The path was still climbing, but more gently, so they made better speed. They were delayed, every mile or two, by the tributaries which came rushing in from the side valleys to join the main river. The track would dive down to a log bridge or a ford, and Ellis would have to drag the unwilling Maggie into the water, with Jane yelling and throwing stones at her from behind.
An irrigation channel ran the full length of the gorge, on the cliffside high above the river. Its purpose was to enlarge the cultivable area in the plain. Jane wondered how long ago it was that the Valley had had time and men and peace enough to carry out such a big engineering project: hundreds of years, perhaps.
The gorge narrowed and the river below was littered with granite boulders. There were caves in the limestone cliffs: Jane noted them as possible hiding places. The landscape became bleak and a cold wind blew down the Valley, making Jane shiver for a moment despite the sunshine. The rocky terrain and the sheer cliffs suited birds: there were scores of Asian magpies.
At last the gorge gave way to another plain. Far to the east, Jane could see a range of hills, and above the hills were visible the white mountains of Nuristan, Oh, my God, that's where we're going, Jane thought; and she was afraid.
In the plain stood a small cluster of poor houses. "I guess this is it," said Ellis. "Welcome to Saniz."
They walked into the plain, looking for a mosque or one of the stone huts for travelers. As they drew level with the first of the houses, a figure stepped out of it, and Jane recognized the handsome face of Mohammed. He was as surprised as she. Her surprise gave way to horror when she realized she was going to have to tell him that his son had been killed.
Ellis gave her time to collect her thoughts by saying in Dari: "Why are you here?"
"Masud is here," Mohammed replied. Jane realized that this must be a guerrilla hideout. Mohammed went on: "Why are you here?"
"We're going to Pakistan."
"This way?" Mohammed's face became grave. "What happened?"
Jane knew she had to be the one to tell him, for she had known him longer. "We bring bad news, my friend Mohammed. The Russians came to Banda. They killed seven men—and a child. ..." He guessed, then, what she was going to say, and the look of pain on his face made Jane want to cry. "Mousa was the child," she finished.
Mohammed composed himself rigidly. "How did my son die?"
"Ellis found him," said Jane.
Ellis, struggling to find the Dari words he needed, said: "He died . . . knife in hand, blood on knife."
Mohammed's eyes widened. "Tell me everything."
Jane took over, because she could speak the language better. "The Russians came at dawn," she began. "They were looking for Ellis and for me. We were up on the mountainside, so they didn't find us. They beat Alishan and Shahazai and Abdullah, but they didn't kill them. Then they found the cave. The seven wounded mujahideen were there, and Mousa was with them, to run to the village if they needed help in the night. When the Russians had gone, Ellis went to the cave. All the men had been killed, and so had Mousa—"
"How?" Mohammed interrupted. "How was he killed?"
Jane looked at Ellis. Ellis said: "Kalashnikov," using a word that needed no translation. He pointed to his heart to show where the bullet had struck.
Jane added: "He must have tried to defend the wounded men, for there was blood on the point of his knife."
Mohammed swelled with pride even as the tears came to his eyes. "He attacked them—grown men, armed with guns—he went for them with his knife! The knife his father gave him! The one-handed boy is now surely in the warrior's heaven."
To die in a holy war was the greatest possible honor for a Muslim, Jane recalled. Little Mousa would probably become a minor saint. She was glad that Mohammed had that comfort, but she could not help thinking cynically: This is how warlike men assuage their consciences—by talk of glory.
Ellis embraced Mohammed solemnly, saying nothing.
Jane suddenly remembered her photographs. She had several of Mousa. Afghans loved photos, and Mohammed would be overjoyed to have one of his son. She opened one of the bags on Maggie's back and rummaged through the medical supplies until she found the cardboard box of Polaroids. She located a picture of Mousa, took it out and repacked the bag. Then she handed the picture to Mohammed.
She had never seen an Afghan man so profoundly moved. He was unable to speak. For a moment it seemed that he would weep. He turned away, trying to control himself. When he turned back, his face was composed but wet with tears. "Come with me," he said.
They followed him through the little village to the edge of the river, where a group of fifteen or twenty guerrillas were squatting around a cooking fire. Mohammed strode into the group and without preamble began to tell the story of Mousa's death, with tears and gesticulations.
Jane turned away. She had seen too much grief.
She looked around her anxiously. Where will we run to if the Russians come? she wondered. There was nothing but the fields, the river and the few hovels. But Masud seemed to think it was safe. Perhaps the village was just too small to attract the attention of the army.
She did not have the energy to worry anymore. She sat on the ground with her back to a tree, grateful to rest her legs, and began to feed Chantal. Ellis tethered Maggie and unloaded the bags, and the horse began to graze the rich greenery beside the river. It's been a long day, Jane thought; and a terrible day. And I didn't get much sleep last night. She smiled a secret smile as she remembered the night.
Ellis got out Jean-Pierre's maps and sat beside Jane to study them in the rapidly fading evening light. Jane looked over his shoulder. Their planned route continued up the Valley to a village called Comar, where they would turn southeast into a side valley which led to Nuristan. This valley was also called Comar, and so was the first high pass they would encounter. "Fifteen thousand feet," said Ellis, pointing to the pass. "This is where it gets cold."
Jane shivered.
When Chantal had drunk her fill, Jane changed her diaper and washed the old one in the river. She returned to find Ellis deep in conversation with Masud. She squatted beside them.
"You have made the right decision," Masud was saying. "You must get out of Afghanistan, with our treaty in your pocket. If the Russians catch you, all is lost."
Ellis nodded agreement. Jane thought: I've never seen Ellis like this before—he treats Masud with deference.
Masud went on: "However, it is a journey of extraordinary difficulty. Much of the trail is above the ice line. Sometimes the path is hard to find in the snow, and if you get lost there, you die."
Jane wondered where all this was leading. It seemed to her ominous that Masud was carefully addressing Ellis, not her.
"I can help you," Masud went on. "But, like you, I want to make a deal."
"Goon," said Ellis.
"I will give you Mohammed as a guide, to take you through Nuristan and into Pakistan."
Jane's heart leaped. Mohammed as a guide! It would make a world of difference to the journey.
"What is my part of the bargain?" Ellis asked.
"You go alone. The doctor's wife and the child stay here."
It was heartbreakingly clear to Jane that she must agree to this. It was foolhardy for the two of them to try to make it alone—they would probably both die. This way she could at least save Eilis's life. "You must say yes," she told him.