BabaAyub did nothing but sit at the edge of his field, a lone, wretched figure gazing toward themountains. He stopped speaking to the villagers, for he believed they muttered things behindhisback.Theysaidhewasacowardforwillinglygivingawayhisson.Thathewasanunfitfather.Arealfatherwouldhavefoughtthediv.Hewouldhavedieddefendinghisfamily.

Hementionedthistohiswifeonenight.

They say no such things, his wife replied. No one thinks you are a coward.Ican hear them,he said.

Itisyourownvoiceyouarehearing,husband,shesaid.She,however,didnottellhimthat

the villagersdidwhisper behind his back. And what they whispered was that he’d perhapsgonemad.

And then one day, he gave them proof. He rose at dawn. Without waking his wife and children,he stowed a few scraps of bread into a burlap sack, put on his shoes, tied his scythe around hiswaist, and set off.

He walked for many, many days. He walked until the sun was a faint red glow in the distance.Nights,hesleptincavesasthewindwhistledoutside.Orelsehesleptbesideriversandbeneath trees and among the cover of boulders. He ate his bread, and then he ate what hecouldfind—wildberries,mushrooms,fishthathecaughtwithhisbarehandsfromstreams—and some days he didn’t eat at all. But still he walked. When passersby asked wherehe was going, he told them, and some laughed, some hurried past for fear he was a madman,and some prayed for him, as they too had lost a child to thediv. Baba Ayub kept his head downand walked. When his shoes fell apart, he fastened them to his feet with strings, and when thestrings tore he pushed forward on bare feet. In this way, he traveled across deserts and valleysandmountains.

At last he reached the mountain atop which sat thediv’s fort. So eager he was to fulfill hisquestthathedidn’trestandimmediatelybeganhisclimb,hisclothesshredded,hisfeetbloodied, his hair caked with dust, but his resolve unshaken. The jagged rocks ripped his soles.Hawks pecked at his cheeks when he climbed past their nest. Violent gusts of wind nearly torehim from the side of the mountain. And still he climbed, from one rock to the next, until at lasthestood beforethe massivegatesof thediv’s fort.

Who dares? thediv’s voice boomed when Baba Ayub threw a stone at the gates.BabaAyubstatedhisname.IcomefromthevillageofMaidanSabz,hesaid.

Do you have a wish to die? Surely you must, disturbing me in my home! What is your business?Ihave come here to kill you.

Therecameapausefromtheothersideofthegates.Andthenthegatescreakedopen,andtherestoodthediv,loomingover BabaAyubinallofitsnightmarishglory.

Haveyou?itsaidinavoicethickasthunder.

Indeed,BabaAyubsaid.Onewayoranother,oneofusdiestoday.

It appeared for a moment that thedivwould swipe Baba Ayub off the ground and finish himwith a single bite of its dagger-sharp teeth. But something made the creature hesitate. Itnarrowed its eyes. Perhaps it was the craziness of the old man’s words. Perhaps it was theman’s appearance, the shredded garb, the bloodied face, the dust that coated him head to toe,the open sores on his skin. Or perhaps it was that, in the old man’s eyes, thedivfound notevena tinge of fear.

Where did you say you came from?MaidanSabz,saidBabaAyub.

It must be far away, by the look of you, this Maidan Sabz.Ididnotcomeheretopalaver.Icamehereto—

Thedivraisedoneclawedhand.Yes.Yes.You’vecometokillme.Iknow.ButsurelyIcanbegranted a few last wordsbefore I am slain.

Verywell,saidBabaAyub.Butonlyafew.

I thank you. Thedivgrinned. May I ask what evil I have committed against you so as to warrantdeath?

Youtookfrommemyyoungestson,BabaAyubreplied.Hewasintheworldthedearestthingto me.

Thedivgrunted and tapped its chin. I have taken many children from many fathers, it said.BabaAyubangrilydrewhisscythe.ThenIshallexactrevengeontheirbehalfaswell.

Imustsayyourcouragerousesinmeasurgeofadmiration.

Youknownothingofcourage,saidBabaAyub.Forcourage,theremustbesomethingatstake.I come here withnothing to lose.

You have your life to lose, said thediv.Youalreadytookthatfromme.

ThedivgruntedagainandstudiedBabaAyubthoughtfully.Afteratime,itsaid,Verywell,then.Iwill grantyou yourduel. Butfirst Iaskthat youfollow me.

Be quick, Baba Ayub said, I am out of patience. But thedivwas already walking toward agiant hallway, and Baba Ayub had no choice but to follow it. He trailed thedivthrough alabyrinthofhallways,theceilingofeachnearlyscrapedtheclouds,eachsupportedbyenormous columns. They passed many stairwells, and chambers big enough to contain all ofMaidan Sabz. They walked this way until at last thedivled Baba Ayub into an enormous room,atthe far end of whichwas a curtain.

Come closer, thedivmotioned.BabaAyubstoodnexttothediv.

Thedivpulled the curtains open. Behind it was a glass window. Through the window, BabaAyub looked down on an enormous garden. Lines of cypress trees bordered the garden, theground at their base filled with flowers of all colors. There were pools made of blue tiles, andmarble terraces, and lush green lawns. Baba Ayub saw beautifully sculpted hedges and waterfountains gurgling inthe shade of pomegranate trees. In three lifetimes he could not haveimagineda place so beautiful.

But what truly brought Baba Ayub to his knees was the sight of children running and playinghappily in the garden. They chased one another through the walkways and around trees. Theyplayed games of hide-and-seek behind the hedges. Baba Ayub’s eyes searched among thechildren and at last found what he was looking for. There he was! His son Qais, alive, and morethan well. He had grown in height, and his hair was longer than Baba Ayub remembered. Hewore a beautiful white shirt over handsome trousers. He laughed happily as he ran after a pairofcomrades.

Qais,BabaAyubwhispered,hisbreathfoggingtheglass.Andthenhescreamedhisson’s

name.

Hecannothearyou,thedivsaid.Norseeyou.

BabaAyubjumpedupanddown,wavinghisarmsandpoundingontheglass,untilthediv

pulledthecurtainsshutoncemore.

I don’t understand, Baba Ayub said. I thought …Thisisyour reward,thedivsaid.

Explain yourself, Baba Ayub exclaimed.Iforced uponyou atest.

Atest.

Atestofyourlove.Itwasaharshchallenge,Irecognize,anditsheavytolluponyoudoesnotescapeme. Butyou passed.This isyour reward. Andhis.

WhatifIhadn’tchosen,criedBabaAyub.WhatifIhadrefusedyouyourtest?

Then all your children would have perished, thedivsaid, for they would have been cursedanyway, fathered as they were by a weak man. A coward who would see them all die ratherthan burden his own conscience. You say you have no courage, but I see it in  you. What youdid,theburdenyouagreedtoshoulder,tookcourage. Forthat, Ihonoryou.

Baba Ayub weakly drew his scythe, but it slipped from his hand and struck the marble floor withaloud clang.Hisknees buckled, andhe had tosit.

Your son does not remember you, thedivcontinued. This is his life now, and you saw foryourself his happiness. He is provided here with the finest food and clothes, with friendship andaffection. He receives tutoring in the arts and languages and in the sciences, and in the ways ofwisdom and charity.He wants for nothing. Someday, when he is a man, he may choose toleave, and he shall be free to do so. I suspect he will touch many lives with his kindness andbringhappiness to thosetrappedin sorrow.

I want to see him, Baba Ayub said. I want to take him home.Doyou?

BabaAyublookedupatthediv.

Thecreaturemovedtoacabinetthatsatnearthecurtainsandremovedfromoneofitsdrawers an hourglass. Do you know what that is, Abdullah, an hourglass? You do. Good. Well,thedivtookthehourglass,flipped itover,andplaceditatBabaAyub’sfeet.

I will allow you to take him home with you, thedivsaid. If you choose to, he can never returnhere. If you choose not to,youcan never return here. When all the sand has poured, I will askforyour decision.

And with that, thedivexited the chamber, leaving Baba Ayub with yet another painful choicetomake.

Iwilltakehimhome,BabaAyubthoughtimmediately.Thiswaswhathedesiredthemost,with

every fiber of his being. Hadn’t he pictured this in a thousand dreams? To hold little Qais again,to kiss his cheek and feel the softness of his small hands in hisown? And yet … If he took himhome, what sort of life awaited Qais in Maidan Sabz? The hard life of a peasant at best, like hisown, and little more. That is, if Qais didn’t die from the droughts like so many of the village’schildren had. Could you forgive yourself, then, Baba Ayub asked himself, knowing that youplucked him, for your own selfish reasons, from a life of luxury and opportunity? On the otherhand, if he left Qais behind, how could he bear it, knowing that his boy was alive, to know hiswhereabouts and yet be forbidden to see him? How could he bear it? Baba Ayub wept. He grewso despondent that he lifted the hourglass and hurled it at the wall, where it crashed into athousand pieces andits finesand spilledall overthe floor.

ThedivreenteredtheroomandfoundBabaAyubstandingoverthebrokenglass,hisshouldersslumped.

Youareacruelbeast,BabaAyubsaid.

When you have lived as long as I have, thedivreplied, you find that cruelty and benevolencearebut shadesofthe samecolor.Haveyou madeyour choice?

Baba Ayub dried his tears, picked up his scythe, and tied it around his waist. He slowly walkedtoward the door, his headhung low.

Youareagoodfather,thedivsaid,asBabaAyubpassedhimby.

Would that you roast in the fires of Hell for what you have done to me, Baba Ayub saidwearily.

Heexitedtheroomandwasheadingdownthehallwaywhenthedivcalledafterhim.

Take this, thedivsaid. The creature handed Baba Ayub a small glass flask containing a darkliquid.Drink thisupon yourjourney home.Farewell.

BabaAyubtooktheflaskandleftwithoutsayinganotherword.

Many days later, his wife was sitting at the edge of the family’sfield, looking out for him muchas Baba Ayub had sat there hoping to see Qais. With each passing day, her hopes for his returndiminished.AlreadypeopleinthevillagewerespeakingofBabaAyubinthepasttense.Oneday she was sitting on the dirt yet again, a prayer playing upon her lips, when she saw a thinfigure approaching Maidan Sabz from the direction of the mountains. At first she took him for alost dervish, a thin man with threadbare rags for clothing, hollow eyes and sunken temples, andit wasn’t until he came closer yet that she recognized her husband. Her heart leapt with joy andshecried out with relief.

Afterhehadwashed,andafterhehadbeengivenwatertodrinkandfoodtoeat,BabaAyublayinhishouseasvillagers circledaroundhimandaskedhimquestionafterquestion.

Where did you go, Baba Ayub?Whatdid yousee?

Whathappenedtoyou?

BabaAyubcouldn’tanswerthem,becausehedidn’trecallwhathadhappenedtohim.Herememberednothingofhisvoyage,ofclimbingthediv’smountain,ofspeakingtothediv,of

the great palace, or the big room with the curtains. It was as though he had woken from analready forgotten dream. He didn’t remember the secret garden, the children, and, most of all,he didn’t remember seeing his son Qais playing among the trees with his friends. In fact, whensomeone mentioned Qais’s name, Baba Ayub blinked with puzzlement. Who? he said. He didn’trecallthat he hadever had a sonnamed Qais.

Do you understand, Abdullah, how this was an act of mercy? The potion that erased thesememories? ItwasBabaAyub’srewardfor passingthediv’s secondtest.

That spring, the skies at last broke open over Maidan Sabz. What came down was not the softdrizzle of years past but a great,great rainfall. Fat rain fell from the sky, and the village rosethirstily to meet it. All day, water drummed upon the roofs of Maidan Sabz and drowned allother sound from the world. Heavy, swollen raindrops rolled from the tips of leaves. The wellsfilled and the river rose. The hills to the east turned green. Wildflowers bloomed, and for thefirsttimeinmanyyearschildrenplayedongrassandcowsgrazed.Everyonerejoiced.

When the rains stopped, the village had some work to do. Several mud walls had melted, and afew of the roofs sagged, and entire sections of farmland had turned into swamps. But after themisery of the devastating drought, the people of Maidan Sabz weren’t about to complain. Wallswere reerected, roofs repaired, and irrigation canals drained. That fall, Baba Ayub produced themost plentiful crop of pistachios of his life, and, indeed, the year after that, and the onefollowing, his crops increased in both size and quality. In the great cities where he sold hisgoods, Baba Ayub sat proudly behind pyramids of his pistachios and beamed like the happiestmanwhowalked the earth.Nodrought evercametoMaidanSabzagain.

There is little more to say, Abdullah. You may ask, though, did a young handsome man riding ahorse ever pass through the village on his way to great adventures? Did he perhaps stop for adrink of water, of which the village had plenty now, and did he sit to break bread with thevillagers, perhaps with Baba Ayub himself? I can’t tell you, boy. What Icansay is that BabaAyub grew to be a very old man indeed. I can tell you that he saw his childrenmarried,as hehad always wished, and I can say that his children bore him many children of their own, everyoneof whombrought Baba Ayubgreat happiness.

And I can also tell you that some nights, for no particular reason, Baba Ayub couldn’t sleep.Though he was a very old man now,he still had the use of his legs so long as he held a cane.And so on those sleepless nights he slipped from bed without waking his wife, fetched his cane,and left thehouse.He walkedin thedark,his canetappingbeforehim, thenightbreezestroking his face. There was a flat rock at the edge of his field and he lowered himself upon it.He oftensat therefor an houror more,gazingup at thestars, thecloudsfloatingpastthemoon. He thought about his long life and gave thanks for all the bounty and joy that he hadbeen given. To want more, to wish for yet more, he knew, would be petty. He sighed happily,andlistenedtothewindsweepingdownfromthemountains,tothechirpingofnightbirds.

But every once in a while, he thought he heard another noise among these. It was always thesame, the high-pitched jingle of a bell. He didn’t understand why he should hear such a noise,alone in the dark, all the sheep and goats sleeping. Sometimes he told himself he had heard nosuch thing, and sometimes he was so convinced to the contrary that he called out into thedarkness, Is someone out there? Who is there? Show yourself. But no reply ever came. BabaAyub didn’t understand. Just as he didn’t understand why a wave of something, something likethetailendofasaddream,alwayssweptthroughhimwheneverheheardthejingling,surprisinghimeachtimelikeanunexpectedgustofwind.Butthenitpassed,asallthingsdo.It

passed.

So there it is, boy. That’s the end of it. I have nothing more to say. And now it really is late and Iam tired, and your sister and I have to wake at dawn. So blow out your candle. Lay your headdownandcloseyoureyes.Sleepwell,boy.We’llsayourgood-byesinthemorning.

TwoFall1952

Father had never before hit Abdullah. So when he did, when he whacked the side of his head,justabovetheear—hard,suddenly,andwithanopenpalm—tearsofsurprisesprungtoAbdullah’s eyes. Hequickly blinked themback.

Gohome,Fathersaidthroughgrittedteeth.

Fromupahead,AbdullahheardPariburstintosobs.

Then Father hit him again, harder, and this time across the left cheek. Abdullah’s head snappedsideways. His face burned, and more tears leaked. His left ear rang. Father stooped down,leaning in so close his dark creased face eclipsed the desert and the mountains and the skyaltogether.

Itoldyoutogohome,boy,hesaidwithapainedlook.

Abdullah didn’t make a sound. He swallowed hard and squinted at his father, blinking into thefaceshading his eyes from thesun.

From the small red wagon up ahead, Pari cried out his name, her voice high, shaking withapprehension.Abollah!

Father held him with a cutting look, and trudged back to the wagon. From its bed, Pari reachedfor Abdullah with outstretched hands. Abdullah allowed them a head start. Then he wiped hiseyeswith the heelsof his hands,and followed.

A little while later, Father threw a rock at him, the way children in Shadbagh would do to Pari’sdog, Shuja—except they meant to hit Shuja, to hurt him. Father’s rock fell harmlessly a few feetfrom Abdullah. He waited, and when Father and Pari got moving again Abdullah tailed themoncemore.

Finally, with the sun just past its peak, Father pulled up again. He turned back in Abdullah’sdirection,seemedto consider, and motioned with hishand.

Youwon’tgiveup,hesaid.

From the bed of the wagon, Pari’s hand quickly slipped into Abdullah’s. She was looking up athim, her eyes liquid, and she was smiling her gap-toothed smile like no bad thing would everbefall her so long as he stood at her side. He closed his fingers around her hand, the way he dideachnightwhenheandhislittlesistersleptintheircot,theirskullstouching,theirlegstangled.

You were supposed to stay home, Father said. With your mother and Iqbal. Like I told youto.

Abdullahthought,She’syourwife.Mymother,weburied.Butheknewtostiflethosewordsbeforethey came up and out.

All right, then. Come, Father said. But there won’t be any crying. You hear me?Yes.

I’mwarningyou.Iwon’thaveit.

Pari grinned up at Abdullah, and he looked down at her pale eyes and pink round cheeks andgrinned back.

From then on, he walked beside the wagon as it jostled along on the pitted desert floor, holdingPari’s hand. They traded furtivehappy glances, brother and sister, but said little for fear ofsouring Father’s mood and spoiling their good fortune. For long stretches they were alone, thethreeofthem,nothingandnooneinsightbutthedeepcoppergorgesandvastsandstonecliffs. The desert unrolled ahead of them, open and wide, as though it had been created forthem and them alone, the air still, blazing hot, the sky high and blue. Rocks shimmered on thecrackedfloor.TheonlysoundsAbdullahheardwerehisownbreathingandtherhythmiccreaking ofthe wheels as Fatherpulled thered wagonnorth.

Awhilelater,theystoppedtorestintheshadowofaboulder.Withagroan,Fatherdroppedthehandletotheground.Hewinced ashearchedhisback,hisfaceraisedtothesun.

HowmuchlongertoKabul?Abdullahasked.

Father looked down at them. His name was Saboor. He was dark-skinned and had a hard face,angular and bony, nose curved like a desert hawk’s beak, eyes set deep in his skull. Father wasthin as a reed, but a lifetime of work had made his muscles powerful, tightly wound like rattanstrips around the arm of a wicker chair. Tomorrow afternoon, he said, lifting the cowhidewater bag to his lips. If we make good time. He took a long swallow, his Adam’s apple risinganddropping.

Why didn’t Uncle Nabi drive us? Abdullah said. He has a car.Fatherrolled hiseyes toward him.

Thenwewouldn’thavehadtowalkallthisway.

Father didn’t say anything. He took off his soot-stained skullcap and wiped sweat from his browwiththe sleeve of his shirt.

Pari’sfingershotfromthewagon.Look,Abollah!shecriedexcitedly.Anotherone.

Abdullah followed her finger, traced it to a spot in the shadow of the boulder where a featherlay, long, gray, like charcoal after ithas burned. Abdullah walked over to it and picked it by thestem. He blew the flecks of dust off it. A falcon, he thought, turning it over. Maybe a dove, or adesert lark. He’d seen a number of those already that day. No, a falcon. He blew on it again andhandedit toPari, who happilysnatched itfrom him.

Back home, in Shadbagh, Pari kept underneath her pillow an old tin tea box Abdullah had givenher. It had a rusty latch, and on the lid was a bearded Indian man, wearing a turban and a longred tunic, holding up a steaming cup of tea with both hands. Inside the box were all of thefeathers that Pari collected. They were her most cherished belongings. Deep green and denseburgundy rooster feathers; a white tail feather from a dove; a sparrow feather, dust brown,dotted with dark blotches; and the one of which Pari was proudest, an iridescent green peacockfeatherwith a beautifullarge eye at thetip.

This last was a gift Abdullah had given her two months earlier. He had heard of a boy fromanothervillagewhosefamilyownedapeacock.OnedaywhenFatherwasawaydiggingditches